I'm Alive!

Alright, I'm sure I am now down to two readers, but that's what I get for being MIA for a month, right? Oh well. I was thinking about making this blog public again, anyway.

Let me try and summarize the last month:

My new job, like all jobs, has its good things and its bad things. I like my boss and the girl who works for me a LOT. They rock, actually. A lot of my coworkers are cool, too. Like everywhere, though, I have to deal with a couple of douchebags, like this one lazy guy who balks at helping anyone else out and Miss Passive Aggressive, who loves to come down to my office and imply that I am incompetent and/or inflexible with the schedule (this is because I will not make everyone else work around her schedule). Of course, she does this under the guise of being "concerned". Argh. If there is one type of person I don't get along with, it's passive aggressive types. That kind of behavior irks the crap out of me.

My department, which was at 75% capacity, has recently been reduced to 50% capacity with the resignation of this one girl who worked for me. I tell you what, though, she was good riddance. She did nothing but create more work for me an the other girl in my department. But her leaving means she and I have to do a LOT more work, so I will be slammed at work until further notice: working extra nights, extra Sundays, teaching extra classes....oh well. Hopefully we will find a replacement soon.

But that's all well and good. Normal stuff that is to be expected. What is really bizarre is how uber-controlling this school is. Maybe it's because I am used to working in the public sector, but I feel like I am a member of the Savannah Mafia or something. Actually, it's more like a Nazi regime. My first realization came when I had to deal with the Communications Dept. Now, I understand that the school wants to have an "image" and I completely grasp and support the notion of "branding". But to tell me that I cannot print out a flyer that would -- gasp! -- help students find something in the library because that's not the "look" they want in the library is pretty ridiculous. Last time I checked, it's pretty difficult to operate a library without any frigging signs or information for its users.

Now, this goes for everything. Signs, handouts, flyers, bookmarks we make -- everything has to get "approval" from about 3 people. Then it has to be designed by someone else (who has no idea how I need it to look in order for it to work). This process takes three weeks. If I'm lucky.

This is the same department who printed up my business cards and told me I had to pick them up at their office. The stupid part is that they are open the same times I am at work. So that meant I had to go pick them up on my lunch break. Fine. Whatever. Screw interoffice mail, right? So I spend half my lunch break walking over there, only to be informed that they have sent the cards to the library already, via interoffice mail. "Well, don't you think that as the Communications Department, you should have communicated that to me before I spent my lunch break walking all the way over here?" I said. The girl just stared back at me and blinked. I turned and walked out.

The IT department is just as bad. I am not allowed to download so much as a plugin on my computer without -- again -- getting approval and submitting forms. Heck, I can't even pick my own desktop background or screensaver. I have to use theirs. If I want Microsoft 2007 installed on my computer, I have to submit an approval form, get approved, then attend a mandatory 3 hour training session, and then they would install it on my computer. Are. You. Kidding. Me.

It took me 3 weeks to get a key to my office. Three weeks! It was just sitting around somewhere. All I had to do was sign for it. Sounds simple, right? Not really. It was held in a building so far away that I had to drive to it. And, as usual, the building was only open during the same times I have to be at work. So I had to scramble over there, the whole time wondering, "Why don't they just keep the library keys in the library, since that's where they are just going to be going to anyway??" I tell ya, the state agency I used to work for aint' got shit on the major inefficiencies going on at this private school.

I still haven't gotten my code for the photocopier (each person gets a personal code, which is odd to me, as it seems a departmental code would be sufficient) or my code for dialing long distance on my desk phone. This also is odd to me, as it's the type of phone which operates over an internet connection, so there is no such thing as a long distance number. I soon realized that this is because they want to know what numbers I am calling. Whoa.

But Big Brother goes far, far beyond my little long distance code. If you are a new employee, you are often put in touch with a particular real estate company -- they have some sort of a deal worked out. This seems like a potential conflict of interest to me. I have heard that they also have their fingers in other pies: with the police force, with city concil...

If you do a google search for my school, you will find absolutely nothing negative about it. Not a blog, not a news article, not a press release. Everything out there is positive. Don't you think that is kind of odd? Especially when the girl who had my job before me sued the school for firing her improperly? (I have yet to find out why this woman was fired. No one is giving me a legitimate answer. It sounds very fishy to me.) And the guy who used to have my boss's job was fired for stealing thousands of dollars worth of items from the library? Or that last week the president's husband, who is the CEO or something for the college, was brought up on embezzlement charges or something? And that there was a group of students who sued the school, too? How the hell is this stuff not reaching the press???

The only thing I have found that even hints at being negative is an interview between the local paper and the president of the school a couple years back. The reporter asks if she thinks the school has moved past all its problems in the early '90s. She doesn't want to talk about it. She just says she wants to focus on the future. I have no idea what all these problems were in the early '90s. Neither does anyone else -- almost everyone at my library is new. Apparently, when the last director was busted for stealing a bunch of shit, a lot of people went down with him. They bascially cleaned house. Only a couple of people made it out of the fray -- and one of them was demoted in the process. And of course, the old timers aren't saying a word about what really went down. So to say there's been a lot of turnover is putting it lightly. (And as you can imagine, makes everything that much more difficult for the new people -- we are all trying to fix departments that have been screwed up for some time.)

Anyway, that's a glimpse into the type of work environment I am dealing with. I'm sure there will be more. I will share with you then.

Let's talk about the rest of things in my life. I havent' been blogging, because I can't afford to have internet at my place, and let's face it: I would be pretty stupid to blog from work in this job. But CN is moving in very soon (the 2nd week of April!!), so we will get it then. Yay!

As far as my apartment goes....it sucks. I have very little storage and a lot of wasted square footage. Since the house is old, it doesn't heat or cool evenly, leaving me shivering on the couch most of the time. (MJ got me a snuggie, which rocks for this particular problem!) And since the windows are old, any noise made outside sounds like it is actually inside.

Which brings me to my neighborhood. Thus far, I have had to deal with the college kids next door who like to throw parties in their backyard. This would be totally fine with me if their backyard was not underneath my bedroom window and if they threw their parties on nights when I didn't have to go to work the next day. The morning of St. Patrick's Day (my only day off from work until further notice), I was awoken at 6:50am by firecrackers just outside my bedroom window. WTF. I got up, jerked up my window blinds, and scared the crap out of the college kid next door. I yelled, "Can you please stop that?!!!" He gave me a deer-in-headlights look and apologized profusely and then went inside. (Yes, I heard what he said. That's how much I can hear through these old windows.) He's lucky I didn't kick his ass for throwing a kegger in his backyard only 2 nights previously. On a Sunday night. I ended up sleeping in my bathroom that night -- it's the only quiet room in my place.

But this is child's play compared to the other stuff I have had to deal with. There have been fist fights in the street, drunk people yelling at all hours of the night, domestic violence disputes, all kinds of crazy and loud noises, lots and lots of sirens, a car chase, trash thrown in my yard and my own personal favorite: the gunshots in my backyard the other night. Yeah, my neighborhood is super fun.

I have to say, though, that the cops have a really great response time. It's impressive, actually. I know, because I peek out of my window blinds when stuff happens, and I dont' stop looking until a cop shows up. And when the cops arrive, it's not just one car. It's like, four. So that does make me feel a little bit better. But not much.

I do not go outside when the sun goes down. I might go to Target or something, but never late. and I definitely can't take walks or anything like that after it gets dark. That would be a really bad idea. Have you ever had to live like that? Let me tell you what, you feel like a prisoner. For the most part, I get home from work and do not go back outside until I leave for work the next day. It is stressful and boring and frustrating.

I know it all sounds negative, but I do love seeing all the beautiful buildings and I love walking to/from work. During the daytime, it's totally safe, even in my neighborhood. And most of my problems with my neighborhood have more to do with noise than safety. I am getting used to the noise, and the sound machine CN got me helps, too.

As soon as either CN or I can find a renter for our house(s), we are moving to a safer and quieter neighborhood. A house with enough room for both of us and storage for our stuff. And electrical outlets. (I have one outlet in my living room. It is a royal pain in the ass.) And a backyard, rather than an alley full of dirt and overflowing trashcans.

It is probably no surprise to you that I have been wondering if I made the right decision. But I think I will end up really liking my job and liking Savannah. I think that like some first dates, you just get off on the wrong foot. I've gotta give it a second chance. And that will take some time.

Thanks for reading, guys. I will hopefully be back to blogging on a more regular basis soon.

A Victory and a Mystery

I almost took that last post down. I got home that day and thought, "I can't believe I just wrote a post about a stupid lost water bottle. My blog has reached a new low."

But then you guys had such great ideas!!! My readers are so helpful! Thanks, everybody. I think I might order one of the Rose Parade ones...or whatever that was. I'm also going to go back to the store where CN bought it and plead with the manager to carry them again. It's worth a shot.

Besides, as you will soon see, THIS is the post which will take my blog to new lows.

I had a small victory this morning when getting ready for work. My 2 weeks of diet and exercise were all worth it when I put on a pair of jeans I could not wear a month ago! YAY!!! Go me! Little things like that really keep me motivated to continue. Because let me tell ya, I am having a hard time cutting out all the sweets I normally eat. I am trying to be more aware of what I'm eating, because I find that when I'm not actively thinking about what goes in my mouth, I usually eat too much or a bunch of crap. And I'm really pushing myself at the gym -- I ran about 3 miles the other day, which is something I haven't done since I was a teenager. I was really proud of that. I am not quite sure how much I've lost, but it's about 2-4 pounds. Definitely a step in the right direction!!!

