just killin' some time at work

American Cities That Best Fit You:

60% Washington, DC 55% Philadelphia 55% San Francisco 50% Boston 50% Chicago

Which American Cities Best Fit You?

well that was fun

First move out of two is finished. As far as moving goes, and moving unnecessarily, it wasn't horrible. Much in the way that having your skin ripped off and rolling around in rock salt isn't horrible. Not pleasant, but I don't think "horrible" is the word I would choose to describe either events.

I wanted to get started around 10, everyone agreed to this.
My phone rang around 9:30.
Everyone wanted to get started now. Right now. Now. Not later. (Much like the candy. If you bite into the the Now or Later you will enjoy it now, not later.)
Fine. I'm not 100% ready, but sure. Come over. (I knew this would happen as I have been part of this family for 33 years. I understand them well.)
I told everyone we would be finished around 12.
We weren't.
The men were getting short-tempered about this.
I told the men to chill-out.
We were finished by 1:00. (I think this is pretty good considering.) Considering I ran out of boxes and we had to improvise by throwing crap into any 'ol thing I could find. (Always fun. Thus I have peroxide in the same box as textbooks, nail polish, and shower hooks.)
Mom and I (notice, no men were involved) finished cleaning by 5:30.
We decided to throw my mattress on top of the hide-a-bed. (Hmm, ever know the name of something, but never put it together until you type it out, or think about it? Yeah, I just did that with the hide-a-bed. It is literally a bed that is hidden. How clever.) So, the bed is comfy, but it is also (literally) waist high. So, I (literally) climb into bed each night.
I have a lifetime stored in 3/4 of a garage. Is that wonderful or sad? And considering how much I threw away, donated, and sold, why do I still have 3/4 of a garage full of my stuff?
But, it's over. One move finished, one more to go. Days until my next big move: 11 and that's just crazy.

hodge podge

Just a quickie update. (Who doesn't love a quickie?)

This weekend is part one of two of "The Big Moves." (Dun-du-dun!)

It is the completion of moving all my crap-ola into my parent's garage and moving back into my old room for two weeks. (As a refresher: the reason I am doing this is because my landlords decided to be poo heads and wanted a full month's rent for the month of August even though there is nothing in the lease agreement that states this. Why didn't I argue with them? No time to argue. I believe in picking my battles and this wasn't one I wanted to fight. I just "found" my copy of the lease agreement yesterday. A.k.a. I had a brain storm and bypassed my landlords who aren't returning my calls and went straight to the rental/management company and they faxed me a copy of my lease.)

Doncha just love a brainstorm?

I am officially down to three jobs.

(Whoo-hoo!)

I finished one proctor gig and the transcription gig and the gig last night. That leaves me with: full-time (not so secret) profession, one proctor gig, one mentoring gig.

With all of the "extra" funds my savings account looks quite nice.

All of those "extra" funds will be gone by mid-October due to bills and a payment needed for Budapest.

Last night I got to play teacher.

No.

I mean, I actually got to be a teacher.

Just for one night, but it was awesome.

It might have been awesome cause it is not something I get to do very often.

Okay, last night was officially the first time.

I was so in my perfect element with this class. We discussed the play "End Game" by Samuel Beckett.

They told me they hadn't read it before class.

Yeah.

You're not getting off that easy. I guess that means we will have to read it out-loud in class then.

We discussed, existentialism, God, the universe, the war, mortality, religion, changing ideals, ect.

I love college students.

A little over a week ago I received a phone call that completely turned my pissy mood around and was exactly what I needed to move ahead.

London called me.

Completely out of nowhere in the middle of my work day London was on my phone. I simply got up from my desk, walked outside and had a wonderful and lovely conversation as if I had just seen him hours before.

I don't believe in anything as hokey as closure. So it isn't that, but it was what I needed. It was a little, "thank you" note for my heart and for my mind.

I don't want to talk anymore about it because I think it loses its simplicity and loveliness by doing so.

The new chapter in my life starts in exactly 14 days.

I have too much going on and too much stress to really be excited about this. Something about working six jobs, taking two classes, and moving twice. That might have something to do with it.

Not sure.

But maybe.

Other than the Yankee and Red Sox games I went to in May I haven't been to a single baseball game this season.

