Category Archives: boredom

Are these my only two options?

Before we get started – it is sj’s birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SJ! You make every day better by being in my life, and I am so grateful to know you and to count you as one of my most favorite people. I hope your day is amazing and your year ahead is the best yet! Everyone be sure to tell sj happy birthday!

Here is a pirate cake for your birthday, sj. ARGHHHHH.

I was talking to a friend the other day, and we were discussing those “would you rather” questions. You know those questions, right? Like, “would you rather eat nothing but sandwiches or popsicles for the whole rest of your life?” (That’s obviously a terrible example, you have to pick sandwiches, if you pick popsicles you would die of malnutrition so there’s really no choice, even though POPSICLES ARE DELICIOUS.) She brought up a good one, that actually is something I’ve thought of before – I’ll talk about it at the end, though, because it’s actually really good, and it’s a good note to end on. 

Anyway, so I was like, huh, I wonder if the interwebs has a million “would you rathers” for me to play with because I’m bored as shit at work today? And the answer is YES THEY DO. So let’s play would you rather today! You can play along. Just see how your answers match up with mine, I guess, I don’t know what the hell. 

Oh, you want rules? What, have you been living under a rock? FINE, the rules are you get a scenario and you have to pick one or the other. You can’t say “neither.” You can have time to think about it and you can puzzle it out or whatever, but there’s no abstaining. It’s one or the other. You don’t get further options, either. THIS IS IT. Them’s the rules, buckaroo, I didn’t make ‘em. Everyone knows the rules of would you rather. I guess maybe dirty hippies don’t, I don’t know. Maybe you’re a dirty hippie, I don’t know your life. 

Here, we’ll warm up with an easy one. 

Would you rather give up your computer forever or your TV forever? 

Duh, you obviously pick your TV. Because with your computer, you can watch all your programs via Hulu or pirating (arr) or whatever, but unless you’ve got that fancy-expensive (and seemingly difficult to use) Web TV garbage, you can’t surf the web on your television. 

All warmed up? Good.  

Would you rather always have to say everything on your mind or never speak again? 

Never speak again. I’d be fine with that. This doesn’t say I can’t type, so I could still blog/email/Twitter, so I could still communicate. Plus, no one wants to hear everything that’s on my mind. NO ONE. Trust me on that. There’s a lot of shit in there that needs to stay where it belongs. Locked down. Tight tight tight. Key thrown away. I’m not even kidding. It’s a dark and twisty place, that brain of mine. My SECRETS even have secrets. 

Would you rather be able to hear any conversation or take back anything you say? 

I’ll take takebacksies. Because I don’t want to hear any conversation. I’m a big proponent of “this is not my business.” And if it’s not my business, I butt right the hell out. I don’t snoop (Facebook stalking DOES NOT COUNT, I mean in real life) and I don’t listen at the cracks and I don’t try to peek at things I’m not supposed to see. Because twice I’ve purposely done that, and both times I found out such terrible things that I was depressed and upset for MONTHS. And who wants to invite things like that into their lives? No one does, that’s who. So I mind my own, and it infuriates me when others don’t mind their own. Privacy is underrated in this world. (I don’t count social media or the internet. It’s your own damn fault if you put something up on the internet. You put it there, that’s there for all to see, dummy.) Also, I say a lot of stupid things. I’d like to take them back, if given the opportunity. 

Would you rather be able to stop time or fly? 


This reminds me of one of these a boy I used to love (sigh) asked me once. “Tail or wings?” he said. I was all, “whaaa?” and he was like, “you have to choose one, do you choose a tail, or wings?” I obviously chose wings, but he was like, “Nope, tail, because then people know what mood you’re in without asking.” Heh. I just lurved him to bits, that one. Redhead. Southern accent. Swoooon. 

Anyway, in this case, stop time. Because then you could stop time right before accidents, and if you were having a really good time you could prolong it, and if you needed more time to get ready (or, sigh, sleep) you could have it. I don’t care so much about flying, whatever. Birds are assholes and would just peck you and shit on you anyway. 

