What the hell? You love Christmas. You love everything about it. You have a blood-lust for Christmas music. Your iPod currently has 800+ holiday songs on it. You love twinkly stuff, anything snowman-shaped, and literally ANYTHING that lights up. Christmas is all about that stuff. So what’s going on? Why are there no Department 56 Houses set up? Where is the Lego train that it took two people a million hours to assemble? Where are the damned decorations and the angel on the tree?
I’m going to give you 20 minutes to write another post that oozes holiday spirit. This funk you’re in? Cut it the hell out. You’re better than that. WAY better than that. The things you think are missing from your Christmas? You’re imagining all that. So get your head out of your ass and Christmas the hell out of your life!
I’m writing this as a note to myself. If I ever have that issue where my iphone says my password is bad on my gmail account, I should try going to this link where I can do a captcha thingy or something something. Stupid.
It doesn’t appear to have fixed the issue where the app I use to access Google Docs will let me view existing files. Stupid attempts to prevent me from ever finding true happiness.
There are many battles that are fought on an hourly or daily basis in my life. The battle to get out of bed in the morning. The battle to get my kid to do his homework. Or acknowledge that he even has homework, which is actually step zero to battling him to do his homework. Or the battle to stop leaving socks in the living room. Or to stop using the laundry basket to store clean clothes.
But the most stupid ongoing battle in my house? Put the jar of pasta sauce in the fridge after you are done with it. Look, that’s a $2.50 jar of sauce and we only used half of it, and if you don’t put the leftovers in the fridge our $4 dinner turns into a $5.50 dinner and I CAN’T HAVE THIS HAPPEN OVER AND OVER AGAIN LIKE SOME FREAKISH RAGU-BRANDED NIGHTMARE!
So, I’m not saying this post was triggered by anything in particular, but there is an open jar of sauce on the counter and I think you know what that means. War.
Quick, someone send me a disguise kit, some C-5 (C-4 isn’t enough for this task) and a bag of that margarita mix that you just put in the freezer and then a couple of hours later you totally have a bag full of frozen happiness. I have to go battle some evil.
I got a compliment about my hair last night. I was told it’s the best haircut I’ve had in 20 years (literally). So while that makes me happy about my current haircut, I can’t help but think I looked crappy for 20 years. And just because it’s the best haircut I’ve had in 20 years, does that make it a good haircut? Or is it all relative and I still look shitty just ateenybitless shitty?
So while I’m busy feeling good about my hair, some guy in the cafeteria very pointedly checks out my feet. There is no doubt in my mind it was a purposeful look. He wanted to see what my piggy toes were all about, and I could not have felt more self conscious. Even if he did it because he’s into feet [strong possibility] what if he’s a foot modeling agent trying to find the next big thing in the foot modeling world? My feet aren’t great. My shoes, wedges, are built more for comfort than beauty [they are Clarks, by way of explanation.] So now I have to be upset that my feet weren’t attractive enough for the guy who has a foot thing to look back up at my face with a smile? I get to be two different levels of creeped out.
Luckily, I don’t know who he is; nor where he works or if he’s a very important person or one of “the rest of us”. That’s probably a good thing
Thank God nobody knows my underwear is about 5 years old.
I always knew I was special; my mom told me so, and she’s always right. (Trust me. You do not want to argue with her about this.)
HOWEVER, there are times when I don’t want to be special. Do. Not. Want. Today was one of those days. Some people might tell me that I should buy a lottery ticket (I assume they work for the lottery commission?) and some people will say it’s fate, because I’m special. This is the problem.
Today I took my car in for the 30k service, and to have them do the recall check. You know, I own a Mazda 6 and I got a letter about spiders. Spiders building webs in the fuel systems of beloved vehicles that might cause fuel tanks to explode or something. You know, spiders being spiders… being terrorists.
According to my dealership, I’m officially the first customer to bring in a Mazda 6 that ACTUALLY HAD THE SPIDER WEB IN THE FUEL VENT LINE! I’m SPECIAL!!!!