That makes me sad.

I am missing my boys of summer.

Not to mention my beer and hot dog consumption is way down.

The fact that August is going to be here next week? Ho-lee-crap. Where did the summer go?

My family is throwing me a going away party next weekend.

I will be buying water balloons and lots of alcohol will be present.

The stories of, "My Family the Geniuses" with commence shortly thereafter I am sure.

I was told by a student that I have become very sarcastic this summer.

I replied with, "Really? You think I've just become sarcastic?"

Notice how I replied to the comment about being sarcastic with sarcasm. (I thought it was a nice touch.)

I received a "B" in my econ class.

I am very proud of this achievement.

It's a bit below my standards, but I am very pleased with this considering everything I have going on, how burnt out on school I am, and how I've never taken an econ class before.

So. Go, me.

I am only in the middle of the latest Harry Potter book.

Do NOT tell me anything about it.

I can only steal a few minutes here and there to read it.

However, last night I had to make myself put the book down and go to bed.

Oh, I do love it when a book has that kind of power on me.

I feel like I've been on a continuous countdown since December.

Counting down until London left.

Counting down until I was finished with school.

Counting down until I left for Greece.

Counting down until I heard about grad school.

Counting down until the end of the semester.

Counting down until I move this weekend.

Counting down until my last day at work.

Counting down until I move/move.

Counting down until grad school starts.

Then I am sure it will be a countdown until I leave for Budapest.

And then a countdown until I am finished with the first semester in December.

Do you ever feel like you're on a perpetual countdown?

Isn't life just one big countdown?

Does anyone else have the song, "Final Countdown" in their head right now?

If so, I apologize.

Because it is stuck in mine.

And it is a sucky song.

Why is it that only the sucky songs get stuck in our heads?

Or is it that even the good songs become sucky songs after the same lyrics go round and round in your head for hours on end?

inner dork: all things salty

...that are innocent and condiment-like in nature. (but that does pose an interesting question, doesn't it?)


Did you know...

Salt is the only rock humans can eat. (That would mean that someone has actually tried to eat some other type of rock. Yawza! Me, teeth!)

Only 5% of salt produced ends up on the table. The rest is used for packing meat, building roads, feeding livestock (mmm, bloaty moo-cows) tanning leather (mmm, salty-moo-cows.) manufacturing glass, soap, ash, and washing compounds. (mmm, salty clean clothes.)

Salt is one of the few spices that is all taste and no smell.
(I tried to prove this, but I was only successful in inhaling salt up my nose. mmm, melty salt.)

Tabasco sauce is made by fermenting vinegar and hot peppers in a French oak barrels (German barrels are not allowed and could not be reached for comment on how resentful they felt about this snub) that has three inches of salt on top and is aged for three years until all the salt is diffused through the barrel.
(mmm, bloaty, salty, hot sauce.)

Worcestershire sauce is basically anchovy ketchup.
(And it tastes mmm, so good.)
(Do you all say, Worcestershire sauce or do you say, Worcestershireshireiiires sauce?)

I feel all edumacted, but I also feel all bloaty.

SOLD!

I sold a painting! I sold a painting!
(...and repeat to infinity.)

I'll admit, when she told me which of my paintings she liked the most, and essentially wanted a copy of, and then told me the colors she wanted, I was apprehensive.
I'll admit it wasn't until I was in the middle of the painting that I saw the colors complimenting each other.
I don't know how you could look at the painting and not have your mood brighten.
In the midst of moving it was nice to have an art project to work on this weekend.
All of that on top of being paid for my artwork, c'mon, are you kidding me? When I take a moment to enjoy this thing called life, I realize that my life really is a verb.

The memory of summer and youth

* The smell of books, the smell of libraries, the mustiness of all the knowledge that fills the air. The way the bindings creak and crack when you open an older book, like an attic door being opened and letting out all of its hidden treasures and secrets that have been hidden away waiting for someone to come in. I love looking at the dates on the punch cards in the front of the book to see when the last time someone checked that particular book out. When I was in high school I used to read the names on the punch card in the front of the book to see if a boy I had a crush on had checked the book out sometime before me and therefore we shared something in common. I would imagine the boy in his favorite t-shirt and jeans lying on his back in bed reading the book I now held in my hands.

