Channel surfing this morning instead of finishing my article, I paused on a music video. It was a catchy little song and I paused because I couldn't tell if the singer was a little girl, a woman singing like a little girl, or actually an adolescent boy. And even then the camera zoomed in on the chic-blond, I still had no idea what I was looking at. But the song was good. Soaring into the chorus, I started humming along, "The one thing I can count on... The one thing I can count on... The one thing I can count on.." and I filled in the end, "Is yoooooooooo." Unfortunately, I was duped, the end was, "Is the Looooooord." I don't appreciate the religious ambush. I want my religion in silly costumes, in dark, cool, uncomfortable seats with standing and sitting and standing and sitting and kneeling and standing and getting in line, having something to eat, skirting the homely woman with the wine, and going back for a little quiet time all the while ignoring the ancient music director who begs the stubborn congregation to sing. You got that? No music videos with androgynous fashion plates. What the hell is up with that?
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Why I don't take sick days
I stayed home sick . This is something I only rarely do. There are reasons why...
I laid there. Dizzy. Unable to move my head. I moved my eyes around the room. And this is a problem because Jamie's bathroom door was open. Which meant I could actually see what was going on in there. And what's going on in there -- is a problem.
Being the problem-solver that I am, I decided that one easy fix would be to tame the mad stack of magazines. I don't know why there are 27 magazines in there, but there are. And I've since learned to work around his habits. So instead of emailing him and telling him to throw out all those contaminated mags, I decided to solve the problem by purchasing him a nice metal bathroom-happy magazine rack.
THAT is how this started. I'm not blaming anyone, but it's Jamie's fault.
You gotta buy such things at Overstock.com. Because they have everything you need and if they don't have it, you don't need it.
Magazine rack? Check.
But it was so lonely in the basket.
Just a magazine rack.
Adrift in a virtual shopping cart.
So I needed to find it a friend.
I believe we've earlier discussed the need to buy rugs. It's like a flesh-eating disease with me. Can't get rid of it. So I'm in the rug section.
Honestly, I started looking for a front door mat for under $20. But then I got to thinking about the cold, cold tile in our library and how we really needed to warm up the room which might entice us to sit in there more. And to do that, you get a rug, right? But you need a big rug. Big room, big rug. Very big rug.
So I bought a big rug.
I felt a little guilty after that, but then I saw that if I renewed my Overstock membership, I could save 5% and get free shipping, so I did that as well. Now there were three things in the cart and they were very happy.
I checked out.
But then I got to thinking about the library. And the new rug. And the fact that the cats' litterbox is in there because we need a "safe" zone for the litterboxes where the dogs won't go because the dogs.... are interested in the litterbox contents. Let's leave it at that. So I needed a solution to that.
Overstock did not have a solution. But then I realized my initial statement was wrong. If you can't find it at Overstock OR Amazon, then you don't need it. And this is most certainly true.
So over at Amazon, I found a nice, normal litter box and litter box liners and my plan is to put in two boxes to keep the area well covered. Again, this is because cleaning the litterbox is someone's job and someone should be scooping everyday but someone doesn't and instead of trying to train someone, I've come up with a solution to work with what I've got and work around someone.
And no, in both instances it did not occur to me to clean the bathroom or litterboxes myself. Because that's just giving in. Which is not my thing.
Then I rolled over and looked at the stack of books (and magazines) on his end table. And I got to thinking.... he needs an end table with an area to put his books/shit in so I don't have to look at it (note: I have nearly an equal amount of stuff on my end table which is really his end table but I took it and gave him the crappy end table. I'm not sure why). So I decided that we should take the extra end table from the extra bedroom and put that in our room and then buy a new end table for the extra bedroom.
So back to Overstock.
At this point, Overstock started to crash on me. For three hours, I kept trying to make it work. I do not think this is a coincidence.
Then I looked at the floor and noticed that there was some pet hair on the floor. And I started to think about the fact that we have four shedding machines and wouldn't it be great if I had a robot who could vacuum. Off to the iRobot site I did got to read reviews on Roombas. Which, wait for it, are for sale on Amazon. Free shipping.
Then I emailed Jamie with a list of floor cleaners we needed for the wood flooring. Because it's really easy to make massive cleaning plans when you are in bed and not about to execute those plans.
Response: I'm glad we don't have joint credit cards. Do you feel better.
And I do.
I laid there. Dizzy. Unable to move my head. I moved my eyes around the room. And this is a problem because Jamie's bathroom door was open. Which meant I could actually see what was going on in there. And what's going on in there -- is a problem.
Being the problem-solver that I am, I decided that one easy fix would be to tame the mad stack of magazines. I don't know why there are 27 magazines in there, but there are. And I've since learned to work around his habits. So instead of emailing him and telling him to throw out all those contaminated mags, I decided to solve the problem by purchasing him a nice metal bathroom-happy magazine rack.
THAT is how this started. I'm not blaming anyone, but it's Jamie's fault.
You gotta buy such things at Overstock.com. Because they have everything you need and if they don't have it, you don't need it.
Magazine rack? Check.
But it was so lonely in the basket.
Just a magazine rack.
Adrift in a virtual shopping cart.
So I needed to find it a friend.
I believe we've earlier discussed the need to buy rugs. It's like a flesh-eating disease with me. Can't get rid of it. So I'm in the rug section.
Honestly, I started looking for a front door mat for under $20. But then I got to thinking about the cold, cold tile in our library and how we really needed to warm up the room which might entice us to sit in there more. And to do that, you get a rug, right? But you need a big rug. Big room, big rug. Very big rug.
So I bought a big rug.
I felt a little guilty after that, but then I saw that if I renewed my Overstock membership, I could save 5% and get free shipping, so I did that as well. Now there were three things in the cart and they were very happy.
I checked out.
But then I got to thinking about the library. And the new rug. And the fact that the cats' litterbox is in there because we need a "safe" zone for the litterboxes where the dogs won't go because the dogs.... are interested in the litterbox contents. Let's leave it at that. So I needed a solution to that.
Overstock did not have a solution. But then I realized my initial statement was wrong. If you can't find it at Overstock OR Amazon, then you don't need it. And this is most certainly true.
So over at Amazon, I found a nice, normal litter box and litter box liners and my plan is to put in two boxes to keep the area well covered. Again, this is because cleaning the litterbox is someone's job and someone should be scooping everyday but someone doesn't and instead of trying to train someone, I've come up with a solution to work with what I've got and work around someone.
And no, in both instances it did not occur to me to clean the bathroom or litterboxes myself. Because that's just giving in. Which is not my thing.
Then I rolled over and looked at the stack of books (and magazines) on his end table. And I got to thinking.... he needs an end table with an area to put his books/shit in so I don't have to look at it (note: I have nearly an equal amount of stuff on my end table which is really his end table but I took it and gave him the crappy end table. I'm not sure why). So I decided that we should take the extra end table from the extra bedroom and put that in our room and then buy a new end table for the extra bedroom.
So back to Overstock.
At this point, Overstock started to crash on me. For three hours, I kept trying to make it work. I do not think this is a coincidence.
Then I looked at the floor and noticed that there was some pet hair on the floor. And I started to think about the fact that we have four shedding machines and wouldn't it be great if I had a robot who could vacuum. Off to the iRobot site I did got to read reviews on Roombas. Which, wait for it, are for sale on Amazon. Free shipping.
Then I emailed Jamie with a list of floor cleaners we needed for the wood flooring. Because it's really easy to make massive cleaning plans when you are in bed and not about to execute those plans.
Response: I'm glad we don't have joint credit cards. Do you feel better.
And I do.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Actors schmactors
by tess
The Hubs cannot distinguish between Kevin Kline and Harrison Ford. I’ve laughed at him for years about this. They look nothing alike, offer two completely different performances, and work in two distinct genres. I mean really different – Shakespeare in the Park versus Indiana Jones – kind of different.
I guess I’ve been with him too long because I’ve developed the same problem.
I can’t tell Bill Pullman from Bill Paxton from Aaron Eckhart. I mean I know that Pullman was the President in Independence Day, Paxton is in that HBO Mormon thing, and Eckhart is in the latest Aniston snoozefest. But they seem interchangeable to me. They each appear to be vaguely blondish but relatively vapid men who smile a lot. Maybe it’s the smiling. Men don’t seem to smile so much in Hollyweird. Smirk, glare, snarl, and grimace, sure, but not so much with the smiling.
The Hubs cannot distinguish between Kevin Kline and Harrison Ford. I’ve laughed at him for years about this. They look nothing alike, offer two completely different performances, and work in two distinct genres. I mean really different – Shakespeare in the Park versus Indiana Jones – kind of different.
I guess I’ve been with him too long because I’ve developed the same problem.
I can’t tell Bill Pullman from Bill Paxton from Aaron Eckhart. I mean I know that Pullman was the President in Independence Day, Paxton is in that HBO Mormon thing, and Eckhart is in the latest Aniston snoozefest. But they seem interchangeable to me. They each appear to be vaguely blondish but relatively vapid men who smile a lot. Maybe it’s the smiling. Men don’t seem to smile so much in Hollyweird. Smirk, glare, snarl, and grimace, sure, but not so much with the smiling.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Not the word of the day
by tess
Today’s word was supposed to be FUNCTIONABLE.
I lived for 46 ½ years without ever once stumbling upon this word. The moment I heard it used – no fewer than three times in one edited-for-television hour – I knew that it was my WOTD.
