Cell Phones

I caved earlier this year. I got a smart phone. I'm still not all that convinced that it's worth the monthly data plan. I have ZERO reception at work, thanks to the metal encased room in which I work. My laptop is within 10 feet of me if I'm at home. And I'm boring enough that I spend the vast, vast majority of my time in one of those two places. But I got sucked in to the Android world, and I have to admit, that I do like my shiny little piece of hardware. What I most emphatically do not like are other people's smart phones. Yes, I think it's awesome that every little piece of trivia can be looked up in 30 seconds or less. But when you whip out your phone to fact check every statement in our lunch conversation - requiring the words "let me look that up" to be uttered every five seconds - I am going to be annoyed. I went out to lunch with you, not your iPhone. I think it's wonderful that you are so close to your mom/cousin/Great Aunt Hilda that she sends you a picture to your cell phone every time she buys a new pair of shoes. But the resulting text conversation that lasted for 5 minutes while you kept saying "Sorry, just one more thing" to me? Is the reason we probably won't be hanging out much in the future. Yes, I know you can check your email/Facebook status/Twitter feed with a flick of your thumb. But I didn't make plans with you to watch you bury your face in your phone and make "uh-huh" noises at my conversation attempts. If I'm that boring, I have a simple solution: don't make plans with me. And I always feel sorry for people who are with someone who is clearly with their phone, and just happen to be sharing a booth with their dinner partner. When I was waiting tables - back when cell phones were just phones and not mini computers - I saw arguments about it (not to mention that, even today when phones in general have been around for a year or 100, a lot of people don't realize how much louder they speak on a phone). Gah! You are probably not that important! There are very few people who are. Take 45 minutes to talk to your kid, instead of saying "just draw me a picture" and then talking for 15 minutes about yesterday's round of golf. I am seriously beginning to feel like Ashley Judd in that Star Trek:TNG episode, "The Game". Any minute now, someone is going to hot glue my phone to my hand and wire my eyes open, trying to bring me into the cult. I just hope they slide open the phone so my keyboard is visible first.

I have one thing to say to the weather at the moment:

Are you flipping kidding me?!?

Wait. I might have a few more things. I usually do.

Hot. Heat. To be heated thoroughly. I'm pretty sure that I could cook on my driveway, although I'm not all that tempted to try it.

The Bestest Friend is prone to hearing my obnoxiously sunny view of any and all weather around The Deep South. "It's raining!" she'll say. "Yes," I reply, "just think of how much my garden is loving it."

"It's raining AGAIN", I'll get a few days later. "Make it stop!".

"No," I sagely reply, "for once we're not going to have a rain deficit".

"I can't take it! It's too hot!" is usually answered with: "But this kind of heat only comes at the end of summer. It'll be over soon."

This year, I'm about to complain. I haven't yet, and this is my attempt to keep it back.

But sweet bleeding jesus, it is freaking hot. And it's only JUNE.

This is August weather. When the weather is like this, I console myself with thoughts like "This is summer trying to break you at the very end. September is a shorter month. If you survive, you get October. Lovely, fall-filled October. You love October. Just a few more days. Don't let summer win..."

This year, I'm wanting to commit murder on July and August. Because it's only June. And I'm already dehydrating.

So, instead of being sad that it's too hot to BREATHE outside, I'm going to focus on the only happy side effect of getting three months of August in one year: I'm going to make more Pina Coladas. That's the only reason God would let it be this hot at the beginning of June, right?

I feel the need for a rant, and it’s political, and I have a blog, and oh look! I even have a "rant" label!

So apparently a bunch of men in the House of Representatives have taken it upon themselves to decide, once again, that they know more about my body than I do (there are 173 co-sponsors, only five of whom are women*). This time, they have decided that: · If I go out and have a drink, and someone slips a drug in that drink to make me pass out, and they proceed to rape me, I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape". · If I become mentally disabled and incapable of telling a man “no”, it doesn’t count as rape and I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape". Also not allowed to decide how to handle their own bodies are women over the age of 18 who are victims of incest, because overnight you suddenly became capable of changing your life and all of a sudden it's not rape. Also, if I get raped and have been putting my money in a tax-exempt Health Savings Account? I can't touch that money if I want to get an abortion. Is this bill going to become law? It’s a pretty long shot, thank goodness. Would I even need the option to get a Medicare funded abortion? I sincerely hope not, and since I’m in a fairly privileged segment of society, the odds are long. But. That’s. Not. The. Point. The point is that the line keeps being moved for what is “reasonable”. And that line is moving closer to the extreme side. The point is that once again, people who will never be faced with this decision about their body are saying that I don’t have the right to make that same decision about mine. The point is that “forcible rape” isn’t even a legal term and isn’t defined in the law – which means it can mean whatever the hell anti-abortion people want it to mean. The point is that this will not change those mens’ lives in the least. The point is it could be disastrous for the two people whose lives it will change the most. *And to the women who co-sponsored the bill: If you stay out of my uterus’s business, I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?

Identity Crisis

I’m a big fan of Secret, but they're trying to destroy my psyche. I’m not talking about that new-age/self-help/the-world-is-full-of-rainbows-and-unicorns book, but Secret – the stuff you put under your arms* to hopefully make you stink less.