As you can probably tell, I don't have a ton of things going on right now. But I did experience something totally disgusting yesterday. So if you're eating while reading, I suggest you stop. Also, don't read this before lunch or anything, because it just about killed my lunch appetite yesterday.

I tell people all the time, "I can't believe CN puts up with me." This statement is usually met with amazement, as most people don't know how weird and/or stupid I can be at times. Allow me to enlighten you, dear readers.

I was walking Sammy, just like I always do on my lunch break. I take him down our street and go behind our little neighborhood. It's basically an empty lot behind our street, so he is free to be a dog back there. There's a little clearing where Sammy likes to do #2. I was walking him back there, when I saw it: a piece of clothing on the ground.

"Hmm, that wasn't here when I walked Sammy this morning," I thought.

Then I realized this meant that our resident homeless guy was probably back. He comes and goes, but we always know when he's around because one of us will spot him or there will suddenly be a lot of trash in the empty lot. Which makes sense -- it's not like he has access to a trashcan. He hangs out in the woods beyond the empty lot. My elderly neighbors and CN tell me not to go behind our street during these times, but I think he's harmless, so I just don't go as far back as I normally would, just to be safe. If he wanted to do something, he would have done it by now-- asked for food or money. I think he just wants to be left alone, because I've never even laid eyes on the guy. I try to have sympathy for people in unfortunate circumstances like that. I don't want to just jump to stereotypes, because I think a lot of homeless people are addicts, mentally ill or just down on their luck-- they have real problems. I believe most homeless people mean no harm at all, and are usually just misunderstood. I don't like it when people assume they are criminals or evil. That's just not fair. It's only out of sheer luck that I'm not one of them, so I try to keep that in mind.

As Sammy is sniffing around and marking his territory, I am studying the piece of clothing. What is odd to me is that it looks like it has been ripped off of someone's body. It was just thrown on the ground, and I didn't want to touch it, so it was kind of difficult to tell what it was exactly. Nearby, I saw a (presumably) empty box of cigarettes.

And something else.

Oh. My. Is that....what I think it is??? Because if it is, that is....totally effing disgusting. Dear God!

Out of shock, I backed away from it and turned around and went back home, much to the irritation of Sammy, who possesses what must be an endless supply of pee.

I decided to get CN and take him with me to look at it again. I needed a second opinion. So after work, I hurried home before the sun set to drag him with me. "What is it?" he asked.

"Just come here. I want to show it to you. I'm not sure what it is," I replied.

I took him to the back lot, over to the little clearing where Sammy usually does his business. I pointed. "Is that what I think that is?" I asked. "Because if it is, that is totally incredible and disgusting. I mean, look at it! It's massive. And in one straight piece. I've never seen anything like it!"

"I can't believe you made me stop working to come over here and look at a giant piece of shit, VB," CN said.

"So it is shit, then?" I asked, stupidly. "Because I wasn't totally sure if it was human or not. It could be from a big dog. A really big dog. I thought maybe it was some kind of food or something. You know, all that rain we had, I thought maybe it was dissolving food that just looked like shit," I continued.

"I can't believe you. I'm going back inside. This is ridiculous," he said, turning around to leave.

"No! Wait! Do you think it's from the homeless guy?" I asked, grabbing his arm.

"Of course it's from the homeless guy!" he said, frustrated. "I mean, look -- that's his underwear right there!" CN pointed to the mysterious article of clothing I'd spotted earlier. Aha! It was a pair of ripped boxers! Mystery solved.

"But it looks like he literally ripped it off his body," I said.

"Well, by the looks of it, I don't think he had a lot of time to waste," CN chuckled.

"No kidding. I've never seen anything like it! I'm going to go get the camera and take a picture of it," I said.

CN promptly talked me out of this idea. But I do kind of wish I could share it with you. It was at least a foot long. And in a perfect line, not in a pile like you'd think it would be. Which makes me wonder if he sort of walked it out, if you get what I'm saying. Too graphic? If so, I apologize. But this was one amazing turd, y'all. And really, he was not far at all from some of my neighbors' windows. Someone could have easily seen him squatting. But come to think of it, that supports CN's theory that this guy didn't have time to waste.

And the other discarded things sort of tell a story. I bet he had a nice smoke, and then thought, "Uh. Oh." He was in such a hurry, he had to literally rip his clothes off before it was too late. WOW.

I continued rambling on about The Amazing Poo, and CN reprimanded me: "Look, keep it down. I'm sure he doesn't want us standing around, talking about his poo. He's probably watching us right now. Listen, I don't want you coming back here anymore, do you understand?"

I nodded, staring at my feet and feeling ashamed.

As if being homeless isn't enough, this guy has to deal with strangers discussing his poos.

But it is a pretty impressive turd.

Blind as a Batshit Crazy

Y'all know I have problems. I have problems that could fill a book. But I don't think that I have shared with you my eye problems. So here goes.

In my family, you either get the good eyes (Dad's side) or the good teeth (Mom's side). Well, I am blind as a bat. If I am not wearing glasses or contacts, I will literally walk into walls. Yes, it has happened before. That's how I can say that. If glasses or contacts did not exist, I would be legally blind, and probably fluent in Braille. Unless it is approximately 3 inches from my face, I cannot see diddly squat.

To make matters even more complicated, I have astigmatism in my left eye. The way I understand it, this means that my cornea has a little ripple in it, when it's supposed to be just a smooth dome shape. It takes a little more effort to find a contact that fits my left eye, because it has to line up with the astigmatism just right, or else everything will be blurry. (And in case you're wondering, this would also make LASIK eye surgery more challenging, too.)

I also have vision that is progressively getting worse as I age. (This eliminates me from the LASIK option entirely.) So I have to go to the eye doctor whenever I run out of disposable contacts, because by then, they aren't working for me, anyway. Oh, so much fun. $$$$$$$$$$ *sigh*

The icing on the cake is that I detest the eye exams. Unless you have less-than-perfect vision, you will not know what I'm talking about, but basically the doctor shines lights into your eyes that are so bright, your eyes water profusely, and you are convinced that you will burn your retinas away. Just thinking about it is making my eyes water as I type this. It is so uncomfortable, you clench your teeth and squirm in the chair. Then, they stick things in your eyes, blow air into your eyes without letting you blink and dilate your pupils (which makes your eyeballs feel all numb and weird)....ugh. To be honest, I'd rather go to the dentist. Eye exams SUCK.

When I went to my old eye doctor a couple years ago, I decided to spring for updated lenses in my glasses, too. That way, I would have the option of wearing glasses or contacts. The contacts came out great, but the glasses didn't. I could see okay up close, but I could not read the road signs when I was driving. I took the glasses back, and it turned out that one of the lenses was flawed, so they replaced it. I tried the glasses again. They were not much better. I took the glasses back a second time. I passed the little eye test, and the doctor declared that my glasses were fine. But I still could not read the road signs. The eye chart you have to read to prove you can see 20/20 is easy -- it's maybe 7 feet away from you. But when you're driving, you need to see road signs sooner than 7 feet away! I didn't take the glasses back a third time, because I would look like I was a crazy person. So I have not been wearing my glasses for the past few years.

I was so frustrated, I never went back. I have "updated" lenses in my glasses that don't even work. And they cost $100. Whatever.

So this time, I picked a new eye doctor. When I went in yesterday, it all seemed to be going well. She recommended a different solution to clean my contacts with, and I like it a LOT better. She is concerned with how bloodshot my eyes are all the time. I told her I sit in front of a computer all day, so that's probably why they are like that. (None of my other eye doctors have ever been concerned with this, so she scored some points with me for trying to solve my red eye problem).

Then we got to the eye exam part, where the doctor figures out the strength you need in your contacts/glasses. This involves her putting different lenses in front of your eyes and asking you which lens works better for you. She was no different than any other eye doctor I've ever had: she rushed through it, expecting my eyes to adjust to different lenses in the blink of an eye. (Sorry, that was a bad pun!) Well, my eyes must be stupidly slow, because I had to keep asking her to show me the choices a second or even a third time. And the differences between the lenses were so minor, it was hard to tell which ones worked better. I did my best, and she put some new contacts in my eyes. She said this was my new prescription, and they seemed ok as I blinked and looked around.

I instantly noticed how comfortable they are -- much more comfortable than my old brand. And I could see just fine in her office, so I went ahead and told her everything was great.

"Ok, wear these a few days, see how you like them. If we don't hear from you, we are going to order your new contacts on the 12th so you can pick them up after your vacation. Sound good?" the doctor explained.

I nodded and thanked her. Then I paid for my exam and left.

On the way home, I kept "testing" my new contacts by seeing how clear the road signs were. How soon could I read them? How clear were they? Was it better than my old prescription? Or were the signs fuzzy? And my new contacts seemed ok. Not great, but adequate. I thought, "Hmm. This is funny. Usually I can tell there's a huge difference when I have a new, stronger prescription in my contacts. Everything is crystal clear. These are...about the same as my last prescription." But I didn't worry about it too much, because they were so comfortable and I figured my eyes needed to recuperate after my eye exam, full of crazy bright lights. I decided to see how they were today before I made up my mind.

