Reasons to be Cheerful, Part III

Okay. Had my tantrum yesterday, so that's out of the way.

I'm going to trust that my complaint to Paypal about AdamHersh and his goons will be taken seriously and I won't be bothered again. It's a leap of faith.

Ebay now knows that if there's a back hoe up for sale on my profile, it's PROBABLY not me, and that'll get cleared up in a thrice.

Work will be busy, but that's fine. It means I won't check the clock every 10 seconds, and 5pm is on its merry way.

It is Friday, payday, and I'm beginning my joyful contemplation of where/what/with whom to do my drinking tonight.

All in all, I had my bad week catharsis, and am feeling light, thin, healthy, optimistic and purdy.

Titter.

I'm declaring today Ian Dury Day. For no good reason, except that I'm in the mood.

So, in short:

Tantrum/catharsis: Check
Paypal complaint: Check
Ebay cleared up: Check
Health/beauty check: Check
Friday: Check
Random dead rock star day declaration: Check, check, check.

I'm getting it done here, people. Let no fecker say otherwise.

Sunshine and fucking daisies.

Shall I finally enlighten you all about the shit storm that is my life for the past two weeks?

Here goes:

1. Some asshat stole my identity on eBay and put up all kinds of stupid, huge, crap for sale using my profile. Luckily eBay actually has decent customer service, so they were able to catch it, notify me, and spend an hour with me one evening on the phone and on-line, fixing my account, changing passwords, cleaning up the mess, etc. But seriously...if I ever come in contact with the cuntface that did it? I WILL DESTROY HIM.

2. The cat played sick for a couple of days and cost us a lot of worry, anxiety, some work hours, and $200 in vet bills. And she's fine. I just have to wrestle with her twice a day to get ear meds in there, while she scratches the daylights out of my forearms. But that's old news.

3. That FUCKING DICKHEAD COMPANY, ADAM HERSH FUCKING AUCTIONS, contacted me yet again, out of the blue, asking for money that I DO NOT OWE THEM. 6 months or more after I thought the issue was resolved. I filed yet another complaint with Paypal, and marked his e-mail address as spam. Again, if I ever meet Adam Hersh? I will have some SERIOUS words about how his company does business, and then? I WILL KNEECAP CAP HIM AND SHOVE MY RIGHT FIST INTO HIS NECK.

4. Gentlemen? You may want to look away for this one. Ladies, read on: Missed ONE DAMN birth control pill, and even though I 'doubled up' the next day, I have had my period for TWO WEEKS now. TWO WEEKS of bloating, cramping, bleeding and being generally ...oh, less pleasant than a mouth full of spiders. The female body? CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF.

5. The Red Sox? Out of post-season contention. ME? Working with a Yankee fan who juuuuust looooooves coming into my office to offer his 'condolences.' Here's your arsenic-laced Twix bar, you smug fuckpig.


Despite all this, though...I am fine. Really. I mean, I have my health.

It can only get better, right?

An eye for art.

We had this Renoir hanging in the staircase in the house where I grew up. Probably the origin of my obsession with having long, red hair, since I can't really poinpoint anything else in my childhood that would explain it.

Notice that the ribbon holding her hair on the back of her head looks a bit fish-shaped. It was for this reason that when I was very, very young, and not really understanding the process of human respiration and need for oxygen, I formed the idea that she was under water. I thought she was merely sitting quite prettily on the ocean's floor, whilst little fishies swam by, caressing her lovely tresses.

Huh.

As it happens, I'm wearing my hair exactly like this today.

Anyway, this past week to week and a half has been an absolute shit storm, so I'm sure I'll have more riveting junk to report on later. This is just a time waster.

Evasive maneuvers!!

So, the day dawns bright and cheerful, and so does the supposedly sick cat. Eyes bright, coat soft, glossy, healthy, almost back to normal, though looking slightly sullen.