Lo and behold, I looked up the word and apparently I was incorrect! FUNCTIONABLE is in fact a word that is just as acceptable as the more widely acknowledged FUNCTIONAL.
So, to former HGTV Design Star design-testant, and ruffled pink tux shirt wearing, Jason Champion, I humbly apologize for calling you a “!@#$%^& illiterate *&&^%$#.” Apparently I was wrong when I called you that. But your room did look completely crappy and you totally deserved to have your show cancelled, “functionable” or not.
Today’s word was supposed to be FUNCTIONABLE.
I lived for 46 ½ years without ever once stumbling upon this word. The moment I heard it used – no fewer than three times in one edited-for-television hour – I knew that it was my WOTD.
Lo and behold, I looked up the word and apparently I was incorrect! FUNCTIONABLE is in fact a word that is just as acceptable as the more widely acknowledged FUNCTIONAL.
So, to former HGTV Design Star design-testant, and ruffled pink tux shirt wearing, Jason Champion, I humbly apologize for calling you a “!@#$%^& illiterate *&&^%$#.” Apparently I was wrong when I called you that. But your room did look completely crappy and you totally deserved to have your show cancelled, “functionable” or not.
My life in art
by tess
For several years I considered myself an artist. I had no actual basis for thinking this, but believed it nonetheless. My junior year term paper for Aesthetics was a cobbled together dog’s breakfast of quotes by Aristotle, Kant, and Schiller – none of whom I understood in the least. My eyelids would collapse during the 3 AM drug- and alcohol-induced What Is Art round-tables favored by my friends.
Decades later I’m still completely illiterate when it comes to art. It’s reasonable, therefore, that I’m not much of an art-lover despite the scores of museums and galleries I have insisted that we visit throughout North America and Europe. Paintings generally fall into one of three categories: pretty, I-don’t-understand-it, and a-four-year-old-could-paint-that. I know. I cringe, too. I have books about Art History but the books are much like the treadmill – apparently it’s not the Purchase of the tool, it’s the Use of the tool that matters. Which is so totally unfair.
Because I know so little about art, nuance and subtlety are anathema to my appreciation. I prefer art, both visual and performance, that attacks the jugular and refuses to release its bloody death grip.
When I lived in Seattle I would visit the museum alone early on Saturday mornings before The Families arrived. Native American masks and “totem poles” were in a corner of the eerily abandoned third floor. They were illuminated by slight pinpoints while spectral music piped through the darkness. I don’t think I ever made it more than twenty steps into that deserted gallery without scrambling away down the stairs, flushed and breathless in abject terror.
My visceral reaction to sculpture is unique among the visual arts. Frequently representational, it’s more immediate to me because it’s three-dimensional. I mean we’ve all seen paintings of people whose eyes seem to follow us. And we’ve all imagined the chilling cries coming from behind murderous masks. But it’s impossible to envisage statues who don’t come to life after the museum closes. Only it’s way cooler than Night at the Museum, and seriously scarier than Waxworks – the Vincent Price version, not that shiteous Paris Hilton remake.
The most emotionally crippling art is Western funerary sculpture. Statues decorating tombs are by their nature haunting and in their suffering inconceivable. To stand in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre surrounded by 500 years of sculpture commissioned to commemorate The Departed is to drown in despair. Empty-eyed angels and ancient effigies silently celebrate grief; each portrayal of greatness and loss is more awe-inspiring, more profoundly cathartic than the one before. If art must captivate us intellectually and provoke us emotionally, then perhaps I have discovered what is to me, if not to Kant and the others, aesthetically pleasing art.
For several years I considered myself an artist. I had no actual basis for thinking this, but believed it nonetheless. My junior year term paper for Aesthetics was a cobbled together dog’s breakfast of quotes by Aristotle, Kant, and Schiller – none of whom I understood in the least. My eyelids would collapse during the 3 AM drug- and alcohol-induced What Is Art round-tables favored by my friends.
Decades later I’m still completely illiterate when it comes to art. It’s reasonable, therefore, that I’m not much of an art-lover despite the scores of museums and galleries I have insisted that we visit throughout North America and Europe. Paintings generally fall into one of three categories: pretty, I-don’t-understand-it, and a-four-year-old-could-paint-that. I know. I cringe, too. I have books about Art History but the books are much like the treadmill – apparently it’s not the Purchase of the tool, it’s the Use of the tool that matters. Which is so totally unfair.
Because I know so little about art, nuance and subtlety are anathema to my appreciation. I prefer art, both visual and performance, that attacks the jugular and refuses to release its bloody death grip.
When I lived in Seattle I would visit the museum alone early on Saturday mornings before The Families arrived. Native American masks and “totem poles” were in a corner of the eerily abandoned third floor. They were illuminated by slight pinpoints while spectral music piped through the darkness. I don’t think I ever made it more than twenty steps into that deserted gallery without scrambling away down the stairs, flushed and breathless in abject terror.
My visceral reaction to sculpture is unique among the visual arts. Frequently representational, it’s more immediate to me because it’s three-dimensional. I mean we’ve all seen paintings of people whose eyes seem to follow us. And we’ve all imagined the chilling cries coming from behind murderous masks. But it’s impossible to envisage statues who don’t come to life after the museum closes. Only it’s way cooler than Night at the Museum, and seriously scarier than Waxworks – the Vincent Price version, not that shiteous Paris Hilton remake.
The most emotionally crippling art is Western funerary sculpture. Statues decorating tombs are by their nature haunting and in their suffering inconceivable. To stand in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre surrounded by 500 years of sculpture commissioned to commemorate The Departed is to drown in despair. Empty-eyed angels and ancient effigies silently celebrate grief; each portrayal of greatness and loss is more awe-inspiring, more profoundly cathartic than the one before. If art must captivate us intellectually and provoke us emotionally, then perhaps I have discovered what is to me, if not to Kant and the others, aesthetically pleasing art.
Finally fixed
by tess
Tim’s Aunt Gertie arrived yesterday from Georgia. This morning he had to leave the office briefly to take a call on his cell.
Tim: Regis and what?
Pause.
Tim: Oh, okay. Let me talk you through how to turn it on.
Pale and frustrated, he returned 25 minutes later.
And so I wondered, not for the first time, when exactly we strayed so far from simplicity that turning on a television requires a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering. Have we perhaps made a once-brainless act too complex?
I know that some of you have been very concerned about my own recent Television Trauma. (Recap: the broken receiver resulted in no DVD, no Roku, and no headphones for an extended period of time.) You’ll be thrilled to know that on Saturday morning The Hubs repaired the whole thing! It’s not exactly 100% perfect (you have to select BlueRay to turn on the cable, choosing TV does nothing at all, and iPod queues up the DVD), but I know how to make each component work and I am eternally grateful to own a fully functioning system again.
I celebrated by (finally) watching the Netflix DVD that’s been accumulating dust for several months, After Hours with Daniel. If you’re not harboring a secret inner foodie, you won’t be entranced by watching chefs and restaurant critics eat and out-smarm one another for two hours. It was so good that I watched it twice, then forced The Hubs to watch it. Of course I had to bribe him by baking chocolate croissants, but he watched it with very little fuss. Probably because his mouth was full.
Tim’s Aunt Gertie arrived yesterday from Georgia. This morning he had to leave the office briefly to take a call on his cell.
Tim: Regis and what?
Pause.
Tim: Oh, okay. Let me talk you through how to turn it on.
Pale and frustrated, he returned 25 minutes later.
And so I wondered, not for the first time, when exactly we strayed so far from simplicity that turning on a television requires a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering. Have we perhaps made a once-brainless act too complex?
I know that some of you have been very concerned about my own recent Television Trauma. (Recap: the broken receiver resulted in no DVD, no Roku, and no headphones for an extended period of time.) You’ll be thrilled to know that on Saturday morning The Hubs repaired the whole thing! It’s not exactly 100% perfect (you have to select BlueRay to turn on the cable, choosing TV does nothing at all, and iPod queues up the DVD), but I know how to make each component work and I am eternally grateful to own a fully functioning system again.
I celebrated by (finally) watching the Netflix DVD that’s been accumulating dust for several months, After Hours with Daniel. If you’re not harboring a secret inner foodie, you won’t be entranced by watching chefs and restaurant critics eat and out-smarm one another for two hours. It was so good that I watched it twice, then forced The Hubs to watch it. Of course I had to bribe him by baking chocolate croissants, but he watched it with very little fuss. Probably because his mouth was full.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Nick-Name Rules
Tess and I had a discussion awhile back, and by "discussion" I mean email. We've made some decisions, decisions which I passed along to the not-husband this afternoon on our hike.
- "Buddy" will only be used for male animals. Not for your male friends, not for your male children. "Little dude" and "Little man" is acceptable for young boys.
- "Bro" will only be used between actual, legal, blood-related brothers. If you are an younger brother you might think your name is, "Dweeb," "Twerp," "Stinkmaster," or several less polite words I can't bring myself to type but focus around male anatomy, farts, and poop. Your name is nothing; you are a servant and whipping boy.
- "Dude" is acceptable until age 30. Then switch to "man." Unless it's preceded by "The" and addressed to a man in a bathrobe.
- "Sis" is right out. If you are an younger sister you might think your name is, "Get out," "Go away," or "Give me back my clothes," but that's not the case. Your name is, "Don't tell Mom."