I put my contacts in this morning -- they feel FANTASTIC. Between the different brand of contact solution and the new brand of contacts, my eyes feel great. They are still red, but they feel fine.

But I can't see shit. Anything 6 feet away from me is blurry. I was in a meeting this morning, and I couldn't read a single word on the presenter's screen at the front of the conference room. That is just not right. Not to mention unacceptable. I could see MUCH better with my old contacts -- the prescription that is 2 years old.

These new contacts aren't even as strong as my last prescription, when they are supposed to be stronger!! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH.

I'm starting to think that maybe I have an eye disorder. Or that I am just plain crazy. How can they work fine in the doctor's office, but not when I'm driving??? That makes no sense. Especially when I could see ok yesterday, but today, it's abysmal. It is noticeably worse. Same contacts, same eyeballs, same road signs. But I can't see shit. I am losing my mind. I have now had the same problem with two different doctors! What the heck is wrong with me??

I thought maybe it was just one contact that was wrong, so I covered up one eye. Then I covered up the other eye. Nope. Both eyes are equally blurry. Both contacts are bad.

"Do you have the contacts in backwards? Maybe you put your right contact into your left eye," my coworkers have been suggesting.

This is impossible, I explained to them. Putting a regular contact into an eye with astigmatism is massively painful. I would know instantly if that were the case. I honestly don't know what the heck is wrong.

I went ahead and made a last-minute appointment for 2:30 this afternoon. I am worried that when I sit in her little chair, and read her little eye chart, I will pass the 20/20 vision test, in her professional opinion. But I KNOW I won't be able to see anything out side of those four walls!! I really want to get to the bottom of this. Not being able to see is such a pain, especially when you're shelling out so much money!

I am frustrated. I am blind. Hopefully, I'm not crazy, too. Wish me luck.

Stories of My Family, Part 4

I have told you about The Czarina's parents. Now, let me switch over to the other side of my family -- the Belle side.

Grandpa Belle (his name was Charles) was born in New York state, I believe. He had one sister (Dorothy, who I believe may still be alive somewhere in Florida, although I've never met her). When he was seven years old, his dad walked out on the family for unknown reasons. According to my Aunt J, this wasn't the worst thing that could have happened -- apparently he was a jerk anyway. I don't know any specifics about this situation, because my Aunt J refuses to elaborate. So it must be something awful. Maybe he was a wife beater or a bank robber. Who knows. Whatever the situation, he left his wife and kids destitute.

So from the age of 7 on, my Grandpa Charles was the breadwinner of the family. I don't know why his mother (Emma) couldn't get a job...maybe she did. If she did, it didn't pay much, because my grandpa had to work while he went to school. He managed to support his mother and sister while still doing very well in school. I have no idea how he did this. He did so well in school, in fact, that he received free tuition at Syracuse University.

Go Grandpa!!

So off he went to college. Unfortunately, the scholarship did not cover his room and board, so he had to get a job while he was a full-time college student, majoring in forestry of all things. So he began waiting tables at a restaurant.

I have no idea what Great-Grandma Emma and Great Aunt Dot did for money while he was at school. I need to ask my Aunt J. I guess Dot went to work. Last I heard, she was a redneck who lived in a trailer in Florida. I don't really know much about Dot. I don't even know if she's still alive. I do know that for the rest of his life, no matter how little, my Grandpa Charles always sent money home to his mother. Awww. See, he was a good son.

Meanwhile, my grandma Florence was also being raised in New York somewhere. She was an only child, born to Paul and (his first wife), Belle. The marriage broke up sometime after my grandma was born. I know someone cheated on the other, but I am not sure about who did it. So that's why Belle was the first wife. I'm sure this was extremely scandalous at the time, especially in their WASPy New England society! *shock and awe!*

(In case you haven't noticed, there are a lot of horrible girls' names on my father's side of the family, aside from Emma, which is a nice name. No offense to anyone with these names, but I think they are awful: Florence, Gertrude, Dorothy, Arabella, Prudence and -- I swear to God I am not making this up -- Eulella and Euphemia. WTF? Who hates their kids that much? We always joke that the name Euphemia sounds like a disease: "Yeah, I went to the doctor the other day. He told me I've got euphemia! I have six months to live!")

All joking aside, let's move on.

While Grandpa Charles grew up poor as a church mouse, my Grandma Flo grew up in the lap of luxury. She came from a long line of well-educated, socially distinguished WASPs. Her oldest ancestor actually came over on the Mayflower.

Now, it's not as cool as it sounds -- there are today millions of descendants from each Pilgrim that came over. You or someone you know is probably also related to a Pilgrim. I'm just trying to illustrate how freaking long my family has been in America.

So this is an old family we are talking about. Far different from my Grandpa Charles' family, who came over from Scotland in the comparatively modern decade of the 1740s.

At one point, Grandma Flo's grandfather (or was it her great-grandfather...??) was a dentist in New York City, which I think is super cool, because I think NYC is the coolest place ever. Several members of this branch of my family went to Yale, became professors, doctors and preachers -- that sort of thing. Her father was something in the medical field. I think he was a dentist also.

In short, she made my grandpa look like white trash. It's like one of those 1980s teen movies, where the head cheerleader ends up with that boy from "the wrong side of the tracks". But now I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm just trying to illustrate to you the differences in backgrounds between my grandparents. On paper, it's like, "What?? These two had anything in common??" But you'll see what I mean in a minute.

Grandma Flo also found herself at Syracuse in the early 1930s. She joined a sorority, which she soon discovered was full of lesbians, which didn't sit well with her, and so she dropped out, I think. (Weird, huh? Yeah, my Aunt J knows the coolest, most scandalous family stories! I love it!)

I have no idea what she majored in. Knowing her, she had no business being in college in the first place. Not because she was stupid. She was a sweet lady and I loved her, but dammit she was lazy! She would have been fired from any job she had! But I guess this is how you are when you're born with a silver spoon in your mouth, especially in that day and age -- she probably went to college to meet her future husband, not to chase a career.

I don't know how much of a catch she would have been. She never had to cook, clean, sew, work or do much of anything growing up. She didn't know how to do anything, because the servants had always done it. So it's a good thing my grandpa came along when he did, because she honestly couldn't feed herself, and we already know she couldn't have held a job. So the poor thing would have either lived in her mother's basement or simply died of malnourishment if it hadn't been for my grandpa. She was lucky she was attractive and very, very sweet. She was THE sweetest person you'd ever meet. Always affectionate and warm. I'm sure that's what my grandpa loved about her. I know that's what I liked about her. (She was the only grandparent I ever met.)

Speaking of malnourishment, one evening while at Syracuse, my grandma went with a girlfriend to a restaurant for dinner. (See? I told you she couldn't even feed herself.)

They were looking at their menus, trying to decide on what to order, when their waiter came over to greet them. His name was Charles. And that's how my grandparents met!

It was love at first sight for both of them-- we are talking puppy-dog pathetically in love, here -- and they planned on getting married once they graduated. They enjoyed dating all through college. I know they must have gone to some football games together, because I have seen the ticket stubs. (Yeah, I know. Who keeps college football ticket stubs from the 1930s? That would be my father, World's Biggest Pack Rat.) And I think they took a trip to the Finger Lakes or something, because there's a photo of them in their swimsuits. Aw. Cute, huh?

Too bad that Great-Grandpa Paul did not like his future son-in-law. Nevermind that Charles supported his sister and mother aaaaaall through school while still making such excellent grades that he got a free ride to Syracuse. Nevermind that Charles was totally in love with Florence. What was the problem? He wasn't rich.

Can you believe it? Just wait, it gets worse.

Great-Grandpa Paul disliked the idea of their marriage so much, he wrote her out of the will. His own and only daughter. His only child, in fact. What a jerk, huh? (If you have been paying attention, this same situation happened with my mother's parents -- weird coincidence. What was up with fathers boycotting their daughters' marriages back then? Sheesh!)

So Charles and Florence ended up eloping and having their honeymoon at Niagara Falls.

I know it must have pained her to lose her relationship with her father. Charles and Florence always tried to make amends with Great-Grandpa Paul. They even gave my dad the middle name of Paul, in the hopes that it would encourage him to have a relationship with his grandchildren. It didn't work. My father met Paul once. After that, Paul didn't want anything to do with his grandchildren. Isn't that sad???

My dad was really upset about this as an adult. He actually made us all promise never to use the name Paul for any of our kids! I can't really say I blame him. Ok, back to the story.

Meanwhile, his now-ex-wife, Belle, saw the grandkids rather frequently. She looked like your stereotypical granny -- white hair in a bun, glasses, floral print or black dress, sensible shoes and handbag. She died when her grandkids were very young, so my dad didn't remember her very well. All I know about her is what I see in the old photos.

In the end, Grandpa Charles and Grandma Florence had four children: David (who died when he was 2 days old because the doctor didn't clean out his nasal passages well enough--sad, I know), my dad, my Uncle G and my Aunt J. They moved around a little bit -- Erie, PA to Elkins, WV to Arlington, VA. Grandpa Charles was a forester and worked for the National Forestry Service. In other words, Grandma Florence never lived in the lap of luxury again. They barely made ends meet, and my dad grew up living in middle-class apartments, not a house like other kids.