*I absolutely loathe the word “armpit”. Arm Pit. It sounds like a dirty place that sludge would ooze out of. Which, fine, maybe you ooze sludge. Conveniently enough, I glisten and don’t ooze. Mostly. And one of my favorite blogs has a re-occurring phrase of “gushing arm pits” that makes me feel like I’ve just been showered in some else’s under-arm sludge, which makes me want to bathe in lemon scented bleach, because straight bleach stinks. And this is really too long for an italicized note, but I’m not going back and tweaking that now.

So, deodorant. For me, that's Secret. Been using it (Secret) for more than half of my life. I especially like the Soft Solid. The roll-on makes me feel like I’ve added Sludge under my arms instead of preventing whatever Glistening might naturally occur, which kind of defeats the purpose of buying those products in the first place. The dry solids are not really worth having an opinion one way or another. And Aerosol makes me want to scream, but that’s a different rant.

Also, on my deodorant specifications list, is that it should be unscented. If I wanted to smell like baby powder – the smell of which makes me want to lose my breakfast – I would damn well put baby powder under my arms. If I wanted to smell like an odd combination of roses and violets, I’d buy some perfume from the Age 80+ counter at Macy’s. And what the hell is “Spring Fresh” even supposed to mean? Thunderstorms? Because around here, Spring=Tornado Season, not a vaguely-slightly-floral, highly-unnatural scent that one wants to spread on unseen parts of their body.

Thus, for 16 years, it’s been Me + Unscented Soft Solid Secret. We have lived in harmony.

Until this past March, when I inexplicably stopped finding unscented Secret of any variety other than Roll On. A couple of years ago it disappeared from my CVS shelves, and I almost sobbed in the Walgreens deodorant aisle when I found it there. Walmart is always hit or miss. But it’s always been somewhere. But about 3 months ago, someone hit a secret switch that made all of my Unscented Soft Solid Secret disappear from the state. And I panicked – I needed something to freshen my Glistening soon. And unscented had apparently been banned from even being a scent anymore, because – and trust me, I shopped around – there was nothing scent-free to be found on the shelves. So, being a frugal person, I started buying random deodorants when the sales and coupons aligned, which they do quite frequently. The problem?

Apparently, everyone wants to spread “Spring Fresh” or “Green Euphoria”** under their arms, so now I have to smell like something besides, you know – ME - and picking out a new scent for yourself is a LOT of pressure. I now see why Jennifer Lopez has a gazillion “signature scents” in her perfume line.

**What the HELL is “Green Euphoria”? The only things I’ve seen that are naturally body-related and green are: A) vomit and B) snot. Neither of which would I slather in my Glistening Places.

So. I went through a trial and error phase for a couple of months. I’d try a new deodorant scent for a couple of weeks. And every time I moved my arms at work (I move around a lot of books and binders on to and off of shelves), I would notice my deodorant. Which is not something I want to do, especially since I couldn’t find a scent that I liked. So, even though I smelled like products that are supposed to make you smell better, I was always fairly confident that my Glistening smelled better than their Glisten-Preventing-Substances. In any case, I didn’t smell like me anymore, and I couldn’t figure out who I was supposed to smell like. And you know how you smell a shirt to see if you can wear it again (Oh come ON, yes you do)? Well, I didn’t know anymore. I couldn’t figure out what it smelled like, and so suddenly I was doing more laundry (meaning, of course, that The Professor was doing more laundry, but it counts - we’re married – one mind, heart, soul and all of that) all because I couldn’t tell who I was anymore. And it's hard to live with yourself when you don't even know what your shirts are supposed to smell like, so I'd just have another glass of wine.

I’m happy to report that I have discovered the right meds had a breakthrough and am on week 3 of one scent, and I don’t hate it. It’s simply called “Fresh”, which means that it’s an uncomplicated scent that no one else is going to buy because “FRESH” is not quite descriptive enough of what kind of “Fresh”. Is it “Spring Fresh” or “Powder Fresh” or “Mountain Fresh”? Why would anyone buy something as uncomplex as “Fresh”? And in about 3 years it, too, will disappear, which means I should start the stockpile this weekend. Ironically enough, I had a huge stockpile of it last year that I had gotten practically free at CVS …and I sold them for a buck a piece in a yard sale making like 1 million percent profit, but leaving me in a lurch when my Secret disappeared. But at least I'm coming back to the knowledge of Who I Smell Like.

And speaking of deodorant stockpiles (surely a topic that should come up once in everyone’s lifetime)…let’s move on to The Professor. He has also been a big fan of one particular brand and scent since time began. And guess what? About a month after my Crisis hit, his did too. Same. Exact. Story. Although it was a different brand, because - Surprise! - The Professor does not use Secret. And he uses a scented one, which is ok with me because he’s been using that scent since before I met him – so that’s HIS smell, not Speed Stick’s.

To shorten the story, he had to try something new as well. And then I’d walk in the door after not knowing who the hell *I* smelled like all day, and he’d hug me and kiss me, and I’d be like “Hey, who are you, you smell funny” and then I’d just want to cry. Not that he bathes in it or anything, but it was just part of Who He Is - part of his scent was Speed Stick Musk, but suddenty it wasn't, and I couldn't handle it. Because really, A)You should know who you are, and b) you shouldn’t be disturbed by your husband’s “Sports Fresh” scent. Oh yes. The menfolk, they get the Freshness, too. And “Sports Fresh” sounds suspiciously like SWEAT to me.

