Yikes!

So, about a month ago I got a Facebook friend request from Dude. I didn't really know who he was, but he lives close to me and he works at the car dealership where I get my oil changed. I thought maybe he was the guy I talk to up there, so I accepted the friend request. I thought, why not?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Why not, she thought naively. Bah!

Dude Facebook chats me now. He's sent me his cell number at least six times so that I can "text him."

Did I forget to mention that Dude is married with a two year old son!!!

You know how I know this? It says so on his Facebook profile.

Why would I text a married man? What would we text about?

Even if I didn't get a Tiger Woods/Jesse James vibe from this guy, it would be weird.

Here's the problem:

He works at the place where I get my oil changed. What the hell am I supposed to do about that? I can't unfriend him. I think he'll notice and then "magically" all the oil leaks out of my car and I have to pay for expensive repairs?

I'm not texting him. That's not happening.

I'm doing my best to ignore him.

Boys are so weird.

Prank

Do you ever get the feeling that someone is playing a prank on you?

Either

(1) Someone is having a laugh at my expense by indicating that I'm interested in joining the Yahoo! group "Hot Adult Kinky Webcams" repeatedly

Or

(2) I have coincidentally been spammed four times in the last 24 hours to "confirm my interest" in this particular Yahoo! group

Or

(3) I have deleted the same e-mail four times and it just won't stay dead. It keeps showing back up in my Inbox.

For the record, I'm not interested in participating in Hot Adult Kinky Webcams, no matter how many times Yahoo! is going to email me about it.

Also, if you're the one pranking me, good on you. It was funny. Hilarious even.

Now, stop. Really.

Warping My Mind

I probably shouldn't admit this. I'll probably come to regret it. But, I suppose, I've already written two whole sentences, which I'm pretty sure is the point of no return.

I read that Chris Henry of the Cincinnati Bengals died yesterday.

My first thought was "Oh. Sad. He was so young," which I think is fairly typical and falls within normal limits.

My second thought, however much it pains me to admit it, was "I'm glad he wasn't on my Fantasy Football team. There's nobody worth picking up anymore."

What is wrong with me? When did this happen?

It's sick and wrong.

Fantasy football has warped my mind.

And so it goes.

Men in White Coats

I keep looking out the window to see if they're here yet. Not yet, but I'm sure they're coming.

I bought one of those bag frozen dinners at the grocery store this weekend. You know the kind that comes with chicken, vegetables and pasta in the same bag? It was pretty cheap and comes with 3 servings. Perfect... sort of.

I decided to split up the ingredients so that I could keep two portions frozen and only make one portion for dinner tonight.

Carrot in the pan, carrot in bag 1, carrot in bag 2.

Chicken, chicken, chicken.

Pasta, pasta, pasta.

Broccoli, broccoli, broccoli.

I knew when I got to the corn that there was something wrong with me.

They'll have to get past Joe and Milo to get to me, but I know they're coming... sneaky bastards.

Gross!

I was at a presentation today where they were talking about rates of hand washing after bathroom use for attending physicians, residents and nurses.

The numbers were 61, 50 and 71 respectively. They talked about the 71 for nurses as a win.

What?!?

Um, you're health care professionals. Sanitation is important!!! Those numbers should be way higher!!!

Y-U-C-K!!! (I stand by my overuse of the exclamation point here.) That is so gross.

Then again, maybe I'm not a good judge of this sort of thing.

Hell, even if I'm about to jump in the shower, I still wash my hands after going to the bathroom.

Oh, Honey!

I was looking up the lyrics to Devil Went Down to Georgia today using Google. (Let's pretend that is a normal thing to do and move on... sound good?) They have that completion matching business now that tries to "help" you.

When I typed in "Devil went down" my options were:
Devil went down to Jamaica
Devil went down to Jamaica lyrics
Devil went down to Georga
Devil went down to Georga lyrics

Seriously? How many people had to misspell "Georgia" for Google to list it in the search options list?

And how does the "Devil went down to Georgia" not even make the list?

Makes me a little sad.

One of These Days

One of these days, you will learn the difference between a shoulder to cry on and a punching bag. While I am always willing to be the former, I am not willing to be the latter anymore.

I get to matter.

You're not the only one who is disappointed.