Would you rather be rich and ugly, or poor and good looking? 

Rich and ugly, OBVS. Who cares what I look like? I’ve got all the money. I can hide all beauty-and-the-beast-style in my mega-library if I want. I don’t give two shits for appearances but I sure would like to be able to pay my bills AND get groceries every month. 

Would you rather be stranded on an island alone or with someone you hate? 

Wilson? Wilson? WILSOONNNNNN!

Alone. I hate people. I’d honestly even choose alone over someone I LIKED, because you’d start to hate someone you liked if you were in constant contact with them with no one else or no technology to be a buffer 24/7/365, I think. So your friendship or romance or whatever would be in the crapper AND you’d be on a desert island (SIDE NOTE one time? I knew this guy who always wrote “desert” as “dessert” so he would have written that sentence “dessert island,” so, hee! and, yum!) so who would you complain to, the palm trees? The seagulls? This island is the worst, I’d rather be alone. 

Would you rather eat a stick of butter or a gallon of ice cream? 

Oh, shit, I just realized – this is a HALF-gallon of ice cream. I take it back. I could barely eat this, I could never eat a gallon of ice cream. Never mind.

Um. People DON’T eat gallons of ice cream? I could totally eat a gallon of ice cream. I mean, I’d have to take breaks in between and like walk around or something, maybe put on a sweater, watch some television, I don’t know, but I don’t even think it would be all that taxing on me.  

Would you rather end hunger or hatred? 

I adore this movie. Does that make me a dirty hippie?

Hatred. Because if you end hatred, then I think people would work harder to end hunger, and both problems would be solved. 

Would you rather find true love or 10 million dollars? 

Twue wuv.

Ugh, this one’s tough. Probably love. I KNOW! Money’s all super-important and shit. But this doesn’t say I have to live like a pauper with my true love, just that I can have either ten million or true love. So probably I can have my true love and live like a normal human, or ten million and…um…random sex with random people, I guess. I take the love. I’m used to not having money, and love would be nice. I know, you’re all surprised I was so squishy on this one. I’m broken, but I still would like to fall in love someday, come on, people. 

Would you rather have a kangaroo or koala as your pet? 

So sleepy, aw! Dumbcat would love him.

A koala. I know they’re supposed to be all vicious (or is that pandas? I forget), but at least they’re small. Kangaroos are bigger and where would you keep it? I have a very small apartment. I could keep a koala under my bathroom vanity if I wanted. A kangaroo would need like a pen or a backyard or some such nonsense. I don’t have those things. 

Would you rather forget who you were or who everyone else was? 

This doesn’t make a lot of sense. I assume, by the wording, if I forget who I am, I know who everyone else is? That doesn’t logically compute, because if I know who everyone else is, don’t I know who they are in relation to me? Or am I just like, “That is Bob, he is a man who lives on Main Street and has three daughters HOW DO I KNOW THIS????” And if I forget who everyone else is, and they know who I am, they could talk to me and we could, I assume, start our friendship all over again, right? Are the memories I made with those people gone? So is my life like a void? Good gracious. 

I’m going to have to say, forgetting who everyone else is is probably the better option, because then I can at least function, and the people who are worthwhile would stick it out with me and would still be amnesiac-me’s friend. I think. The people who had friend-ADD would be like, “BORED NOW” and take off. So I guess I’d know who my real friends are? 

Oh, yeah, back to the beginning LIKE A FULL CIRCLE. Who says I can’t write. So the “would you rather” that started this whole thing was this: let’s say you have a daughter. Your daughter can be one of two things: a terrible bully, or terribly bullied. Which do you choose?  