The knowledge that fills a library reminds me of a childhood basement, the combination of dust, mildew, and damp brick walls that haven’t seen any light through the small ground level widows in a long while. The scent can hit you like a memory sometimes, but then while you’re within the confines of the rows upon rows of books the memories disappear and you can actually feel yourself travel back to your youth. Some of my own books have this same effect on me; when I open the cover and hear the binding crack the aroma of memories and youth hits me. I can feel myself travel back to when I was a pre-teen and I see myself sitting on my twin bed with its white chenille bedspread, the coolness of the air conditioner floating through my room, the bright sun and tall oak trees with their long green arms waving and watching me through my bedroom windows while I was reading the long hot summer days away traveling to wherever the black and white words would take me.

That is exactly how I felt this weekend. Saturday I awoke early to head to my local bookstore purveyor to purchase my copy of Harry Potter. I then proceeded to spend my Saturday afternoon on my deck enjoying the lovely weather while working on my tan as I traveled with Harry and his usual troop of friends on their final adventure. I suddenly flashed back to being 12-years-old when all I wanted to do during the summer was either be outside working on my tan or laying on my bed inside within the cozy comfort of the air conditioning. The fact that I knew there were several million actual 12-year-olds doing the same thing I was on Saturday, well that brought a smile to my face. The fact that there was as much hype and anticipation over a book...a book in the day and age where the i-Phone, i-Pod, and whatever other gadget is hot this summer, well, that brought a gigantic smile to my heart and to my memory bank.


* The first two paragraphs are from a short story I am currently suffering a bout of writer's blocked. It is about the summer I was 11 years-old and my love of books and how I whiled away the summer hours.

PG's a dork! PG's a dork!

Ok, I just called myself a whale's penis, but that is not the point.

The differences between geeks, nerds, dorks, and maybe dweebs.

Nerds: These are the brilliant types. The ones who know everything in a book and nothing about the street. Somewhere between being locked in the basement to learn about all things electrical, statistical, and mathematical they forgot how to talk to anyone, specifically the opposite sex.

Geek: These are the nerds who have some social skills, street smarts, and business savvy. They put all of the books smarts to use and are now taking over the world. Ala: Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, et al of the computer and Google world. The geeks really are inheriting the Earth.

Dorks: These are the geeks who are oddly brilliant in whatever field they have so chosen to go into, but also have amazing social skills. They might be a bit quirky in their mannerism (lack of eye contact, or the ability to know useless facts, or the ability to look up words in the dictionary.) There is no desire to start or own their own company. They are perfectly happy in their brilliance and ability to be social with a variety of people and places.

Why I believe I am a dork. (Really you need proof?) I learned that there are exactly 216 noodles in every can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup and that the soup is cooked only once it is sealed in the can. If there is one more or one less noodle it is kicked off the assembly line.....I learned that on the Food Network about 3+ years ago. It has stuck with me. In addition to that I can also:
Name all of the astrological signs- in order.
I break into song spontaneously.
I play Jeopardy!
I love to laugh
and I love shoes.
and Art.
and Jewelry (and make most of mine.)
I can have an asinine conversation about intelligent things and an intelligent conversation about asinine things.
I Google useless information All.the.time.
This week I called two women, broads. This then went into floozy, and hussy and what the differences are. I then realized that "broad" is such an odd thing for a woman to be called and I wondered what the word origin of it was. I then looked up the word "broad" in the dictionary. There are 25 definitions for the word "broad." However, I think I came up with the origins. Either definition 8 or 9 and also the word, broad-wife. (really, after that do I need to go on?)

But, I am also someone who loves baseball and boxing. Enjoys a good drink. Can make any comment go straight into the gutter. And enjoys a conversation with a nerd and a geek because inside, we're all a little dorky.

What's your inner dork?

inner dork: geeks, dorks, and nerds

...Oh my!

K, no useless info today. (I know, sad.) But after yesterday's post got me thinking about the differences between geeks, dorks, and nerds (oh, my!) I then proceeded to look up what Webster's had to say on the subject. (Who's a dork, huh, who?) Which led me into looking up another word, and then another, and then (Yep. I'm that loveable girl you all want to take home with you. Admit it.)

