Monday, June 30, 2008

In Which I Am A Slacker

I couldn't think of anything worthwhile to post today. Mostly because I've worked 65 hours this week, with no day off yet, and my brain is fried.

Instead? I'll leave this reader poll for you to participate in. Enjoy!


If you had no obligations whatsoever, $400 dollars cash, and four days off from work, what would you do?

Friday, June 27, 2008

In Which I Tell A Story

The sun shines warmly on the back of my neck, as I walk slowly down an old dirt road. The unseasonably hot weather has thoroughly dried the surface of the road, causing small clouds of dust to rise into the air with each step I make. The sunlight filters through the leaves of the trees lining the sides of the road, creating patterns that dance on the ground before me as the light breeze passes through.

Gazing down the road, I brush away beads of sweat from my forehead. This road seems to be getting longer by the minute, I think to myself. The heat from my burning neck is a painful reminder that I neglected to put on sunscreen before leaving the house. I'll be paying for that later. I check the time, and focus on the rhythm of my scuffing feet. The undulating motion of the sunbeams on the road mesmerizes me, and I get lost in thought.

I'm brought back to the present when a large rain drop lands on the top of my head. I wipe it away absentmindedly, and look at my watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed. I couldn't vouch for where that time had gone. Even worse, I thought, I have no clue where I am. Suddenly, another pair of rain drops fall heavily on my shoulder. Looking up at the sky, I notice that the sun has disappeared, replaced by dark and ominous-looking clouds. A roll of thunder confirms my suspicions, and I quicken my pace as the rain starts to fall.

Before I make it ten steps further, the sky opens up. Within thirty seconds, I'm soaked through my clothes. There is a puddle forming in my shoes, and the formerly dry, dusty road has turned into a muddy, puddle-ridden obstacle course. The rain is coming down at an angle, each ice-cold drop that slams into me a reminder to check the forecast before going out for a walk. There is no place along the side of the road for shelter. There is a bend in the road ahead... Maybe there's a house or something that I can hide under until the rain stops.

Just past the bend, no more than fifty feet away, a driveway parts the trees on the left side of the road. The driveway winds through a massive expanse of well-manicured grass, leading to a large white colonial. A gazebo stands guard on one side of the driveway, and through the rain I notice a figure standing in the gazebo, arms motioning towards me. I start to jog towards the structure, eager to get out of the rain.

I take off my glasses as I arrive at the gazebo. In my attempt to make myself more presentable, I wipe the excess water from my face, and run my fingers through my hair. Putting my glasses back on, I look to see who this kind stranger is. My eyes focus slowly, and I see her. I'm astonished. How can this be? Is this real? She gestures towards the bench she's sitting on, and I join her. I'm speechless as she reaches up with one hand and tucks an errant strand of hair behind one ear. Smiling, she says,

"Some weather today, huh?"

"Yeah," I reply, through a throat that is suddenly dry.

"I'll bet you're glad you found me here. Its another three miles 'til the next house."

I nod my agreement as thunder cracks loudly overhead. She jumps, startled at the noise. The rain is coming down even harder now, and the sound of it pelting the roof of the gazebo is almost deafening.

"How'd you get here?" She asks. "Not to many people just 'happen' by here."

I turn to look out the side of the gazebo and down the road. "I don't know, to be honest. I was just out for a walk. One minute I'm getting a sunburn on my neck, and the next minute I'm walking in the rain. I'm not even sure where 'here' is. Where ar-"

She cuts me off mid-sentence by pressing her lips against mine. Her hands run through my hair, tugging gently. I'm caught off guard, but soon overwhelmed by the light fragrance of her hair and sweet taste of her lips. She pulls back for a moment, giggles, and pulls me towards her again. Her breath feels warm against my neck as the cold rain continues to fall around us. She wraps her arms around me tightly, and in this embrace we stay for what seems forever.

"You're shivering," I say quietly after a few minutes.

"I know," she replies, sliding down the bench a little. "I didn't exactly dress for this kind of wea-"

The last word gets interrupted by another explosion of thunder. She moves closer towards me again, seeking whatever comfort I can provide.

"Kiss me again."

I look down at her, and I---


I roll off the couch and onto the floor, my dream shattered like the still reflection of a pond when disturbed by a thrown rock. I'm confused.... Where am I? I pick myself up off the carpet, trying to figure out what happened. I shake my head to rid my mind of the fog that settled there, and come to a sad realization.