If you are an older sister, your name is, "I promise I won't tell Mom." (It's a lie; she's totally telling Mom.) - "Princess" is also an absolute no-no. In fact, this should go at the top of the list for parents. Call your daughter princess and you are just asking to pay for eyebrow waxing at 13, pedicures and manicures at 15, and a grandchild at 16 that you get to raise while she goes out and parties with her friends and spends your money. "Princess may only be used for cats (not dogs) and certain friends who actually know you are mocking them out and are totally OK with it because they know you have a point.
- "Miss (first name)" or "Mr. (first name)" I'm a little sick of this shit. When I was a kid, everyone was Mr. (last name). Even the ones who were 20. I'm 36 and some dipshit 10-year-old called me Gretchen a few weeks ago. My though here is that until you are old enough to legally pay for a glass of wine for me, I'm Miss Kriesen to you. Miss Crease in the Pants if you're nasty.
FYI, I'm going to get a lecture from the not-husband about calling a 10-year-old a dipshit later. - Pet names are out. You can use "Sweetie," "Hubs," "Baby," and "Honey." As soon as you move on to "Puffin," "Snookems," "Daddy," you have crossed the line. BTW, "Bonehead," "Idiot," "Wackjob," "Freakizoid," "Nutjob," "The Money," "The Warden," and "That insane person who can't seem to remember to turn the oven off and is going to burn down the house" are all perfectly fine.
- Fuck-face, dickhead, and the like are all out. We demand you get much more creative. Tessa can give you a list of alternatives. She's got a million.
- You will address your mother in only four manners, and please get them right:
"Mom." Everything is fine. Said calmly.
"Ma!" Said either when you are yelling through the house to find her and/or she's not listening to you.
"Mildred." Said when she's really not listening to you, annoying you, or just being slightly insane. And it's Mildred. Not your mom's name.
"Crazy lady." When you catch her singing to herself in Wegman's and/or flirting with your friends. - You will address your father in only three manners, and please get them right:
"Dad."
"Dad?"
"Dad!"
He's your dad. You can't call him anything else. Period. Don't disrespect the father figure.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Who loves YOU this much?
Arriving home from work yesterday, I found the not husband outside working on the lawn mower I had broken the day before. The dogs were out there with him, wandering around, finding the perfect spot to work on completely ruining our lawn (this is done by digging, pooping, puking, or peeing). As I opened the door, I saw Leo in Poo Crouch. Leo, so excited to see me, abandoned the pooping effort and came running toward me.
With the poo still hanging out of his butt.
With the poo still hanging out of his butt.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Thursday, 4:03 AM
by tess
Me: You know the white shirt hanging in the guest bathroom?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Don’t wear it to work today.
Him: Why not?
Me: Because I just fished it out of the toilet.
Him: Was there a little black cat involved?
Me: Either that or I just suddenly felt like getting up and throwing your shirt (along with the hanger) into the toilet.
Him: At least he doesn’t know how to flush.
Me: Ooops. I wasn’t supposed to teach him that.
Him: God, don’t even think it.
Me: You know the white shirt hanging in the guest bathroom?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Don’t wear it to work today.
Him: Why not?
Me: Because I just fished it out of the toilet.
Him: Was there a little black cat involved?
Me: Either that or I just suddenly felt like getting up and throwing your shirt (along with the hanger) into the toilet.
Him: At least he doesn’t know how to flush.
Me: Ooops. I wasn’t supposed to teach him that.
Him: God, don’t even think it.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Word of the Day
by tess
A popular feature here at “Kriesen the Pants, a Forum for Things 1 & 2” is our Word of the Day segment. Today’s word is FUNNERN appearing along with its cousin-by-marriage FUNNEST.
Funnern:
Embedding the “One Night in Paris” video into the Albertson’s PowerPoint was funnern putting thumbtacks on the seat of Maritza’s chair.
Funnest:
The funnest time I ever had was when we edited John’s byline to read “Britney Spears.”
A popular feature here at “Kriesen the Pants, a Forum for Things 1 & 2” is our Word of the Day segment. Today’s word is FUNNERN appearing along with its cousin-by-marriage FUNNEST.
Funnern:
Embedding the “One Night in Paris” video into the Albertson’s PowerPoint was funnern putting thumbtacks on the seat of Maritza’s chair.
Funnest:
The funnest time I ever had was when we edited John’s byline to read “Britney Spears.”
You're so mature
by tess
Long ago and far away, I worked at a business that was very big into “emotional maturity.” For reasons obvious to anyone who has met me, I scrambled to find a new job. STAT!
On Sunday night, my current boss somehow managed to jam a cotton swab so far and so hard into his ear that it bled for hours necessitating an ER visit. Upon hearing this story, my brain was forced to select between two possible responses:
#1. Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry. I hope that there was no permanent damage!
#2. Ewwwwwwwww. Grosssssss. OH MY GOD. Blaeeecchhhhhhhh. Oh, that is SOOOOOOO DISGUSTING. Ahhhhhhhh. Ewwwwwwwwwwww. God, that’s just so completely GROOOSSSSSSSS. Uuuuuuucccccccggghhhkkkkkkkkk. I’m gonna barf. GAACKK.
Honestly, it was HOURS before a single sentiment in choice #1 came to mind.
Long ago and far away, I worked at a business that was very big into “emotional maturity.” For reasons obvious to anyone who has met me, I scrambled to find a new job. STAT!
On Sunday night, my current boss somehow managed to jam a cotton swab so far and so hard into his ear that it bled for hours necessitating an ER visit. Upon hearing this story, my brain was forced to select between two possible responses:
#1. Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry. I hope that there was no permanent damage!
#2. Ewwwwwwwww. Grosssssss. OH MY GOD. Blaeeecchhhhhhhh. Oh, that is SOOOOOOO DISGUSTING. Ahhhhhhhh. Ewwwwwwwwwwww. God, that’s just so completely GROOOSSSSSSSS. Uuuuuuucccccccggghhhkkkkkkkkk. I’m gonna barf. GAACKK.
Honestly, it was HOURS before a single sentiment in choice #1 came to mind.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Famous Last Words
"I have so taken vacation time with you this year. I took two hours off last week."
James Hayslip.
James Hayslip.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Bouncers
I am not, have never wanted to be, a mom. I have a few friends who are not moms. Some by choice, some by chance. We all wonder what it would be like, but I also think that at the end of the day we are each happy to have our lives to ourselves, to take care of our animals, and to not have to worry about paying tuition. And after a certain amount of time, our parents stop asking those questions, accepting things as they are. We sit at Christmas Dinner and hear tales of everyone's kids, little to add other than the current state of the dogs' neurosis and our cats' antics. I have a very good group of friends who live this life along with me. The odd women out in some ways. By choice or by chance.
I also have many friends who are moms. Good moms. Cool moms. Easy-going moms.
And then there are The Bouncers. I've only recently been introduced to this sort of thing. You see, I've learned that the mom has controlled access to the children. I've also learned grandparents are jonesing to get by the velvet rope to see those kids. And there's the mom, at the door. And because they want to get in, I've noticed some grandparents are putting up with some atrocious behavior on The Bouncer's part, because if you are mean to The Bouncer, her arms fold over and she looks past you, looking for someone who is more worthy to get into Club Grandchild.
Lotta power there dancing around those velvet ropes.
My childless friends and I talked about this, and we've decided that The Bouncers are drunk with power. But we've also decided that these few years of dictatorship will lead to decades of accepting one simple reality of life: you aren't in charge for long. It comes fluttering home in the form of back talk and disobedience, teenage rebellion and young adulthood independence. And sooner or later, The Bounder is on the other side of the ropes, begging to get in...
Meanwhile, my powerless, inability to control my animals is a pretty steady gig. No velvet ropes to bar or protect. Just nylon collars and shedding.
I also have many friends who are moms. Good moms. Cool moms. Easy-going moms.
And then there are The Bouncers. I've only recently been introduced to this sort of thing. You see, I've learned that the mom has controlled access to the children. I've also learned grandparents are jonesing to get by the velvet rope to see those kids. And there's the mom, at the door. And because they want to get in, I've noticed some grandparents are putting up with some atrocious behavior on The Bouncer's part, because if you are mean to The Bouncer, her arms fold over and she looks past you, looking for someone who is more worthy to get into Club Grandchild.
Lotta power there dancing around those velvet ropes.
My childless friends and I talked about this, and we've decided that The Bouncers are drunk with power. But we've also decided that these few years of dictatorship will lead to decades of accepting one simple reality of life: you aren't in charge for long. It comes fluttering home in the form of back talk and disobedience, teenage rebellion and young adulthood independence. And sooner or later, The Bounder is on the other side of the ropes, begging to get in...
Meanwhile, my powerless, inability to control my animals is a pretty steady gig. No velvet ropes to bar or protect. Just nylon collars and shedding.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Floormats Part II
“I noticed that the floor mat was sitting in the driveway. What’s that all about?” he asked. As if he didn’t know the answer.
“We broke up. Floormat and I broke up, if you must know.”
“Really. Why?”
“Floormat was controlling. Floormat didn’t want to let me do what I wanted to do and I am a strong, independent woman and I will not be controlled and held down, dammit!” I said, slamming my hand down on the counter.
