Archive for the ‘bitching’ Category

A Very! Stressful! Thing! happened first thing this morning, and didn’t get resolved immediately. So, I was

[—-this close—-]

to a heart attack, for about two hours. And that, my friends? Is a very uncomfortable feeling.

Once the Very! Stressful! Thing! resolved itself with no foul and no harm aside from the aforementioned heart-attack-on-deck, things… really didn’t get much better. The morning progressed along the lines of stupid people continuing to be stupid, and phone numbers that didn’t work, and an associate that e-mailed me seventeen times (I just counted) in the course of 45 minutes (I just calculated) about five differing topics. Which was so convoluted that I resorted to TAKING NOTES just so I wouldn’t lose my place.

So 11:15 rolled around, and I’d skipped breakfast because of the Very! Stressful! Thing!, so I wandered down to the cafeteria to grab a salad and a cup of bean soup. While ladling the soup into the container, it kind of BLOOPED, and splashed my hand a bit. So, no biggie. I grabbed a napkin, wiped my hands, strolled up to the counter, paid, grabbed some utensils, walked through the cafeteria, up the stairs, down the isle, and back to my desk.

THEN looked down, and saw about fifteen eraser-sized blurts covering my frontside.

Clearly today isn’t done fucking with me yet. And it’s not even noon. (*)

At least my food is good.

On this auspicious note, I hereby declare myself the WINNER OF NABLOPOMO. I didn’t miss a single day of posting in the entire month of November. Not sure how far up on my list of life’s accomplishments that should land, but hey. I did it.

So, there’s that.

(*) Updated at 2:00: I went out to the truck to run some errands (after I finished my lunch at my desk), and the battery was dead. So, Bill has to come give me a jump after work. Then I had to walk to another building across the AcronymCo campus. I figured I’d hit one of the THREE bathrooms I knew was along the way (having just ingested 16 ounces of Tea, Earl Grey, Hot). The first bathroom I came to? Closed for construction. The second bathroom? Closed for construction. The third bathroom? Closed for CLEANING. So I had to walk all the way there, talk with a co-worker for about ten minutes, and walk all the way back, trying my best not to break out into a pee-pee dance.

FUCK YOU, TUESDAY. FUCK YOU IN THE EYE.

When I get home? I’m going to smoke my stuff and drink ALL MY WINE.

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Hermity.

Posted: November 22, 2010 in bitching, boredom, Headspace, Music
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I’m feeling decidedly hermity. I’d be a total shut-in if I could convince my boss to let me work from home 100% of the time. Lately, it just seems like an effort of epic proportions to get motivated, get showered up, get ready to go, and then just GO already. My ass-spread is reflecting the total couch potato attitude that I’ve been infected with. If I could live in yoga pants and a sweatshirt I’d be a happy, if decidedly unattractive, lady.

Take today. ALL I had to do was get out the door and run an hour’s worth of errands. But even as I was pulling out of the driveway, my brain was making a “MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH” whine that almost amused me in its patheticness.

Then there’s all the crap around here that I also don’t feel like doing. Laundry. Mopping. The general degunkification of the entire dwelling. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEH.

I’ve got three pies to bake, a casserole to throw together, a veggie and dip plate, and a cheese ‘n crackers plate to prepare for Thursday. Low-key indeed, and a far cry from the hustle of having to make an entire Thanksgiving dinner. But I’ve got to go to the grocery store and get all of the ingredients… MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH.

Writing deadlines staring me in the face. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH.

Blogkeeping that I’ve been putting off for far too long. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH.

Books that are failing to hold my interest (GOOD GOD SOMEBODY CHECK HER PULSE). MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH.

I’m sitting here listening to country music (I know, I’m on a weird kick), sipping tea, and procrastinating fit to be tied. I just can’t really think of anything that would pull me out of this funk. Maybe go on a CD-shopping spree with Bill, make some killer mixes, and cruise around with the windows down. Take a walk outside, get some exercise and fresh air. Drag Amanda to go see Harry Potter.

I’m homesick. I miss my friends. I’m bored. I am, in general, rather depressed. For no particular reason other than, well, MEH. I feel like a big ol’ whiny suck baby.

(Queue Bill’s inevitable, “Walk it off, ya big pussy,” comment in five… four… three…)

However, this song makes me happy. “I don’t have to be hateful, I can just say, “Bless your heart.”” She’s so adorable you just want to carry her around in your pocket, dontcha?