The Professor got a much happier ending. He discovered that our local Walmart carries his preferred varietal. Which means we have about 10 sticks of it in the cabinet, because he’s buys one every time he passes Walmart, but I’m not laughing. No…I’m jealous. At least he’s found a way to fight back against the identity crisis. Which, to be honest, I did too, I just upped my wine budget and moved on.*

*Because in the end, all roads lead to Wine. Not Rome. Not Hell. Wine. But today, my lovelies, I discovered the perfect solution on the wonderfulness that we call The Internetz. Behold: An Unscented Deodorant Patch! I do believe it will solve all of my problems. I’ll have to attach an explanation card to every piece of clothing I send to Goodwill for the rest of my life, but that might just be worth it. At least I’ll always know who I am. There’s only so much wine I can drink to help with that, and I’m not on the Really Good Meds.

It's the little things

Charter, we've had our issues. Since I canceled the TV service, they've gotten fewer, although sometimes your internet speeds Need HELP. But it's the little things. Like, when I go to login to my account. And it says "Welcome New Account". 1) I am not a new account. Been with you for 10+ years now. 2) The sentence hurts my heart. Do you mean "Welcome to your new account"? Do you think my name is "New Account?" Really, we know each other better than that by now.

Well, this got embarrassingly long and loud, but we’re just going to hit publish without even proof-reading at this point

There are some things that I think every Midwife/OBGYN/Birth-Assisting-Person should be required to teach parents: Some people in this world are not going to have kids, and – steady now – that is ok. The world will not end, the Anti-Christ has not come to suck the life out of the precious babies’ lungs, and no one is going to take away the baby aisle at the grocery store. Some of us even *like* other peoples’ babies. In a few cases, we like the children those babies turn into, although that’s a slippery slope, because all of a sudden, BOOM, you’ve known this kid for 17 years and you loved the baby, tolerated the child and now have to figure out if you’re going to like the adult. That’s a lot of pressure – I mean, 17 years have been invested at this point, and you’d hate to think you’ve wasted their whole life making this decision. And you’re probably related to them anyway, so just make it easy on yourself and like them already. That last paragraph was completely off my point, which is, I do *not* want to have children and that is not the first half of a mathematical proof that ends with “therefore I hate all the babies”. It’s a simple statement of intention. So, Lady-that-is-convinced-that-I-am-(apparently)-a-“baby-hating-narcissist”**: Thanks for naming me “soul-less” baby haters. I like babies just fine, but I guess the only way to prove it would be to have a baby, and y’all: there is not enough rum in the world. Also, I don’t think I’m a narcissist, but do narcissists every really admit that about themselves? Wouldn’t they be too self-involved to be aware of their narcissism? I think that’s kind of a pre-requisite. I mean, there are there social groups like The United Narcissists of America getting together for Bingo and Bourbon on the third Thursday of the month? I might be able to get into that, come to think about it, but really: I think if you say you’re a narcissist you are either A) lying or B) in rehab. **She was involved in a loud conversation behind me in a (long) line, about the evil people who do not have children. I wish I had a transcript of this woman’s opinions, because they were many and they were LOUD. The loudest was “There’s something wrong with people who don’t want kids. They’re baby-hating narcissists.” And also on the baby front: (Strap yourself in because apparently I’ve needed therapy for this and things could get bumpy): choosing not to procreate does not make my life *less than*, it just makes it different. I cannot tell you the number of times that I've been told something along those lines in the last 10 years. You want to tell me you’re more complete as a person (were you missing an organ or a limb before the conception??),then I will absolutely help you celebrate your NewFound Wholeness and buy you wine and chocolate. I’ll probably bake you cookies, because hell, I bake cookies for everyone. You know why? Because I like celebrations, especially if they involve wine, chocolate and cookies. And if I'm baking you cookies, there's a good chance I'm going to like your baby enough to keep you in cookies for awhile. And this one Lady years ago … oh this one cracks me up, almost five years after the conversation happened. This lady tells me, upon hearing I wasn’t planning on having children – at the end of a long list of reasons why Children Are Important If You Want To Be An Adult, she adds: “You really should just try it once”. Please go back and re-read that, because I cannot even describe the brain-exploding that happened in my skull. Babies are not a new flavor of potato chip, Lady! You don’t “just try them out”, because can you even get a refund at that point? Do you see why I stay home with my wine bottles every night? If my OBGYN were reading this, she’d come out of retirement and sterilize me for FREE.