I had been napping. On the couch. Every single part of what I thought happened, had been a dream. Of course it was a dream, I think to myself. Where else would I get a chance to make out with Scarlet Johansson?


Wednesday, June 25, 2008

In Which I Talk About My First Kiss

A little over a month ago, I wrote about my first girlfriend, which was the premier installment of a series of posts chronicling "First Time" events in my life. I promised an entry about my first kiss, and that's what I'm going to write about today.


Despite the large amount of "game" that I had in highschool, it was not until I was a Senior that I got my first kiss. After parting ways with First Girlfriend, shortly after came Second Girlfriend. There was one moment that I remember with Second Girlfriend that could have been my first kiss, but I was too nervous. There was also some loud noises that emanated from my stomach (caused by said nervousness), and that pretty much killed the mood.

While I was dating Second Girlfriend, I took a writing class at the local college for college credit. One of my classmates was College Girl, who would later be known as Third Girlfriend. She was a year younger than me, cute, quirky, and she intrigued me greatly. On the nights that we had class together, we would spend more time out in the common area talking together than in the actual classroom. I was too chicken to ask for her number, and once the class ended we parted ways.

A couple of months later into the Summer, I ran into College Girl at the local mall. We talked about "old times" and had some laughs. She drove me home, I got her number this time, and we talked pretty much every day after that. After about a week of conversations, I broke it off with Second Girlfriend and started dating College Girl/Third Girlfriend on the same day.

My relationship with Third Girlfriend was the most normal out of all the girls I dated in highschool. We talked on the phone quite often, and we went out at least once a week, usually to the bowling alley in town or to see a movie. Our families were quite different (i.e., her parents were divorced), and she was an atheist, which didn't make my parents all too pleased. Regardless, we enjoyed each others company greatly. We had been dating for a few months when she brought up during a couple of phone conversations that her friends had asked if we had kissed yet. She mentioned this for a couple of weeks before I finally got the hint. The old "nervous stomach" feeling came back very quickly.

I remember vividly the night leading up to my First Kiss. I had taken Third Girlfriend out to a movie, and walked her to the front door of her fathers apartment. I remember following her up the stairs, and standing in the dimly-lit hallway just outside the apartment door. She looks up at me and smiles, and I think to myself,"This is it! First Kiss time!" I reach for her hands, and said "Blthh gurkble tuvbmlkin," which of course means "I had a good time tonight" in Weakinknees. Before I know what happening, she lets go of my hands, reaches up and pulls my head down to meet hers. I close my eyes, and we kiss. Its a light, quick kiss, no more than a second long. So many thoughts tumbled through my mind during that moment, and suddenly she pulls away. We hug, she says "Goodnight", and walks inside.

That was it. No hitting of foreheads, no complaints about bad breath, no loud interruptions by my nervous stomach. I tried my best to hide my goofy smile, and walked down the stairs to my parents waiting in the car to take me home.

The next evening I spoke with Third Girlfriend on the phone, and she mentioned the kiss. She told me that next time, I'd need to lean down further. Apparently she had to stand on her tip-toes to reach my lips, and it didn't occur to me during the kiss that there was a 14-inch difference in height between us. She teased me about it, and I was embarrassed, but did better the next time.

Third Girlfriend and I didn't date for too long after that. I broke up with her because I noticed some changes in my personality, but it wasn't until after I broke up with her that I realized they were good changes. She showed me a part of the "real world", not the sheltered illusion of life that my parents wanted for me. I regretted breaking things off with her for a while, but as things happen, we move on to other things. We stayed in touch for a little while, but I haven't talked with her in years.

I've since then learned that I am a particularly great kisser.


This post didn't turn out to be nearly as funny as I intended it to be. Oh well. Major props to those who get my "Weakinknees" joke.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

In Which I Was Tagged

Seems awfully coincidental, but the funny and beautiful Leonie has tagged me on her most recent post. Since the tagger has become the tagee, I must comply:


Ten years ago, I was twelve years old. I was anxiously awaiting my thirteenth birthday, filling the days of summer playing kickball and exploring the woods across the street from my house. It might have also been the time when I flipped off my bus driver before I knew what it meant.