“What did you want to do?”“I wanted to shift. But as I TOLD YOU BEFORE, sometimes Floormat catches my heel of my shoe and I can’t shift. So I ended it. And I will tell you that Floormat wasn’t very mature about the break up at all. When I threw him out of the house –“
“The car—“
“The car, Floormat spewed dirt and stones all over my sandaled foot which I think is just petty and small. And for that, Floormat is now sitting in the driveway, alone, in the rain, thinking about his behavior.”
“That’ll teach him.”
“I’m doing it so he can be better in his next relationship. I’m doing it for all the women who come after me.”
“Listening to Carrie Underwood again?”
“Purchased my new floormats yet?”
“We broke up. Floormat and I broke up, if you must know.”
“Really. Why?”
“Floormat was controlling. Floormat didn’t want to let me do what I wanted to do and I am a strong, independent woman and I will not be controlled and held down, dammit!” I said, slamming my hand down on the counter.
“What did you want to do?”“I wanted to shift. But as I TOLD YOU BEFORE, sometimes Floormat catches my heel of my shoe and I can’t shift. So I ended it. And I will tell you that Floormat wasn’t very mature about the break up at all. When I threw him out of the house –“
“The car—“
“The car, Floormat spewed dirt and stones all over my sandaled foot which I think is just petty and small. And for that, Floormat is now sitting in the driveway, alone, in the rain, thinking about his behavior.”
“That’ll teach him.”
“I’m doing it so he can be better in his next relationship. I’m doing it for all the women who come after me.”
“Listening to Carrie Underwood again?”
“Purchased my new floormats yet?”
BFF
by tess
We just got the latest batch of new employees and I’m not overly fond of them. Well, I wasn’t … until today.
Sixty-something Linda Loudmouth was announcing web news to the entire office as usual. Twenty-something New Employee #3 is too much of a rookie to feign temporary deafness.
LL: David Cook is giving his pants to the Hard Rock.
NE: Who’s David Cook?
LL: (shocked silence followed by sputtering disbelief) Who’s David Cook?
NE: Yeah, who’s David Cook?
LL: COME ON. Have you been living under a rock?
NE: Uhh, no. Who is he?
LL: That’s sacrilege in this office, buddy-boy.
NE: Huh?
LL: AAAMMMMEERRRICAN IIIIIDOOLLLL Season Seven!!!!
NE: Oh. I’ve heard of that. Is he like a judge or something?
BRWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!
New Employee #3 is my savior; my living, breathing proof that Some Americans Have Not Sullied Themselves with that Dreadful Fox Dreck. After YEARS of being tortured by minutiae about the judges’ integrity, the guests’ brilliance, and the contestants’ virtuosity, FINALLY I have a compatriot and fellow detractor of All Things Idol.
I better go call 911. Linda’s not breathing and has turned sort of an apoplectic purple.
We just got the latest batch of new employees and I’m not overly fond of them. Well, I wasn’t … until today.
Sixty-something Linda Loudmouth was announcing web news to the entire office as usual. Twenty-something New Employee #3 is too much of a rookie to feign temporary deafness.
LL: David Cook is giving his pants to the Hard Rock.
NE: Who’s David Cook?
LL: (shocked silence followed by sputtering disbelief) Who’s David Cook?
NE: Yeah, who’s David Cook?
LL: COME ON. Have you been living under a rock?
NE: Uhh, no. Who is he?
LL: That’s sacrilege in this office, buddy-boy.
NE: Huh?
LL: AAAMMMMEERRRICAN IIIIIDOOLLLL Season Seven!!!!
NE: Oh. I’ve heard of that. Is he like a judge or something?
BRWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!
New Employee #3 is my savior; my living, breathing proof that Some Americans Have Not Sullied Themselves with that Dreadful Fox Dreck. After YEARS of being tortured by minutiae about the judges’ integrity, the guests’ brilliance, and the contestants’ virtuosity, FINALLY I have a compatriot and fellow detractor of All Things Idol.
I better go call 911. Linda’s not breathing and has turned sort of an apoplectic purple.
SuperHubs
by tess
The Hubs is really smart. Waaaaay smarter than I am. He may not know the truly important things like who Jennifer Aniston’s dating this week, but he’s a whiz when it comes to stuff like electricity and geography and carpentry and algebra and plumbing. I can’t even figure out how to edge the stupid lawn without knicking the curb. Not that I want to edge, btw, but I would feel seriously brave and strong if I could install a light fixture or repair the sink. Alas, like so many other middle-aged women, I would be entirely at the mercy of unscrupulous repair men if not for The WonderHubs.
Which is why it’s particularly strange when he proves to be less than infallible.
A couple of months ago our stereo receiver died so we had to buy a new one to make our surround sound, DVD, cable box, and Roku play through the TV. The replacement arrived last weekend and The Hubs can’t make it work. This wouldn’t be a problem except that if the receiver doesn’t work, then the headphones don’t work, and if the headphones don’t work, then I don’t sleep. And that’s massively uncool.
See, between 9 and 10 each school night, The Wee Beasties and I repair to the bedroom to read. We bequeath the remote control to The Hubs who finally gets to watch something he likes … while sporting his wireless headphones.
And before you throw a big fat pity party for his having to wear (next-to top-of-the-line, thank-you-very-much) headphones, our bed is directly next to the television and he enjoys listening to even the news in surround sound at 12 gazillion decibels. And when I’m up before (or after) him, I wear the headphones so as not to disrupt The Snoring which could not be disturbed by a 12.5 earthquake. The man slept through hurricanes Frances, Jeanne, and Wilma (not to mention my own incessant wailing) for god’s sake.
Having read a few chapters, I can usually drift off within 30 minutes. And that’s fine even without his Crown of Thorns (aka the headphones) because he’s watching some boring news show which just drones on in the background, almost as sleep-worthy as baseball.
But sometime after that, he generally flips to HBO which for some completely unknowable reason has a different volume structure than other channels. So inevitably by midnight I’m trying to sleep with the pillow over my head rather than be That Woman, the Monster Shrew perpetually shrieking at her husband to turn down the &@#^ TV.
Still, by 1 AM I fly from my cave like a Ringwraith descending upon poor little Frodo.
And there he snores; fast asleep holding his pistachio bucket in one hand and his half-full glass in the other. Silent as death, I turn off the cable and tippy toe back to bed. I’ve learned the hard way that “Snookums? Sweetie? Honey-baby? Wuggum-bears? Wakey-wakey” doesn’t work out so well.
He startles awake and stares at me as though his worst nightmare has sprouted three chins and come alive. Perhaps it has. He rubs his eyes thinking, “It wasn’t just a nightmare. I really am married to Grimelda the Gray SheBeast.”
In any case, he won’t come to bed whether I wake him or not, so I let him sleep through the ordeal. Later I wake to hear him jolting out of his chair and ambling bed-ward. Without opening my eyes, I grin, knowing that the glass must finally have tipped over drenching his crotch in air condition-cooled wetness.
My glee is short-lived; the Monsters are awake. They took a quick vote and apparently it’s time for breakfast.
And so a new day begins hours before dawn.
The Hubs is really smart. Waaaaay smarter than I am. He may not know the truly important things like who Jennifer Aniston’s dating this week, but he’s a whiz when it comes to stuff like electricity and geography and carpentry and algebra and plumbing. I can’t even figure out how to edge the stupid lawn without knicking the curb. Not that I want to edge, btw, but I would feel seriously brave and strong if I could install a light fixture or repair the sink. Alas, like so many other middle-aged women, I would be entirely at the mercy of unscrupulous repair men if not for The WonderHubs.
Which is why it’s particularly strange when he proves to be less than infallible.
A couple of months ago our stereo receiver died so we had to buy a new one to make our surround sound, DVD, cable box, and Roku play through the TV. The replacement arrived last weekend and The Hubs can’t make it work. This wouldn’t be a problem except that if the receiver doesn’t work, then the headphones don’t work, and if the headphones don’t work, then I don’t sleep. And that’s massively uncool.
See, between 9 and 10 each school night, The Wee Beasties and I repair to the bedroom to read. We bequeath the remote control to The Hubs who finally gets to watch something he likes … while sporting his wireless headphones.
And before you throw a big fat pity party for his having to wear (next-to top-of-the-line, thank-you-very-much) headphones, our bed is directly next to the television and he enjoys listening to even the news in surround sound at 12 gazillion decibels. And when I’m up before (or after) him, I wear the headphones so as not to disrupt The Snoring which could not be disturbed by a 12.5 earthquake. The man slept through hurricanes Frances, Jeanne, and Wilma (not to mention my own incessant wailing) for god’s sake.
Having read a few chapters, I can usually drift off within 30 minutes. And that’s fine even without his Crown of Thorns (aka the headphones) because he’s watching some boring news show which just drones on in the background, almost as sleep-worthy as baseball.
But sometime after that, he generally flips to HBO which for some completely unknowable reason has a different volume structure than other channels. So inevitably by midnight I’m trying to sleep with the pillow over my head rather than be That Woman, the Monster Shrew perpetually shrieking at her husband to turn down the &@#^ TV.
Still, by 1 AM I fly from my cave like a Ringwraith descending upon poor little Frodo.
And there he snores; fast asleep holding his pistachio bucket in one hand and his half-full glass in the other. Silent as death, I turn off the cable and tippy toe back to bed. I’ve learned the hard way that “Snookums? Sweetie? Honey-baby? Wuggum-bears? Wakey-wakey” doesn’t work out so well.