Then the Sun Came Out and the Angels Sang

If there's one thing in the world I hate to shop for - and there is, otherwise this post would be wasted time for both you and me (assuming it's not already) - it's jeans. It's like they're made to fit broom handles, and then, so that they don't have to go to the expense of actually fitting around my stomach, the ingenious makers decide to stop the material about 6 inches below what will keep me modest if I happen to bend over. And, due to the fact that I can't hold anything for longer than 30 seconds without dropping it, I have to be careful whom I bend over in front of. That is way more stress than I should have from my jeans. And they frown on me taking a bottle of wine in the fitting room, so I have to do it sober. So. I dread jean-shopping. When I walked into Walmart today, I was hit with an urge to check out the jeans, and I hadn't been drinking yet, so I have no idea what came over me. Maybe 12 hours of sobriety? Anyway, ignoring my better instincts, I slunk over to the clothing department. I was cursing before I even arrived, and I just don't think that's healthy. But the jeans I was wearing - my only pair - are stretched out and don't fit right anymore (no complaining here, goodbye 20 pounds, I'm toasting your disappearance as I type!), leading to a threat of exposure greater than what I'm comfortable with. So, I shopped. For jeans. Sober. I only took 2 in the fitting room, because I figured after that point I would be frustrated enough to leave without buying the necessities we need around here. And, tolerant though he may be, The Professor wouldn't take "the jeans didn't fit" as a suitable explanation for the lack of toilet paper in the house. The first pair fit. Perfectly. Flawlessly. Comfortably. And with no threat of indecent exposure from my rear side. After I picked my jaw up off the dressing room floor (gross), I carefully checked the mirrors, because I was pretty sure they were some kind of fun-house-deception. I almost asked the attendant to let me try another fitting room, to make sure they fit if I wore them in a different location. But as I hadn't bought the wine yet, I was afraid that giving the impression of a total loon would flag me from being able to check out with any. So here I am, wearing jeans I'm not scared of. And terribly afraid that if I wear them in public, the whole backside is going to randomly fall off the first time I sit down. Is there a phobia for jeans? More importantly, is there medication for it?

BECAUSE THE SNOW IT IS COMING AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE

It’s just about time to play one of my favorite little games in this whole wide world. It’s a little something special I call “Go to the milk section of Wal-Mart and watch the local citizenry freak the frak out BECAUSE THE SNOW IS COMING”. I’m pretty sure the employees at Wal-Mart must play this game too, because they stuck the wine section next door to the milk cartons, so I can just pretend I’m trying to make up my mind between bottles of wine, and luckily no one has ever asked what I’m seeing in the glass that makes me giggle hysterically for moments at a time, because seriously, y’all, these people are flying around the last gallons of dairy products like someone has told them every cow on the planet is going to stop milk production all at one time and that time is in FIVE MINUTES. One time, a lady was holding up one of those HUGE half gallon cartons of French Vanilla Coffeemate and asked her companion how it would taste on cereal “if it comes to that”. IF IT COMES TO THAT you will be glad to have cereal, lady, cream or no cream. Anyway, my alcohol supply is down to 2 bottles of wine, a half bottle of rum and a half bottle of bourbon. The Professor is down to a 6 pack of beer, a half bottle of gin and the other half of the bourbon. IF IT COMES TO THAT I supposed I could mix the bottle of peach schnapps that’s been unopened on my shelf for over a year with some of the Mojito mix that’s been sitting there open for even longer, because that’s just the kind of alcohol martyr that I might become IF IT COMES TO THAT, but I’m not really into dying at the moment, so I think I’ll just buy some more wine. After all, Wal-Mart has gone to the trouble of putting the entertainment so close to the wine aisle, how could I resist a double feature?

No-Longer-Suppressed Rant*

Really, people? You're upset because the president wants to give your kids an inspirational message? A message to stay in school, work hard, study, be involved, and give a damn about the world? You're afraid to let your kids hear that? I almost wish I had kids. So that I could point to the president and say "see him? See this man? See what he's made of himself? TRY HARDER". Obviously, the unraveling of society as we know it will happen in 30.6 seconds after kids hear a person of authority telling them to set their sights high. To make the world a better place. BECAUSE WE LIKE THE WORLD THE WAY IT IS, DAMMIT, AND YOU DAMN KIDS SHOULDN'T DREAM. And like the kids are going to pay attention anyway. They're counting down the minutes til they can go to recess and play whatever "throw the ball at the unpopular kid" is all the rage these days. Indoctrination? Cult of Personality? I need more wine. *This rant comes to you courtesy of some things I've seen on Facebook, and the fact that I don't want to pick fights with strangers on a mutual friends wall. But let me assure you: THEY'RE WRONG.

Updates

First: The Tudors is back on. It’s funny, but now that they’re following history more closely, their viewers are leaving them in droves. I have several theories: 1) The writers used all their imagination while they re-wrote history in the first season, and now they’re just copying lines out of various textbooks. 2.) The story of one man getting married, getting bored when he doesn’t get a son, and then lining up his next queen before the current one is out of the picture.. well, repeating that 5 times gets a tad predictable around Queen Number Three. 3) All anyone ever cared about was the story of how Anne – that dirty dastardly woman – got to be Queen, because we all know she was just a dirty, filthy femme fatale. In fact, the Catholic Church - back then, not today, –told everyone she had a 6th finger as a sign of her evilness. Did that make it to the storyline? It wasn’t in the 5 cumulative minutes that I’ve watched, so I don’t know. I do know that The Professor has not yelled at the TV once this season. He’s been too busy snoring. I continue to be incredulous that this story can’t be both A) True and B) Fascinating. But there you have it. With “It” meaning “screenwriters can’t do history well and need to just move on to the next comic book”. For God’s sake, look what they (the screenwriters, not the comic books, KEEP UP) did to Beowulf (Ok, not history, but stay with me).THAT made it onto the big screen. Maybe if we could get Angelina Jolie to play all 6 wives, we’d have a winner. Second: In my newly de-coffeed world, I thought about taking at 2 Liter of my Diet Mtn Dew to work every day. Wine was really my first choice, but then I would start buying romance novels for the library instead of military non-fiction. And then I would get fired. In the end, I’ve just been drinking insane amounts of water. To keep me sane and my employees alive, I still have my Dew every morning with breakfast. But I have another myth to debunk for you: Anyone who says that caffeine makes you pee more (more than WHAT?), has never substituted water and then done scientific comparisons. I haven’t been scientific in the least, but I do know that I’m going to the ladies room every hour. And if that last sentence doesn't make you glad you read my ramblings, then I'm dead in the water.