  1. Find my to-do list.


Pay off all my debts, and the debts of my family and close friends. Donate a large portion to support music education in public schools. Donate some to the companies that help poverty-stricken countries. Oh, and probably spend a portion of it irresponsibly, just to get it out of my system.


I've lived in the same state (Maine) my entire life. Within the state, I've lived in Auburn, Gorham, Biddeford, Saco, Harrison, and now Bridgton.

  1. Farting in elevators, and blaming it on others.
  2. Spending too much time on the Internet.
  3. Being a hypocrite.

  1. One-Hour Photo Technician (I saw things that I never in my life wanted to see.)
  2. Warehouse Worker (I never sweat so much at work until then.)
  3. Store Security (I caught shoplifters, and played pranks on my co-workers.)
  4. Hotel Maintenance (I occaisionally fixed things, but mostly cruised around in a golf cart.)
  5. Circuit City (I enjoyed hated this job so much. I quit after one week.)


I'm a pretty vain person, so I named it after my Blogger name.

I'm supposed to tag some other people now. I tag Moonspun, StartsWithAnX, and Just Me Debbie.

My next post will be a real post, I promise. No more tagging for a while.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

In Which I Confess Three Things

I've had various online journals for a number of years, but this one is the first one I've been truly serious about. I feel compelled to update it every few days because I want to, not because I feel obligated to. Sometimes I struggle to come up with things to write about, because almost nothing interesting happens to me at all. Except for run-in's with ill-tempered cats and dirty dishes.

One of the things I used to do occasionally in my previous blogs were quizzes. You know, the ones where you'd answer these stupid questions and then "tag" other people to do the quiz, too. Because I'm suffering from writers block (as well as heartburn and a slight hangover) this morning, I've decided to create a quiz.


Rules: Post three (3) confessions in your blog or journal. They can be as personal as you want them to be, so use your discretion. Write about your habits or idiosyncrasies, or something you did as a child... Anything at all. Most importantly, however, they must be something you've never written about in your blog or journal before. Once finished, tag/invite three different readers to do the quiz on their blog or journal.

  1. First Confession - I was not fully toilet-trained until I was five years old. I didn't learn about this until a few months ago, when The Boss told me about it, after having a long gossip-talk with my mother. Apparently, the young Badass Geek just couldn't grasp the concept of defecating or urinating in a toilet. I find this ironic and very funny, because I'm a freakin' professional at it now. I don't have any memories of my struggles with The Porcelain Throne, which is a crying shame. It would be damn funny to write about.
  2. Second Confession - When I was nine or ten years old, my cousin and I went through a destructive phase. Whenever he'd come over, we'd go out into the back yard and just kick the shit out of something. There was an old chicken coop on the edge of the property, and through the course of one afternoon, we had effectively ruined the floor, most of the walls, and some built-in shelves. Turns out that all the structural damage greatly weakened the building as a whole, and with the next big rain the roof collapsed. When my parents found out, we said we had nothing to do with it. I'm not sure if they believed us.
  3. Third Confession - From start to finish, I can shower and get dressed within 10 minutes. This comes from growing up in a family of five, all having to shower, get ready, and get out of the house by 7:20 each weekday morning. I used to wear a watch with a timer in the shower, so I knew I wasn't taking too long. I liken it to a soapy, wet marathon of sorts, but I when I said I'd only be five minutes in the bathroom, I'd only be five minutes. Nowadays, only having to share the bathroom with The Boss, I can take a little longer. I still tend to be a quick shower-er, but now at least I can devote the proper amount of time to make sure my, er... dangly bits... are clean.

I know these aren't really "confessions", at least by the definition of the word. The main point is that I've never written about any of those things before. I don't like repeating repeating myself. I will say this, though... I didn't start out with intent to write two bathroom-themed confessions. It just sort of happened that way.

And now the tagging... I invite Heather, Lil Sass, and Sus to take part in this quiz. Anyone else who'd like to do it, feel free... Just link back to this post. Happy confessing!

Friday, June 20, 2008

In Which My Cat Gets The Last Laugh

This post is a lesson on what not to do with your cat. I hope you can all learn from my mistakes, and avoid the trauma and potentially property-damaging events that I have endured. Read on...