I'll tell you more about my dad's childhood later. This post is getting too long, and I have a ton of stories about that.

Anyway, that's how my dad's parents met. And they remained deeply in love until the day they died! Aw.

Stories of My Family, Part 1

I was talking about The Czarina's parents the other day, and realized I have never blogged about them. So here we go!

Let's do Grandpa John first. His parents met in a very interesting way. His dad (Thomas), the son of Irish immigrants, may or may not have immigrated to the U.S. illegally! You see, his parents came over after the Great Potato Famine, but settled at first in Canada. Then, things get a little fuzzy, and suddenly they are in Wisconsin, claiming to be natural-born U.S. Citizens on the census, which we know is not true. So we think there is some illegal border-crossing going on somewhere. Anyway, Thomas went to law school at the University of Wisconsin, after convincing them that he is also a U.S. Citizen, although we think he was born in Canada.

A few years later, he was on vacation from his job as a lawyer/businessman in Virginia. He decided to go to a resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas. At almost 50, it was well-believed by the family that he would just end up an old bachelor.

Meanwhile, a young lady named Mary Ellen was going on a trip. She and her sister and mother were leaving Ireland to go visit some relatives in Denver, Colorado. (They were actually going to visit James Denver, a distant cousin whom the city was named after -- cool, huh? Yeah, I have a Colorado connection!)

Ok, um...I just read that Wikipedia entry, and now I am not so sure they were actually going to Denver, or if they were just visiting Cousin Denver in Washington, DC...because apparently, after 1858, Cousin Denver only went to Denver for visits--he didn't live there anymore. And I know all of this took place after 1858.......hmmm.......will have to ask Czarina about that.

Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes.

Since it was a long trip, the women decided to take a break in -- you guessed it -- Hot Springs, Arkansas. They stayed at the same resort where Thomas was. Although she was half his age, it was love at first sight and they got married right away. Mary Ellen, her sister and her mother never went back to Ireland! They all moved with Mary Ellen and Thomas to Norfolk, Virginia. That branch of my family--the Irish branch-- is still there.

They had 4 kids. The 2nd one was my Grandpa John. Family legend states that John was very rascally and often in trouble with authority figures! He was not malicious or anything, just acting like little boys do. (I like to say that this behavior is genetic, as my brothers were also totally obnoxious children.)

Unfortunately for the family, the birth of the fourth and youngest child (a girl) did not go very well. Mary Ellen needed a blood transfusion. But this was before anyone really understood blood types--all they knew was that sometimes transfusions worked, and sometimes they didn't. It was a roll of the dice. And Mary Ellen apparently got the wrong kind of blood, and so she died soon afterwards. Everyone in the family took it very, very hard.

Sad, I know. But it's ok. If you have read Angela's Ashes, you know by now that the Irish race is full of sad stories. But sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are funny. Ok, back to the story.

Soon after Mary Ellen died, the 1929 stock market crash hit, and all of Thomas's investments and businesses went belly up. The financial ruin, combined with the sudden loss of his wife and the worries about raising 4 young children (when he was already so old) were too much for Thomas to handle, so he basically locked himself in a room and turned into an alcoholic.

Crap. This is sad again, I know! But this is my family, so I can't just make up stuff here. There are lots of Irish alcoholics in my family, unfortunately...as you will soon see....

Meanwhile, the kids were running amok because Thomas was too drunk to take care of them. And since there was no money, there were lots of unpaid bills. So their Aunt and Grandma stepped in and cared for the kids. They sent the boys to military school (which they hated) and the only daughter ended up being raised by the Aunt. Then Aunt and Grandma sold everything in the house to pay the bills. (The only things we have left from that house are a chair and a clock!) They even had to sell the house. Thomas ended up living in a hotel and dying in poverty, I believe. (Ugh, sorry this is so depressing guys...but Irish families rarely have happy stories.)

Ok, so meanwhile, my Grandpa John graduates from military school and moves back to Norfolk, where he becomes a soda jerk, moves into a boarding house with his brother* and proceeds to pursue his new favorite hobby: alcoholism. It was at this point when the Great Depression really kicked in. Talk about bad timing.

This is where it gets kinda foggy. Although Grandpa John eventually quit drinking, as you will see later on in my story, he was always ashamed of it and didn't like to talk about the Great Depression when he was basically wasted and unemployed for an entire decade. (Can you blame him?) All we know is that during the Great Depression, he was a hobo who rode the empty freight train cars and he spent some time in Chicago. During this time, he also discovered a passion: journalism. But that's all he ever told anyone.

I like to think, with my overactive imagination, that he was a member of 'Bugs' Moran's North Side Gang, which was an Irish gang involved in prostitution, racketeering and gambling rings and fought continuously with Al Capone's gang, culminating in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.

But that is purely speculation.

And vehemently denied by my mother. Who apparently, has no imagination.

So who knows what my grandpa really did besides jump trains and drink cheap booze between 1929-1939. I guess I will never know. When WWII did break out, Grandpa John decided that putting himself at risk of death every day was worth it to have food in his mouth, so he went to join the military. Unfortunately, he was soon kicked out because he was drunk all the time. Oops. Now what?

Bad, I know. But it's ok. It gets better.

At any rate, thank goodness for World War II's effect on the U.S. economy, or else I may not be here today. Gramps probably would have ended up in a gutter somewhere, pulling a Jimmy Hendrix, asphyxiating on his own vomit or something.

But that didn't happen. What happened was, the U.S. entered WWII, and we needed to build some planes. A LOT of planes. That is when Boeing got a big-ass government contract and hired thousands of people to build planes at their huge building facilities in Washington state. It was sort of like an army base, only it was full of civilians who built airplanes. Lots of Rosie the Riveters.

They had so many employees (we are talking about 50,000 here) that it became necessary to have employee housing. Which means they will need schools, a hospital, grocery stores, and everything else a large group of people would need. Including a newspaper.

Grandpa John somehow managed to get a job with Boeing. He was in charge of the factory base's newspaper. And one day, he went over to the headquarters building to interview one of the Boeing Big Shots...........

Ok, that's all for today.

When does he meet Virginia? Does Grandpa John ever stop drinking alcohol? Or is VB's mother conceived in a drunken hook up? What happens on the interview? Stay tuned to see what happens next!!

* I actually just found this out recently, because I was geeking out in a genealogy database, and looked him up in the U.S. Census of 1930. I was so excited, I called The Czarina, who had no clue her dad had ever been a soda jerk, let alone rented an apt with his brother!

Out of the Blue

This post is 100% mush free. Absolutely NO mention of you-know-who. So no barfing, ok? Ok.

I forgot to share this really random dream with y'all.

The other night, I dreamt that I got a third dog -- a black cocker spaniel. Which is weird, because I don't want a third dog and I don't like cocker spaniels. But anyway, it was running away from me along the side of a busy road, and I got into my minivan (LOL! Why am I driving a minivan???) to chase it down.

So I am chasing down my dog, and I'm using my car to do so. Very strange.

Some random lady, also in a minivan, but going the opposite direction, pulls over and catches my dog for me. She motions for me to follow her. She leads me to an elementary school. But it's not just any elementary school. It's an animal shelter/elementary school.

Hold on, it gets weirder.

I go out back, where there is a very large, fenced-in grassy yard. It's full of stray dogs. I go in and start playing with the stray dogs. They are all cute and wonderful. Apparently, this is when I forget all about my cocker spaniel, because the next thing I know, I'm running to the desk (where you go to adopt a dog) with two Boston Terrier puppies--one under each arm--and as I'm running, I'm shouting, "WOW!!! I can't believe they're only $1.99!!!!"

What a wack job I am! 4 Boston Terriers, two of whom are puppies??? My subconscious has lost its mind. Although, they are pretty cute when they're puppies......


But I could never have 3 or more dogs in my tiny little house. It's already hard to keep it clean from all the dog hair.

In other news, I had a crazy thing happen to me this morning. Anyone reading this who has lost someone very close to them will probably be able to relate. I was making my coffee this morning when I had a HUGE wave of grief hit me, and suddenly, I missed my dad terribly.

So there I was, making coffee, and sobbing, for (seemingly) no reason at all! It came out of nowhere! It honestly feels just like getting smacked on the back from a big wave when you're standing in water up to your waist in the ocean. It feels JUST like that.

If you can't relate, all I can tell you is that sometimes, without any warning, these moments will hit you where you remember (not like you ever forgot, but it's just not always in the front of your mind) that you can't just call them on the phone and hear their voice. That it's probably going to be a very VERY long time until you ever talk to them again. You won't get hugs from them, you won't get that reassuring pat on the hand that tells you everything is going to be ok. All you have are memories. Which is tough when you miss someone and just want to hear their voice. Right now, even just hearing his voice would be all I need. I would not even need to see him in person. I wish I hadn't taken all those phone calls home for granted.

Sometimes, it just really gets to me that my dad has never seen my house, has no idea how successful I've been in my career, will never attend my wedding, will never meet my kids, will never meet any of his in-laws....and I get really sad.

It's not that I walk around in a daydream all the time, forgetting that my dad is gone. It's just that I don't really stop to think about it all very much. I know that if I do, I will just get upset and start to cry. So I don't think about it a lot. But unfortunately, that's now how grief works. You can't pick and choose when you get to think about people who are gone. You can repress all you want, but eventually, the grief has to get out, kind of like a boiler that is going to blow if you don't let out some of the steam pressure that has been building up.