As always, I'm here if you need me.

Mrs. The Husband

I got a birthday card from one of the husband's sisters today. It was addressed to "Mrs. The Husband"

Ugh. 

Really? Is this the 1950s?

I am not Mrs. The Husband.

Mrs. if you must, otherwise, it had better be me. 

Much love to the husband, but I'm not the little woman type. I don't fall in line and stand behind my man. My man can stand at my side or behind me!

Sigh. 

The husband just laughed when he saw the address label. He knows what's what.

Sometimes, You Can't Stop the Crazy

Here's the thing, my closet is very organized. There is a system at work, people. 

I have a U-shaped walk in closet with space to hang clothes all around the U and a place for folded clothes above it. There is also a tiny little hanging area at the entrance to the closet above the U. 

My pants are all folded. Jeans on the right. Non-denim pants and shorts on the left. Flannel and comfy pants at the base of the U. Gym clothes on the umlaut. 

My shirts are all hung up, arranged by color and sleeve length. 

My shoes are arranged so that winter shoes are on the left and summer shoes and commonly worn all-weather shoes are on the right. 

Each shirt has a specific type of hanger that it uses. When that shirt is in the laundry, its hanger goes on the umlaut. 

What?

I said I had a system. 

Tonight, after I got home from the gym, I was in the middle of changing clothes and for no particular reason I decided to reorganize the free hangers on the umlaut. They are now arranged by type (plastic with indents in the shoulders, plastic with hooks, plastic without hooks or indents, free hangers (the kind you get from the store that list your size on them)) and color. 

That's right. Tonight I stood in my closet, wearing nothing but my shorts and a sports bra with my gym shirt STILL IN MY HANDS, rearranging the hangers. 

About halfway through I realized how weird doing that was. Yet, I still didn't stop. It would have driven me crazy, at that point to leave it. Short drive, I know. 

Sometimes, I wonder if I have even a passing acquaintance with "normal."

Just the Picture

They've added a glass balcony to the Sears tower. Just looking at the picture makes me a little queasy and makes my knees go kind of weak. Heights from airplanes don't bother me. Hell, jumping out of an airplane didn't bother me. The idea of standing on that glass ledge makes me want to throw up a little bit. 

Wait, what?

Over the weekend, the husband and I took a holiday to Milwaukee with the usual round of suspects (mr. blume, manricor, Snoop and DaisyDukes) We went to the Strawberry Festival in Cedarburg during the day and a dinner cruise at night for all you can eat tacos and margaritas. 

As a side note: This was the night I learned that all-you-can-eat means probably-don't-want-to-eat. And there is a vast difference between tequila and "tequila"

After a fun, but long day, Snoop, DaisyDukes, the husband and I headed over to our hotel to get some much desired sleep. (manricor and mr. blume shacked up with her sister)

You would think that this is where the fun ended, but you would be wrong. You would be so, so very wrong. It was where it all began.

The husband booked us for one night at the Quality Inn in Brookfield. (Should've stayed at the La Quinta?) I can't remember the time exactly, but I think we got to the hotel just past midnight. 

We had already called them earlier and told them that we would be checking in late, so we weren't particularly concerned at that point. There were two men behind the desk when the husband went up to check in. Once they looked up our reservation, the two guys exchanged a look. 

"Um, we just need to make sure that your room is ready," the first guy behind the desk said. 

Wait, what? It's past midnight. Why would our room not be ready?

The husband said as much, while DaisyDukes and I were laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. I tried to stop because it seemed mildly rude, but seriously, why would our room not be ready? The first guy sent the second guy to make sure that our room was ready and assured us that "everything was okay." 

Summerfest was going on in Milwaukee last weekend, so there weren't any other hotels to be had. We really didn't have a better option than to wait for our room to be ready. 

While I was attempting to get ahold of myself, the husband was making conversation with the guy behind the desk who we learned was from Bulgaria. 

This is my favorite part of their conversation, to the best of my recollection:

Bulgaria: I like Wisconsin because it is social.

The husband: Yeah, like us right now.

(Note: Social - pertaining to, or characterized by friendly companionship or relations) 

Bulgaria: Um, yah. You can get free healthcare and cheap medication in Wisconsin. 