The first thing no one should ever do is agree to adopt a cat on Halloween. Especially that cute, all-black one that reaches out through its cage as you walk by. DO NOT be distracted by how cute it is when it chews on your finger as you hold it. This is all part of its master plan, in its quest for household domination. It will become evil. EEEEEVILLL, I tell you.

The second thing no one should do is let the cat get away with anything. If she jumps up on the counter repeatedly, slap it gently on the nose and say "No." If she learns how to turn on the faucet in the bathroom so that it almost floods your apartment, slap her a little more forcefully and say "NO" again. If she gains any degree of freedom, your efforts to control her after that point will prove to be futile.

The third thing no one should ever do is let the cat dictate your actions. You are supposedly the master of this creature, for they are dependant upon you for food, water, and cleaning of their shitbox. If you are falter just once in your management of this creature, she will from that point forward have complete control over you.

With all those things being said, my cat totally owns my house. She does what she wants, when she wants to do it. She can get The Boss or myself to feed her at any time, just by acting up. She pisses and craps more than I thought was possible (or healthy). She taught herself how to turn on the faucet in the bathroom, and almost flooded our apartment from it. She essentially controls our daily lives, because we live in constant fear of getting her upset. She's been known on more than three occasions to piss on our bed or clothing when angry. Lets not forget the fact that adopting an all black cat on Halloween is quite possibly the stupidest thing we could have done.

Now, this cat is not always evil. There are times when my cat is so freakin' adorable that its hard to be mad at her. It is during those times that you have to be careful, my friend. Cats are intelligent beings, and they are quick to learn your weaknesses. Take my experience yesterday, for example.

Yesterday was just like any other day. I was sitting in my desk chair working, when Noir, our cat, comes up and brushes against my legs as she often does. I pet her for a little while, and at one point she stands up on her back legs, and puts her front legs on my lap so I can pet her more easily. I'm blinded by her cuteness, thus distracted from her master plan.

When I return to my work, Noir gets down from my lap and brushes against my legs some more. After a few minutes I completely forget she is under my chair, when all of a sudden-


While I was not paying attention to her, she had gone under my chair and pushed up on the pneumatic handle that adjusts the height of my chair. Without warning, I was rocketing down towards the floor. I had my legs crossed underneath my seat, and with the chair at its lowest position, I was trapped!

During my descent, the cat had jumped out of the way. When I finally realized what had happened, I glared at the cat as she sat calmly, contently licking her paw.

"Hey!" I said. "What the hell was that for?"

She looks up at me for a moment, and blinks her gold eyes once. Slowly, she gets up and walks away, her tail twitching side to side in the air, as if to say:

"Score: Noir, 1; Badass Geek, 0. Watch your back, bitch."

I'm 100% confident in the fact that this was not an accident. She wanted to let me know that she could injure me with more than just scratches. This was a warning that failure to give her Meow Mix daily could result in further actions against me.

I've learned my lesson.

This cat is pure, concentrated evil, I tell you.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

In Which I Struggle To Stay Awake

I can never seem to get enough sleep. If you've been following this blog for a little while, you'll know why. Otherwise, lets just suffice it to say that for me, getting enough sleep is like trying to drive across country with an empty gas tank and only $3.00... No matter how hard you try, its just not going to happen.

When I reach a certain stage of tiredness, I find myself doing certain things that others find either hilarious or annoying. To clarify, by "others" I mean "The Boss", and by "hilarious or annoying", I mean she either eggs me on, giggling until I realize that I'm saying/doing, or yells out, "Shut the hell up, already... GOD!" Here are some examples of both.

1) I laugh uncontrollably at the stupidest of jokes.
I'll be sitting on the couch, staring blankly at whatever channel happens to be on the TV. It will cut to a commercial, like the latest one on NBC for Last Comic Standing (When I was little, my pet bird died. My mother went out and bought another one so I wouldn't notice... But I did. And I killed that one, too.). Once the delivery of the joke is done, I start laughing. Just a little giggle at first, but it soon spreads to a full-body, flat-out guffaw, complete with pointing, clapping, and tears rolling down my face. I'm laughing so hard at this point, I might accidentally let out a small fart. I'll look over at The Boss expecting to see her laughing, but instead she's looking at me wide-eyed, like I just bought the last ticket for the train to Elbow Licker's Sanitarium. Needless to say, the laughter quickly dissipates.