It’s actually come to mind for me before, because it’s on my list of “reasons I’d be a terrible parent.” I couldn’t imagine parenting a girl for this very reason. If she came home bullied, I’d at least have the tools in my skillset to help her deal with that, even if it killed me to watch her go through that. But if she came home a bully? How would I deal with that? I have no idea. It would be like living with the enemy. I don’t know how I’d be able to handle it. 

But to answer the question. First, I was like, of course I think I’d choose to parent the bully. As painful as it would be for me, at least I wouldn’t have a child who was going through what I went through. So I was all, I saved my hypothetical child! Then I thought, NO, I am damning OTHER hypothetical children to being bullied by my child. Multiple hypothetical children! That is worse! That is so much worse! But if I was the parent of a bully, could I maybe make her stop? Could I get her help, counseling, teach her that it wasn’t ok? 

My final answer, with apologies to my hypothetical and no no no never female offspring, is that I choose to parent the bullied child. At least I know how to deal with that, and at least I’m not foisting a bully off onto the populace to crush other children’s spirits. Sorry, non-existent hypothetical child, for wishing pain upon you. It’s for the greater good. I martyred you before I even had you. 

Shit, I totally want popsicles now, even though they’re not nutritionally sound. DAMN YOU POWER OF SUGGESTION.

Shut your mouth; try not to panic. Just shut your mouth, if you can do it.

Here we are and it’s the weekend. Listen, has it been the longest week for everyone else, too? No? Just me? GRAND. 

I’ve been having multiple run-ins with hard-to-deal-with people lately. You know the type. They start talking and you IMMEDIATELY want to stab a letter opener in either their mouth hole or your ear hole just to make it stop. Or they send you email and you see their name pop up on your screen and you just want to weep because you know it’s going to make you have to deal with nonsense on a scale not yet even imagined. Or you see them coming and you start scoping out the exits, the hiding places, and running though your list of excuses for escape in your mind. Have you used gallbladder inflammation recently? How about the gout. WILL THEY BUY IT IF YOU SAY YOU HAVE THE GOUT? 

Then I thought, you know, I can’t be alone in this. I see a lot of examples on Facebook and on Twitter and hear from people the complaints of “ZOMGGGGGG I hate this person or that person” or whatever. Most people don’t say they want to stab them in the mouth hole with a letter opener, though. I’m just a little more open about my emotions. Or maybe insane. OR BOTH. 

So today, FOR YOU, and also a little for me, (FINE MOSTLY FOR ME) I did some research on how best to deal with people that make you want to get stab-stab-stabalicious with office supplies. I think this will all benefit us in the long run, don’t you? YES IT WILL. 

Here is an article with ten tips for dealing with annoying people. Now first, I looked up “how to deal with DIFFICULT people” and was NOT pleased with the results. Because apparently, “difficult” people is not the SAME as “annoying” people. “Difficult” people is people who, I don’t know, make you work too hard or something. “Annoying” people are the letter-opener-mouth-hole-stabbees. Good to know. I like to be precise. 

I liked this article because it started with a Jean-Paul Sartre quote about hell being other people. I am TOTALLY DOWN WITH THAT. Other people are totally hellacious. Also the website is Bloomlife Design. BLOOMLIFE. Doesn’t that sound calming and restful like green tea and calm breezes? Totally does. 

So this woman (whose name is ALSO Amy, nice) tells us that we should: 

Remember we are not mind-readers. What? I’m NOT? No, I KID, this is actually kind of awesome. She says that we tend to make up stories in our minds as to WHY the annoying person is acting the way they do. And then we react, based on the imaginary story we’ve concocted. ZOMG, Also Amy! I totally do this ALL THE TIME! For example: a very annoying person I know who never shuts his big yapper so you are caught in these 17 million year long conversations that could be finished in only five minutes if he would SHUT HIS YAPPER? I’ve decided he is lonely, pathetic and sad, and no one loves him or will talk to him, therefore he gloms onto ANY SOCIAL INTERACTION HE CAN FIND and then SPINS IT OUT AS LONG AS HE IS ABLE. Now, do I KNOW he is unlovable, sad, and pathetic? Nope. Made that story up in my head. No idea, really. Just gleaned that from MULTIPLE INTERMINABLE CONVERSATIONS with him. So maybe the next time I talk to him (or am “sucked into a black hole of conversation,” as I like to call it) I should go into it thinking, “This is a person with a LIVELY SOCIAL LIFE! And he has DEIGNED to STOOP to TALK to LITTLE OLD ME!!!!” I think this will make these conversations, which, up until now, are on an enjoyment level akin to being drawn and quartered, SO MUCH BETTER. What. It will. It will, right? 