Anyway, so what is your definition of each? Which one are you a self-proclaimed one of? (or something like that.) And who do you think is more loveable, the dork, the nerd, or the geek? I'll post my answer tomorrow.

It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it

Maybe it is all of the poo.

Maybe it is the inner dork in me who finds the jobs fascinating as many of them are things I never would have thought about other wise.

Maybe it is the humor.

Or perhaps the sarcastic wit.

The blatant attempts for a laugh and more camera time.

The voice.

The fact that the crew is picked on relentlessly.

How unabashedly the show is willing to do anything....anything.

However, chances are the real reason is the host, Mike Rowe.

Perhaps he is the reason "Dirty Jobs" has become my new favorite show and why I love a good marathon.

A good marathon of "Dirty Jobs" that is.

wide awake in dreamland

No one likes hearing about another person's dreams. I know this. However, this dream involved some of you, so I thought I would humor you by going inside my head. Also, I rarely remember my dreams once the hot water of the shower hits my face, so apparently these have significance.

Ptg and her husband were in my dream. She was pregnant and he had a very hairy back. His shirt was off, thus the hair was all there for me to see. I don't believe her pregnancy nor his hairy back are related, but one never really knows.

Joefish and Dirty Bunny were also there. They were comforting ptg through her labor pains.

I was apparently useless to help.

There was a stack of cows standing on top of each other eating paint off the side of a house. The house (was) white and was a turn of the century three story, so the cows were stacked very tall as one cow (all brown) was enjoying the lead-free paint from the very tippy-top of the house.

I was on my way to work (my old job from several years ago) when I passed the cows stacked on top of each other eating the paint.

Then suddenly ptg and her hubby, with his shirtless belly and hairy back, showed up and I was in the hospital.

Then Joefish and Dirty Bunny were there.

I thought it was very nice of them to show up to help out.

Then my alarm went off.

Now. I don't actually know ptg or her husband. I don't know if he has a hairy back, but I'm going to assume he doesn't. So I apologize for any harm my subconscious has caused.

I also don't know Joefish or Dirty Bunny either, but they seem like good peeps. I also don't know if they actually know ptg or her hubby, so see they are good peeps because they were willing to help out in a time of need. Good peeps. (better than the marshmallow peeps, I am sure. Although when put in the microwave the marshmallow peeps are fun to watch.)

I also don't believe that cows have the ability to stand on top of each other. I also doubt they would like a diet of lead-free paint, or lead based paint for that matter, but in my dream they seemed to think it was a tasty treat.

No drugs were involved in this dream. Copious amounts of alcohol were involved on Friday and Saturday. I don't remember those dreams at all. Perhaps last night's dream was merely catching up with me.

I will try and incorporate the rest of you into my dreams as soon as I have time.
You're welcome.
Good day.

inner dork: all things useless (I mean, useful)

Yippee-yahoo! It's Inner Dork Thursday. (It really needs to be a national event.) (I will get started on that campaign after this post.)

Did you know...

The slogan on New Hampshire license plates is "Live Free or Die." The license plates are manufactured by prisoners in the state prison in Concord. (Well, that's just mean.)

The abbreviation ORD for Chicago's O'Hare airport comes from the old name Orchard Field. (Now that I know this it makes much more sense.)

The names of the two stone lions in front of the New York Public Library are Patience and Fortitude. They were named by the then-major Fiorello La-Guardia. (Because if you are made of stone and sit in front of a library you need to be patient and have fortitude.) (I really wish I would have made it to see them when I was in NYC.)

The University of Alaska stretches across four time zones. (I need to Google this to see how that is possible.) (What did we do before Google? Oh, yeah. We had to get up an look at books. I wonder how much more instantly intelligent we are because we have it all at our fingertips.) (Okay, that made me laugh. Because people are Googlin' info all over the place. No one is going to porn sites.)

The largest object ever found in the LA sewer system was a motorcycle. (Maybe it just pooped out.)

In 1980, a Las Vegas hospital suspended workers for betting on when patients would die. (Oh c'mon. What's unethical about that?)

A third of Taiwanese funeral processions include a stripper. (Ecstasy, Champagne Showers, and Candy Cane could not be reached for comment.)