2) I'll repeat the same two words over and over.
This often happens when I'm attempting to explain something to The Boss at the end of the day. The conversation will go something like this:

THE BOSS: "What did you have for lunch today?"
ME: "I had the had the... had the... the had..."
THE BOSS: *smirking* "The what, now?"
ME: "I had the... the... had hot..."
THE BOSS: *more smirking, smiling* "You had the hots? What?"

I'll see this little gleam in The Boss' eye when she realizes I'm stuck on a word, and she'll encourage me to keep tripping up on the word until I finally get my mental clutch down and my mouth in gear. She enjoys this greatly, but gets all pissy when I laugh at her when she does it. Freakin' double standard.

3) I'll completely mix up the order of words.
This happens more often than not. In my mind, I'll think that I've just said something clearly and it make perfect sense. Come to find out, after receiving blank stares, I am mistaken:

(What I Think I Said:)
GAME SHOW HOST: "What elements are found in water?"
ME: *yelling at the TV* "What is two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen?"

(What I Really Said:)
GAME SHOW HOST: "What elements are found in water?"
ME: *yelling at the TV* "On-whatisEhydrogen TWOPoxygen aRTS?"

Needless to say, that would not be the correct response.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

In Which I Get An Autograph

In the middle of my shift this past Saturday, I got a txt message from The Boss, who was out gallivanting with one of her friends. The message read:

"I just met Stephen King!"

At first, I didn't believe it. Stephen King? In the little hole-in-the-wall bookstore, in my country-bumpkin of a town? It simply couldn't be. I called her to get the full story.

As it turns out, The Boss and her friend were browsing around this little bookstore that she frequents, and in through the back door walks Stephen King. Dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt, he quietly walks up to stacks of his books in the clearance section, and begins signing a few copies at the bottom of the pile.

Once The Boss is sure of the fact that she wasn't hallucinating, she approaches Mr King and asks for an autograph for me. He gladly and willingly obliges, personalizing a copy of one of his books to me. She small talked with him a little bit, and then he went on his way.

While The Boss was recounting the story, all I could do was sit there, my jaw on the floor and asking her questions with a large degree of incredulity. I was so jealous!

I'm relatively new to the works of Stephen King, but I'm already a big fan. He is a native to Maine, which is where I've lived all my life, so I feel a sort of connection to him. I've been to a lot of the towns he has written about, and live nearby the original setting of the short story "The Mist". Also, the local hospital where I live was where he consulted with doctors while writing "The Stand".

I'm bummed I didn't get to meet him, but I'm excited that I got his autograph. I don't normally get so star-struck, but I greatly admire his writing. I probably would have been too nervous, and would have been farting and babbling had I seen him in person. He owns a home in the next town over so the odds of seeing him again around town soon are fairly good.

If I do get a chance to meet him, hopefully I'll be able to control my farting enough to at least shake his hand.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

In Which I Work Overtime

My ass is killing me.

Before you jump to any various assumptions one could make from hearing a statement like that, allow me to explain.

I've been working some serious overtime this week, because it seems that my bank account has a hole it in, from which all the money I earn drains out at an alarming rate. This has been a recurring problem for a while, and working overtime seems to be the only viable option to bring in more money. I had been searching for a part-time job to help ease things a little, but there isn't anyone hiring around here. And yes, I've already tried whoring myself out, but I kept on getting asked for refunds. (Again, not the reason my ass hurts. Be patient.)

With working 43% more hours in the same week than normal, I have spent much more time in my office chair this week than my ass is used to. So much that I'm pretty sure my ass has the same faux-leather texture now. I try to stand up and stretch as much as I can, and each time I do my tailbone aches. I think if this overtime thing continues, I'll need to get one of those inflatable ass-pillows that look like large, plastic donuts. Otherwise I'll have a rather embarrassing work-related injury to mention to my boss.

I know this post is much shorter than usual, but a large amount of my energy is focused on not stroking out while on the phone with the amazingly stupid people I have to deal with at work.

Like the woman who wanted to know if it'd be better to take a Lamaze class before or after she gave birth to her first child.