I decide it's best to go ahead with the vet appointment because of my previous history of "waiting and seeing" several cats into the great, kitty beyond.

Vet arrives, Luna eludes capture for a good 20 minutes, half an hour. He jokes, "well, she's got plenty of energy today..." Yes, I think, and it's going to cost me a fortune.

Long story short: The cat is fine. He finds nothing wrong, and even comments on what a large, handsome, robust beast she is, with her big green eyes and button-face. He thinks maybe she just picked up a little bug, much like humans can do. We get a sore throat or a fever and just go dormant for a day or two while our body fights it and brings us back to our equilibrium. That's his theory.

When this bill arrives, we may kill her ourselves.

Anyway, it bought me a day off, and I managed a lot of freelance work before and after the anticlimactic vet visit.

A very, very tall vodka, I'm thinking.

Snakes on a Plane my ass...

Nothing is a millionth as frightening as getting THIS cat in a cat carrier to go to the vet. See how gentle and sweet she looks? Don't let her fool you. The noises, the scratching, the screeching, the SMELLS of utter feline panic. I'm sure the neighbors thought we were sacrificing children to the dark gods this morning.

Vet visit never happened. Spending extra $100 for traveling vet to come to the house instead.

Linda Blair? Fuck off, you pansy. You got nothing on a frightened Luna.

Sometimes life just sucks.

Excellent post over at Fatmammycat's this morning. Hilarious and true...God, I hate jazz, especially what she aptly calls 'abstract session' jazz. And I don't just hate 'abstract session' jazz, I also hate pretentious jazz fans who actually try to pretend they hear a melody in there amongst all that tweedling to make others look less sophisticated because they can't hear it. Makes me want to open up on a schoolyard.

Anyway, posts this week may become even more sporadic, as yes, I'm having a bit of a rough one.

Here's the deal:

Any of you have one of those bosses that sees one little tiny anomaly or exception to the general rule once in a while and suddenly wants "REPORTS" and "LISTS" and "GAH - WHAT DO WE DO WHEN THIS HAPPENS..." Instead of just acknowledging that yes, there are exceptions to rules once in a while, and yes, I can handle it, I just do X, or Y, or Z. Yes, I have a record and a protocol for it, but it's rare enough that I don't need to create a whole new process to deal with tiny little anomalies, or FLIP OUT about it. No, you don't need to reinvent the fucking wheel every time some cunt comes out of the blue with "special circumstances." No, you don't need to build any special database reports to record something that happens three times a goddamn year, AT MOST.

I've got one of those, and so the rest of the week is going to suck.

Also: I think my big black cat, Luna (my familiar) is sick. It's very subtle, and tough to tell, but she's just ...'off.' And this time I'm not waiting for things to get out of control and become a life or death, chemo or euthanasia, or 'you should have brought her in WEEKS ago, then we could have done something' kind of deal. This girlie's going to the vet. And if I have to take time off to sit around a vet's office while they run tests, or just spend some time cuddling with my baby at home, then so be it. She's only five, for Chrissakes. What could be wrong with her? If it's diabetes, that'll suck, but it's manageable...if it's cancer, she's toast.

Blogger's being a fucking douchebag and won't let me put a picture up. But she's gorgeous. And probably one of the sweetest, nicest cats I've ever had. And if she's really sick, I will be devastated.

Crankypants!

WHY in the name of FUCK can't I sleep on Sunday nights?

Not just once in a while, EVERY. SINGLE. SUNDAY. NIGHT...no matter what I do on Sunday. I can be as tired as Stevie Nicks' gypsy wardrobe, tired as Paris Hilton's vagina, tired as Dubya's one, overworked brain cell, I lie there, getting more and more pissed off at my husband, who is guilty only of being asleep, the poor, innocent, slumbering bastard. I'm just tossing, turning, fuming, and thinking, "you fucking dick." How is that fair?

It makes me a very, very cranky little rabbit come Monday morning.