I think this morning, I just had to let it out. I'm ok now. I don't know what made me think about him suddenly this morning. Maybe I had another dream about him, and I just forgot it when I woke up. Have I blogged about all the weird dreams I've had about my dad since he died? They are pretty weird. I will tell them, unless I already have. Someone remind me.

Ok, now I'm crying at work! Gotta stop!!!! I'm ok, I promise. This is normal. Once you experience grief, it just sort of becomes like a tattoo, a new haircut or a piercing. It's always there, it becomes part of who you are, and you aren't always aware of it. At first, you are very very aware of it and it's all you can talk/think about. But then, you only think about it in certain instances. Eventually, it just seems everyday to you, and you aren't emotional or reactive to it any more. I guess that unless you've experienced it, it's hard to explain.

Sorry about the sad post today, guys. Guess I can't be funny all the time. I'll try to be more upbeat tomorrow, I promise! Today was just weird for some reason.

Dr. Kidney

See if I care that only two people commented on my last post. Because you know what? I don't care. Not one bit.

*sniff!*

Obviously, no one wants to read about Vermont or see how beautiful it is, so instead, I will talk about something else today.

*sniff!*

Today, you get to learn all about my pee. Ha! Take that! See what happens when you ignore my posts? You get gross-out medical posts. Just remember this the next time you choose not to leave comments.

Where should I start? Hmmm. I know. Let's start with the fact that this poster actually means something to me today:



Because for me, it is indeed a urinal. You see, doctors keep finding an excessive amount of protein in my urine, and they can't figure out why. So after 3 dip-stick tests and a catheter experience, they still can't figure out what's wrong. That means I have to go to the next level of testing: I will be spending all of Sunday filling up this weird-looking brown jug with my pee. The pee has to stay cold, so I will either keep it in a sealed bag in my fridge or in a styrofoam cooler. I haven't decided which is worse/grosser. Then, on Monday morning, I will drop off 24 hours worth of VB Pee at Dr. Kidney's (the urologist's) office so they can run more tests. Yippee. Nothing like saving your own pee to make the weekend exciting.

And when I bring in my jug o' pee on Monday, I will probably get more stares from the old men in the waiting room. Sitting there with their enlarged prostates, they were all looking at me like, "Why are YOU here?" -- It was very surreal.

Oh, and as for the PSA portion of this post, let me advise my female readers: If you ever have to go to a urologist's office and wait in their waiting room, bring something to read! My only reading options included: golfing magazines, parenting magazines, entrepreneurial magazines and brochures about overactive bladder medications. Ugh. Obviously, I was not the normal patient. Great.

Anyway, after peeing in yet another cup, even Dr. Kidney seemed baffled about it. "I just can't tell from this. It's probably nothing, but just to be sure...."

And that's when he introduced me to the weird brown jug.

Being both a librarian and paranoid, I of course looked up stuff on the Internet so I could attempt at diagnosing myself.

BAD IDEA.

According to what I've read, high levels of protein indicates kidney damage and is usually found in people with diabetes.

I know I don't have diabetes. It doesn't even run in my family. I mean, if I were diabetic, I'd know by now, right? I mean, I need to lose like, 15 pounds. That's not enough extra weight to give me adult-onset diabetes, right??? I'm not especially thirsty or anything.....

But maybe, just maybe, I have somehow damaged my kidneys. I did have a kidney infection once. And I think I got into a fight with my brother when I was little, and he punched me in the ol' kidneys.....no, wait. I think I punched him in the kidneys.

WHAT IF THERE IS REALLY SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME???

*Overactive Imagination presents VB with mental pictures of the Worst Case Scenario: "I'm sorry, Virginia, but not one of your family members or wonderful friends is a match. You have extremely difficult-to-match kidneys, in addition to have that incredibly rare kidney disorder for which there is no cure. You're going to have to be placed on a kidney transplant waiting list. At the bottom. It will probably take about 18 years for you to get the kidneys you need. Until then, we're just going to have to remove your breasts and eyeballs, and put you on this special medicine, which makes you go bald permanently and barf a lot. We're also going to have to start dialysis. You might want to think about moving back in with your mother so she can take care of you. It will be very painful and incredibly expensive. You've got insurance, right? You might want to call your provider about this." says Dr. Kidney.*

I have talked to dieticians, nurses, friends and hypochondriacs. (You think I am kidding....) I have heard everything from, "Just drink more water!" to "Are you sure you don't have diabetes?" One person is convinced it's the dietary supplement I'm on (biotin-- it's good for your hair and nails!). Another person is sure it's because I've lost weight. Yet another person thinks there's actually nothing wrong with me at all: "What if your body is just like that, and it's 'normal' for you?"

Of course, I'm convinced some crime from my past is catching up with me, in some sick & twisted karmic revenge. It's a result of the MRSA I had this time last year. It's a side effect from the vicodin. I smoked weird, kidney disease-laced pot in college. I've caught some kidney disease from one of my stupid ex-boyfriends. This is my body's reaction to my being mean to old people. Or this is my body's way of saying to me, "You eat entirely too much sugar! I tried to warn you, but now it's too late! You will never eat ice cream again! Hahahahahahahaha!!!"

Much to my dismay, MJ won't pee into the jug for me. I tried bribing her with pumpkin bread, but unfortunately, she doesn't like pumpkin. Some friend she is. I would pee for her. *grumble*

People Are Strange

I'm not much of a Doors fan, but this song has been running through my mind today.

You know how much I hate Wal-Mart. Because of my deep hatred for this institution and its patrons, it is really irritating to be forced to shop there due to personal financial reasons (ie, I am now living alone). And it's even more irritating when you forget why you NEVER go to Wal-Mart on weekends, let alone during the day, only to arrive on a Sunday afternoon and be reminded instantly: Wal-Mart is Hell on Earth. Or at least a weekly convention of nasty people.

Alas, this was what I did last weekend. I bravely ventured into the insanity that is Wally World on a weekend. Too broke to shop at the regular grocery store and too lazy to drive halfway across town to go to Target, I decided to hit my local one-stop-shop, Wal-Mart. By the end of my trip, I was so tired of being stared at, cat-called and dealing with smelly and stupid and scary people, I was literally running through the store. Convinced I was going to be kidnapped and taken to Mexico, only to be gang-banged and forced to live out my life as a drug mule, I began to panic. I almost hit a guy in the frozen foods aisle as I wheeled around a corner in a panic-stricken sprint. I just wanted to GET OUT of the building by that point.

I wanted to go take a shower. I felt dirty. Wal-Mart grosses me out. Icky. I got into my car and slathered everything from my elbows to fingertips with hand sanitizer. Blech!!! No amount of money saved is worth it to me to ever go through that again. I will go back to my strict rule of going to Wal-Mart only when I run out of the things which MUST be purchased at Wal-Mart (my vitamins, my mascara, my favorite juice) and only during the week after the sun goes down.

There were more strange people in my weekend, though. I have ventured into Craig's List. I need a roommate and I have been thinking about selling Toby. (Not because he's a bad dog, but because I need the money.) So I placed some ads. It was very quick and easy, not to mention free, so I definitely had a good initial experience.

Then I started to get the emails in response to my ad for a roommate....

That's when I learned that people with overactive imaginations do not mix well with Craig's List.

One person used the word "rentage" (among other cringe-worthy English errors), as in, "What is the rentage?"

My imagination said, "This person is drunk or high as they are typing this, because the TITLE of the ad clearly states the 'rentage' of the room. You do not want to live with an addict. Or someone who doesn't have a firm grasp on English. Or reading comprehension. Next."

One person said they would be interested in renting the room because they will soon be moving to the area for job-related reasons. It all depends on how the "negotiations" go.

My imagination said, "Negotiations? What, like he's in the mob? And he's vying for the Vice Don position? Or he's attempting a hostile corporate takeover? Or he needs to see how his parole hearing goes? None of these people have any business living in your spare bedroom. Next."

One person wanted to know what form of payment I accept.

My imagination said, "Um....check or cash, just like everywhere else in America. Visa is not everywhere they need to be. Money orders, payday advances and stuff like that are also not going to work. Neither are payments in livestock or virgins or coconuts. Seriously, where are these people from? Neptune? I'm thinking this Craig's List thing was a bad idea. Wait, is it a guy who can fix stuff? Because fixing stuff can go towards rent. That's the only exception. Shit, if he's hot and wears a tool belt, he can pay half."

One guy was a "quiet" 57 year old man.

My imagination said, "Dude, I am not living with a 57 year old man. He's probably an ex-con or a convicted sexual predator who cannot find anywhere else to live, because no one wants to live with him. At the very least, he obviously has bad credit. And anyone who describes themselves as 'quiet' is either very loud or is hiding something very illegal. No way, Jose."

Another man wanted to make sure his privacy would be "expected".

My imagination said, "Dude, he wrote a whole paragraph about privacy. Not that I would be interested in going through a complete stranger's things anyway, but what exactly is he going to be doing in there that would require privacy so adamantly? That really freaks me out, because obviously, this guy grows marijuana plants. Or he films porn movies in his room. Or he is a serial rapist and needs a private place to store all the souvenirs from his crimes. Or he masturbates to Disney movies. Can we place a veto on criminals and porn directors, please? I mean, seriously. Why is your house so attractive to felons and perverts?"