He startles awake and stares at me as though his worst nightmare has sprouted three chins and come alive. Perhaps it has. He rubs his eyes thinking, “It wasn’t just a nightmare. I really am married to Grimelda the Gray SheBeast.”
In any case, he won’t come to bed whether I wake him or not, so I let him sleep through the ordeal. Later I wake to hear him jolting out of his chair and ambling bed-ward. Without opening my eyes, I grin, knowing that the glass must finally have tipped over drenching his crotch in air condition-cooled wetness.
My glee is short-lived; the Monsters are awake. They took a quick vote and apparently it’s time for breakfast.
And so a new day begins hours before dawn.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Sharin' Sharon
by tess
Have you ever worked with someone who is vastly mistaken to think of herself as your friend? It’s vaguely awkward and a little frustrating, isn’t it? These are ten reasons why I cannot befriend Sharon.
1. Blog evidence to the contrary, I’m not generally inclined to share my thoughts with strangers. But Sharon likes to share. Wait, scratch that. Sharon lives to share. She’s asked me 167 times, or every single Monday morning of my tenure:
SS: How was your weekend?
Me: (suddenly deeply engrossed by the riveting ad on my monitor) Fine.
SS: Mmm. This weekend I …
And Sharon goes on to chronicle every captivating moment of the 62 hours during which we were apart … because apparently I need to know.
2. She wears shoes that slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap Every Single Day so that I always know exactly where she is. It’s like an annoying bell on the collar of an unwanted cat that you’re too kind-hearted to put out of your misery.
3. Sharon enjoys going to the doctor and having lots of tests. Last year she called an ambulance when she thought cold medicine had somehow interacted with her blood pressure meds. It was nothing. She’s had a dozen MRIs that I know of – all negative. She sees her dermatologist more frequently than I order pizza. “Better safe than sorry” makes sense; “Overkill is the best medicine” does not. Last week she yammered at great length about a forthcoming (next year!) colonoscopy.
Me: (grossed out by the mental image of Sharon’s exposed nether regions) Ewww.
SS: You have to do it. Your time will come. An ounce of prevention…
Me: (moving on with my life) Mm-hmm.
SS: And then you’ll do it because you have to. And then say “ewww.” Tell me all about it then. I’ll remind you of “ewww.”
Me: (deciding it’s time to remove this particular bone from Fido’s jaws) Look, that’s years away and let’s face it, I’m not even going to know you then, so there will be nothing to tell.
4. When she’s not late due to the endless parade of doctors’ appointments, then she’s late because she (I am not making this up!) had to wash her hair. Seriously, in what solar system is that an excuse for tardiness?
5. She orders breakfast delivery so frequently that when the Bagel Bin answers the phone they say, “Hi, Sharon. Lightly toasted salt bagel with fried egg and bacon and a large chocolate milk with a straw?”
6. The volume on Sharon’s iPod is so loud that:
a) Her deafening GOOD MORNING startles co-workers right out of their chairs,
b) I can hear Josh Groban warbling in her earbuds from The Next Room,
c) She can’t hear me the first 4 times I call her for breakfast delivery.
7. She spends the first 30 minutes of each day at her desk troweling on layer upon layer of Mary Kay goo.
8. Like thousands of other lonely, love-starved, middle-aged women in South Florida, she left work early last week to attend AITR (the American Idol Tour of Rejectacons). Wonder if AARP, Ensure, and Hoveround have booths at Senilepalooza?
9. Sharon spends the first half of her lunch break on Facebook. I know it’s my weird personal thing but I think So-Nets should be for kids rather than glitter-wearing, Activia-eating, Glambert-loving suburban granny-panters. She spends the second half calling her sons asking them to explain their Facebook updates and asking who all their little Face-friends are.
10. She has two sons who are interchangeable to me in that I’ve never met either one. I know only that they’re both in their late 20s, both have inexplicably only recently graduated, both still officially live at home, and both receive ridiculous amounts of Xmas booty. (Booty like pirate plunder, not skanky vajayjay.) Son A is currently in NYC and jobless but That’s Not His Fault. Apparently the Satan-worshipping company that hired him for a temporary gig ended the assignment as per the original contract. Thoroughly convinced that they would offer her son permanent employment (and promote him to Emperor of the Universe) once they witnessed his angels-singing-in-heaven glory, she wept for days to hear that he’ll be unemployed and sleeping on a friend’s couch until he’s willing to give it up and return home. Son B is marrying some pop-tart from a “Verrrrrrrry Wealthy Family”, or so I’ve been told 18 bajillion times. Apparently the affianced one is moving in with the gf next month.
SS: (insert interchangeable son’s name here) will be moving out soon. They’ve got a great place in Swinton.
Me: (oblivious to the tell-tale sniffle and looking super busy) Oh, that’s great.
SS: It’s a beeeeeeautiful place. Of course her family is helping to pay. They’re Verrrrry Wealthy.
Me: (using super-human strength to control my rolling eyes) Oh, that’s great.
SS: It looks over a lake. Very park-like gated community with an HOA. Verrrrry upscale.
Me: (thoroughly engrossed in scratching my elbow) Oh, that’s great.
SS: Sigh. So we’ll officially be Empty Nesters in One Short Month.
Me: (with the compassion of a gnat) Oh, that’s great.
SS: Sigh. It was just yesterday when they were little boys. Helping me bake Xmas cookies. Making mother’s day cards. Such sweet boys. Never a problem. Now they’re gooooooonnnnnne.
Me: (looking busy, missing the point, and bored) Oh, that’ll be great.
SS: (finally seeking commiseration elsewhere) Sigh.
Have you ever worked with someone who is vastly mistaken to think of herself as your friend? It’s vaguely awkward and a little frustrating, isn’t it? These are ten reasons why I cannot befriend Sharon.
1. Blog evidence to the contrary, I’m not generally inclined to share my thoughts with strangers. But Sharon likes to share. Wait, scratch that. Sharon lives to share. She’s asked me 167 times, or every single Monday morning of my tenure:
SS: How was your weekend?
Me: (suddenly deeply engrossed by the riveting ad on my monitor) Fine.
SS: Mmm. This weekend I …
And Sharon goes on to chronicle every captivating moment of the 62 hours during which we were apart … because apparently I need to know.
2. She wears shoes that slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap Every Single Day so that I always know exactly where she is. It’s like an annoying bell on the collar of an unwanted cat that you’re too kind-hearted to put out of your misery.
3. Sharon enjoys going to the doctor and having lots of tests. Last year she called an ambulance when she thought cold medicine had somehow interacted with her blood pressure meds. It was nothing. She’s had a dozen MRIs that I know of – all negative. She sees her dermatologist more frequently than I order pizza. “Better safe than sorry” makes sense; “Overkill is the best medicine” does not. Last week she yammered at great length about a forthcoming (next year!) colonoscopy.
Me: (grossed out by the mental image of Sharon’s exposed nether regions) Ewww.
SS: You have to do it. Your time will come. An ounce of prevention…
Me: (moving on with my life) Mm-hmm.
SS: And then you’ll do it because you have to. And then say “ewww.” Tell me all about it then. I’ll remind you of “ewww.”
Me: (deciding it’s time to remove this particular bone from Fido’s jaws) Look, that’s years away and let’s face it, I’m not even going to know you then, so there will be nothing to tell.
4. When she’s not late due to the endless parade of doctors’ appointments, then she’s late because she (I am not making this up!) had to wash her hair. Seriously, in what solar system is that an excuse for tardiness?
5. She orders breakfast delivery so frequently that when the Bagel Bin answers the phone they say, “Hi, Sharon. Lightly toasted salt bagel with fried egg and bacon and a large chocolate milk with a straw?”
6. The volume on Sharon’s iPod is so loud that:
a) Her deafening GOOD MORNING startles co-workers right out of their chairs,
b) I can hear Josh Groban warbling in her earbuds from The Next Room,
c) She can’t hear me the first 4 times I call her for breakfast delivery.
7. She spends the first 30 minutes of each day at her desk troweling on layer upon layer of Mary Kay goo.
8. Like thousands of other lonely, love-starved, middle-aged women in South Florida, she left work early last week to attend AITR (the American Idol Tour of Rejectacons). Wonder if AARP, Ensure, and Hoveround have booths at Senilepalooza?
9. Sharon spends the first half of her lunch break on Facebook. I know it’s my weird personal thing but I think So-Nets should be for kids rather than glitter-wearing, Activia-eating, Glambert-loving suburban granny-panters. She spends the second half calling her sons asking them to explain their Facebook updates and asking who all their little Face-friends are.
10. She has two sons who are interchangeable to me in that I’ve never met either one. I know only that they’re both in their late 20s, both have inexplicably only recently graduated, both still officially live at home, and both receive ridiculous amounts of Xmas booty. (Booty like pirate plunder, not skanky vajayjay.) Son A is currently in NYC and jobless but That’s Not His Fault. Apparently the Satan-worshipping company that hired him for a temporary gig ended the assignment as per the original contract. Thoroughly convinced that they would offer her son permanent employment (and promote him to Emperor of the Universe) once they witnessed his angels-singing-in-heaven glory, she wept for days to hear that he’ll be unemployed and sleeping on a friend’s couch until he’s willing to give it up and return home. Son B is marrying some pop-tart from a “Verrrrrrrry Wealthy Family”, or so I’ve been told 18 bajillion times. Apparently the affianced one is moving in with the gf next month.