Hindu men once believed it to be unlucky to marry a third time. The could avoid misfortune by marrying a tree first. The tree (a.k.a the third wife.) was then burned, freeing the man to marry again. (Do you Bob take thee Maple to be your lawfully wedded wife?)

The glue on Israeli postage stamps is certified kosher. (Because it came from a kosher horse named Ed, of course.)

The radioactive substance Americanium-241 is used in many smoke detectors. (Well, that seems safe.) (And more than slightly counterproductive.)

The bark of a redwood tree is fireproof. Fires that occur in a redwood forest take place inside the trees. (And I'm gonna guess the leaves are not "poof-proof." Just a guess.)

Now, go apply for a chance to be on Jeopardy!

self-doubt

Last week and continuing into this week has been the natural feeling of, what the holy crap am I doing and it is the right decision and am I screwing up my life in major and irreversible ways?
Or something like that.
The natural progression of emotions when a major life change is in the works (or eight major life changes, but whose counting and keeping track?) (well, I am.) One thing that is adding to and not helping the moving on of this natural feeling is that my current place of employment is not making it easy on me. Not making it easy because no one...no one...(no, really, not one single solitary person) wants me to leave. I hear (numerous) (numerous) times a day, "I'm happy for you, but I don't want you to leave." Sometimes it is a simple, "Please, don't leave." Sometimes it actually goes into a full sentence of, "I never thought you would leave and I think when it comes right down to it, you're ultimately not going to leave." and numerous variations thereof.
It's nice to be loved.
I LOVE it here.
I wanted to stay.
My boss wants (really, really, really, really, really, really, really) wants me to stay.
My co-workers, and those who I just generally bs with throughout the day, all want me to stay.
My co-boss (really, really, really, really, really, really) wants me to stay and ultimately she and I had a meeting with my boss-boss to try and convince her to get me to stay. But, (there is always a but) it's not up to my boss-boss, it is a much bigger machine (called state funding) than all of us. The place where I work is not creating any new jobs for the next two years. Mine would have been considered a new job (as it was re-worked and recreated to meet all of my needs, wants, and desires.)
So.
Not much choice.
I want to continue to do what I am, but for more money and in a greater capacity, but it's not going to happen. And I can't continue to be this poor and work five jobs. (no, really. I can't.)
So.
Off to grad school.
But, with all of the "Don't leaves" combined with no words of congratulations from the family, combined with the cycle of my own self-doubt, yeah. I'm questioning my decision.

On a completely unrelated front, after my econ test that I was sure I bombed (I actually didn't. I've already gotten the grade back. I truly most be learning through osmosis.) I decided I need beer. (Because beer makes everything better.)(And don't forget, smarter.)
I hit one bar and I had one beer.
Hit the second bar (and boy did my head hurt!) and had more than one beer. I think I had four...or five, I can't remember exactly. But however many it was, I paid for all of them.
Yep.
Not a single beverage was paid for by someone else. Now I did have conversation. I did have flirtation. I did have a proposition. But, not a dime, a dollar, a nickle was laid down on the bar for my beverage enjoyment.
I'm having doubts about my mo-jo.
Doubts about one's mo-jo is worse than doubts about ones future. Or is it that my future is in doubt over my mo-jo? I dunno. Either way I came home $20.00 shorter than when I left my house. And well, this girl is short enough.

Summer jobs

This morning on the "Today Show" there was a quick story about kids forgoing the summer job. The teens are deciding instead to attend summer school so that they can have an edge with college admissions and in college itself when the time comes.

At the end of the story they cut to Ann and Matt at the news desk and they ask each other what their summer jobs were when they were teens. Ann was a camp counselor and Matt mowed lawns and picked up trash.

Cut to me in my bedroom getting dressed while listening to the TV in living room and the tit for tat between them.

Yeah. I didn't have a summer job. I just had a job.
Apparently I grew-up in a different tax bracket than Ann and Matt.
First job, not counting babysitting, was at 15 working retail. If you count babysitting then my first job was when I was nine.

How about you? What was your first job or what was your summer job? (If you were so lucky to grow-up in that tax bracket.)