*sigh*

So, needless to say, I have not found a suitable replacement yet. I don't know if I'm just freaked out by the idea of living with a TOTAL stranger, or if I really want to try and re-work my budget so I can live alone forever. Maybe get a PT job. Or at least hold out for a normal, single, younger-than-57 woman. Preferably a friend. Or someone who would end up being a friend. As opposed to someone who would want to re-enact Single White Female.

Some grad school students I emailed with sounded good, but none of them need a place until August. I do have one girlfriend who needs a place starting in July (perrrrrrfect!), but she doesn't know if she's going to keep her job or move. Argh.

Anyone have GOOD Craig's List experiences to share? Tips for weeding out potentially bad roommates? Or ideas for a solution to my problem? Hmmm...perhaps I should look into part-time work. What would be fun for the summer? Who will hire a young woman with an overactive imagination? Probably some weirdo....

Thursday 13

Huh. The Thursday 13 site where I usually get my header graphics from is pretty much gone. I guess the found of this meme decided to stop keeping the site going. Looks like Thursday 13, as an official weekly event in the blogosphere, is over. *shrugs* Such is the web, no? Knowing me, I'll still do Thursday 13s anyway. I live in a world of rules and boundaries. I am anal. And that's ok with me. Most of the time. Anyway. Ahem.

Thirteen Things That Make Me Happy Today

1. The weather is beeeeeee-utiful. Sunny, light breeze, lower 70s. *sigh* To make it even more sweet, I had the morning off to enjoy it. Sammy and I took a lovely little walk. This was the kind of weather that would make me skip class when I was in college.

2. Remember how I was worried about my tire? Well, I did run over something--a nail. On the recommendation of a coworker (thanks, LB!) I took my car to this tire place she likes. They had me in and out in a half hour. They just plugged up the hole. Cost? A whopping $7.50.

3. KT is making me a birthday cake! It requires cherry pie filling! And chocolate!!!!! Normally, I dislike any fruit/chocolate combination, but I make an exception for cherry pie filling. I'd eat that stuff out of the can with a spoon. I will try to take a pic before I chow down so you can see what it looks like.

4. Since it will be my birthday cake, I am going to eat as much of it as I damn well please. The diet can take a break for one day. Ok, three days. Actually, at this point, I could probably eat the whole cake in one sitting. Look up "sugar addict" in the dictionary...

5. My birthday is in 5 days. Next Tuesday, I'll be.....28. Eeeeeek! Getting old isn't fun, but who doesn't look forward to their own personal holiday? It's Birthfest '07!

6. MJ and KT are also planning some sort of surprise for me on Saturday night. I have no idea what it is. They called to say that I have a birthday surprise and said I can dress up if I want. (Duh. It's my birthday. Dressing up is de rigeur or whatever that dumb French phrase is.) And I have as-yet-unworn shoes to wear. Hmmm...must buy new outfit. I wonder what my surprise is....

7. No one has ever planned any kind of surprise for me on my birthday before. So just that alone is pretty cool. I hope my surprise is two cakes instead of one. Ok, maybe not. My waistline wouldn't recover from that kind of celebration.

8. "Dare" by Gorillaz. I can't stop listening to that song!!! It is so happy and fun to dance to! I jam out in my car to it. With the windows down. Making a complete fool of myself.

9. Ready to turn green with envy? Guess who's coming to town on the night of my birthday!!! Postsecret. And since I was smart and kept my student ID after I graduated, I am going with KT, who is currently a student. It's free, but you have to have an ID to get in. MJ doesn't have one. We need to find her a fake. Or, I could just smuggle her in with one of my gigantic handbags. Hmmm...will have to figure something out.

10. When I go out on Saturday for my birthday, I am going to find a really hot guy and make him kiss me. It's my birthday. I think it's a law, right? I mean, I'll be the Birthday Girl. Smooches are in order.

11. Speaking of guys, The Rat Pack is coming to visit us again! Woo-Hoo!!!! Superfun guys. Can't wait.

12. Boss Lady is gone for a whole week. (She's a nice lady. So it's not that. It's just less stressful. I mean, who doesn't like it when that happens?)

13. I feel better. Which means I will feel well enough to go to Happy Hour tomorrow with E and go shopping and get a pedicure on Saturday!!! Woo-Hoo!!!

Mysterious

I have a fun feature on my myspace page. I got it from Free Flash Toys. It is this virtual refrigerator where people can leave me messages using those alphabetical fridge magnets--you know, the ones you had as a kid. (If you are lost, just go to the website. You can see what I am talking about there.)

I thought it would be a fun way for people to just say hi or whatever. But I keep getting these weird messages! They make no sense at all. Examples:

Go Home! (This one has appeared several times)

Take the knife out of my heart! (This one also used one of my nicknames in the message.)

I Love You [my real name]!! --[some crazy girl's name I've never even heard of]

Needless to say, these messages are both puzzling and creepy. I am home. Do they mean my hometown? Or Indy? Do they not like me living in SC? A knife in their heart?? Someone's being a little dramatic, I think. Is someone mad at me? No, wait, someone out there loves me. I have no idea who she is, but she loves me. Good to know, I suppose. It's almost something from a horror movie or an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Now, I did turn down a date with Black Eye, but this is nothing new, as he has asked me out three times and gotten the same answer each time. Do you think he is trying to get back at me?? He would be most likely, I suppose, to leave a message referring to my leaving a knife in his heart.....right?

I seriously doubt that Repo would be motivated enough to do something like that. Besides, I'm sure he isn't crying over me by any wild stretch of the imagination. And College Boyfriend would not leave anything so obscure. He would probably just email me or say hi. My girlfriends would leave something nice and simple. These are not inside jokes I have with anyone. So I am stuck scratching my head. The thing is, anyone who happens across my page can leave a message, just as anyone here can leave a comment, only my fridge is 100% anonymous. So I will never have any idea who is leaving these.

I wish people would just leave normal messages. This is very puzzling. If you are doing it, fess up!!!

In other news...I went out with MJ this weekend. We had a good time, as usual, catching up and laughing. We went to a bar called The Wild Hare, where we ran into...

FedSucksy.

I can't escape this guy! I keep running into him! Aaaarrrgh!!! And it's not helping that he looks smokin' hot every time I see him! Seriously, he is just scrumptious.

He and his roommate talked to us for a while--maybe about an hour. They were pretty drunk, while she and I were stone cold sober. This, of course, is easy pickings for me.

"Hey, did you change your number? Because I called you a bunch of times and left messages, but you never called back," he said.

"Yeah, I know," I deadpanned.

"Oh, so you didn't change your number?" he asked.

"Nope," I said bluntly.

Then I explained to him that if he truly wanted to apologize to me for what he did, he would have made a coffee date and stuck with it, instead of always cancelling at the last minute and playing phone tag with me. I told him I ran out of patience and I didn't have time for crap like that. He apologized for the coffee cancelling. And for standing me up last winter.

Then he "accidentally" spilled beer on my purse. (Payback, perhaps, for the drink I dumped on him?)

Then he complimented my makeup. WTF???

He also mentioned how the gym class had kicked his ass, which was something I definitely enjoyed hearing. I gave him some tips about the class, and he told me he is at the gym pretty much every day around 6:45. Hmmm...why was he telling me this? Was he flirting with me? Then again, maybe it was just my imagination....

Either way, eventually MJ and I tired of them and left.

Men make absolutely no sense. This guy stands me up, is a total asshole about it, then proceeds to start kissing my ass a few months later, only to spill beer on my purse and flirt with me. Then again, he did ask for a ride home from the bars, so maybe that was his motivation!

Apparently, I have officially hit my Cynical Stage.

Never fear, this isn't over yet. Tonight is Tuesday, which means he and I will face off at the gym again. I'll keep you posted.

Bombs Away!

I have been totally MIA this week. Work is crazy and I'm going to the beach on Thursday, so I have been super duper busy. Sorry to all--promise I will try to catch up on reading blogs soon. I tried to put up some accompanying photos to this post, but Blogger won't let me post pics right now.

I told this story to MJ this past weekend, and realized it would make a great blog post. Just like I told her, this story is so weird that I will not be surprised if you don't believe me. But I swear to God this happened.

When I was around 8 years old, I was coming home from the grocery store with The Czarina and my siblings. At the time, we were living in the middle of nowhere in rural Virginia. It was an old farmhouse, complete with big porch, livestock fields and a barn.

When we turned into our long driveway, we realized the National Guard had paid us a visit. There were NG people all over our property. They had their uniforms and machinery and big trucks. There were NG people running around and talking.

Of course, Czarina was thinking, "Great, what did WLF do now?"

All of us kids were shouting, "Cool!"

So why were we invaded? Get this: While we were at the store, WLF and our neighbor, One Leg*, were behind the barn, clearing out some weeds and underbrush. I guess WLF wanted to use that area for something. As they are clearing away the area, One Leg shouts out, "Man, I think this is a bomb! Why do you have this in your yard?"

So WLF goes over there. How about there are 4 friggin BOMBS in our backyard!!! They had been buried a few inches into the ground and then the weeds and stuff had grown over them, so we never knew they were there. My dad looks at the bombs and recognized them. "Hey! I know what these are! These are the kind of bombs they dropped off of planes in WWII!" (In addition to being a taxidermy enthusiast, my father was also a WWII buff.)