Come on, people. Stop eating bowls of stupid for breakfast. You're bringin' me down.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

In Which I Rant (Just A Little)

I'm not known for ranting or complaining about anything. I don't like appearing whiny or self-important to others, and I also find that if I start complaining about something, I'll continue complaining about other things that aren't even remotely related to my original problem. As a general rule, I try to keep my complaints to a minimum, both in verbal and written form. In fact, if you review any of the posts I've made here, you'll no doubt find very few entries where I complain outright.

All that being said, if you don't like listening to people complain, move on to the next blog on your Google Reader list. I plan on letting go of some long-harbored complaints and pet peeves in this post. Brace yourself.

1) People that say "oh" in replacement of "zero".
I think this one is pretty straightforward. If the guy who invented the names for numbers intended for it to be pronounced "oh", he probably wouldn't have spelled it "ZERO". I know in the grand scheme of things, swapping a syllable for a number doesn't make much of a difference, but I'm sure there are situations where misplacing letters for numbers could cause some serious trouble. Like if there was a nuclear warhead aimed at a foreign country that was accidentally armed, and the dis-arm code was a complex string of numbers and letters... Saying "oh" instead of "zero" could result in a major problem. It could be Hiroshima all over again. Besides, you wouldn't spell words with zeroes instead of o's, would you?

2) People who have normal names, but spell them differently.
Don't get me wrong, I'm always an advocate for creativity. Life can get pretty mundane, and spicing things up by being creative with certain things can be fun. But giving your children normal names like Melanie or Jonathan, but spelling them like "Melanny" or "Johnnathynn" doesn't make you a creative fucking genius. You might feel proud, but now your children are going to go through life, constantly correcting people when their name is spelled incorrectly. And another thing, don't get mad at me because I spelled your name wrong. If your name is "Lafondaquinishikianderthal", offer the correct spelling before I waste my breath trying.

3) People who dial the wrong number, and get upset at me about it.
I get wrong number calls fairly often throughout my work day. After I've read my greeting of "Doctor's Answering Service, how can I help you?" most times people simply say "Wrong number," and hang up. But occasionally, I'll get the asshat who says "This isn't Vitamin Supply Center?" or "This isn't Visa Platinum Credit Card?" or my favorite "... du-what, now?". I'll repeat that they have reached a Doctors Answering Service (as I clearly stated earlier) and that they have the wrong number. At this point, most people who haven't hung up already will then realize they've mis-dialed, and hang up. The others will go on to ask me what the correct number would be. Now, why would I, an operator at a DOCTORS ANSWERING SERVICE, have the number to the credit card company or vitamin monger you were trying to dial? How would that make sense, in the mind of any rational being? TELL ME. I don't call you at work and ask you what the correct number for the Pizza Hut on the corner of Wabash and Lake Street, do I?

4) People who talk too fast, and get upset when I ask them to repeat themselves.
This problem could be remedied by simply SLOWING THE FUCK DOWN when giving people information. If someone you've never spoken to before asks you for your phone number, don't be an asshole and say "fivefivefiveseventhreesixseven", completely ignoring the fact that the area code is a vital part of that data. This doesn't apply to just phone numbers, either. Unless you like repeating yourself endlessly, take a hint already, jackass.

5) People who call from a noisy place, and get upset when I can't hear them.
It is not a hard concept to grasp. If you're at a concert, and you happen to be standing next to the loudspeaker, do not attempt to make a phone call regardless of how important. No one will be able to hear you. Also, if you're child is screaming and is inconsolable, put the fucking thing DOWN when you call your doctor. Holding him/her up near the phone with you is not going to ensure any faster service.

6) People who automatically assume my intelligence level by my occupation.
I know that working an entry-level job answering phones does not require a high degree of intelligence, but don't automatically assume that I'm some no-brains desk-jockey who flunked 7th grade fourteen times and decided to call it quits right there. I went through highschool with a GPA of 3.9, and dropped out of college after two years because I couldn't take the drama of dorm life anymore. I'm not talking down to you because you don't know what the difference between "Family Practice" and "Primary Care Provider" is. Don't talk down to me because I don't know the proper spelling of "Schoenner Street", when you pronounced it as "Shayner".

7) People who don't pronounce their words properly or clearly.
I know there are people with legitimate speech impediments, but a vast majority of the people I interact with are just plain lazy. They slur their words together, and say things like "Cayin I ax yoo a kuestionne?" Sure, some of that might be an accent or dialect, but come on... If English is your primary language, don't you think you could invest the time into learning how to speak it correctly?