(Note: Social - pertaining to activities designed to remedy or alleviate certain unfavorable conditions of life in a community, esp. among the poor)

The husband: Huh? Oh, right.

Bulgaria: It's good, when you are poor like us. 

The husband, completely deadpan: I like free drugs. Do you like drugs?

After about 15 minutes of this, our room was finally "ready". Snoop and DaisyDukes might or might not have slept in a dirty bed on dirty pillows. (Happy Anniversary guys!) Plus, I'm not sure, but I think there might have been a family of Bulgarian refugees sleeping in our box springs. It's hard to fit in there, so it would explain why they needed so much time to get our room ready. 

But, when you're poor like us, what else can you expect?

You Know You're Not Fooling Anyone, Right?

I don't watch Jon and Kate + 8.
She's bossy and mean. He's weak and boring.
Together they produced a hell of a lot of kids.
Snooze.

But, how can you stay away from the media storm the break up of their marriage is creating? It's salacious. It's fame, sex, money and lies. It's awesome.
In an, 'oh those poor children' kind of way, but awesome, nonetheless.

They're trying to convince us they're still together.
Yet, they spent her birthday apart. His trip out to Utah "just happened" to fall on her birthday?
I call bullshit on that one. You don't just happen to make other plans on your wife's birthday. This is a major relationship no-no. You especially don't make other plans to hang out with a girl you got tabloid busted for possibly having an affair.
There is trying to convince us that you're still together for the sake of the show and blah, blah, blah, whatever. Then, there is insulting.

Really, the hard part to believe is that someone would want to have an affair with either one of them. They've got 8 kids. If I were single, I don't think that kids would be a deal breaker. One or two little steps running around seems like it would be manageable. But, eight? That's a whole lot of baggage. I guess you can never really underestimate how low people are willing to sink for a little bit of fame-whore action.

Who's ya daddy?

And in other food related news...

I was watching Dinner: Impossible tonight on the Food Network.

Robert Irvine had to create a gourmet dinner for 200 using only ballpark food by the seventh inning stretch.

One of the dishes he created was brats with American cheese rolled up in a tortilla and fried on the grill.

That sounds DISGUSTING. 

Yuck. Who eats a brat with cheese? 

Double yuck for using American cheese. 

Brats and cheese? That's just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Don't get me wrong, I like cheese. Cheese and I are buddies. We pal around.

But, there are certain things that you don't eat with cheese.

Brats are one of them. 

Fail, Robert Irvine. Go back to the drawing board. 

And FYI, you cannot call anything that uses American cheese "gourmet."

Sorry, but I'm pretty sure it's one of the laws of the universe. See, it's listed right there after gravity.

Amazing Cakes

I like cake-related television.

I TiVO Ace of Cakes on the Food Network. They make some kick-ass cakes.

If Food Network Challenge is on, I'll turn it on because pretty often, it's some sort of insane cake decorating contest. 

So, when my TiVO recorded Amazing Wedding Cakes on WE, I was all "boo-yah!" 

I spoke too soon.

Amazing Wedding Cakes seems to be about two, possibly three, wedding cake shops going about their business. Not all wedding cake shops are built the same apparently. 

Where Duff and crew (Ace of Cakes) are good natured and up for any challenge, these women are a bunch of neurotic, perfectionist, drama queen, whiny bitches. Blech. 

At Cake Girls, the bakery in Chicago, the customer called to change their order about a week before it was due (the husband-to-be made the call without consulting his wife-to-be) and they bitched and moaned and bagged on their customer, more than once, and in essence called them stupid. 

I didn't know it was possible to dislike a show about cakes. 

Suck it, Amazing Wedding Cakes! You ruined the un-ruinable. 

What the hell is wrong with you? You should be ashamed of yourself.

Sunburnt

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

The title of this exhibit is "I am an idiot."

Today, I had my weekly meeting with my semi-new team lead, the Queen of All (QoA). It was a gorgeous day, so we decided to have the meeting outside. I sort of remembered that I hadn't put any sunblock on my arms, but since the meeting was only supposed to be a half-hour I didn't really think anything of it. 

I am an idiot.

It was just the two of us since everyone else is out this week and we ended up chatting for a really long time. About an hour and a half really long time. 