Then they are freaking out because--duh--they could get blown to smithereens. So the jump out of there and call the National Guard. They laugh at my dad. WLF insists there are bombs buried behind his house. They laugh some more, but send a guy over to check it out. The guy nearly craps his pants because my dad is not joking. He calls for backup. They all come over, thinking that these are just old shells and they should just get them out of there and throw them away properly. Right after that is when we got home. WLF filled Mom in on the story. She sent us to the house, much to our dismay.

As the National Guard is looking at them and loading them onto their trucks, they realize the bombs are live. Czarina about lost it. We played back behind the barn sometimes. And we could have been blown to pieces all these years. And the NG people had just been tossing the bombs into the backs of the trucks. Holy. Freaking. Cow.

So what's the story? We don't really know. All we can figure is that someone stole them from a nearby military base after WWII, perhaps as a souvenir. They thought they had old empty shells, then realized they had stolen real bombs, freaked out, and buried them in the backyard. They had probably been there for like 40 years. (This was WLF's theory.)

This is the story we were going with. We never did find out why there were bombs buried behind our house. Crazy, huh?

*Yes, he really did have one wooden leg. Farming accident.

Dorothy...

We're not in Kansas anymore.










So I volunteered to go to Wally World for the coworker who had the very unexpected baby. I was going to buy baby stuff for her on behalf of my office.

I had a list. I had money. I thought I was mentally prepared to do this, considering I have no children and can feel my ovaries shriveling on a regular basis. Being an experienced babysitter and an oldest sibling, I figured, "No sweat. How hard can it be? I already know what all this stuff is."

Until I encountered Butt Paste. Ok, seriously, could they not think of a better name than this? And look at the baby on the box. It has this expression on its face like, "Oh my God. My career has a new low. I am Baby Butt Paste. I guess I can forget that Gerber job I had lined up. I vow to hate my mother forever."

And with the fancy French name, you'd think they would want something to go along with it, something more elegant than Butt Paste. Maybe even just a Frenchier spelling: Le Butte Pastille or Creme de la Buttoque. Or even La Diapre Plasteur. How about Ointment pour les Derriere Rasheaux?

This is the ultimate gag gift, I think. Someone should have given it to me when I had my butt problems!

I wonder if this stuff makes your butt minty fresh? Or if it whitens? Perhaps it prevents gingivitis of the ass? Or butt decay? Maybe it uses baking soda to eliminate odor? Instead of "BAM!" would you run far away from your sleeping baby and yell "BUTT!"? Butt plaque prevention would be key, I think. Because sometimes I worry that just using toilet paper alone isn't enough. And maybe even finishing up with some Butt Floss, just to get in those little nooks and crannies.

Anyway, I got a bunch of stuff. It was kinda fun, in a "I can pretend it's my baby!" kind of way. Actually, it was kind of nerve-wracking and overwhelming. Did you know there are approximately 45,000 choices of pacifiers? And that they come in different shapes and sizes? I didn't. When I was in that aisle, I noticed another girl there, who looked as overwhelmed as I did. It turns out she was in the same situation as I was.

Together, we tried to decipher diaper labels and determine the difference between socks and booties. (Is there a difference?) I figured that newborns basically eat, sleep and poop, so as long as we focused on those three life functions, we had our bases covered.

I left the Butt Paste where I found it.

P.S. They have a website. The testimonials are great. Some quotes:

"I love the Butt Paste and will never use anything else again...will always recommend the Butt Paste to everyone."

"...my daughter gave no protest when I applied it to her bottom and genital area." (I bet she didn't, that little tramp!)

"I will now invest in the 16 oz. tub." (I am really wondering why you would need a whole pound of this stuff. It sounds like there is more going on than just diaper rash.)

According to their website, the following athletes have used this product with much enthusiasm: Mike Ditka, Shaquille O'Neal, Peyton Manning and Lance Armstrong. Funny how I missed that little trivia fact on ESPN.

It's also available in handy one-gallon jugs.

Oh, and they sponsor a NASCAR team.

The Match, part 2

Continuing on with the dating discussion...I will try to reply to everyone's comments in here somewhere...here goes.

First off, XY, this is all very easy for you to say considering you are married and don't have to deal with any of this. But I am not saying I don't respect your opinion. You know I trust it very much. I'm just saying, be glad this isn't your life. If it were, you might be a little whiny too.

I think what is most frustrating to me is that the "real life in the flesh" Virginia Belle never gets approached, and if I do, it is by a drunk/older/redneck guy, like I said. (It is sad to say this, but they are not skeeving me out as much as they used to! I'm starting to be flattered instead of annoyed! Help!) On the other hand, "virtual" VB, whose profile is on match.com, is beating them off with a baseball bat. I get about 40 winks a day--no joke. What gives? I'm flattered electronically, but ignored in reality. So, I'm only good in theory. I'm the same friggin person! How am I better on (virtual) paper than in real life? It's not even a very good picture of me. Maybe it's because on match.com you basically have a sign around your neck saying, "Yes! I'm single! Approach me with minimal rejection risk!" That must be it. Email rejections must be easier to take for men. I still say, rejection is rejection, period. You can put a pretty little bow on it if you want--it still hurts. But anything worth having is worth a risk, right?

I will say that guys have it hard out there. I know it must be very hard to approach someone cold. So I feel their pain, I really do. But I have mad respect for it. Nothing is hotter than a guy with cojones. Nothing. And no matter how repulsive you are, no matter how much she doesn't want to admit it, every girl, deep down inside is at least a little bit flattered. She thinks, "Yes! I've still got it!" That is why I try and always be very nice when men do this, even if I'm not interested. I don't want to discourage them from doing it again to someone who is more receptive! (That's like faking it in bed--why promote bad behavior???)

But, as Stuckey so wisely observed, women have their problems too. I don't know how it is in other parts of the country, but down here, there is still a lot of chivalry going on (thank goodness!!!) and most girls I know are very old-fashioned, ie, you won't catch them dead asking a guy out. I am one of those girls. Like I said, I tried it. Never again. So this leaves many of us as the passive members of the dating world. At least men can keep shooting until they hit something. We women are but deer in the forest. But I like it that way--it feels more natural when the guy does the hunting, at least at first. So I guess I'm happy with the system, I'm just impatient!

I'm glad to know that many guys down here are intimidated by NYC-type women (which, I am guessing means SATC-type girls?). Whew! That is a relief. Because let me tell you, that lifestyle is hard to maintain! And for the record, not every girl is looking for a Wall Street type of guy. (VB is also in this group.)

There is something called "The Prom Girl Theory". I think I read about it on Dating Dummy. This theory states that the pretty girls in high school don't get asked to prom because everyone thinks they must already have a date. While I don't want to come out and say that this directly applies to me *ahem*, I do think there is something to this. I have had people say to me that they assumed I was seeing someone and that is why they didn't hit on me. News flash for men: *If you don't see a ring, go for it! Ask and you could very well receive!* Or gosh, Einstein, how about you ask her friends if she is single? I would think it would be worse for guys to know they missed an opportunity, but apparently not.

I think I need to explain a little more about my being shy. My mom thinks that I'm unapproachable because I don't have a perma-grin on my face. I think that is silly because who does that? I'd look like an idiot. That is not to say I don't try and smile more when I'm out--I do think that "happy=approachable". Plus, going out usually puts me in a good mood anyway. But sometimes, I get smacked upside my head by the Shy Fairy. It could be because I can't think of anything good to say, I feel the need to have a warm-up session, I could have been caught off guard, I'm feeling very self conscious (this is especially true at the gym, where I never make eye contact!), the guy could be really hot, or my self-esteem that day is just a little on the low side. Whatever the reason, this happens sometimes. I completely choke. So the guy leaves thinking I'm not interested/boring/snobby. When really, I want to run after him yelling, "No, wait! Can you come back tomorrow and try it again?!" Then I go home, cry and beat my head against a wall. Just kidding. But I kinda want to.

Oh, and girls are so onto you guys about beer and football. Some girls really do like it. I love college basketball. I am starting to get into college football. Now, I may not always know what's going on, but I'm smart enough to wait until the commercials come on before asking ten questions. I do not mind watching any game/fight/man movie, because it usually means I'm allowed to fall asleep in the guy's lap if I want. As far as the beer goes, many of you know I do not drink alcohol. Ever. But I'm really big on spoiling men, so I will always be happy to get up and get you one. :) And I think it is only fair that we suffer through these sporting events, because we do drag you guys to chick flicks. Good call, XY.

I think that we can all say that men are stupid in their way (thinking below the belt) and women are stupid in their way (putting up with jerks who choke them, for example). I'm pretty sure that those women are suffering from poor self-esteem, but I wonder if men tend to think below the belt for the same reason? Do some guys feel they don't have anything else to offer? What am I saying! Men are just horny. News flash for men: *Some women are too. Very much so.* I can think of three off the top of my head. But they will remain nameless to protect the innocent. *ahem*.

But back to those women who settle or put up with crap. Guys, this is where women are stupid. But the good news is, we grow out of it when we get tired of it. And 90% of women do eventually get tired of it. Any girl who puts up with an asshole has never been really really hurt. She is stubborn and has to be burned on the stove before realizing that it's not a toy. Just be patient. She'll figure it out. (She may have to do this several times with different men, btw.) This is where it is a good strategy to "be there for her" and one of the few times when being in the Friend Zone can really pay off in the long run. With each relationship injury, she will come back stronger and smarter. And wouldn't you rather date that version?