A quick shot of randomness

1) I spent Saturday morning and late into the afternoon packing, moving, throwing away and donating all things mine, in the first stint of: moving away to Medium Sized State U. (And all on four and half hours of sleep. I went to bed at 4:43 (Hmm, most curious) in the a.m. and waking up to the phone ringing (with Mama saying, "You're not up yet?" At the early morning time of 9:18.) A quick brushing of the teeth and a good scrubbing of the face I was ready (well, as ready as I could be) to do the first major over-haul of throwing away and donating under way.
On the way to get a concrete shake from Culver's, I stated I had a tension headache. to which Mama asked (in all seriousness) "why do I have a tension headache?" To which I replied with, "Really?"
I mean, really?

2) When I was asked the other day how old I am I, for the life of me, couldn't remember. (Too much sex?) (Too much alcohol?) (Are those oxymorons?) I went back and forth with it. (Like a sad lonely tennis match) I am 33. No. I can't be 33. I must be 32. No. That's not right. I know I'm not 31. After going back and forth thinking out loud to the person who asked the stupefying question in the first place and who clearly had no idea seeing as how they are the one who asked me. (Baffled, party of one.) I (secretly) had to look on my blogger profile to find out the correct answer (33.) Is that sad or wonderful that I am that clueless as to the number of my age rings?
Is it sad or pathetic that blogger was the light that shined on me for this answer that I should already know?

3) Tonight (about 6 minutes ago actually) (you know, to be exact.) I finished job number two: (not, taking a number two. Job, number two.) (That's even too detailed for me.) (Why is it called "number two?") (Hmm, I'll work on that for Thursday.) (But I digress.) transcribing for the PhD candidate. The job officially became tedious within minutes of the first typing. It became clear I accepted the wrong dollar amount for the job immediately somewhere around page 2 of the first tape. (That was about 50+ interviews and tapes ago.)
The job was only supposed to last until the beginning of May. Yeah. Clearly that didn't happen.(As it is July.) (You're welcome.) That's officially a lot of tedium and seriously a lot of screwing oneself on pay. (Bad, whore. Bad.) (Whore because you are either the pimp or the whore. Most of us are the whore. Just to clarify.) But. It's over. And even though I offered a low price, (my own damn fault and not whore-worthy.) (damn me and my desperateness!) the (extra) (Ha! I laugh at the "extra" part) money has helped out a lot over the past couple months. (So that makes it all okay.)

4) I am now officially down to four jobs: (Not so secret) full-time job, the two proctoring gigs, and the mentoring of my student gig. This makes my stress level happy, but not my checking and (ha!) savings account. (oh, I kill me.)

5) My fingers are numb (not from anything fun or battery operated) so I am calling it a day.

6) This means I am going home to pack, clean, throw-away more things, and study for my econ test.

7) I am! I am the luckiest girl alive!

8) Ramble, over.

fall, go boom!

In the continuing episode of, "My Family the Geniuses" I forgot to mention this part in my post about last Saturday's drunken celebration of our nation's Independence from those damn Brits. (Whoo-hoo. London. Suck-ass.)

Anyway. As I was saying.

So my parents have a big house that sits on a corner lot and has a very large yard. Across the street sits some industrial businesses, i.e. businesses with vacant parking lots on a Saturday afternoon. i.e. perfect location to shoot things that explode. So in our infinite wisdom we use the opportunity (every year) to use the vacant lots to explode things (that go, boom and we say, pretty.) My brothers talk on walkie talkies to insure the coast is clear as one stands in the yard and the other runs across the street, hide behind the building, and then lights the exploding stick of firework excitement while my sister-in-law and I sing the song to "Mission Impossible." (Oh. Admit it. You want to be invited next year.)
This year there was only one misfire. (Aside from the tree episode. The neighbors coming over to join in the festivites. Oh. And the family fight with the (stupid) step-siblings.) (Other than that, only one misfire.) It occurred when I heard my younger brother (across the street lighting the stick of flammable flames) say, "Oh, shit" into the walkie talkie and then we see the flaming stick of sparkly flame shoot sideways across the parking lot instead of up in the air and over the building to show the beauty of the flames. When I say, "sideways" I mean it (the flamming stick of sparkles) was aiming straight for things flammable as, (in case you weren't paying attention,) I said, "industrial buildings" when I mentioned the businesses across the street. As in, sparkles of flames hit them and they would go boom! and we wouldn't be alive to say, "pretty."