So last night my brother-in-law George (my sister Wendy’s husband) called. This is unique in the fact that he has never initiated a phone call to me, like, ever. It was 9:30 our time, 12:30 their time. I immediately thought something was wrong. But there was nothing wrong, he was just calling to brag on my sister, who was elected as Androscoggin County’s (that’s in Maine) Register of Probate in Tuesday’s elections. She’s already Chairman of the Board of Selectmen in her home town (Poland). She’s also something called an “AVCOG Commissioner”, whatever that is. (Okay, I just found it, it’s the “Androscoggin Valley Council of Governments”.)

The point being, my sister is knee deep in a grass roots campaign to take over the government in the State of Maine. She could pull it off, too.

———-

We have a marker board calendar on the wall in our kitchen, that we use to plan our dinner menus, write appointment reminders, and list birthdays and holidays. It has a space on the right-hand side to write memos and lists and whatnot, and we use this area to list the items that we need at the grocery store. It’s a common refrain, when someone tells me we’re out of this, that, or the other thing, for me to tell them to, “Put it on the list!” So, my husband does this funny little thing where he purposefully mis-spells the items and leaves it to me to figure out what the heck he means. “Kooking Spra” had me chuckling the other night. Other recent items have been “Kat Fud”, “Kofe” (Coffee), “Basco” (Tabasco), “Groni Chz” (Kraft Mac & Cheese), and “Pit Stop” (deodorant).

It’s just one of those silly little things that he does, that I’d miss if he stopped.

Yeah yeah, I’m having a warm fuzzy fit. What of it?

———-

Lord have mercy, I have been so flippin’ BUSY lately. We have a new project at work that is deploying in two weeks, which means this week I have four nights of meetings that go at least until 6:00 (tonight’s goes until 7:30, waaaaaaaaah). I have those same meetings scheduled for next week, too, but on top of that I have the second half of my Six Sigma Green Belt training next Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, eight to five. Which translates to not getting any of my regular work done, AND having to sit in night meetings. Still not getting work done. Then I have to train my group, probably next Friday because the project coordinator wants everyone trained before deployment on 11/15. And then it’s stabilization meetings every night THAT week.

So, yes, deployment week is the week before Thanksgiving. Which is just in keeping with the mandate that AcronymCo seems to have, that All Major Projects Must Deploy The Week Before A Major U.S. Holiday. Every year. EVERY FRIGGIN’ YEAR they do this.

I’m a bit behind on my articles for BMP, UpTake, and Demand Studios this week, because I gave myself a break last weekend for Grandpa’s funeral. I’ve been doing them during lunch and in the evening, this week. But this weekend I HAVE TO get my articles done for the week following, because I’ll have ZERO time to do them during the week.

———-

Oh, fuck. Thanksgiving. When am I going to have time to plan that??? Thank God I have that whole week off from work, because I have a feeling I’m going to go into a menu-planning frenzy that Monday.

Bill and I signed up for the early mail-in ballots, received them, and then proceeded to procrastinate until it was too late to mail them in. So we filled them out and now need to drop them off at our polling place today. BECAUSE we didn’t mail in our ballots, Those Who Keep Track Of These Things called us… and called us… and CALLED US, to the point where the phone would ring, we’d pick it up, they’d ask for me, they’d start their spiel, and we’d interrupt them with “YES WE HAVE RECEIVED OUR BALLOTS”. Then they’d call back five minutes later and ask for Bill. Because “T” comes before “W” in the alphabet.

Then there’s all the robo-calls, and smear campaigns, and negative ads, and ALL the FUCKING FLIERS in the mail that tried to out-do each other in size, glossiness, and CAPITAL LETTERS. Every street corner is crowded with campaign signs that, rather than informing us (with REASONS) about who we SHOULD vote for, only serve to whine about who we SHOULDN’T vote for. Along with the evil, evil organizations who support them. “Vote for me!” “Hey, don’t vote for HIM, he’s supported by Sheriff Joe!” “Yes, but THEY’RE supported by the NRA!”

With that methodology in mind, I should just turn in a blank ballot.