SS: (insert interchangeable son’s name here) will be moving out soon. They’ve got a great place in Swinton.
Me: (oblivious to the tell-tale sniffle and looking super busy) Oh, that’s great.
SS: It’s a beeeeeeautiful place. Of course her family is helping to pay. They’re Verrrrry Wealthy.
Me: (using super-human strength to control my rolling eyes) Oh, that’s great.
SS: It looks over a lake. Very park-like gated community with an HOA. Verrrrry upscale.
Me: (thoroughly engrossed in scratching my elbow) Oh, that’s great.
SS: Sigh. So we’ll officially be Empty Nesters in One Short Month.
Me: (with the compassion of a gnat) Oh, that’s great.
SS: Sigh. It was just yesterday when they were little boys. Helping me bake Xmas cookies. Making mother’s day cards. Such sweet boys. Never a problem. Now they’re gooooooonnnnnne.
Me: (looking busy, missing the point, and bored) Oh, that’ll be great.
SS: (finally seeking commiseration elsewhere) Sigh.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Armend and Unsupervised: Update
As I leave the house to get cat food and paint, I notice it smells like something is burning, something electrical. As I get in the car, I look in the window: Aw, my living room looks so pretty with floor lamp lighting up the Chinese screen.
I arrive home; walk to the living room. And stare at the floor lamp lighting up the Chinese screen.
I don't remember turning that light on.
When would I turn it on?
The last time I touched it was when Turtle had an accident on the cord and I didn't know it was wet, tried to turn it on, and zapped myself. And then did it again because I'm a little brain damaged at times.
Smells like something is burning. WHY IS THE LIGHT ON?
Conclusion A: Someone broke in. Someone broke in and turned on the light and left. Scared away by the dogs.
Conclusion B: It's a ghost! I smell ectoplasm, not something burning.
Conclusion C: Short in the cord.
I decide it's C (shouldn't you always pick C?) because the switch smells and is all black. I unplugged the lamp. Now, if I go back down there and it's back on again, I'm returning to C.
I arrive home; walk to the living room. And stare at the floor lamp lighting up the Chinese screen.
I don't remember turning that light on.
When would I turn it on?
The last time I touched it was when Turtle had an accident on the cord and I didn't know it was wet, tried to turn it on, and zapped myself. And then did it again because I'm a little brain damaged at times.
Smells like something is burning. WHY IS THE LIGHT ON?
Conclusion A: Someone broke in. Someone broke in and turned on the light and left. Scared away by the dogs.
Conclusion B: It's a ghost! I smell ectoplasm, not something burning.
Conclusion C: Short in the cord.
I decide it's C (shouldn't you always pick C?) because the switch smells and is all black. I unplugged the lamp. Now, if I go back down there and it's back on again, I'm returning to C.
Armed and Unsupervised.
Jamie has been away, spending the weekend at car races and being generally guy-ish.
I look forward to this time. The house, I believe, does not. The house gets operated on when Jamie is gone. And I'm definitely not a qualified surgeon.
The last time he left me unsupervised, I ripped out the wall-to-wall carpeting in the hall and stairs and decided to electrocute myself (several times) while adding in some additional lamps to the track lighting.
The time before that, I pulled out the carpet downstairs (I'm apparently anti-carpet) and reupholstered two chairs (with pins, rather than sewing, so now they are booby-trapped).
The time before that I adopted a dog.
The time before that I left the oven on for three days.
You get the picture. Jamie never knows what he's coming home to. And the house never knows what my plan is, seeing as how I have several projects going all at once. Here was yesterday's scene, fueled by little more than ice cream bars, soy crisps, and pizza.
Area 1: The Stairs. Having pulled the carpet out, I had decided to fill the holes myself. After being told that you do it with woodfill (and not toothpaste; you aren't living in a dorm, Gretchen), I quickly applied the yellow paste with my hands (not the proper tool, I was later told). Yesterday, this area was in various states of sanding, cleaning, and painting.
Area 2: The Family Room. There was some general rug switcheroo going on as well as various areas of the trim being painted. Not all the trim, just some.
Area 3: The Patio Door. Armed with a paint sample from Home Depot, I decided it was enough to paint the door. It wasn't.
Area 4: The Kitchen. Here, too, there are various areas of trim being painted. Again, not all. Just some.
Area 5: My Bathroom. This is a general shedding effort. A large garbage bag sat in the middle of the floor and every hour or so, another cluster of bottles, tubes, containers, soaps, gadgets, etc. were evaluated, ranked and either thrown out or saved. This had to be done in about 12 passes, until such excuses as, "Oh, but I bought this expensive lotion four years ago when I got a small bonus from work for working a weekend" no longer meant I had to keep something which hadn't been used in five years.
Area 6: The Bedroom. Throughout the day, this room got rearranged several times until I found the "right" layout. Which is remarkably similar to the "original" layout.
Today we are going to mess with Area 7: The Living Room/Library.
The next time he goes away, it's the garage.....
I look forward to this time. The house, I believe, does not. The house gets operated on when Jamie is gone. And I'm definitely not a qualified surgeon.
The last time he left me unsupervised, I ripped out the wall-to-wall carpeting in the hall and stairs and decided to electrocute myself (several times) while adding in some additional lamps to the track lighting.
The time before that, I pulled out the carpet downstairs (I'm apparently anti-carpet) and reupholstered two chairs (with pins, rather than sewing, so now they are booby-trapped).
The time before that I adopted a dog.
The time before that I left the oven on for three days.
You get the picture. Jamie never knows what he's coming home to. And the house never knows what my plan is, seeing as how I have several projects going all at once. Here was yesterday's scene, fueled by little more than ice cream bars, soy crisps, and pizza.
Area 1: The Stairs. Having pulled the carpet out, I had decided to fill the holes myself. After being told that you do it with woodfill (and not toothpaste; you aren't living in a dorm, Gretchen), I quickly applied the yellow paste with my hands (not the proper tool, I was later told). Yesterday, this area was in various states of sanding, cleaning, and painting.
Area 2: The Family Room. There was some general rug switcheroo going on as well as various areas of the trim being painted. Not all the trim, just some.
Area 3: The Patio Door. Armed with a paint sample from Home Depot, I decided it was enough to paint the door. It wasn't.
Area 4: The Kitchen. Here, too, there are various areas of trim being painted. Again, not all. Just some.
Area 5: My Bathroom. This is a general shedding effort. A large garbage bag sat in the middle of the floor and every hour or so, another cluster of bottles, tubes, containers, soaps, gadgets, etc. were evaluated, ranked and either thrown out or saved. This had to be done in about 12 passes, until such excuses as, "Oh, but I bought this expensive lotion four years ago when I got a small bonus from work for working a weekend" no longer meant I had to keep something which hadn't been used in five years.
Area 6: The Bedroom. Throughout the day, this room got rearranged several times until I found the "right" layout. Which is remarkably similar to the "original" layout.
Today we are going to mess with Area 7: The Living Room/Library.
The next time he goes away, it's the garage.....
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Today
by tess
Today I’m grateful that North Korea was willing to release the two journalists. I won’t bother making the obvious (but still darn funny!) Clinton jokes that we’ve all heard anyway.
And I’m horrified that those women were murdered at the health club in Pennsylvania. Nothing good ever happens at a gym.
We’ve been watching the Teen Jeopardy finals this week. Alex asked one group about their hobbies. I hate that question because you know these kids just study, and maybe play a dorky instrument. And reading is not a hobby. Reading is an excuse to sit and do nothing else, and even I do that so I know it’s not a hobby. If I had to have one, I guess my hobby would be eavesdropping on my co-workers’ cell chats. Yeah, I know, I complain about being forced to overhear people talking on their cell phones. But choosing something versus having it thrust upon you is a completely different animal. So Abby is shouting, “I’M NOT YELLING!” at her husband. (Are to.) And Laurie is on the phone with her support group discussing whether their friend is just depressed or suicidal. It makes me grateful to not have friends or family.
I’m annoyed that The Smokers in my office won’t stop coughing and sniffling and taking sick days.
I attended real estate classes mere moments before The Big Bust. I was reminded of that this morning while musing over the poor suckers who decided last month to get out of The Car Biz … seconds before there are actually commissions, however short-term that might be.
Our office doesn’t have an I.T. person so this guy who happens to know a little about computers becomes the de facto Not-I.T. Guy. Similarly, our office doesn’t have an H.R. person so some of those duties fall through the cracks onto my desk. So when I walked in yesterday there was a New Person.
First, that’s not allowed because I was not informed. And you knooow how I am about not being informed.
Second, I specifically thought he should not have been interviewed in the first place because he’s clearly a dolt; a very talkative dolt at that. And you knoooow how I feel about talkative dolts.
Third, he “just decided” to come in at 8:00 to make up some time he’ll miss for a doctor’s visit. He spent that 30 minutes “make up time” trying to chat me up. Soooo many problems here – you don’t “just decide” to come in at 8:00, you don’t “make up” time on YOUR SECOND DAY of employment, and you DO NOT SPEAK TO ME BEFORE 8:30 at which time only “Good morning” is acceptable. So you knooooow how I feel about all of that.
Fourth, he whistles. There’s not a shrink in the world brave enough to ask me, “So, Tess, how do you feeeeeel about that?” Are you kidding me? I feeeeeeel that just as there is no crying in football, there is no whistling in the office. EVER.