Oh yeah. Our combined IQ when the family is all together drinking is low. Like, where's the bib to wipe the drool, low. But we sure have a damn good time and (for the most part) no one gets hurt and no one has ever lost an eye and that's sayin' something. (I'm sure it's saying something I'm just not sure what exactly, but it's sayin' somethin'.)

As for the actual fourth. Well, it was a Wednesday. Not much a person can do when I, along with everyone else, has to work before and after and I have to move in a few weeks. So. I worked on my tan, read "1984" and "Sex, Drugs, and Coco-Puffs," (good combo of reading material) packed, watched a marathon of "Monk," ordered a pizza, drank beer, watched the various fireworks from my balcony. It was actually quiet lovely. Boring. Perhaps. But relaxing.

How about you?

Oh. Sorry about the no, dorking. I'll catch you next week. Promise.

Master plans

Master plans are funny in that I like to pretend that I actually have control over my life and that I am actually indeed, master of my own life plans and stress. Yeah. Hee-larious. So, a quick update.

I was going to go up to my new place around August 1st to drop off applications for jobs and such.

My last day of work was going to be August 8th. (Work is very, very sad to see me go and several people won't even talk about my move or me leaving. Ah, feel the love.)

I was planning to move out of my current place the weekend of August 10th.

Grad school starts August 20th. Thus giving me about two weeks to settle myself and find employment, de-stress, become acquainted with the new surroundings and of being far from home.

Oh, wise readers you see where this update is headed? That's right. I made a Master Plan and the gods laughed and called me foolish.

My current landlords called and left me a message last Tuesday, the 26th, asking if they could show my apartment to a property manager because, and I quote, "my place is always so cute, clean, nice, and tidy..." after a quick scan of my apartment there wasn't anything cute, clean, nice or tidy about my apartment as I hadn't really been home and I had already started to pack and throw things out. My apartment was more in the, "hurl, throw, toss, disheveled" state. I call and leave a message as such and also give my notice stating I will be out no later than August 12. That would be six weeks of vacate notice. I didn't hear anything so I thought I was golden.

Oh, dear wise readers do you see the foreshadowing?

Yep. With my rent envelope that was in my door on Friday (that would be three days after my message) there was a note that read...and I quote: "FYI, you can only give notice on the first of the month. If you can give notice on July 1st and then you have until July 31st to vacate. If you give notice on August 1st you have until August 31st to vacate. There is no rent refund unless your apartment is rented during that time."

...and let the fuming begin. I received her note after 7p.m. on Friday. A.k.a. past any time when I could do anything about the vacate date. I fumed all day Friday. I let it go on Saturday. (See previous post.) Let it go for part of the day on Sunday (see previous post and add in a hang-over.) started to re-fume about it Sunday night and most of yesterday. When I say "fume" I mean, stress. What the crap-oroni am I supposed to do? I can't move to my new place, I can't leave work early, I am NOT paying $1200 in rent for the month of August (rent for both places.) And yes, I know. Just look at my lease agreement, right? Excellent point. Here's why I can't. About two weeks ago, in my little pro-active state, I went through all of my important papers and threw them all out. I put them in a (HUGE) paper sack to burn. I still have the (HUGE) paper sack, but what was an organized mess is now just a (HUGE) mess and I haven't been able to go through the sack of papers and the clock is ticking for me to give my notice.

Finally around 2:00 yesterday I called The Mom.
I will move home for two weeks and then move to the new place. Yep. Lucky me. I get to move twice. Twice within two weeks to be exact. My five weeks has magically turned into three and everything that I was doing at a leisurely pace has gone into warp speed and my plan for a stress-less transition, yeah. The gods are laughing. I am now moving out on the 28th and again on the 11th.
My plan to drop off job applications around the 1st to beat the rush of other applicants has been 86'd as I will now be moving. (Who needs a job? Green backs? Bah! I laugh at your paper money!)

Oh, just for shits and giggles, there is a super-major tiff going on with my step-siblings and my mom and step-dad. (See previous post where step-siblings leave in a huff and I am glad about it.) Basically something that should have been dealt with 10+ years ago with a band-aid is now in hemorrhage mode and imploding all over the place. Yah! I get to move home and be in the middle of it for two weeks during one of the most stressful times of my life...yah!