Stop and breathe. OK, let’s continue on with Mr. Shut Your Yapper. The next time he starts talking, I’m going to just start breathing. Heavily. Panting, almost. Like I’m doing Lamaze. If nothing else, it might scare him off. THESE ARE EXCELLENT TIPS SO FAR. Let’s keep this up, Other Amy! 

Ask yourself, “how is this person reflecting my shadow?” I know, this sounds like annoying dirty hippie crap, right? According to Other Amy, this means we should realize that what annoys us most about the other person is that they’re just doing something WE OURSELVES OFTEN DO. I kind of take exception to this. I NEVER trap people in conversations they don’t want to be in. Because I hate people and don’t want to talk to them. Usually, my conversations are thus: “Here. A thing. You know what to do with it? Good. Problems? Find me. Thanks.” Then I wander off. I mean, if I LOVE you, then I probably talk your ear off. But you’d want me to, if we were friends. Wouldn’t you? Because I’m the most fun and totally scintillating. So I’m pretty sure Mr. Shut Your Yapper doesn’t have my shadow. Unless this is a Peter Pan situation and he STOLE my shadow. If that’s the case, he’d better give that shit back. I don’t like petty thievery. 

Take your own advice! This one is confusing, because it’s telling us not to give people advice. I NEVER give Mr. Shut Your Yapper advice. Why would I do that? It would make our conversation LONGER. Mostly I just nod. And eye the exits seductively. Oh, wait, I just re-read this. It says to think about what advice you’d give the person, then give that advice to YOURSELF. OK, the advice I’d give to Yappy McYapYap is to SHUT  HIS BIG YAPPER and also CONSOLIDATE HIS INFO INTO SMALLER CHUNKS and STOP BOTHERING PEOPLE. Also maybe notice the trapped look in his audience’s eyes when he has buttonholed them into conversations. Buttonholed? Is that right? That doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s cornholed. Yep, I’m pretty sure he cornholes people into conversations. Now I feel better. Again, as noted above, my conversations in real life are usually terse, as I hate people. Wait, am I supposed to use this information HERE? On my BLOG? I refuse to accept that. That would just make me the saddest. Here is where I blather. I LOVE TO BLATHER HERE. I won’t take that advice, Other Amy. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. 

Stop writing a script for other people. This is smart: it says if people don’t react the way you expect them to, you shouldn’t get upset by it, because it’s not their fault; they don’t know that you expect them to act a certain way, and it’s not fair of you to expect people to act a certain way, anyway. So I SUPPOSE I don’t get to expect Mr. Shut Your Yapper to STOP WASTING MY DAMN TIME and LET ME GO HOME NOW. I guess it’s too much to ask to expect people to have a clue. That’s sad, but I suppose it’s true. I’d be the best at writing a script, though. Let’s just be clear about that. It would have INTRIGUE and SUSPENSE and MANY PLOT TWISTS. 

Realize when you’re annoyed, you’re annoying. I AM? I don’t think that’s the case. I think I’m PISSED when I’m annoyed. I think I’m RANTY when I’m annoyed. I think I’m sometimes even FURIOUS when I’m annoyed. ANNOYING is a whole different ballgame, now isn’t it? Annoying is when I’m giggly and everything cracks me up when you’re trying to tell me a serious thing like “Aunt Judy fell in a well” or something. Annoying is when I’m exhausted and I keep yawning when you’re trying to get me to pay attention. Annoying is when I can’t stay on topic in a story or say “totally” or “OMG!!!!” way too much in one conversation. When I’m ANNOYED, I’m not ANNOYING. I think the two can be mutually exclusive. 