Well, there goes my self control

I can't keep it in anymore. I have to spew it somewhere and The Professor has taken to answering me with grunts and silent nods. Next thing I know he'll be stuffing his ears with cotton that I won't notice due to the fact that I haven't actually looked at his face in days. Why? Because his face doesn't reveal the latest shimmer of motion in the polls, or tell me the latest stupid thing some campaign person has said, or give me some slight glimmer of what 50.1 percent of the voters in this country might do. I wake up to the morning show on the cable news station with at least 3 people talking. I turn on NPR as soon as my body is in my car. Due to the wonders of a program called VBrick, I check in with various news sources on my PC all day. Another hour of NPR on the way home...and I arrive home just in time for the evening rounds. Obviously, someone needs to stage an intervention. Just give me a few more days. Being Another Bright Blue Dot in a Really Red State - and a state (like 48 others) that doesn't divide its electoral votes proportionally - I always have this Shadow in my head when it's time to vote. The shadow asks "Why bother?". Electoral-vote.com - my first online stop in the morning these days - tells me that the other guy is currently ahead 61%-36%. And since the popular vote means next to nothing in this country...why am I doing it? It is just a Shadow, though, and I beat The Shadow down with a stern lecture on rights, responsibilities and patriotism that I won't go into, because you would probably barf all over your computer monitor. And no one wants to see that. I'm excited this year. I'm terrified. Frustrated, too - My Guy's not perfect. But he's a damn sight better than Mr My Friends. Oh! Speaking of him...go check this out - I endorse its message 1000%. I'm also so incredibly hopeful that this time, My Side won't screw things up. And every time I dare to think those words, my heart seizes up - Oh NO! I Just jinxed the entire election with the awesome and terrifying power of thinking that the best might happen! I want Tuesday to be NOW. This very second. This election has been going on for 2 years and I'm sick of it. I want Tuesday to be 6 months from now because I'm not ready to deal with the disappointment if we lose again. I want to fast forward to Wednesday morning so that I know if it's worth staying up all night watching election returns when I have a plane to catch at 9:30 AM. I want it to be the moment that we win RIGHT NOW. I want John McCain - and most especially, Sarah Palin - to disappear. I want to never hear their names again, and I want that to happen because enough people realized that they're loony in the head and that they should be put out to pasture. A very large pasture. Not in an evil or vindictive way, but in the way that you don't allow mentally disturbed people alone unsupervised with your three month old and a butcher knife. The world needs to be sheltered from them. Ok, I have to go put on a costume and party with a bunch of ...how does my blog-friend Karen put it? Oh yeah, a bunch of "tree-hugging bleeding-heart liberal pinko commie Massachusetts Alabama Democrat{s}". So, to leave you with a happy note, I have a present for you: This video has been linked all over the internets this week - and here's a warning: Get Tissues. Many of them. You're welcome.

This is why I don't watch a whole lot of TV:

Because I have to deal with stupid commercials. We now live in a world where the response to the following is not a bewildered "that doesn't even make sense", but a laugh and "That probably could happen." Because you know, kittens on a credit card - like toothpaste in a carry-on - are obvious signs that you're a security risk. Besides the fact that this is completely counter to American ideals while calling itself "American Express", it points out just how much we've been conditioned to think like that. We all know who I blame. And now I'm going to end this rant and go read some nice historical romance to get me back to my happy place.

Rock Me, Amadeus*

Our TV decided to quit working this week. Yes, that TV. After a weekend with 5-6 people in the house at all times - two of which were teenagers, who carry their own special brand of Hell with them at all times - it was supposed to be a relief to go to work Monday morning. Granted, it would be the relief of going to the pool when it's 100 degrees outside, only to discover that the water temperature is 85. But still, a little relief can go a long way. Except that the IT people on base chose last weekend to upgrade all of the computers from Office 2003 to 2007. Cue: The Panic Music. Four of the five people in my department needed me to sit with them and teach them how to use Microsoft Word all over again. I tried explaining that a lot of the shortcut keys still work (Ctrl-S still saves; Ctrl-P still prints. What else do they really need?). I got blank looks. Apparently, these are some of the best kept secrets in the Microsoft kingdom? To make things even more fun, three of the nine computers in my department didn't get updated - which means that two people couldn't even open Outlook to read the email telling them they had been upgraded. Is that irony at work? I spent the entire ride home contemplating which bottle of wine to open first. Then I walked in the door and The Professor told me the TV was broken. Needless to say, there has been much reading in the past 72 hours - both on my previous TV and the one that we bought last night. I could write an epic on the diferences between the two (it would basically dwell on what a piece of crap our last TV was), but we'll just leave it at: yay for shiny new toys in the living room! And so, today I took the day off of work. I wandered into the living room around 7 AM - about the time The Professor was leaving for work - and discovered that not only was Amadeus just starting on OVTV ("Youth Culture TV" does not equal Amadeus in my book, but what do I know about youth culture?), but also - ALSO - my wonderful husband had made me a pot of coffee. It's like God stepped into my life and saw what I needed. *I just watched Amadeus a month or so ago, and sent my Nashville girls an email the next day asking why the movie makes the song "Rock Me, Amadeus" get stuck in my head, when there could hardly be two musical genres so far apart. It's happening again.