I'm pretty sure that if I continued any further, I would finally end the post with 194 individual rants. I don't feel like typing much more than this, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to read that many complaints from one person. I'll break them up among a few posts so I don't come off as a whiny bitch.

I'll leave you tonight with this... Have you had a crappy day/week/month/year? Here is your chance. Comment with your complaints or rants about anything you'd like, and I'll be your proverbial shoulder to cry on. I'm a very good listener, or so I've been told.

Let loose, and don't spare the profanity!

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

In Which I Am A Mutant Mosquito Killer

Last night, while preparing dinner with The Boss, we noticed a rather large bug flying around the apartment. Neither of us are sure how it got in, but it seemed to be attracted to the light or the heat from the light fixture on the ceiling. It would flutter around the light for a while, and then dive down towards us. The Boss and I dove in different directions to avoid the insect every time it flew at us. Before you think we are big wimps and are rendered courage-less by insects, this is what we were up against. I know that this is nothing compared to what Lil Sass is going through, and in retrospect its foolish to be scared by such a stupid thing as a crane fly. But last night, the terror was real.

This mutant-mosquito kept us at bay for a little while, partly because we have 12-foot ceilings. It would not rest long enough for us to hit it with anything, as multiple attempts to squash it with a broom proved futile. I injured it at one point, as it suddenly could only fly around in circles. Eventually I managed to corner the wounded bug, and put the hideous being out of its misery.

Alas, now is the time of year for all those irritating insects to make their presence known. Its the one thing I hate the most about the warmer months, sweltering heat and humidity included. I would much rather have to deal with sweat running down my face than having to swat away bugs while trying to enjoy nature.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

In Which The Fridge Gets Emptied

Every so often, a peculiar smell takes residence in the BAG household refrigerator. The source is often indeterminable, but the odor itself is quite pervasive. It attacks your nose with such ferocity, forcing you to take a few staggering steps back, gasping for just one breath of sweet, fresh air. Even if the fridge door is open for a few seconds, the scent lingers strongly in the air like a quick fart in an elevator... You hope and pray for it to dissipate quickly, but it hangs around long enough for more passengers to arrive.

When the smell gets bad enough to invoke my gag reflex, much like it did today, something must be done. Earlier today, I begrudgingly pulled my shirt over my nose and began searching for the origin.

When surveying the contents of the fridge, I was presented with many suspects. Could it be that the milk had expired? Was it the tinfoil-covered bowl that I didn't recognize? Or could the antagonist be the colony of uniformly-shaped Tupperware containers that hide out on the back of the shelves? I opted to search through the Tupperware first, as the contents were no longer discernible.

Holding my breath, I gently pried open the lid of the first container. Droplets of moisture had collected on the inside of the lid, which quickly leaked onto the counter. From my estimates it seemed to be leftover Shepherd's Pie, although I don't remember it being that watery. It smelled a little rough, but it was not the true culprit. With a few scrapes of a fork I emptied the container in the trash. The next two containers held what used to be spaghetti, but they looked more like individually packaged piles of bloody worms. I emptied the worm-ghetti into the trash as well.

I next checked the milk carton. The date printed on the side was still a few days in the future, so I didn't bother checking it. I was pretty confident it was not the source.

I carefully reached for the tinfoil-covered bowl. I didn't recognize the bowl, and was puzzled by how tightly it had been wrapped by the foil. Distracted by this, I didn't realize until it was much too late that the smell had gotten stronger upon picking up the bowl. Removing my shirt from my nose, I grasped one edge of the foil and lifted upwards.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner.

The odor rushed out from under the foil like bees storming out of a broken hive. My eyes watered, my stomach lurched, and my olfactory nerve began to melt down. The odor-ninjas swarmed around me, assaulting every sense with a strength I never imagined possible. As I felt my knees began to weaken, I dropped the bowl on the counter and staggered back. Gasping, I ran into the bathroom and grabbed the air freshener. I sprayed a healthy dose of Clean Linen Scent into the kitchen while pinching my nose closed.

Once the fog cleared, I walked timidly towards the kitchen. I reminded myself to breathe through my mouth, and I yanked the tinfoil off of the bowl. I didn't want to look inside. I was afraid to see what horrors would be found. With my heart pounding and my palms sweating, I peered into the bowl.