Ask yourself, “How do I benefit by continuing to be so annoyed?” Ugh, this kind of hippie-dippie granola shit makes me INSANE. I do NOT benefit. I do NOT want to be annoyed. However. HOWEVER. Mr. Shut Your Yapper WILL NOT SHUT HIS YAPPER. How can I NOT be annoyed by this? Frankly, I was hoping this list would be a little more helpful. I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have anger management issues that would be best treated by a professional. Or if I don’t need a hired assassin to take care of this situation. OH IF ONLY I KNEW A HIRED ASSASSIN. 

Find your tribe. This is nice. Apparently, there are people who spend all day and all night trying to win over the entire world, when they should just find their tribe because those people will NOT need winning over and will just love them. AW YOU GUYS. I TOTALLY have my tribe. Even BETTER, I have MULTIPLE EFFING TRIBES. I have FAMILY tribe and I have THEATER tribe and I have TWITTER tribe and I have BLOG tribe and I have IRL FRIENDS tribe. That’s five tribes. There’s even SPILLOVER from some tribes into other tribes. I’m totally a tribe ho. I guess Rush Limbaugh was right about my sluttishness. I’m not attempting to win anyone over because I am pretty honey badger about that shit at this point in my life. I mean, sure. Is it nice to be liked? Yep. But after an attempt or two that gets rebuffed, I’m like the wind. JUST LIKE THAT PATRICK SWAYZE SONG. I don’t have time for haters right now. I dealt with that for years. I’m not doing it anymore. If you don’t like me, that’s really totally on you. But I don’t need to be around your negative energy, and I don’t have to kill myself trying to win your negative ass over. So I’m outta here, Sally. Go be a complete bitchface on someone else’s watch. I GOTS ME FIVE TRIBES YO. 

Say no when you mean no. OH HELL YES. I really have to get better at this. I have one thing I’m really into right now. It’s all I want to do. But I keep saying yes to ALL THE OTHER THINGS. And they take time away from the one thing I WANT to be doing. Because listen, I like the other things, I do, very much, but they are TIME CONSUMING and also they bring unnecessary people, like Mr. Shut Your Yapper, into my talking space. You know who I want in my talking space? Dumbcat. The Nephew, if he’s visiting. Because other people in my talking space MAKE IT VERY HARD FOR ME TO DO THE THINGS I WANT TO BE DOING. I need to start saying no, and I need to start saying it LOUDER and MEANING IT THIS TIME. 

Remember, others cannot read your mind. What? They can’t? Oh, shit, and here I thought I was all magically projecting my thoughts like a boss. Eff. Here’s the thing. I’m not ASKING that Mr. Shut Your Yapper read my mind. Because I have ASKED him to stop it. Well, I haven’t flat-out said, “Mr. Shut Your Yapper, why don’t you shut that flapping yapper before I stab you with this here letter opener,” but I’ve asked, nicely, in a NUMBER of ways, for him to go to others with his multitudinous issues/problems/complaints/venting sessions/mouthhole flappery. I mean, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. No, that’s not true, I don’t give two good shits about his feelings. But without saying too much, it would be against my better interest to piss this guy off to the point he leaves, because his positives outweigh his negatives. Only by the TINIEST BITTIEST BIT, but they do. No, I’m not asking Mr. Shut Your Yapper to read my damn mind. But how about he picks up some cues, both body-languagey and facial-expressiony? Or actually pays attention when I give him options of other people that might be more helpful than I would? 

I don’t know how overly helpful this website was. It wasn’t the worst thing. But it didn’t magically make Mr. Shut Your Yapper disappear, either. DAMMIT. I was so hoping it would.