And I'm sticking to my guns about my statement that some guys are too busy hooking up with sluts to give nice girls the time of day because they don't want to deal with being in a real relationship. I understand! Relationships are hard. But, as I said before, anything worth having is worth putting yourself at risk to obtain it. Unfortunately, the sluts still have the upper hand. I know guys will stay with women because they put out! Don't deny it, male readers! Guys have confessed this to me! Each one of you has wasted time dating (and I use the term "dating" loosely here) a girl you didn't really like as a person because she was
a) the only ninth grader who was not in the V Club
b) really great in bed
c) a warm body to snuggle with and you were lonely
d) a good cook
e) horny all the time and lived out of town so you only had to deal with her occasionally--all the good, none of the bad!
f) really drunk and hit on you

News flash for men: *Choices b)-f) apply to lots of nice, attractive girls! And without drama! And sometimes we are funny and smart to boot! We may even be someone good to introduce to your mom! Give us a chance. Relationships might actually be fun. What a concept.* But I'm picking on you guys. I am not a man hater by any means. Quite the contrary. I think men are generally very funny and sweet and easy to be around. I am a man fan. Plus, I really like ogling you at the gym--watching guys do pull-ups is my porn. That is so hot....[VB daydreams for a moment...]

Oh, and before anyone makes a comment about this, I do give nice guys a chance! Heck, I take whatever I can get at this point! I refuse to lower my standards, but I am conscious of the "sleepers" ie, nice guys. I am much more open-minded than I used to be about this (Yes, I was burned pretty badly). But I stick to my "three strikes and you're out" policy.

And I don't think Italian women are any competition at all (that is not to say that XX isn't ravishing, because she is definitely a hottie!!). I don't see any woman as competition. To me, it's apples and oranges. Somewhere, there is a guy who is looking for me. Not Cindy Crawford, not Tyra Banks, not Pamela Anderson. Me. Just me. And when he meets me, he will think, "Oh my God. She totally does it for me. All other women are suddenly invisible." Do models and prettier girls lower my self-esteem? Sure. But only for about 5 seconds because I know that she deserves to be happy as much as I do and she doesn't hold the same cards as I do. Some of hers are probably better, like her size 4 jeans, but I'm sure I have some card she envies, too. So who wins? It doesn't really matter because we aren't trying to win the same hands. Those girls are looking for totally different jackpots. (How's that for a metaphor?!)

I'm looking forward to Team Richardson's next podcast on Columbia Chatterbox. I like the "If you can only afford Wal-Mart, why are you shopping at Saks?" question. I think a lot of guys and girls do this. Heck, look at the drunk/older/redneck guys that talk to me. You have to date in your league. Otherwise you are just setting yourself up for disappointment.

So far, few agree with me, but I don't think this town has much to offer in the way of a large pool of datees. I get a lot of, "Oh, I know a great guy for you! But he lives in Superfar Town." Thanks, but that doesn't help. I don't do long distance. I think there are a lot of married couples in Columbia, although there are pockets of singles. I have met many of them. I looked through match.com and found that I've already "e-met" just about everyone on there I care to. Like the natives of Easter Island, I have used all my natural resources, leaving me with an uninhabitable environment, full of little besides mysterious men and unanswered questions. Which is why, like they did, I've been thinking seriously of moving to a bigger island, ie, Richmond, Va. I have heard they have a truckload of singles there. I know, I only need one hot awesome single guy, but towns like that only improve my odds! I'm reaching for my paddle...in the hopes of discovering some coconuts...ha ha. I'm such a perv.

Oh, and for the record, I'm not looking for men in bars. I'm looking for men everywhere I go all day long. Duh! :) I go to bookstores and parks like I said. I check out guys at bars, the mall, the bank, the grocery store, at football games, at stoplights and at the gym. And there are a surprising number of hotties at my Wal-Mart...(I can't wait to see how this plays into your metaphor!) There must be an underground cavern of men nearby!

And with that, I will leave you to ponder and reply...

The Match, part 1

I do not pick the wrong guys. They pick me. -- Carrie Bradshaw, SATC

To which Miranda replies, "So, what, you're like a flystrip for dysfunctional men?" To which I say, "Yes! This is so true! And Match only confirms this statement!" I thought the bars were bad with their slightly-too-old-for-me drunk redneck guys, but the urban adventure which is Match.com really brought the freaks out of the woodwork.

I have been reading some other blogs [see sidebar] and the topic of online dating comes up on occasion. I would like to contribute to the discussion. But first, some of my personal experiences...

• Foot Fetish Guy-- a self-described "foot fetisher" and lover of "pale-skinned women", his picture was taken in approximately 1986 since the photo appears to be his entry into the New Kids on the Block try-outs. Denim shirt (opened to expose 'physique'), slight mullet, one foot propped up on something, cheesy grin...he looked like Rambo's gay brother. His email to me talked about rubbing my long, pale feet no less than three times. Did I mention he lives three states away? (Thank God!)
• Various old guys-- Ranging in ages, one as old as--get this--71. What 71 year old is even computer literate, let alone horny? These perverts get the standard "dirty old man reply" : Maybe you should try emailing my mother since she is closer in age to you, sicko! (and is it just me, or is a perverted screen name a dead giveaway that it's an old guy? do they think chicks dig horny old men?)
  
• Not Really Ready Yet Guy-- His entire profile was one long rant about his bitterness towards women, his ex and Match. It was hilarious, but that doesn't mean I want to get with someone with so much anger.
• Lecture Invite Guy -- truly a mystery. His emails were never real actual emails, but invites to various lectures around town. They read like mass-invites because he never even mentioned me or asked me any questions. I think he just wanted young women to go to these lectures so that he would have some eye candy or something. Some of them I actually would have gone to, since I'm a geek like that, but I feared meeting this 55 year-old face-to-face. I blocked him and notified Match.
• Kind-of-Sad Guy -- If he weren't so strange, I would feel bad about mentioning this guy. He is deaf, which is sad, but he cannot spell or communicate using common English grammar for s--t. It is to the point that his profile is basically unintelligible. Seriously, either get a proof-reader or resign yourself to only dating girls who can't read. But the wierd thing is, homeboy has about 45 pictures on his profile. No joke. Now, everyone who has a big hobby is cool in my book. And just about every contact is flattering. Even if they are...wierd. Each one of his pictures were of him doing tae kwon do. Ok, that's cool. But towards the end, they showed him doing tae kwon do while wearing various costumes...like Star Trek, ninja, etc. The weirdest one was him sitting on a horse wearing a full armor suit. Like as in, Sir Galahad or something. Methinks the lad doth take one too many wollups in ye head...
  
• The Why-Do-You-Think-This-Could-Happen People-- one lived in England, one lived in Korea, one was still married, one was a woman (who was "finally ready to explore"), one lived in Florida but was in my town one day per month, one was 18, one was obviously not out of the closet yet, one still lived with his mother and one was unemployed. (I'm sorry, but I don't think it's too much to ask that they be gainfully employed! But I guess he's honest, right?)

Although, nothing comes close to the number of people to whom I just want to reply, "RTFP!" ("read the friggin' profile!") What part of I'm looking for a man between the ages of 26-36 who lives within 50 miles of Columbia, SC who has a job and a college degree is vague or up for debate? I mean, do I really have to add: Yes, I really do mean men only. No, I do not like it when someone gets his jollies while rubbing my left foot. Yes, I do mean full-time employment. And your little quickie-mart night shift doesn't count. If you are living with mom, call me when you move out. If you are still married, what are you doing reading this right now? No, 26-36 does not mean "26-You're Only as Old as You Feel" or "26-I Know You Said 36, But I make a lot of money and want to spend it all on you."

The only logical explanations are that they simply don't read my profile or think they can change my mind. Both explanations are insulting. So I don't respond, and then they send me one of those "Gosh! The least you can do is reply and tell me you aren't interested!" emails. To which I want to reply, "Gosh, the least you can do is RTFP! It's there for a reason, f--ktard!" And then all the great, cute, smart and funny guys think women have attitudes. Can you blame us????

Right now you are saying, "Oh, they can't all be that bad!" Oh, yes they can. Here are my dates so far:

Date #1-- Nice guy, but his photo showed him having a full head of hair. (Some girls are ok w/baldness, I'm not one of them. I don't care if they get that way one day down the road, but I don't start w/bald. There are a few exceptions. I said few.)

Date #2--Another nice guy, and I really would have liked it to work out, but he was a horrible kisser. And clingy. Both are instant deal-breakers for me as I see these as "unfixables". Not to mention awkward topics to bring up. Next!

Date #3--No. Spark. Bor....ing.

Date #4 and #5--Dr. Seuss and Small World Guy (See previous post)

Upcoming--Danger Dan and Cute T. (I hope, I hope, I hope he is one of those cute, smart, funny guys....!)

Can anyone tell me the average number of dates you have to go on before actually meeting your match? Because right now, the thought of going on another blind date makes me want to vomit. Match should keep track of statistics like this and give me little pep talk emails like, "Hang in there! Only 3 more awful dates until statistics show you will meet your next boyfriend!"

Until then, I will be checking my winks...