The Tudors : Update

An update to the ongoing inconsistencies with The Tudors: Because you know you care. From The Professor: 1) Last night, they introduced the character of Pope Paul III. The problem? The pope at the time was Clement VII. 2) Paul III (Who wasn't really pope yet) tells dude from England that he's going to send Dude to the Jesuits. Problem? Pope Paul III did, in fact, commission the Jesuit order - but not for 6 more years. There were, in fact, no Jesuits at that time to be sent to. Also, this can't really be an exact inconsistency, so I don't care, but I want it known that while Thomas Cranmer did sneak his wife into England (due to the fact that priests weren't supposed to have wives) - there is no evidence she arrived in a crate. What they got right: Anne's quote "I have a craving for apples", indicating she is pregnant.

Not So Short librarian Rant Before My Head Explodes

• “Wiki” does NOT AND HAS NOT EVER equaled “Wikipedia.” Yes, Wikipedia is ONE EXAMPLE of a wiki. The two terms are not interchangeable. Anyone who spends so much of their lives online while claiming to be a tech-guru (as certain people who shall remain unmentioned) should know this. Because when you say “oh, we have a wiki” and I get excited about it, and then you show me an entry on Wikipedia and I discover that you’re a raving idiot…then I will start calling all of our computers Dells, even though the majority of them are HPs. I know that’ll drive you crazy.
• @ = AT. This is why it is called the “AT SIGN”. Look it up. On Wikipedia, if you must. Here, I'll do the librarian part and link you. CLICK HERE. But do NOT tell me – repeatedly – that I need to stop “using it incorrectly” because you’re reading it like it means something else (about? Approximately? How in the world did you make that jump?). I’m using it correctly. You’re reading it incorrectly. And these are my notes. Take your own next time. And how do you read email addresses, anyway? IdiotAPPROXIMATELY Gmail DOT Com?
• Those signs on the front of the printers that say you need to go to the reference desk and get a card to print something? Totally not fake. You have to A) Go to the reference desk and B) get a card. And the lovely person there will even help you. Wandering around the halls – that you passed not only the reference desk but also the circulation desk and at least 3 employees to get to – and poking your head in various doors (some of which aren’t even library offices – hence the reason they say AU TV on them) asking where the printer cards are makes you look like…well, like you’re an idiot. And judging from the rank insignia on your uniform, you should be able to figure this out by now.
• The fact that the staff association (which I am blessedly NOT in charge of any more) has changed the “Christmas Party” to the “Holiday Party” is not a cause for a major breakdown. It's almost not even worthy of a conversation. No one is trying to tell you that you can’t love the baby Jesus or hang up your holly. There's a really simple explanation: One of the staff officers isn’t Christian. She’s Hindu. And although you might have six heart attacks at the thought of working with a non-Christian, you’re going to have to get over that. And I am now mad at myself that I didn’t think of this last year when I was in charge of this ordeal, because we have a couple more non-Christians on staff, and I never stopped to consider that they don’t celebrate Christmas either, but they sure come to the parties and participate and help out. So now I’m going to go rant at myself for a while.

It's My Birthday, Dammit!

Note: The title of the post was the drinking game of the weekend, requiring all in attendence to take a drink whenever the fateful words were uttered. Andrea and I are lucky enough to share a birthday. I was lucky enough to have her remind me - at constant intervals - that I am two AND A HALF hours older. The time: Friday, 8 AM The scene: My house, 7 hours before my girls arrive for the Weekend Birthday Extravaganza Me, to The Professor: "Damn it! It's not enough that I've been cramping for days! Now I can hardly breathe and I'm running a fever! Is it too early to start drinking?" The time: 12:15 PM, 2 hours before arrival The scene: Me cooking and frantically trying to remember if the cats have puked up their breakfast in a noticeable location. Me, to my sis on IM: "You know, I should probably slow down on either the Day-Quil or the caffeine." Sis: "Or have more of both." The time: 3:30 PM The Scene: The Professor and Friend complete a {very sweaty} two mile run and return to the house minutes after The Girls arrive. The Best Friend is due any moment. Me to everyone: "I need a drink." Friday afternoon and evening passed in a wonderful haze of alcohol, laughter, insults and a constant refrain of "Holy Crap, we've known each other for SEVENTEEN YEARS!" followed quickly by A's vodka-infused chorus of "It's my birthday, dammit!" followed by more alcohol, followed by...well, you get the idea. After ten years of hints, pleading, begging, failed attempts and outright bartering, The Best Friend came through with a homemade ice cream cake that makes me wonder why I'm known as The One Who Cooks. Who knew that it would go so well with beer? The Time: 10 AM, Saturday morning The Scene: Breakfast on my back patio, an hour and a half after we've all roused ourselves; we're starting a marathon of card playing. Me, to The Professor: "The OJ and the champagne are in the fridge. We need Mimosas. Now. It's my birthday, dammit!" The Time: 3 PM, Saturday afternoon The Scene: after The Best Friend joins us, we went shopping for a few hours. In the end - after a visit to the liquor store, no less - I insisted on visiting The Scariest Grocery Store in Shelby County to do some bargain wine shopping and labelled it as a "cultural experience". And it's my birthday, dammit. The Result: Four of us ended up spending about $150 on wine, because the prices were too good to resist. Please note that the only reason that only four out of five of us bought wine is because Number Five has an unnatural preference for vodka in all it's odd forms. Including grape flavored. Which is unnatural, but I love her anyway. Even though she is two AND A HALF hours younger. Pictures speak louder than words. The Time: 6 PM, Saturday evening The Scene: My dining room table Activity: I try to excuse my homemade "set your mouth on fire taco seasoning " as an excuse to get through the bucket of margaritas. So that we can start drinking all the other alcohol we bought during the day. The Time: 10 AM, Sunday morning The Scene: My dining room table The atmosphere: Quiet. Very Quiet. Final Tally:

• Only one of us got vomitously sick from the weekend's indulgences. I'm happy to report that it wasn't me;
• Several people in the county - who thankfully don't know my name - think that I run around with a pack of alcoholics;
• I have a huge chunk of ice cream cake in my freezer that reminds me every time I look that The Best Friend does care about my birthday wishes, even if it took her a decade to fulfill the ONE REQUEST I've ever made of her;
• The realization that because I have friends like these and a husband willing to put up with an entire weekend of female craziness...I'm a very lucky woman.

A Cleansing Tuesday Morning Rant, Using the Word “Maybe” One Too Many Times

The crazies all got up early this morning. Too early, apparently. I don’t know if it has something to do with the time change, the moon cycle or if our low water supply has been tainted by the terrorists. Whatever it was, they were all on my stretch of highway, and something was definitely wrong on the interstate this morning. Maybe the commuter population of my state has been taken over by aliens. MAYBE THEY ALL NEED DRIVERS ED. This includes the cops. In a pair of high-tech cop cars. I’m pretty sure they were racing up and down the interstate. First south-bound, then they crossed the median to the north-bound lanes. Then they crossed back to the southbound and passed me AGAIN. Maybe one of them lost something important and thought that driving 80+ miles an hour would make it more visible? MAYBE THEY’RE INSANE. I hate SUVs. I can’t see around them. I can’t see what’s behind them when they’re behind me. And I really hate it when get in my car and discover that I have one on either side of me. And then, as I inch out of my space – because I can’t freaking see around the 10 foot SUV (that is really only necessary if you A) have 10 children – and in that case, buy some condoms, B) are carting around dead bodies that need to be concealed, or C) YOU WANT TO ANNOY ME) – anyway, as I try to back out, a car goes whizzing through the parking lot. And you know what? If I get hit, I’m pretty sure it would somehow be my fault. This parking lot dilemma happens more and more, and every time I get frustrated. It’s not safe to drive a car anymore? Maybe I should buy an SUV just so I can park where I want? MAYBE I’LL JUST RANT A LITTLE MORE. And then finally, I’m at work. I have my coffee. I go out to the public PCs to do a quick check of my credit card. And, once again, Capital One’s new, shiny, “you-asked-for-it-so-look-what-we-did-to-make-our-website-pretty” interface isn’t working. In the past week, this has happened to me 3 or 4 times. I can’t make a payment. I can’t even find out my balance. Maybe they have people working on it. MAYBE THEY SHOULD TRY THESE THINGS OUT? Hmm. Maybe I’m one of the crazies who got up too early this morning.

Therapy. I need Therapy.

The Professor has all these job functions that I get to go to. Mostly with faculty that I actually took classes from in college. I mingle, I drink the free booze, I be as amusing as only I can be, I laugh, I try not to tell stories that begin with “that reminds me of the time I came to your class after downing a few of the $1 PBR specials at the pizza place”, and – thank god – I leave as soon as it is socially feasible. I’m witty, graceful and much younger than anyone else in the room. The alcohol helps. Especially with the witty. But every single time he comes home and says “Hey! Dr X is having a get-together” or “the department Christmas party is coming up”, or even “Dr Mostly Nice Guy wants to meet us for a drink”, I get this cold feeling deep in my stomach. It’s like he just told me that his parents are coming. To live with us. Until they die. I coach myself through it every time. It goes something like this: “They’ve never actually called you the Whore of Babylon to your face. They’re not going to start tonight. Besides, they like the Professor. So obviously they have good taste. And they seem to like the stuff you cook. At least they eat all of it. So what if you have NOTHING to discuss with any of them? So what if The Professor is the youngest of his crowd because the rest of them are all RETIRED? You like hanging out with your parents, and these people are the same age. Well, they drink more than your parents. And they did a few more drugs when they were younger. But those topics aren’t socially acceptable. Note to self: marijuana usage on campus in the mid-70’s is only considered polite conversation if you’re talking to Dr Laid-Back, alone where no one else can hear you. And if you’re talking to Dr Laid-Back alone, then they’ll all think you’re hitting on him, because you’re 30+ years younger than they are, and you’ll be wearing your black hooker boots, you KNOW you’re going to end up in the black boots because they make you more confident. But all they’ll know is that you’re having some kind of private conversation with *gasp* another man RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR HUSBAND and they’ll probably think you’re being somewhat of a tramp and call you the Whore of Babylon. “They’ve never actually called you the Whore of Babylon to your face…” The thing is, these are really nice people. All of them. But any time I have to go mingle with a group of people that I’m not good friends with, I tense up. The thought of going to a conference or work shop alone is almost paralyzing. But I do go, because I convince myself that it’s good for me. I still remember one time when I switched schools as a teenager, I got myself through the first day with this mantra: “Cool, Calm, Confident. If you believe it, they’ll believe it.” What kind of crap is that? We were all 16 year olds. Otherwise known as The Most Horrible Creatures on Earth.