Suffice it to say, I feel like my vote will NOT count in a way that it has NOT counted in every election since my birth. And yet, I persist. As does Bill. We just both wish that there were some reliable way to get our hands on ACCURATE information about each of the candidates (IMPOSSIBLE), and propositions (which wasn’t bad; we relied on Ballotpedia again), and even the darn Supreme Court and Superior Court Justices, for crying out loud (okay, never mind, I just found it… bookmarked for next time!). A comparison matrix would be nice. Who voted for what in the past. And some performance report cards. But NO. As much as I looked, all over the internet, for some reliable information, all I found were sales pitches and angst. Lots and loooooots of angst.

Which makes me believe, what with the ease of access for pretty much ANY other topic on the PLANET, that when it comes to politics, they (whoever “they” are) are trying to muddle things up and confuse the information on purpose, such that it will be easier for “them” to hide the fact that the elections are, in fact, fixed. The outcome is ordained long before elections even commence. “They” don’t WANT us to be informed, because if we were, the political landscape would be MUCH different than the one we enjoy today.

And THAT’S why I think my vote doesn’t count. So, to all of the people who will be “representing” me and my interests, in their various political capacities, I say to you: EPIC DEMOCRATIC PROCESS FAIL.

I just finished writing the last two articles for Beyond Megapixels that needed to be scheduled prior to our departure on Thursday. I find the thought that I have NO writing responsibilities from now until the 26th to be pleasing.

Now I am eating a tuna sandwich to fortify myself against the asstastic amount of house cleaning that is on the schedule for today. I do like our habit of cleaning the house prior to a vacation; it’s nice to come home to a clean house, though it’s painful to be cleaning when there’s all the other vacation prep going on at the same time. Robert and Joy will be staying here while we’re gone, but I know Joy at least will keep things neat. Robert claims that his cleanliness habits have improved since his teenage years, but we all know it’s Joy’s influence that keeps their apartment as lovely and tidy as it is.

There’s a thought in my brain about how funny it is to clean the house as if company is coming, when it’s just the kids coming over, and when the heck did that shift take place, and why the heck should we care if the house is clean for the kids. There, the thought is out there, even if the prose isn’t pretty.

Be happy for Bill today, as he is in the company of a lovely 24-year-old female co-worker, headed down south for some client calls. There are days, he will tell you, that his job is a pleasure.

Speaking of Bill, he just called me to let me know that he heard on the radio that temperatures are supposed to be as high as 118F by the end of this week, with humidity up to 60 percent (it’s monsoon season). That works in a similar yet opposite manner as wind chill factor, such that it will “feel” about 135. Degrees. Fahrenheit. Or 57 degrees Celsius, for my metric readers. The National Weather Service has posted an “excessive heat warning”, stating that the weather will be “oppressive, even for Phoenix resident standards”. Translation, “It’s going to be really fucking hot.” We’ve timed our departure to Maine quite well, actually. I’m glad the kids will be here to rescue the dogs from the back yard.

I find it amusing that the highs in Maine are not supposed to break 85 during our stay, while we keep our A/C at 82 during the day here in AZ.

Also, shout out to Kim. And you thought YOU had weather to bitch about! Heh.

Alright, I’ve lallygagged long enough. Time to get on this house cleaning. Son of a bitch.

Do you feel safe at home?

Posted: June 14, 2010 in bitching, Health/Fitness
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The first time a medical professional asked me that question, it was jarring. It was also in the Emergency Room while I was having my gallbladder attack from hell. So for something to sway my attention from OH MY FUCKING GOD THE PAIN OF IT ALL at that moment in time was significant. I believe my response at that time was, “Jesus yes I’m FINE at home what the hell GIVE ME SOME DELAUDID YOU BITCH.”

Ahem. I was a little out of it.

Anyway, I went to my consultation appointment today for the Essure procedure. Now, in order to tell you that story, I have to tell you this story. Today’s appointment was the second consultation. Same office, different doctor. Because the first doctor? Was a stark raving bitch. Here’s how it went down. I drove to the OBGYN’s office, found the suite, checked in, sat for a minute, got called in, did the weigh/temp/blood pressure dance, and was shown to a room. I cooled my heels for a minute, then the tech came in holding the Paper Gown of Doom, asked me a few questions (“Do you feel safe at home?”), and told me to defrock. Since I didn’t realize that stirrups were going to be part of the appointment, I was all “meh”, but I complied.