Get yer drunk on.

I have a childhood memory of jamming a nickel up my nose, but no memory of the nickel ever actually coming out.

So the other night when I dreamed of horking up a rusty nickel, I knew exactly what that meant.

It meant that all this healthy food, clean living, teetotalling of the past week is actually working, and my body is detoxing.

And we all know what this means, because it's now Friday and I've worked pretty hard for all this mental and physical well-being I feel.

Therefore: LET'S DRINK!!!!

Cheers, all. Catch you on the flip side, as t'were.

No, Subway is NOT a health food restaurant, you fat cow.

Okay, so it took me forever to finally see "Supersize Me." I admit, I don't often go to the movies, and this is something I would not have paid to see on the big screen anyway, however interesting and funny and informative the film is... $9 is only to be spent for things that need big screen viewing, like your big special effects features.

So this particular rant is a bit late, but it's all I've got today.

Anyway, so I'm on my elliptical machine, doing a 45 minute work out, feeling all superior and self-righteous about doing my workout while watching a documentary about America's obesity and obsession with food-that-isn't-really-food.

And I wanted to jump into the film and strangle that big 14 year old morbidly obese girl who actually said, after meeting that squid Jared, the guy who lost a bunch of weight and is now a spokesman for Subway Restaurants, "Well, it's okay for him, but I can't afford to eat at Subway every day..."

Here's a thought: STEAM SOME FUCKING BROCCOLI, you stupid bint. Subway IS NOT a substitute for what you're currently mashing into your oversized maw when you eat at home. It's another fucking unhealthy, processed crap fast food restaurant. SLIGHTLY healthier than McDonald's, but not as healthy as buying and cooking your own real, green, healthy FRESH food, so you know exactly what the calorie/fat/cholesterol count is. And it is NOT a substitute for the lifestyle changes that are so obviously necessary. It IS a substitute for your trips to McDonald's, which IF YOU MUST EAT FAST FOOD AT ALL, should only be about once a month anyway, but I suspect is your main source of 'food,' more often than not. And that goes for your stupid, fat mother as well.

I'm so sick of excuses. "Oh, it runs in the family..." or "Oh, I have a glandular problem..."

I'm calling bullshit right here. Here's what runs in your family...NOBODY, clearly. Try some exercises, Bertha. Doesn't have to be running, I can't even RUN for chrissakes, it's bad for the joints and boobs, but that's not the point. WALKING is a start, just move that hot air balloon you call your ass.

Glandular problem? See a doctor who'll tell you you don't have a glandular problem or find a way to fix it. Then, see...oh, I don't know...maybe the inside of a damn gym sometime.

Jesus Christ!

The first step towards healthy weight loss? Stop making excuses.

Second step: NO EXCUSES.

Third step: TAKE SOME RESPONSIBILITY FOR WHAT GOES INTO YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH.

Fourth step: Move your ass.



JUST MOVE IT!

BAH!

Drifting off to sleep last night, I had a great idea for a blog post. Funny, insightful, original...and now? The fucker's gone. Completely, utterly absent.

I am bereft.

But then I had a dream that Jessica Simpson was revealed actually to be a post-op tranny. Now that made me laugh enough to wake myself up.

By the way, if you Google "post-op" and then click "images"...then get fired? Don't come crying to me.

The Curmudgeon Also Rises

...and leaves the house, uttering its war-cry of "Cuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnttttttsssss...."

Then goes to work.

SOMEbody needs a NAP.

WANTED - Drinking Buddies

Recently, some of my favorite drinking buddies moved to San Francisco for a two year stint. Fuck me, I'm going to miss the 4:45 e-mails, saying "Hey, free for a drink?" or "I'm going to be in a bar in 15 minutes time...where are YOU gonna be?"