Inside was a flesh-colored, mushy, watery mound of what at one time, was tuna fish. It had sat long enough in its own juices that it had started to break down, and was the consistency of stringy pudding. The smell was very thick and wet, and reminded me of so many horrible things, mainly swamps and death. I threw the entire container in the trash, not having the courage to do anything more. I quickly tied up the bag and brought it outside.

I washed my hands seventeen times when I came back inside. I was glad to find that the smell in the fridge was gone, and that the tempest inside my stomach had quieted down. It seemed as if for now, another crisis had been averted.

My kitchen seems to be the popular place for dramatic events. Interesting.

P.S. Does anyone notice how there always seems to be Tupperware containers in the fridge that you cannot remember putting in there? My theory? I think the Tupperware species are nomadic in nature, constantly roaming and finding new refrigerators to reside in every few months. That seems to be the only feasible explanation.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

In Which I Am Medicated

Forgive me, my Bloggers, for I have sinned.

It has been five days since my last entry.

It is not because I couldn't think of anything to write about. It is not because I have been too busy to write anything. Its because I've been too doped up on medications to accomplish anything more than drooling for the past couple of days. Why, you ask? Let me tell you...

Early in the day on Monday, I tripped in the driveway while bringing in the laundry from my truck. I didn't fall, but instead flailed my arms around wildly to regain my balance. I'm pretty sure it looked like I was imitating a sideways-helicopter, trying in vain to take off. During this amazing display of my lack of coordination, something happened in my back. And by "something happened", I mean I suddenly was in a great deal of pain.

From my right shoulder blade to the middle of my back, I could feel the muscles tightening quickly. Before long it was one large lump of rock-hard tension, forcing my right shoulder to be raised upwards. I looked like I had been frozen mid-pose while dancing along with "Thriller". The pain was unspeakable. I could barely take in a full breath, and just about any form of movement caused searing, stabbing sensations up and down my side. I tried to do some work around the house, in hopes that moving about would stretch the muscles out. After an hour I was on the couch, my eyes lined with tears. There was no Advil or Tylenol in the house, so I put a heat pack in the microwave and waited until The Boss came home. I probably should have gone to the Emergency Room, but I refused because the co-pay we have with our insurance is unreasonable. I was able to get a little sleep, and went to see my doctor the next morning.

I had an early morning appointment. My doctor is a DO, which is a doctor of osteopathic medicine. He quickly diagnosed me with a twisted rib and severe muscle spasm. After trying twice to re-align my rib with no success, he gave me a shot of Motrin and two prescriptions. One for pain, and the other for a muscle relaxer. At the pharmacy, I forked over $50 and was introduced to my new friends, Tramadol and Metaxalone.

While on these medications, I am absolutely useless. I have the mental capacity of a seven-year-old and the memory of a goldfish. The medications help control the pain and muscle tension, but reduce me to a mouth-breathing, drooling excuse for a human being. Due to regular doses of the drugs, there is not much I can account for since Tuesday morning at 10:30am until early this morning. For example, between Tuesday and Wednesday, I apparently watched six movies. I only remember watching the latter half of one of them. Here is what I watched:

  • Lord of The Rings - Fellowship Of The Ring
  • Lord of The Rings - The Two Towers
  • Lord of The Rings - Return Of The King
  • Ghostbusters
  • Ghostbusters 2
  • Indiana Jones - Temple of Doom
  • Indiana Jones - Last Crusade

Today, I am un-medicated because I had to return to work. Even though it would make the day go by much quicker, I figured it would be best to not appear chemically enhanced while on the clock. At any rate, the pain isn't as bad today as it has been. The Advil I took earlier is not helping, and I totally plan on popping some pills once quitting time arrives. And, no, I'm not addicted to them. I just like not feeling like I have a slowly rotating knife in my back.

Oh, one last thought. I thought I was hallucinating while watching the last few scenes of Ghostbusters 2. Mostly because I can't think of any situation where the Statue of Liberty walking down the street to the groove of a loud praise and worship song would be a plausible solution to any problem. Even in the world of movies, where anything is possible. Dan Akroyd and Harold Ramis must have been smoking some primo weed when they came up with that idea.

Or they could have been on pain meds, too... Same effect, really.