At some point, I knew I was getting burnt, and I still didn't manage to get out of the sun. 

Why? Why would I be so fucking stupid and allow my arms to turn an attractive lobster red?

Because I am incapable of ending a conversation. I have no idea how to get out of a conversation that I want to be over. It's sort of a chronic problem. I have no concept of the graceful exit. 

It fucking sucks. And (I hope!) I've learned my lesson. I don't care if I'm forced to use my fall back plan (the awkward exit) it's not worth getting sunburned. I'm 28 years old and I need to figure out how to end a fucking conversation when I want to, awkward or otherwise. 

It should be noted, it wasn't so much that I wanted to be done talking to the QoA, so much as I wanted our conversation to be in the shade.

Sigh.

I am an idiot.

Ouch. Aloe anybody?

The Power of Cheese

There's no way around it. I'm having a bad week.

I wore my "Power of Cheese" shirt from Cheese Days today. I was hoping it would help power me through.

"The Power of Cheese compels you!"

So far, all it's gotten me is a speeding ticket.

I keep trying to tell myself that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, but then the little voice of evil in the back of my mind keeps cackling and says, "Yeah, that light at the end of the tunnel? Probably a train. Toot, toot! Peanut butter!"

Shut up! Stupid evil voice.

Warning

There have been some people who are getting on my nerves lately.

One of them doesn't read this blog, the other does.

I've had it with the passive aggressive behavior. I don't do passive aggressive. I do plain old aggressive aggressive. So, you might want to think about the outcome you're looking for before you continue to press me.

I've been nice. I've been understanding. 

You don't want to like me. That's fine. Unlike you, I don't need to be liked in order to be okay and at peace with the world. 

But, I've had enough of the passive aggressive nonsense. 

We're not in competition, so knock it off already.

If the cards aren't dealt in your favor in the future, just remember, I warned you. That's the best I've got to offer.

Greek Conference

This morning, I saw that there were quite a few events having to do with some sort of Greek conference there. I thought they meant, Greek, like Greek. You know My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Athens, whatnot.

Silly me.

I came back to the hotel after work to find the place just CRAWLING with frat boys and sorority gals as far as the eye could see. 

Fantastic.

Pink Lemonade

Is pink lemonade really raspberry lemonade?

At work, they have those Crystal Light packets that will turn your bottle of water into lemonade or orange drink or green tea. I usually use the plain old lemonade packet.

I get kind of sick of lemonade though. Unfortunately, my only other options are Classic Orange, Raspberry Ice or Raspberry Lemonade.

It's unfortunate mostly because I hate raspberries. I want to say that I hate them with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, but that would be an exaggeration. So imagine that fiery passion, only slightly less intense and you'll get the picture about how I feel about raspberries.

So, if in fact, pink lemonade is really raspberry lemonade, I'm going to have to re-think my whole stance on pink lemonade. I used to fall solidly into the "pro-pink lemonade" camp.


I had hoped that pink lemonade was really just regular lemonade colored pink. Maybe I was just kidding myself. I feel so disillusioned. It feels like when you are a kid and you realize that "Santa" is actually just Mom and Dad. Just. Like. That.

I Hate Bella Swan

I do. I'm sorry. (Not really.)

She is horrible. She is one of the most annoying characters in literature that I have ever come across. Whiny, little martyr. 

When I originally read Twilight, I thought it was alright but not great. New Moon is just boring, except at the very end. Eclipse is a terrible, terrible book. I hate it. At some point, I want to slap all of the main characters. I've heard a lot of complaints about Breaking Dawn, but for me, even if it's kind of ridiculous, it's the most entertaining of the books. 

I really don't understand why people are so in love with these books. Jacob is a brat and a sexual predator. Edward is too-good-to-be-true and a little bit of a prig. Bella's a dumb twat. 

What's the appeal?

I watched the movie this weekend with Sist-A. It was okay, in that I didn't mind watching it and it was entertaining for what it was. Kristen Stewart is a terrible actress though. I don't think she could emote her way out of a paper bag. Or maybe she just doesn't understand the difference between all the other emotions and being mildly constipated?

This whole series makes me feel old. I just want to shake a cane at "kids today" and fondly reminisce about the "old days" when they knew how to construct a narrative and create likable characters.