In walks the doctor, who stood there with the door open to anyone who might be in the hallway, and said, “Why are you undressed?” To which I replied, “Uh, because the lady told me to?” So the doctor rolled her eyes, came in, sat down on the rolley stool thing, and said, “Well, I suppose we can just talk like this.” (Inflection HERS.) I said, “Hey, I’d be MORE THAN HAPPY to get dressed again if you want me to…” And she said, “No, let’s just have a discussion. So. Why are you here?”

I told her I wanted to have the Essure procedure. She looked at me, looked at my chart, looked at me again. “How old are you?” she said. “Thirty-five,” I replied. She looked at my chart again. “And you have had no children? No pregnancies?” To which I responded, “Nope.” “And you want PERMANENT STERILIZATION?” She glared at me. GLARED.

“Yes,” I said, keeping my cool. “I’ve done the research and talked to friends who have had the procedure done, and this is what I want to do.”

“You do know,” she said VERY condescendingly, “that there are non-permanent measures you could take?” I said, “Yes, I know. But most of them involve hormones, or if not hormones, then weird STRINGS that hang out of you, and I don’t want that.” She says, “What’s wrong with the pill?” So I again, CALMLY, told her, “I’ve been trying over the past few years to stop taking any kinds of medications or chemicals. I’m down to my birth control pill, and my inhaler. I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen. I feel like it’s having adverse effects on my health, and my mood. I know that I don’t want to have any more children…”

To which she interrupts, “Any MORE children? You have never given birth!” So I said (and I’M REALLY TIRED of this refrain), “I have two step-children whom I have raised since they were young. And my step-son gave us three grandchildren. We were a big part of their lives throughout their infancy. At this point my husband and I have different goals, now that the kids are grown up and have moved out. Having a baby doesn’t fit in with those goals.”

This whole time the woman is glaring at me, and when I stopped speaking she said, “What if your husband leaves you in the next year, and the next man you’re with will let you have children?”

I kid you not, guys, I just sat there and blinked at her for a good ten seconds. It took me that long to process the fact that she ACTUALLY SAID WHAT SHE SAID. I stammered, “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re only thirty-five,” she said (as IF I need a reminder of that fact, JAYSUS). “Your husband could leave you, and you could want to start a family with someone else.”

Holy crap on a cracker, I got PISSED. I said, “Look, my husband isn’t going to leave me. I’m not going to leave him. He’s not forcing me to not have kids, he said this was entirely up to me and he would support any decision I would make. I have MADE. MY. DECISION.”

“Well, why can’t he get a vasectomy, then?”

“That’s private,” I shot back. “There’s reasons why it’s not a good idea for him to do so. We have discussed this at length and the Essure procedure is what is best for ME and for MY GOALS and for MY FAMILY.”

Mind you, all the time we’re having this argument I am dressed in fucking PAPER. And sitting up on the exam table like I’m on stage or something. The doctor glared at me, glared at her file, then left the room and came back with some papers. She handed them to me.

“This is information on the Mirena procedure. I want you to read this…”

I interrupted her, “I’ve already read about Mirena. It has hormones. AND strings. AND there has been plenty of feedback about undesirable side-effects. I don’t want the Mirena procedure. I want the Essure procedure.”

Then she looks at me like she’s got this trick up her sleeve that she’s just been waiting until now to reveal. “You know,” she says oh-so-casually, “there is a much greater risk of complications performing this procedure on a woman who has never given birth. I mean, at best we’d just have to stop the procedure, at worst you could end up having to have an entire hysterectomy! The bladder could be punctured, or the uterus.”

Now, in everything I’ve read, I’ve never heard of this. So I said, “Thank you for letting me know of the possible complications. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Well,” she huffed, “Either way we have to get cultures, so lie back on the table and we’ll get that taken care of.” So I complied, sat back up, waited for her to finish her notes and whatnot, she mumbled something about having to get insurance authorization, and she left. No handshake, no “nice to meet you”, no pleasantries of any kind. The technician told me I could get dressed, I grabbed my paperwork and headed to the front desk.

The girl at the front desk took my paperwork and told me I’d be called within a week about the insurance authorization. I kind of had a bad feeling, a sneaking suspicion, so the next day I called the office and asked for the insurance claims department. I got in contact with a nice lady and I asked her if she would clarify which procedure it said on my paperwork that I was requesting. She found my information, and said…

“It says here you’re requesting the Mirena procedure.”