While I do frequently drink with some of my pals from the office, there's nothing quite like someone who was there 15 years ago, when you were learning how to shoot Bush Mills, or who was there when you saw Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds at a now-defunct Boston nightclub, or someone who got trolleyed with you and argued various plot devices and intricacies in the original Star Wars trilogy, or Harry Potter.

(Fuck off, I like Harry Potter. Call me a geek if you want, but that shit is FUN. And don't give me any shit about Star Wars either. That original trilogy was a big part of my childhood, and those recent film travesties or the current creepiness of Harrison Ford will not diminish my sense of nostalgia.)

Combine this loss with the loss of other drinking buddies who've moved out of the area or are otherwise not as available on short notice as they used to be... I'm bereft of barfly comrades and those fun, spontaneous booze fests. The spouse is a good, solid drinker, but let's face it, you want a good, solid crew, that is available on short notice, especially when the spouse is otherwise occupied, or out of town or something.

Therefore: Drinking buddies wanted. Must be available to hit any random Cambridge/Somerville/Boston/Watertown bar at ridiculously short notice, and at my whim. NO rednecks, Yankee fans, Bible-thumpers, meatheads, frat boys, women with "issues" need apply. Taste for a good Guinness pour helpful, but not necessary. Send applications to Charlie's, in Harvard Square...no, fuck it, just show up and buy me a goddamn drink.

Suri Cruise's first poop.

...and may I be the first to say to these freaking nutballs...

Tom and Katie...WHAT. THE. FUCK.

As If I NEED an excuse

BECAUSE: It is Friday before a long holiday weekend and no one around here REALLY expects any productivity out of me....

BECAUSE: I'm in a mood to celebrate Fatmammycat's return from the brink of death or brain damage...

BECAUSE: There is construction going on in the building, and man...as lovely as these fantastic blue-collar construction type working guys are to look at, it's bloody noisy and distracting...

BECAUSE: The spouse is home today, and has reported the opening of his second beer...at 12:30PM....

BECAUSE: Fuck it. I'm a functional alcoholic, and I just want a goddamn martini.

IS IT SO WRONG?

On that note, have a lovely weekend all.

September 1, stay away from Allston, if you know what's good for you

September 1 in Boston...the day it looks as though EVERYONE in the area packs up and trades apartments. Especially true in the student-heavy areas like Allston, Brighton, Brookline. If you have errands to run, stay away from these areas today. And if you can't avoid these areas, maybe you should wait till next week. The U-Hauls, overladen pick-up trucks, overstuffed hatchbacks...kids waiting on the sidewalk with all their belongings, because their pal went to get the U-Haul, but in the meantime the people taking over their apartment have shown up with theirs, and they needed to clear out fast. Some of these kids will be waiting on that sidewalk until very late tonight or tomorrow, I'd wager.

I came to Boston in 1984 to go to Emerson College, and of course moved out of the dorms by my second year, and into a series of different Allston-Brighton apartments with a revolving cast of roommates (one roommate in particular worked out pretty well, and lasted about 7 or 8 years, and about 6 or 7 different apartments. Shout out to YOU, you sloppy bastard. Say hi to your parents for me.) More often than not, I was part of the apartment trading madness, and I know whereof I speak.

So, the first of September always brings me back and I feel a little bit of that nostalgia, panic, sense of doom, frustration, supressed-mayhem-and-screaming-in-my-head. Even though I'm not moving, I empathize with those who are.

UNIVERSAL RULES OF MOVING:

You may THINK you're a clean and tidy person, but when your furniture is moved away from the wall, you'll see that you could have vacuumed and dusted a bit more.

Also, you may THINK you don't have a lot of stuff, but once you've started to pack, you'll see that you're at least 7 or 8 boxes short of what you'll need.

Oh, and also, you may THINK you're organized, with all your boxes neatly packed, labelled and all items safely cushioned, but by the end of the process, there WILL be a few boxes of random shit, thrown in haphazardly, even broken, and labeled "CRAP."

Good luck, kids.