So it’s letter openers, hired assassins, or anger management, I guess? Listen, I don’t really have time for all of these things, I’m a busy lady.


Or, man, do I EVER feel a flareup of that GOUT coming on. WHOO THE GOUT. 


It gave “laundry day, see you there” a WHOLE NEW MEANING.

Time for another edition of RANDOM CRAP FRIDAY! I know, you’re all totally the most excited. Try to calm down, that’s not good for your blood pressure, seriously. Deep, cleansing breaths. Breathe in blue, breathe out red. There you go. Doesn’t that feel better? Thought so.

Baby, you can drive my car. No, seriously. You can. I’ll let you. Please do. It’ll probably break down, though.

So you know how the car was all “I AM A BUCKING BRONCO OF BROKENNESS” on Monday? Dad fixed it (spark plugs. No, seriously. SPARK PLUGS. Something was wrong with the spark plugs. I know nothing about cars, as I have mentioned – I know they go, sometimes, when you press the gas pedal – but was not aware that something as miniscule as a spark plug could almost kill you. How bizarre) and yesterday met me at work to switch cars with me and take his car home. I was super-excited, let me tell you. Because yes, it was very nice of him to let me use his car? But his car has some things I do not love. Like, the seatbelt sticks and I kept smashing my fingers trying to escape and I felt like I was going to strangle to death and die, and the trunk only opened if you popped it with a popper-thingy in the glove compartment, but the glove compartment didn’t always open so you felt like weeping because the trunk was holding your laundry hostage, and the rear defrost kind of took a year to do anything.

I love my car. It’s kind of no-frills, but it’s reliable and it gets good mileage and it doesn’t often die on the side of the road. My last car had all the bells and whistles (CD player! A thingamabobby that told you the weather outside and the wind direction and was SO TOTALLY FANCY!) but also broke down ALL THE TIME. So this one’s good.

This morning, I was not timely for work. At all. I kind of got sucked into Twitter? This happens, sometimes. I can’t help it. Twitter’s like this black hole of time suck. I mean, I love it so much, but it sucks me in and I look up and I’m all HOT DAMN BUT IT’S SO EFFING LATE. So I ran out to the car and got in and shut the door and whoa, what’s this? Door didn’t shut. Must not have slammed it hard enough. Which is unlike me – I’m a total bam-bam of slamming doors, and, well, everything, really, I told someone this weekend, and meant it, “I don’t think I own too many things that aren’t broken in some fashion” – but I slammed it again. Didn’t shut. Swung right back open like a haunted house door. Well, without the creaking. Or the ghosts.

So what’s a person to do? You can’t drive it to the garage like that. And AAA is for battery jumps and tows, not mysterious doors that won’t close. Also, today, I’m the only person in my office who can answer the phones. All the other trained receptionists took the day off. So it’s just me, and if I didn’t get in? My boss was going to be all red-faced indignant. Also, it was snowing. And the car door wouldn’t close. So all snow was getting in my car. THIS WAS VERY DISCONCERTING.

So I called work and left a very meek “I’m a silly GIRL! I don’t know about CAR DOORS!” message that made my ovaries shrivel up and die but sometimes you have to play the game so you don’t get fired, and called AAA (mindful the whole time of the last time I dealt with them and almost peed my pants and also died on the side of the road waiting for them to arrive) and explained the situation, and they were skeptical they could help, but said they’d send someone over. I got a very panicked call from the head of marketing who was assigned phone duty until I could get to work (“HOW DO I ANSWER A PHONE?” Yeah, try to talk someone through a multi-line phone system over the phone sometime, it’s a hoot, it’s like explaining the inner workings of the internet to an aborigine, it’s not something I’d recommend) and then AAA called. “I’m outside,” he said. Well, this was promising. It was only 18 minutes into the 20 minute ETA! Apparently, local AAA = better than the AAA in the boonies where I broke down last time!