I practically went into orbit. On the inside. One, I was sitting at my desk at work, and two this lady didn’t deserve to receive the brunt of my wrath (no Hello Kitty comments, Heather!). So I corrected her, “No, it was supposed to be for the Essure procedure.” “Oh!” she said. “I’m so sorry! I’m glad you called, it would have added a couple of more weeks to get things all straightened around.”

So, what, the doctor figured if I had that slight of a delay, I’d change my mind? I’d say, “Oh, well, since you already have the Mirena authorization, we’ll just go ahead and do that instead.” WHAT a bitch.

A week later I got the call that I’d been approved. For the Essure procedure. I called the OBGYN and asked to speak to a manager. I told the manager how ill-treated I was by the first doctor, and that if they didn’t have someone else in the office who could treat me better, I was going to go elsewhere. She apologized profusely, gave me some twaddle about how the doctor I’d seen had been on call the night before and probably had been working at the hospital all night. I said, “That’s fine, but it’s no reason to make someone feel like they’re stupid, or that they’re making a mistake, or that they’re less of a woman just because they don’t want to have babies.” I got another apology, and she set me up with the new doctor, who I saw today.

You guys, it was like NIGHT AND DAY. This lady was great. She was warm. And cheerful. And shook my hand. She did the obligatory question run-down (“Do you feel safe at home?”), and said, “Well, I’m sure you’ve already thought hard about this and have done all the research, but I just want to remind you that there are non-permanent options at your disposal.” I was ready to get defensive, and responded that I had, in fact, done all the research. She said, “Well, if you’ve decided on Essure, then I can certainly help you with that!” And that was IT. No judging, no guilt, no inferred disparagement about the status of my relationship with my husband.

I asked her about possible complications since I’d never had a pregnancy, and she just kind of blinked at me. “No, there would be no reason for a former pregnancy to make this procedure any more or less complicated. I’ve never heard anything related to that at all.” I asked her about how long I’d had to hold off on working out or being active, and she said five to seven days. She said I might feel cramping or see some spotting, but nothing really much worse than what happens when I have my period. She said the anesthesia would be “a breeze”, and I’d be in and out in less than two hours – most of that would be occupied with anesthesia recovery.

The entire time she was warm, smiling, friendly, and treated me like an intelligent human being. I left the office this morning feeling a hundred and fifty percent more positive than the last meeting with the first doctor – that time, I sat in the truck in the parking lot and felt like I wanted to cry. I told my new doctor how much more of a positive experience I had with her, compared with the first doctor I saw. She flipped back through my chart, saw who my original doctor was, and sort of winced. Then, kind of conspiratorially, she said, “Well, your first doctor is a very devout Mormon. That might have been the cause of some of the trouble you experienced.”

Oh, well, gee. I’m sorry MY decisions about MY body and MY life offend YOUR moral sensibilities. Christ on a cracker. Or a wafer. Or whatever the heck they use. If anything. Saltines?

So. Anyway. Yeah. I wanted to share my experience (and will continue to do so, after the procedure) and let you ladies (and heck, you gents too, if you made it down this far) know that YOU OWN YOUR BODY. Be your own advocate! You own your life, and you are the only person qualified to make decisions about what you do or have done to your own body. So don’t let ANYONE tell you that you’re making the wrong decision – whether it’s to become pregnant, to NOT become pregnant, or hell, to change your entire fucking GENDER. If you’re having a bad experience with your doctor, then don’t be afraid to tell someone. Don’t be afraid to get another doctor. Don’t be afraid to cause a little mayhem, if it comes to that. You’ll probably be helping out someone else down the line who doesn’t feel equipped to defend themselves.

After all, no matter how “qualified” a medical professional says they are to make a call on what is to be done with your body and your life, they don’t know you like YOU know you.

Oh, and yes, in case you were wondering. I DO feel safe at home.

One… Two… Three… Awwwww.

Posted: June 12, 2010 in bitching

You guys should be having a pity party.

But not for me, for my poor husband.

It’s the last 80-ish-degree day of the year until fall, and he’s stuck here with me because I seem to have thrown out my back in a spectacular fashion. I’ve told him to go out and enjoy it, but he insists on staying here with me. And I? Cannot move, cannot turn my head, and it hurts too much to do anything other than sit very carefully still on the sofa.