A colleague discovered this weekend that one of his friends is actually a porn actor. He’s shocked because it was so unexpected. And it’s hysterical because now my colleague can hardly remember his friend’s name, only his porn name. Now thaaaaat’s a hobby! “Well gee, Alex, I’m super-psyched to be here on Jeopardy but in my spare time I’m a porn star. You may recognize me as Rod Golden from such fan-faves as GoldNChains, Goldf#@%er, and Goldif#@%s & the 3 Bares.” (Note: I actually met a man named Rod Golden once but he wasn't a porn star. Also, if those are real pornos, I didn't mean to infringe on your copyrights. But you know I'm not going to research porn movie names here at work!)
Today I’m grateful that North Korea was willing to release the two journalists. I won’t bother making the obvious (but still darn funny!) Clinton jokes that we’ve all heard anyway.
And I’m horrified that those women were murdered at the health club in Pennsylvania. Nothing good ever happens at a gym.
We’ve been watching the Teen Jeopardy finals this week. Alex asked one group about their hobbies. I hate that question because you know these kids just study, and maybe play a dorky instrument. And reading is not a hobby. Reading is an excuse to sit and do nothing else, and even I do that so I know it’s not a hobby. If I had to have one, I guess my hobby would be eavesdropping on my co-workers’ cell chats. Yeah, I know, I complain about being forced to overhear people talking on their cell phones. But choosing something versus having it thrust upon you is a completely different animal. So Abby is shouting, “I’M NOT YELLING!” at her husband. (Are to.) And Laurie is on the phone with her support group discussing whether their friend is just depressed or suicidal. It makes me grateful to not have friends or family.
I’m annoyed that The Smokers in my office won’t stop coughing and sniffling and taking sick days.
I attended real estate classes mere moments before The Big Bust. I was reminded of that this morning while musing over the poor suckers who decided last month to get out of The Car Biz … seconds before there are actually commissions, however short-term that might be.
Our office doesn’t have an I.T. person so this guy who happens to know a little about computers becomes the de facto Not-I.T. Guy. Similarly, our office doesn’t have an H.R. person so some of those duties fall through the cracks onto my desk. So when I walked in yesterday there was a New Person.
First, that’s not allowed because I was not informed. And you knooow how I am about not being informed.
Second, I specifically thought he should not have been interviewed in the first place because he’s clearly a dolt; a very talkative dolt at that. And you knoooow how I feel about talkative dolts.
Third, he “just decided” to come in at 8:00 to make up some time he’ll miss for a doctor’s visit. He spent that 30 minutes “make up time” trying to chat me up. Soooo many problems here – you don’t “just decide” to come in at 8:00, you don’t “make up” time on YOUR SECOND DAY of employment, and you DO NOT SPEAK TO ME BEFORE 8:30 at which time only “Good morning” is acceptable. So you knooooow how I feel about all of that.
Fourth, he whistles. There’s not a shrink in the world brave enough to ask me, “So, Tess, how do you feeeeeel about that?” Are you kidding me? I feeeeeeel that just as there is no crying in football, there is no whistling in the office. EVER.
A colleague discovered this weekend that one of his friends is actually a porn actor. He’s shocked because it was so unexpected. And it’s hysterical because now my colleague can hardly remember his friend’s name, only his porn name. Now thaaaaat’s a hobby! “Well gee, Alex, I’m super-psyched to be here on Jeopardy but in my spare time I’m a porn star. You may recognize me as Rod Golden from such fan-faves as GoldNChains, Goldf#@%er, and Goldif#@%s & the 3 Bares.” (Note: I actually met a man named Rod Golden once but he wasn't a porn star. Also, if those are real pornos, I didn't mean to infringe on your copyrights. But you know I'm not going to research porn movie names here at work!)
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Word of the Day
by tess
Judginess: the quality that permits superior beings to distinguish Good versus Evil.
To paraphrase The Great Colbert, some of you wordinistas might disparage judginess, but I say unto you: Cast not the first glass house lest ye get stoned! If the Colbert Nation can get truthiness into the OED, then Gretchen and I can use judginess in our blog. So there.
And so we shall provide to you the fruits of our judginess-pertise.
Examples of Good:
Wine
Online shopping
HoHos
Slandering co-workers’ fashion choices
Grilled cheese
Wearing pajamas until they walk themselves to the washer
Wine (Yeah, it’s that good! Shut up.)
Examples of Evil:
Sneaky floormat sellers
Being felt up by Russian dressmakers
Jumpsuits
Slow-to-close elevator doors
Parties
Chipmunk-eating pets
The sound of 1,000 Barbie dolls running across the floor in plastic high heels
Gretchen and I have few mutual friends. But one of our common acquaintances, we’ll call him “John” (since that’s his name), swears that when he was a child the word Judgment was spelled Judgement.
Upon hearing this, one might think that John’s a buffoon. He’s not, he’s just misguided. Like so many, many, many other men. Fortunately he had G and me to set him straight. Through the peels of laughter and general rolling around on the floor holding our stomachs and wiping our tears, Gretchen and I informed “John” that judgment has always been spelled with one e, not two.
I know this because Sister Satanica, the Typing teacher, drilled into our empty 15-year old heads the words we would surely need to know how to spell correctly in our future lives as good Catholic wives and mothers: accommodate, annulment, embarrass, grateful, judgment, maintenance, possession, retribution, sincerely, truly, and vacuum.
But back to “John.” I have a few theories about why he thinks the word might have evolved from Judgement to Judgment.
1: He grew up watching the original Japanese Iron Chefs on FoodTV. Toward the end of the show, the word JUDGEMENT is splashed across the screen in 800 bajillion point type.
2: He had a British teacher who also taught him: colour, arse, organise, barrister, queue, and knickers.
3: He was mistaken and didn’t like being corrected by a couple of grilled cheese-scarfing know-it-all doofuses.
I think we can safely rule out number 2. And at the time “John” was new to the office and trying to be our friend, so number 3 is iffy at best. Which leads us to number 1. And, coincidentally, to one of my pet theories.
Warning: Crazy elderly person rant below. Those who wish to remain rant-free, move along with your day now. I repeat: Look Away from the Rant.
(Ascending rant platform)
Like so many others who walked uphill both to and from school in the driving blizzards of south Florida, I grew up in a simpler time and place. Sex didn’t kill you, although your parents did if they found out. Soft-core drugs didn’t kill you, although your parents did if they found out. And even dirty books were edited.
The more frequently we see words spelled wrong (or hear phrases used incorrectly), the more difficult it becomes to recognize properly spelled words (or properly used phrases).
To wit, someone who hears “a whole nother” on a daily basis cannot identify that as improperly used English. Similarly, one who hears “should’ve” might not be able to differentiate “should of” from “should have” if he/she does not read.
And here’s the tricky part. The more frequently that person reads “could of” and “should of” in their unedited glory (i.e., on the Internet), the further reinforced the improper English becomes.
Only it’s a thousand times worse than that. Because the unedited sources (the Internet) also reinforce the use of sentences formed by abbreviations and emoticons rather than punctuation or capitalization, children and young adults who do not read properly edited materials cannot possibly be expected to differentiate between proper English and colloquialisms (aka that crap on the web).
Am I employing my self-appointed judginess to declare The Interwebs evil? No, obviously I am not. Nor will I be convinced that a brain-numbing, consistent bombardment of webspeak (via so-net sites, blogging, chatrooms, etc.) can be compared to a healthy, consistent regimen of edited literature.
Here endeth the rant.
(Descending terminal o’ tirades)
Judginess: the quality that permits superior beings to distinguish Good versus Evil.
To paraphrase The Great Colbert, some of you wordinistas might disparage judginess, but I say unto you: Cast not the first glass house lest ye get stoned! If the Colbert Nation can get truthiness into the OED, then Gretchen and I can use judginess in our blog. So there.
And so we shall provide to you the fruits of our judginess-pertise.
Examples of Good:
Wine
Online shopping
HoHos
Slandering co-workers’ fashion choices
Grilled cheese
Wearing pajamas until they walk themselves to the washer
Wine (Yeah, it’s that good! Shut up.)
Examples of Evil:
Sneaky floormat sellers
Being felt up by Russian dressmakers
Jumpsuits
Slow-to-close elevator doors
Parties
Chipmunk-eating pets
The sound of 1,000 Barbie dolls running across the floor in plastic high heels
Gretchen and I have few mutual friends. But one of our common acquaintances, we’ll call him “John” (since that’s his name), swears that when he was a child the word Judgment was spelled Judgement.
Upon hearing this, one might think that John’s a buffoon. He’s not, he’s just misguided. Like so many, many, many other men. Fortunately he had G and me to set him straight. Through the peels of laughter and general rolling around on the floor holding our stomachs and wiping our tears, Gretchen and I informed “John” that judgment has always been spelled with one e, not two.
I know this because Sister Satanica, the Typing teacher, drilled into our empty 15-year old heads the words we would surely need to know how to spell correctly in our future lives as good Catholic wives and mothers: accommodate, annulment, embarrass, grateful, judgment, maintenance, possession, retribution, sincerely, truly, and vacuum.
But back to “John.” I have a few theories about why he thinks the word might have evolved from Judgement to Judgment.
1: He grew up watching the original Japanese Iron Chefs on FoodTV. Toward the end of the show, the word JUDGEMENT is splashed across the screen in 800 bajillion point type.
