Chasing Happy

This person does not think I am going to update my blog today, and that is basically the only reason why I am.

All the other things I was supposed to do tonight, such as buy one scrap of food to feed my tiny family were pushed aside by the surprising arrival of my friend who is visiting from San Francisco, but since I just don’t want to hear it, here I am.

Now, allegedly, Shannon and I are assigning each other daily blog topics. My assigned topic for today was “People Who Use A Cell Phone On the Beach.” Shannon’s was, “Dressing Your Children in Matching Outfits.” I am confident she won’t do it.  Since I would never let down my imaginary readers, though, I showed up.

Now, without further ado: “People Who Use A Cell Phone On the Beach”

As soon as Shannon and I plopped our stuff down on the beach yesterday, we immediately turned to each other with identical, “of course this is happening to us,” looks on our faces. I have an innate ability to seat myself next to the people that I least want to sit next to in any situation. Once, at jury duty, where you cannot switch your seat once you choose it, I somehow managed to get myself lassoed to the craziest racist of a wackadoo that I have ever come across who spent the whole day explaining to me that she just thought “they” should all be allowed to kill each other and she would not even give on god damn, thank you so very much for even freaking asking her, thank you.

I don’t know why I was even surprised then, when yesterday we plopped ourselves, and two of the nosiest nieces I’ve got, down right in front of the  one lady on the beach who was recovering from an exceedingly disappointing iced-tea-and-funnel-cake experience. It involved a very poorly advertised NOT FRESHLY BREWED tea that may or may not have been prepared by someone with dirty hands, and a pre-prepared funnel cake that she apparently did not get to watch being prepared. Although why she is sad about that sort of escapes me since watching a funnel cake being made is similar to watching your intestines get fried…or so I hear.

The problem yesterday though, was not that we were in front of that lady. I love listening to those people. The problem there was that Niece 1 and Niece 4 are not exactly subtle in their attempts to eavesdrop, as evidenced by N1’s constant refrain of, “WHAT DID YOU SAY!!!???” So, this put a damper on my attempts to eavesdrop, since with my constant good example setting, I kept having to tell them to turn around, stop staring, mind their own business, etc., etc., to the point where I think I missed most of the good stuff.

I was never so sad as when that lady packed up her chair and left, though, because all that left me with was the family in front of us that was so irritating that I wanted to shove pencils in each of their ears.

So, this entry sucks, but I’m exhausted and I’ll rewrite it tomorrow or something, but I just wanted to say one thing to my sister and that is: HA! I did it!

I did. There is currently a 6-inch, ugly, probably scarring, definitely painful, gash along my rear.

I totally was not going to tell this story but if I’m going to mock my husband so openly as I did here, then I can’t really leave something like this unwritten. Plus, the reason I like so many of the blogs that I do is that the writers are willing to tell some crazy embarrassing stories about themselves and it’s just unfair of me not to do the same, yes?

So.  Ladies, hear me now. Once you are done shaving your legs, PUT YOUR RAZOR DOWN. I understand that you might all of a sudden realize that your water is half a degree cooler than you might like, but please believe me: It can wait.

Because, if you, like me, were to make a sudden turn toward the spigot with a rusty Soleil  in your hand, at that moment you, like me, would be, well, bleeding.

Except.

You wouldn’t be sure if you were bleeding because you would automatically have the following conversation with yourself:

You: “Oh my god, did I just cut my butt?”

You (in response): “Ummm…well, that is definitely an unusual sting.”

You: “For real? Did this just happen?”

You (in response): “I don’t know how to say this, really. But yes, you just cut your butt. And I think maybe you cut it a lot.”

You: “Crap.”

You (in response): “For real.”

You: “This is a pickle.”

You (in response): “Yes, it is very much a stinger of pickle.”

You: “I should probably get out of here.”

You (in response): “Don’t forget to wash out the conditioner.”

You: “Good call.”

You (in response): “I know, right?”

You: “Wow, this is really, um, wow, this is really hurting, huh?”

You (in response): “Well, it doesn’t feel fantastic and now we are laughing hysterically alone in the shower yet we want to cry because this? Does not feel good.”

You: “Word.”

You (in response): “So, should we get out?”

You: “I’m not sure, I still can’t believe we did this.”

You (in response): “We totally did this. We are 100% bleeding, we are 100% in need of band aids…like now, because we are still crying a little.”

You: “Right. Out we go. Let’s check the damage.”