So, ready? One… two… three…

Awwww.

It seems to me that Pandora’s Pop/Rock station only wants to play Sting/The Police, and The Beatles. All well and good for the first two songs, but really. I’m so over it. The Classic Rock station features Led Zeppelin heavily, though, so, win.

It bugs me when folks type “wholly crap” instead of “holy crap”. I mean, I guess it could apply if whatever is being referred to consists entirely of crap. And I guess if a person has a moral reason to not refer to crap as something which springs from His Heavenly Father… except, if you follow that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, crap DOES spring from His Heavenly Father because He made All Things… hmm. If one is full of crap they in fact are full of Holy Spirit?

Perhaps I am going to hell.

Speaking of reverence (sorta), Bill and I watched the miniseries finale of The Pacific last night, and we were sorry to see the series end. What an outstanding effort. Watching it created in me a deep sense of awe-tinged respect that is generally reserved for the religious. The mind can’t comprehend what those soldiers had to do, and how deeply traumatized they had to be after witnessing all that they did. There’s a special kind of respect that is reserved only for their kind.

We bought one of these this weekend, and I have spent (and will continue to spend) an indecent amount of time transferring files, loading programs, and getting used to Windows 7. I am currently set up at the kitchen table with this laptop at the head (or foot? I don’t think we’ve ever decided which is which) and my work laptop open and running at the seat to my right. Remember waaaaaaay back when, when we all made the switch from typewriters to word processors? Yeah. It’s like that. I am loathe to do anything at all on my work laptop now (and it will soon be denuded of all but the essential AcronymCo programs).

A problem that I will have for exactly thirteen more working days. Then I’ll ignore my work laptop until August, and let me say, that thought alone completely fascinates me.

I am stupidly amused by the fact that the dogs don’t want to do their business in the grass in the back yard anymore. The landscaper switches the time that the sprinklers come on, seemingly every week. So now the dogs have no idea when they’re going to go off, and as a result stick to dookying in the rocks. MUCH easier to pick up, that way. It’s the little things, people. I just wish I had been looking out the window when the sprinklers went off for the first time after being idle all winter. Bet it was hysterical.

Two folks are coming over today to give me a quote on a roof replacement, and one more is scheduled for tomorrow. In somewhat related news, we have made 65% progress to date against our debt payoff goal for the year. Now it’s just a matter of keeping our heads down (and our impulse buying to a minimum) and we might actually make it, b’gawd. We’re only halfway through the year, though, so I’m reserving optimism. We have two trips to get past, and anything can happen between now and December. But I’m pretty pleased at our progress thus far.

So. Yeah. Just keeping our heads down, and I’m trying to get to the beginning of Sabbatical without losing my mind. Which is why posts have been and may continue to be a bit sporadic or moody for a couple of more weeks. Hang in there! I’m trying to, at least.

I have decided to never again enter one of Pioneer Woman’s contests or photo challenges. I never win, my photos never get picked, and all I am left with is SAD. VERY SAD. Because dammit, I want a Kitchenaid Mixer. Or a $500 B&H gift card. Or a Le Creuset casserole. Or a free copy of CS5. Or whatever else she’s giving away that day.

SAD.

(Note that I have nothing against Ree, she just gets so much friggin’ TRAFFIC that there’s no chance in hell a randomly picked comment number would ever be mine.)

My editor for Beyond Megapixels has requested that I post a picture a day to the BMP Facebook page (which is here, by the way). I have no problem with that whatsoever, since it takes approximately six point three microseconds out of my day. What I do find annoying, though, is that among the nearly 600,000 “fans” of this particular page, are members of the Asshat Society for Idiotic Trolls. And these idiotic, trollish asshats post comments. Comments like, “First!” Or, “Second!” Or, “Seventeenth!” Or, “yO, dIs PiKsHuR iS dUm.” Or the asinine chain comment thingy, “OK guys, this truly is freaky, the phone literally rang as soon as I read the last wordl!!!!! I am taking the bait – what do I have to lose right? Hope it works! Supposedly The Phone Will Ring Right After You Do This. Just read the little stories and think of a wish as you scroll all the way to the bottom…”

GAH. And of course, because I want to see the WORTHY, CONSTRUCTIVE comments (though the only “constructive” comment I’ve received other than the “great pic!” variety is one person who loved the photo, but hated the frame I used), I self-tag the photo. Which means I get an e-mail for every comment. Including the asinine ones.