2: He had a British teacher who also taught him: colour, arse, organise, barrister, queue, and knickers.
3: He was mistaken and didn’t like being corrected by a couple of grilled cheese-scarfing know-it-all doofuses.
I think we can safely rule out number 2. And at the time “John” was new to the office and trying to be our friend, so number 3 is iffy at best. Which leads us to number 1. And, coincidentally, to one of my pet theories.
Warning: Crazy elderly person rant below. Those who wish to remain rant-free, move along with your day now. I repeat: Look Away from the Rant.
(Ascending rant platform)
Like so many others who walked uphill both to and from school in the driving blizzards of south Florida, I grew up in a simpler time and place. Sex didn’t kill you, although your parents did if they found out. Soft-core drugs didn’t kill you, although your parents did if they found out. And even dirty books were edited.
The more frequently we see words spelled wrong (or hear phrases used incorrectly), the more difficult it becomes to recognize properly spelled words (or properly used phrases).
To wit, someone who hears “a whole nother” on a daily basis cannot identify that as improperly used English. Similarly, one who hears “should’ve” might not be able to differentiate “should of” from “should have” if he/she does not read.
And here’s the tricky part. The more frequently that person reads “could of” and “should of” in their unedited glory (i.e., on the Internet), the further reinforced the improper English becomes.
Only it’s a thousand times worse than that. Because the unedited sources (the Internet) also reinforce the use of sentences formed by abbreviations and emoticons rather than punctuation or capitalization, children and young adults who do not read properly edited materials cannot possibly be expected to differentiate between proper English and colloquialisms (aka that crap on the web).
Am I employing my self-appointed judginess to declare The Interwebs evil? No, obviously I am not. Nor will I be convinced that a brain-numbing, consistent bombardment of webspeak (via so-net sites, blogging, chatrooms, etc.) can be compared to a healthy, consistent regimen of edited literature.
Here endeth the rant.
(Descending terminal o’ tirades)
Temporary blindness
by tess
Our bathrooms are crappy. They’re the kind that you see on low-end can’t-get-this-damn-house-sold-to-save-my-life HGTV shows. You’d recognize the components immediately – the lowest-bidder quality sink/tub/shower fixtures, the cheapo plastic countertops that never looked like faux marble, the bargain basement mirrors, and those god-awful Hollywood light bars.
Every Single Time I force The Hubs to watch a bathroom remodeling show with me, I declare (as though it was the first time!):
See? That’s just like our crappy bathroom. Even that humongous woman wearing a red plaid shirt with yellow striped culottes and ‘70s jelly sandals is sneering at it. We’re never going to sell our house with a bathroom like that.
Sadly he is unable to respond. Because apparently HGTV stands for Hence Goeth The Vision. He suffers coma-like temporary blindness which prevents him not only from seeing the bathroom remodels but also from responding to any words that pass my lips.
Either that or he’s ignoring me.
As a small shove in the right direction – the direction of having bathrooms that look they were built by people who wore more fabric than loincloths – I purchased a new light fixture to replace one of the Hollywood bars. It’s been propped in the corner of the bedroom for 16.5 months now.
But at least it has been put to good use. Quinty uses it as a springboard to the top of the armoire from which he can dive bomb his sister when she’s finished spraying kitty litter all over our beautiful circa 1985 master bath.
Our bathrooms are crappy. They’re the kind that you see on low-end can’t-get-this-damn-house-sold-to-save-my-life HGTV shows. You’d recognize the components immediately – the lowest-bidder quality sink/tub/shower fixtures, the cheapo plastic countertops that never looked like faux marble, the bargain basement mirrors, and those god-awful Hollywood light bars.
Every Single Time I force The Hubs to watch a bathroom remodeling show with me, I declare (as though it was the first time!):
See? That’s just like our crappy bathroom. Even that humongous woman wearing a red plaid shirt with yellow striped culottes and ‘70s jelly sandals is sneering at it. We’re never going to sell our house with a bathroom like that.
Sadly he is unable to respond. Because apparently HGTV stands for Hence Goeth The Vision. He suffers coma-like temporary blindness which prevents him not only from seeing the bathroom remodels but also from responding to any words that pass my lips.
Either that or he’s ignoring me.
As a small shove in the right direction – the direction of having bathrooms that look they were built by people who wore more fabric than loincloths – I purchased a new light fixture to replace one of the Hollywood bars. It’s been propped in the corner of the bedroom for 16.5 months now.
But at least it has been put to good use. Quinty uses it as a springboard to the top of the armoire from which he can dive bomb his sister when she’s finished spraying kitty litter all over our beautiful circa 1985 master bath.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Light Fixtures and Floormats
I asked him to install a light. Drill a few holes. Hook up wires. Simple, I thought.
Home demolition, he thought.
BTW, that exposed beam goes up about three more feet. It's very attractive.
We've encountered much the same disconnect addressing the rust spots on my car What would have taken me two hours (and look like crap, but be functional) has taken him, oh, two months, maybe? It's not finished. It's perfect, but it's still not finished.
And then there were the floor mats. First, let it be known that my car smells. Somehow, I got that dog-in-car musk in there and it's not leaving. So over the winter, Jamie gave me my most favorite gift: he had my car interior cleaned. Part of this was scrubbing the floor mats. And because the thinks about me (or the resale value of my car), he put in some heavy duty rubber mats for the winter and put the floor mats in our "basement" to dry out and then hang out until spring.
Floor mats aren't really high on my priority list and despite their ugliness, I couldn't seem to remember to switch them out for the original ones once spring came. It's August. And here is the conversation:
Me: Oh, I keep forgetting; we need to put my floormats back in. Those rubber ones are great, but I get my heels caught in them when driving.
Pause.
He: hehehe... about that...
Me: What did you do?
He: I had good intentions.
Me: What did you do?
He: I actually was thinking it through this time?
Me: Unlike the last time when you put fox urine in my only pair of stockings without runs in them to drive out the squirrels in the attic?
He: Right. Not like that. You see, well, hehe heee. Well.
Me: WHAT. DID. YOU. DO.
He: Well, I didn't ruin them.
Me: Like the stockings.
He: RIGHT! But I replaced those. You see, I sort of, you see, I
Me: JAMIE!
He: I sold them.
Me: You what?
He: Well, the ones in the Subaru were crappy so I put yours in there when I sold the car. I was going to get you new ones.
Me: You sold the car in April.
He: Right.
Me: It's almost August.
He: Yeahhhhhhh.... yeah.
Me: What are you waiting for?
He: You weren't even supposed to know! It was going to be a surprise.
Me: Can you not see that it IS a surprise?
He: Right.
Me: So, are you actually going to get them or am I just going to blog about this and not have new floormats.
He: I'm going to get them.
Me: This year?
He: Yes.
Pause.
Me: I guess the current mats are OK.
He: I'm going to get you new ones.
Me: I'm sure you are.
He: I am.
Me: I'm not saying you aren't. But I know you. BTW, can you install that light in the hallway this afternoon? It's been sitting around for days, ready to be installed.
He: Yes. That I can do.
Home demolition, he thought.
BTW, that exposed beam goes up about three more feet. It's very attractive.
We've encountered much the same disconnect addressing the rust spots on my car What would have taken me two hours (and look like crap, but be functional) has taken him, oh, two months, maybe? It's not finished. It's perfect, but it's still not finished.
And then there were the floor mats. First, let it be known that my car smells. Somehow, I got that dog-in-car musk in there and it's not leaving. So over the winter, Jamie gave me my most favorite gift: he had my car interior cleaned. Part of this was scrubbing the floor mats. And because the thinks about me (or the resale value of my car), he put in some heavy duty rubber mats for the winter and put the floor mats in our "basement" to dry out and then hang out until spring.
Floor mats aren't really high on my priority list and despite their ugliness, I couldn't seem to remember to switch them out for the original ones once spring came. It's August. And here is the conversation:
Me: Oh, I keep forgetting; we need to put my floormats back in. Those rubber ones are great, but I get my heels caught in them when driving.
Pause.
He: hehehe... about that...
Me: What did you do?
He: I had good intentions.
Me: What did you do?
He: I actually was thinking it through this time?
Me: Unlike the last time when you put fox urine in my only pair of stockings without runs in them to drive out the squirrels in the attic?
He: Right. Not like that. You see, well, hehe heee. Well.
Me: WHAT. DID. YOU. DO.
He: Well, I didn't ruin them.
Me: Like the stockings.
He: RIGHT! But I replaced those. You see, I sort of, you see, I
Me: JAMIE!
He: I sold them.
Me: You what?
He: Well, the ones in the Subaru were crappy so I put yours in there when I sold the car. I was going to get you new ones.
Me: You sold the car in April.
He: Right.
Me: It's almost August.
He: Yeahhhhhhh.... yeah.
Me: What are you waiting for?
He: You weren't even supposed to know! It was going to be a surprise.
Me: Can you not see that it IS a surprise?
He: Right.
Me: So, are you actually going to get them or am I just going to blog about this and not have new floormats.
He: I'm going to get them.
Me: This year?
He: Yes.
Pause.
Me: I guess the current mats are OK.
He: I'm going to get you new ones.
Me: I'm sure you are.
He: I am.
Me: I'm not saying you aren't. But I know you. BTW, can you install that light in the hallway this afternoon? It's been sitting around for days, ready to be installed.
He: Yes. That I can do.
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