So this post is my pre-get-together therapy. Tomorrow night, I go to mingle with The Professor’s lunch crowd for a couple of hours. It won’t be bad. A couple of them are only 20 years older than I am. One of them will REALLY like the boots. But only because he’ll want to steal them. And we aren’t anywhere near close enough to share these boots.

Who needs Thanksgiving anyway?

I case you were unaware, today is Oct 20. For those of us who keep track of such things, this translates into two months and 5 days til Christmas. I have 10 nieces and nephews to buy presents for. I'm up to purchasing for number 8. And I know what I'm getting for the rest, it's just a matter of getting it. God bless Amazon. Wal-Mart is trying to convince me that I should be purchasing new ornaments and wreaths. I've heard at least two local radio stations playing Christmas music. I've received 3 catalogs in the mail with all their Christmas glory on the front page. Can I PLEASE celebrate Halloween first? I haven't purchased a pumpkin yet! I haven't even thought about candy for the 5,000+ kids that descend on our neighborhood. I DO NOT want to hear Christmas music until after Thanksgiving. And I'm already getting so sick of Christmas that I'm thinking of not putting up a tree. God knows I have enough other decorations to more than cover my home and 2 others. But there is one thing from the Christmas season that I wish would last all year long. It's even good enough to make me agree that the radio stations can play Christmas music if I can get it any time I want. After all, I pretty much only listen to NPR. So those other stations can do whatever the hell they want, if I can get this: I've been through a Pumpkin Spice and one Gingerbread already. This is my second. Big Sis told me she went to crazy and got sick of the flavored stuff. So I made myself take half and half all week, saving the good stuff for the weekend. This is my equivalent of crack-cocaine. I would probably shoot this stuff like heroin if I weren't deathly afraid of needles. Although that would completely defeat the purpose, because it's the taste I'm going for. Hell. I'm going to go drink another cup of coffee and work on my metaphors.

But the sun still shines and my car is somehow increasing its gas mileage

Last night, I had the pleasure of dealing with lots of horrible music, due to the fact that I spent an hour on hold with two separate companies. And lest you think I mean an hour all together, let me assure you that I mean an hour with company #1, then an hour with company #2. Company #2 is my cable company, and I'm sure that if they had been around in Dante's day, cable companies would have their very own cesspool in hell. Because I try to maintain an appearance of quasi-ladylike qualities (purely for my mother's sake), I'm not going to do a play by play. Last night, I actually felt the need to drink a little straight vodka before I could deal with them again. After I talked to the first person - we didn't get along so well - I was on hold for 45 minutes before I talked to the second person. The glass of wine that I forced myself to sip much more slowly than normal returned my manners. (In case you want to know why I was almost rude: The last time I talked to their customer service, I was told that when I called again - notice, they KNEW I'd have to call again - I should immediately ask to speak to a floor supervisor. This really ticked off the woman who answered the phone, and she made me go through my whole saga anyway, even though I TOLD her the instructions I'd received. Then she made me listen to their crappy music for 45 minutes. But I ended up getting a good chunk off my cable bill.) On the phone last night, I was assured that I would not have to be home today for the tech to come out. Today, the cable tech came out, but because I wasn't home, he left a note telling me I needed to reschedule. This is the second time IN A ROW that this has happened. I called back this afternoon, and spoke to a guy with a sense of humor. I made him laugh, put on a Southern Belle accent for him (only half fake) , told him he was my favorite phone rep so far (he doesn't have a lot of competition), and assured him that I would totally go out with him if we lived in the same country (well, not really). In return, he supposedly rescheduled a tech to come out tomorrow. And he cancelled the rest of my next cable bill. I almost felt like I should describe the black lacy bra I was wearing to show him that I was sincere in my appreciation, but then realized I'd have to charge him for a conversation like that. And I'm not set up as a small business. Yet. By the time I got home, my throat was swelling up to a level that - gasp! - made it uncomfortable to talk. I think all of the deep breaths and teeth clenching and holding in the rage last night infected my throat. An hour ago, I started getting the paper-thin-skin, now-I'm-chilly-now-I'm-sweating, please-dear-husband-don't-make-me-turn-down-your-love-tonight feeling that indicated a fever. Being a mature, responsible adult, I didn't move for a while. It's the closest thing to a, um, chemical experience I'm gonna have, so I figured I might as well enjoy it. Then I realized that since I clean out the litter box on a regular basis and worry about how many vegetables I eat in a day, I can no longer pretend to enjoy anything close to an illegal chemical experience. So, because I was miserable, I took my temp (it was 100.8, Mom) and then took some meds. As for how my gas mileage has increased - from 25 mpg to hovering just over and under 30 - over the past four months when it's now July in Alabama and the AC runs full blast 100% of the time...maybe that's supposed to make up for the fact that I'm acting like an adult? I guess I'd rather do that then tequila shots. But the tequila shots were fun as hell while they lasted.