I have no point other than this: Facebook is surely annoying sometimes. Also, tRoLlS sUk.

Poor Ozzy and Zoe are both having a hard time of it lately. Oz has some digestive thing going on that is causing him to throw up often (well, more often than the usual hairball-induced hurls), and he just seems kind of… off. Listless, and needy. Zoe, on the other hand, is her usual chipper, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self. She’s eating her fool head off and has turned into quite the chubba bubba. She does occasionally toss a hairball, which is to be expected with her wispy hair. But she’s limping HEAVILY and favoring her front left paw. Upon inspection, it looks like whoever had her declawed did a WRETCHED job; poor kitty is walking on little bone nubs where her knuckles used to be. They certainly don’t look like the smooth, normal-looking pads on Ozzy’s toes, and we had him declawed ourselves.

So. I went to PetSmart and bought some indoor formula cat food, plus some IAMS dry kibble for digestive health. I got some superfood to add to their canned food (this stuff), and some hip and joint gel (this stuff). I’m going to look into some sort of paw coverings (kitty socks!) for Zoe. Both cats are getting baths tonight, and I’m going to try to be better about brushing both of them to see if I can get this vomiting thing under control.

If they’re not better by next weekend, off to the vet we go!

Finally, something happened to me today in traffic that just cracked my shit up. See, I was driving along, when I suddenly had to slow WAAAAAAAAAY down for a little old lady who was driving, LITERALLY, twenty-three miles an hour in a forty-five. She was weaving gently from side to side, staying within her lane, but just barely. This scene popped into my head:

As I carefully passed her, I got a glimpse of her licence plate.

“D N R”

I totally lost it and started cackling. I’m sure she meant it as her initials, but the acronym, coupled with her creaky age, just struck hard at my sense of the hysterical. So, you know, if she keels over at the gas station or something, her final instructions are clearly stated for all to heed.

Har. I’m evil.

I don’t get blog-induced drama. Never have. Never will. I don’t understand how some folks’ blogs can be blown up in the comments with posters offering vitriol and poison and hatred and angst. I don’t get how some folks can write about the success of another blogger in terms of disgust and anger. I’ve never gotten the whole blog clique thing, with the gang of bloggers in this corner heaping scorn upon the gang of bloggers in that corner, and vice-versa. I’ve never held with popularity contests.

I guess, being on the sidelines of the blogisphere as I am, that I’m only exposed to this sort of thing in a small way. I see it in the blogs that I read, but not in my own blog. And I LIKE IT THAT WAY. I don’t bring controversy. I don’t shock blog. My opinions on subjects are, for the most part, unoffensive – I am a pretty darned easygoing kind of gal. I just have this peaceful little corner of the internet, surrounded my great readers and great friends, and every comment and e-mail that I receive is a gift.

A GIFT, not an expectation, and not an indicator of my “success” as a blogger. So I get seven comments, and another blogger gets five thousand comments. Big deal!

If somebody posts something on their blog that offends me, I just close my browser. They’re entitled to their opinions and their perspectives. I don’t blow up their comments. I don’t fiendishly type away in my solitude in the dark because “someone on the internet is wrong!” I don’t come over here and talk about them. I don’t go all, “UNFOLLOW!” and try to start a crusade against them. Most times, I go back to their blog another day, and I laugh at their funny story, or sympathize with their issues, or appreciate their perspective. And if I don’t, so what. I don’t expect everyone to LOOOOOVE me, either, or hang on my every word as if from the Prophet Himself.

If someone puts ads on their blog or somehow makes money from their blog, I don’t take offense. I don’t sit on some sort of high horse because I haven’t “sold out”. I don’t believe them undeserving to receive monetary compensation for how they spend their time. More power to them! For the most part, people have learned to place ads in an unoffensive, unobtrusive manner. So if they get five cents for every click, congratulations! If they have sponsors, good for them! Freebies are awesome!

See, WHO a blogger IS quite often has very little to do with their blog at all. So I don’t pass judgement. I just observe, join in when I’m motivated to, walk away when I need to, and never ever forget that life is lived OUTSIDE of the internet.

This soapbox moment brought to by Jack Daniels. I’m about to enjoy the HELL out of this sunshiny afternoon. I suggest you all do the same!