You (in response upon checking the damage): “Wow, we are dumb. And also? We are in pain. And also? We have soaked 3 separate tissues with blood.”

You: “Word. And also, we don’t have enough band aids to cover this cut even though this box of band aids is brand new.”

You (in response upon applying two tourniquet sized band aids to your rear): “I can’t believe this just happened. And I can’t believe we are still bleeding. And I can’t believe we have to go tell D’oh.”

You: “Well, we never should have told that Penny-lope story.”

You (in response): “Word.”

And then at work, you would creep everyone out, not because you told them this story of course, but because every time someone asks you for help you respond with:

“LET ME SHOW YOU WHERE THAT IS. NO REALLY. NO REALLY, I DON’T WANT TO SIT DOWN. I WANT TO STAND…FOREVER. I DO NOT WANT TO SIT AT MY DESK. I WANT TO FOLLOW YOU TO THE SHELF YOU WANT. NO REALLY, I DO. PLEASE LADY, LET ME JUST FOLLOW YOU JUST THIS ONCE, PLEEEEEEEASSSSEEEEEEEE!!”

And then you’d get fired.

So, in conclusion: Put. Down. The Razor.

I’m so bored that the very thought of even uploading pictures of my giant puppy is exhausting. So wait. Am I tired?

No. Definitely bored. I take vitamins now, so I don’t get tired until 9:15, instead of 9:00.

In any case, here is one piece of information I have learned in the last 24 hours.

Haley Joel Osment? He can’t act. If you need proof of that, watch ten minutes of this. I can tell you for sure that it’s awful because halfway through, D’oh said, “Is that Haley Joel Osment?”

“Yes.”

“Is it me, or is he like really awkward in this?”

You know D’oh knows from good acting because his favorite movie is the one where Matthew Perry dyes his hair red and pretends to be gay so he can steal Neve Campbell from Dylan McDermott. Which, you kind of have to think, once he got her he was probably like, “You know what? My bad. You two work it out. She is, on further reflection, super-boring and kind of bitchy so why don’t you two work it out because you don’t deserve any better, Dylan, because your wife was super-beautiful and seemed really nice and you never have and why was every single person on The Practice so annoying anyway?”

Seriously though, Secondhand Lions is packed with all these people who can actually act and you know they just gave that Osment kid the job because he whispered well in that other movie, and you can just see the disappointment on Michael Caine’s face whenever he is stuck in a scene with him and the whole thing was a sad, befuddling kerfluffle of a mess and I do not recommend it in the least.

I do however, recommend that you read this because it is delightful and happy and kind of makes you wonder if you too can heal a bee sting with the inner membrane of an eggshell.

I suspect you are bored now too and so my work is done. Sleep well. You’re welcome.

I was waiting for you to say something. If you’re going to be that way, though, I’m just going to go ahead and be the bigger person and say something first.

When last we met, flu was ravaging my body and the search was on for my mom to come care for me. When contacted, my mom responded with, “Eh. I’m good.”

Just kidding of course, she ignored the whole thing and we had our first face to face contact just the other week after not having seen each other since New Year’s. I’ll just have to come to terms with the fact that she likes Shannon’s blog better and move on with my life. Which is totally not a surprise. Everybody likes her everything better than anybody’s. Except maybe her current geographic location because that kind of well, you know, blows. (Although, really, what is up with that, Mom? I even stopped cussing.)

Anyway, the big news here is Pocket. What is Pocket you might ask? Well, you should probably know that. Don’t you wear pants? Actually, if you don’t, if you wear a kilt as does the man who unexpectedly approached the information desk the other day (Not, as you might think, St. Patrick’s Day) than cool. If you don’t wear pants because you’re a scary naked old man, then please move along. We won’t gel.

Pocket is my new puppy. She is so adorable that every day I have to physically restrain myself from taking a big old chomp out of her ears. And she is very good and smart and usually quiet and did I mention delicious? The only picture I have of her to post is of the day we brought her home, so take a look, but in your mind add about ten pounds of cute and you will maybe be within eleventy hundred zip codes of how cute she is today.

Unfortunately, yesterday she went and got her leg hurt while at my in-laws, where she spends her day so I spent my entire evening obsessing over her and my master plan of returning here yesterday was completely thrown off. So here I am, back on a Tuesday. That is remarkably uninteresting. So, you know, let’s pick this back up tomorrow, ‘kay?