Why is my life stressful? I am currently: Working four jobs. Yes, four. (technically I have five, but one is currently on hiatus.) Taking two classes, and trying to move. Trying to move to a new apartment, new city, new school, away from the family and trying to sell, pack, and throw-out as much as I possibly can.

Ouch. My chest just clinched. I think I need to throw another rocket into a tree and drink more beer and say, "Pretty" when things explode. I.E. tomorrow.

beer makes you smarter

...and here's proof.

This past weekend we had a family BBQ. Brothers, sister-in-laws, niece and nephew, parents. Lots o' food, lots o' booze, lots o' things to explode when the sun went to bed; basically it was a typical get-together. Something happened with my step-sister (idiot) and my mom (wonderful) so she (idiot) and step-brother (okay) left with his wife (super-duper idiot) before the night really got going. (I was fine with this. When idiot and super-duper idiot aren't there, the night it usually more enjoyable.) Anyway. So we (brothers, sister-in-law (cool) and niece (teenager) and nephew (looks like Mac from the cartoon "Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends") along with myself are shooting off water balloons, water rockets, and all things that go- Boom! and are followed by-"Pretty."

The water rocket lodged itself in a tree (as it does every year.) So we did what any family would do (who has been drinking) we proceed to throw things at the rocket (in the tree) to try and dislodge it. (What could go wrong?) We start by throwing water balloons. When I say "throwing" I mean we are professional water balloon launchers so we are using a water balloon launching slingshot (of course) to aid in our aim and projectile force at the rocket (we.are.geniuses.) This goes on for several hours. (No, really. Several hours) all the while the cars going down the street are slowing down to see why two teenagers (niece and her friend) one child (Mac) and four adults (two brothers,(one older, one younger) sister-in-law, (the cool one) and myself) (awesomeness) are staring up at a tree and throwing things at it. So to aid in our amusement- whoever isn't throwing an object at the top of the (extremely tall tree)(because we all took turns to aid in the hilarity) (I throw like a girl) stands and stares straight-up and points (ala it's a bird, it's a plane, it's Superman) this slows the motorists even more, they point, and we laugh hysterically at our wit and charm.

So, we spend about three hours amusing ourselves (we're simple folk. And just in case it hasn't been assumed by now, we had beer in our hands and we had been drinking for awhile.) I felt my IQ drop significantly throughout the day and I was taking bets on how long it would take before the football became lodged in the tree along with the rocket. (About an hour.)

Crap! Now what can we throw?

Why, a plastic bucket of course! The one that had all of the (now gone) water balloons in it. (Your IQ may be low if...) Yep. That lasted until the handle wouldn't stay on the bucket any longer and we now had an audience of neighbor kids sitting in their yards staring at the adults (they, and we, we're amused by this.) Once the bucket broke we were about to end the night when I suggested we break out the potato gun. (It's just what it sounds like. Tubing that launches potatoes.) It was pointed out that the potato would cause a hole in the rocket. (Excellent observation.) Cow pies? (No cows. No pies.) Hmmm. I notice the neighbor has landscaping rocks in her yard. I also noticed that the neighbors front blinds are now open, when three hours ago they were closed. (Foiled!) I know! I'll see if mom has any vegetables I can throw.

She does!
I gather a sack of onions, potatoes, and limes (oh my!) and we proceed to throw these at the rocket. We had a few cars stop. We even had a few that did a U-turn to see what we were up to. We did not have any cars that offered to help us. (Shocking!) When night fell and we still hadn't managed to dislodge the rocket (or the football) (Stuck on the same branch, by the way) we called it a night. Well, then we decided to change our course and we started to blow things up. The night lasted well past two a.m. and there is a lot more to the story, however, it's about other IQ's that were lowered so that's for another day.

When I went over to my 'rents house on Sunday mom pointed out that the carnage of onions, potatoes, and limes (oh my!) that were left in the yard really didn't smell so good. (something about heat and humidity, I'm sure) but the rocket fell out of the tree.(all by itself!) The football has not. Eh, it just leaves us something to amuse ourselves with at the next family gathering.