Out of 65,000 cars recalled, I have the problem. As of a month ago, only 20 cars had a web. I assume there will be more, but what if I’m only 21 out of 65000? What kind of crazy is that? I should celebrate with, I don’t know, pizza and beer? I think that’s how you celebrate the horrible knowlege that a yellow sac spider has it out for you and wants your car to go up in flames. Stupid spider. Stupid being special.
There’s an interesting thing about going to Florida in January. They have flowers. THEY HAVE FLOWERS! They don’t have 10 feet of snow plow residue at every street corner. Not once did I have to scrape ANYTHING off the rental car. It’s like this place was build so that I could pretend it was spring for a few days. And I did. And now I am back.
There is nothing good about this winter’s weather. We’re due for 3-6 more inches Saturday. It’s gotten to the point where my reaction is “oh, only 3-6 inches,” said with the same tone I’d use if someone who regularly shot me with a nail gun was only going to hit me with a board. We are all destroyed. I have reached the “I don’t want to ever leave the house again” stage of winter.
This picture was taken on Friday, January 29th. See the flowers? There were flowers. I want flowers!
I have been on the Internet for about 16 years now. The Internet as we define it today. Prior to that, I ran a BBS out of my bedroom on a dedicated phone line. One person could be logged in at a time. It was great fun, but can you even imagine if the Internet could only support one user at a time? I’d be so annoyed at the busy signals!
Since moving to WordPress (when Blogger inexplicably kicked anyone with their own domain and server space to the curb – Ev wouldn’t have let this happen back when he owned the company. Back then, I even paid extra for my level of membership, because I thought it was worth it. But I seriously digress.) I haven’t had much trouble with spammers. I actually haven’t had many comments at all. Or readers. I think that might be my fault, for neglecting the site while I went crazy playing with Twitter. Banging out 140 characters is easy. Writing longer pieces takes more work, and who on earth wants to have to put effort into anything these days? Hell, I just watched an episode of Victorious on Nick because it was set to record on the DVR and the TV changed channels and I was too lazy to get up to find the remote. That would be work.
And then, Loyal Reader Angie pointed out in an email that my comment functionality was turned off. That happened during an upgrade, I swear. So I think I fixed it. Well, I know I did, because I’ve gotten hammered (for me, anyway) with spammy comments on one single item on the blog. Not across all articles, just on the one. You don’t see them because I set all comments to be approved by me until you’ve previously had one approved. The post in question was about a little Mexican girl who hangs out with a monkey and a backpack. I won’t mention her name because I don’t want to have the spammers attack this post. Of course, they could have picked the word monkey as a trigger and now this one will be a problem too. We’ll see.
So in conclusion, if you want spammers, write about Ora-day. She’s popular.
I know, the movie quote is “I’m too old for this shit” but really, my point is that I’m too young for it. I’m almost a baby! I’m pretty sure I just graduated from kindergarten a year or two ago. I remember we put cream in a Mason jar and everyone in the class took turns shaking the jar until we made butter. We made butter, I tell you! A group of 5 and 6 year olds! It was my single greatest accomplishment from my public school career. I don’t even think it was better than the time I made a terrarium in elementary school (during the same program where I learned how to decoupage and do macrame. Ahh, the 70s.) But wait, I am far too young to have ever been in school (or even BORN!) in the 70s!
You know what? Let’s forget I even mentioned it. Carry on.
Remind me to not upgrade WordPress on a school night. At least I finally FINALLY fixed the broken photography link in the menu above. And to bed I go, battered and bruised by technology.
The Worcester Telegram, which ticked me off last year by apparently firing all the reporters who covered North Central Mass, has moved to a “pay to read” model. The same model that MUCH BIGGER PAPERS CAN’T MAKE WORK. The funny thing is that their online advertisers, once they get a gander at the complete drop-off in readership, are going to laugh when the Telegram tries to charge their current advertising rates. These advertisers would be better served putting fliers under people’s wipers in a mall parking lot.
No, I’m not going to pay. You hardly ever write anything about my town any more. And half the time, your headlines are so vague that I only clicked through to them to figure out if the news story MIGHT have been for my town.
I dare say, this will backfire badly, and the people who suffer will be the residents of Central Mass.