I have never had the flu before and I have to say, I have always scoffed at people who were so afraid of getting it. In my head, flu shot getters were a bunch of pansies who couldn’t handle a little sniffle.

So, um, sorry about that, you guys.

I have gotten the flu for the first time, less than two weeks into a new job that I really like. From which I have had to take 3 yes THREE days off. So the first paycheck will not be that exciting.

And the flu has completely, 100%, Kicked. My. Butt.

I haven’t felt like this since I had mono ten years ago. I want to die, can’t talk, and I’m alone all the time because my stinking husband keeps having to go to “work” so he can “earn money” or some nonsense like that.

So, if you see my mom, please FedEx her to me posthaste. I’m feeling very blue.

In the dressing room at Kohl’s:

Person on the phone in next dressing room: “Yeah, Carol (not my sister) called and said all the kids have lice…Yeah, all of them…Yeah, no, I didn’t check my kids…Yeah, no, they were there all day with them but I didn’t check them…No, yeah, but I told her, like, Chelsea is not like a “roll in the dirt” kind of kid…No, yeah, but I didn’t check them…Yeah, no, but she’s not in the dirt…Yeah, but no, I didn’t check her….No, but yeah, I guess I should like, do something or something…Yeah, but no, yeah…so, I’ll see you at tanning.”

13-year old girl with  sister of indeterminate older age shopping with her mother (I accidentally wrote “my mother,” which, if you knew her, you would realize why that is hilarious): “I wanna get a tattoo on my butt. That’s like the only thing I’ll let near my butt…well, with a needle.”

Today in Petsmart while wrangling a ginormous cart full of pricey/big things:

Nice, normal lady: Are you buying more than $50? Do you want my coupon? It’s for $15 of $50 or more, and it turns out I don’t need it and you look like you do.

Lesson: Fewer clothes + more puppy products=less likelihood of puking in public.

Two different times, at my old job, I called in sick. Then, the following day, I went into work only to receive my own voicemail about calling out. No one had noticed that I hadn’t showed up. That it is an indication of just how appreciated I was there.

Cut to last week, when I spoke to my new supervisor twice and she couldn’t tell me enough how they were looking forward to having me, that they were so happy I was coming, etc., etc.

So, that’s different.

The new job is good and fun and very exhausting, largely because I had nothing to do where I was, and now it looks like I will have lots. I get home by the time I would leave work at my old job and I have a late night again, which means that I have one morning a week to myself. And look how well that is working out for you all! I do have to work more Saturdays, but that means more Fridays off, which will mean more time with our new arrival, who will arrive in about a week. (More on that later)

***

This has nothing to do with anything, but in the car the other day, I heard John Mayer’s new song. And, let me say, I have never gotten his appeal. I don’t think his music is that interesting or innovative or smart or romantic or whatever it is supposed to be. That show he had on for a little bit was funny, but I think he’s read a little too much of his own press and has sort of an inflated idea of how awesome and smart he is (or isn’t.) That being said, I probably am not the target audience for his new song, “Say what you need to say.”

The lyrics go something like this, “Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say.  Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say. Say what you need to say.”

One. Sentence.

How is this ok? Everyone else has to come up with new sentences almost every time they open their mouths, so I don’t think it’s ok that he gets a frillion dollars (does anyone else accidentally type dollares every time they type that word?) for bleating out the same one over and over. And it’s not even a good one, “Say what you need to say.” Wow. That’s deep. Nice work, John. It’ll probably make you enough money to keep your giant mouth slathered in ChapStick throughout the winter, so that’s something.

On rereading this, I feel like I’ve been a little mean to Mr. Mayer, so I will add that I thought it was very nice of him to stick up for Jessica Simpson when those Cowboys fans were being big fat jerks. So, you know, good one, John. Because I’m sure you are very worried about my opinion.

Our conversation about puppy names today:

Me: I like Pippa.

D’oh: I’m not feeling it.

Me: How about Panda?

D’oh: Maybe

Me: How about Pocket?

D’oh: That’s cute. How about Penny?

Me: No. No Pennys. My mom’s crazy college roommate who included the sentence, “Street preaching…awesome!!!!” in a recent Christmas card is named Penny.

D’oh: How about Penny-lope.

Me: (…)

D’oh: Penny-lope, yeah!

Me: Penny-lope?

D’oh: Yeah, Penny-lope, you know, what Penny is short for?

Me: You mean Penelope?

D’oh: (…)

Me: (never was heard from again after dying of laughter shortly thereafter.)

So, I thought I would have all these feelings. I thought I would go into this whole tirade against my old job (that I hated), my old manager (who never one time lumbered upstairs to see one thing I did ever in the three years we worked together yet has referred to herself as my MENTOR???????????????? recently. I wanted to, but did not, laugh in her face although my eyeballs did roll right out of my dome and it took a long time for me to find them), my old janitor who smacked people (not me) around with trash cans and had exactly zero things happen to him as a result, my old trash filled nasty piece of crap building.

I really thought I would at least cry one time since I really do love the kids I am leaving and I really Really REALLY do not love my replacement or the way she talks to/about them.

I also thought I was going to title this post, “I Quit This B!@#$” because a) that was awesome and b) I had a very similar amount of rage bubbling out of me by the time I got out of that place as that woman did.

But.

The tears never came. I haven’t really given my old job a thought since I left on Friday. Although, now that I do think about it, Friday was awful. My replacement spent the entire day being so ridiculously passive aggressive and snippy that I left early so that I would NOT punch her as many times as I REALLY wanted to. I can’t count how many times she mentioned how the kids “were going to have to learn what the library is for,” or “were going to be sick” from all the candy (2 pcs.) I was giving them as a going away token while rearranging everything I had spent the last three years arranging.

Let’s go back to not thinking about it, ok?

I have given very few things a thought, actually, except for Making the Band 4 (which I cannot stop watching…even though there is only one episode…but it is on constantly and I probably will be able to quote it verbatim by the end of tomorrow) and my dog search, which is turning out to be remarkably frustrating. Isn’t there a pet population problem? Why can’t I find a dog?

The thing is, I was just so completely done with it (the job, if I’ve lost you, I realize I’m a little ramble-y). I was done with the dirt, the pettiness, the dirt, the dirt, the dirt, and also the shakey shakey from working next to a months-long demolition project.

So. I’m not going to write a tirade. Well, I’m not currently planning on writing another one, at least.

I just managed to drop a quarter down the lint trap of my dryer. Do you think my house will explode? I certainly hope not but the initial noise was Not. Encouraging.

Moving on.

Recently I have noticed my continuous and alarmingly regular use of the word, “Dang.” Which I sort of assumed I picked up from the kids at work and so I undertook a day of observation to see who besides me was saying it so that I could blame those innocent children people and proceed to mock them for talking like such hillbillies while I immediately ceased all use of the word. Except. Uh. Nobody says it. Except me. Who is still saying it. Like today. About five minutes ago when I dropped the quarter in the dryer.

What I realized is that the kids at work are actually saying, “Damn,” which is not a ringing endorsement of either my hearing or my disciplinary skills. D’oh doesn’t say it. No one in my family says it and none of my friends say it. Where did it come from? At least I haven’t started in with the, “Dang it,” or the, “Daaaaaaannnnggg,” but still, I’m concerned.

I had initially thought that I had subconsciously started it to be funny, but then I realized that I don’t actually think it’s that funny, like, at all. Also, I would ordinarily never leave myself so open to ridicule by my family as to use such a dang (dang it!!) odd word so regularly. In fact, the one time I mentioned this condition to Shannon, she remarked that she had noticed it. Which leads me to believe that it is only a matter of time before the full-on mockery sets in. And that cannot be.

I have no real idea how to stop it, though. One small blessing is that usually I am alone when I say it. But then that opens the whole troubling discussion as to why I am talking to myself…like a hillbilly. I think an open dialogue with a nutty brain such as my own is a good thing for me, if for no other reason than to make sure that all of the other voices up there keep it down. But, if I am going to be this sort of influence on myself, complete silence may be the way to go. (I was going to write “radio silence” there, but I realized that I’m not really sure what that means, and I didn’t want to look stupid. But then I told you anyway. So. I don’t know. I’m chasing a hamster on the wheel in my head and I think it’s time to end this paragraph.)

Other things I have said lately include increasingly regular use of the word, “wackadoo,” which I love, and on Saturday I said, “fleepy floopy.”* That last one came from my efforts to try to sound a little less sailor-y. I’m trying to drop F***, but I’m done with “frickin” and “friggin” and “effing” so I have kept the “F” sound and put a bunch of nonsensical letters after it and I have to say, that phrase is pretty fun to say, so if you, like me, are looking to reduce the salty talk in your life, feel free to give it a shot.

It is my gift to you. And probably a better one than this crappy entry anyway.

*Yes. I did. To a person. Out loud. I swear.