So I went downstairs and the driver was at my car and THE DOOR WAS CLOSED. I seriously almost started weeping in the parking lot.

“You fixed it? Already?” I asked. He looked at me like I was insane. I’m thinking probably I had crazy eyes on display. It’s been a long week, seriously, what with the grippe, and the car breakdown, and the cat, and the holidays, and various and sundry other concerns.

“Yep. Here, let me show you how to fix it yourself, if this happens again.” I kind of wanted to make out with him for that, if he hadn’t been, you know, some stranger. And also if I hadn’t been late for work, and all. So now I can fix my door ALL BY MYSELF if it happens again. If I wasn’t going to renew my AAA membership because of the complete and total FUBAR situation earlier in the week, this guy made sure I would, let me tell you right now. WINNER, guy who fixed my door and then showed me how to fix it myself in the future.

So now I am at work, and I’m only in a LITTLE trouble, because I acted very “silly girl hee hee hee I’m so SORRY! And so UPSET! And so SMALL!” (this only made me die INSIDE, so I suppose that’s fine, no one can see that part) when I got here, and all is well, chickadees.

Elementary, my dear Watson

So on Sunday, the second season of BBC’s Sherlock premieres. You know what that means, right?


That’s really all I have to say about that, other than, you totally need to watch, if you’re not watching. It’s amazing and brilliant and wonderful, and this is coming from someone who’s not even that big of a Sherlock Holmes or mystery fan. Also, BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH. I’m seriously naming my next pet Benedict Cumberbatch. I hope my next pet is an iguana. That would be a great name for an iguana, right? Even though I don’t really want an iguana, because once when I worked at a pet store we had an iguana and that sucker was mean as shit.

Being a celebrity is a lot less fun and a lot more looking over one’s shoulder than anticipated

So I’ll go into more detail next month, but you know how I can see what search terms bring people to my blog? Um. OK. Either someone REALLY wants to be highlighted in next month’s post about search terms, or I totally have a stalker who wants me to make out with them, bendily. Or maybe wear my skin as a cape.

Dear stalker who is putting search terms into search engines like “Is Amy from Lucy’s Football willing to kiss or bend with any yahoo” and “Is Amy from Lucy’s Football single and willing to kiss strangers” and “Is Amy from Lucy’s Football dating Ding Dong Joe”: Um. OK. Well, if you’re trying to be funny and get in the stats post, you win, I’ll mention you at the end of January. If you’re actually ASKING these questions? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

@lgalaviz says this is the price I have to pay for being a celebrity now. Well! That’s exciting. I’ve always wanted to be a celebrity. I have my Academy Award acceptance speech all practiced out in front of a mirror and EVERYTHING. It is AWESOME.

For the record: yes, I am single. No, I am not willing to kiss or bend with strangers. Or even people I know, for the most part. Personal space issues. Also, I don’t know anyone named Ding Dong Joe, but I’m waiting for him to arrive, because I’m pretty sure that, because he can’t keep his pants on, it’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight once he arrives.

Oh, and here’s a story. It’s mildly perverted. One time? In grad school? I made out with this guy who was kind of a stranger. Well, he was a friend of a friend of a friend. I don’t remember his name. I think I’d been drinking a little. I think it started with C. Chris? Christian? Clark? Whatever. And we were making out, but like, barely making out? I mean, kissing, but not even any groping. It was totally PG-13 making out. Plus, he was kind of a bro, and a little greasy. I don’t really dig bros, and proper hygiene is really a must. I think I was bored. I used to make out with people when I was bored, sometimes, when I didn’t have a book to read. And then it was time for me to leave, because my ride was leaving. So I was all, “See you later, Clark or Chris or whatever.” And he was all, “let me show you something in the laundry room.” And I thought, “this is odd, are we going to do a load of whites or something? It’s like 1am, this is not really a good time for laundry” but I went in the laundry room. And he then DROPPED HIS PANTS and was all, “YOU CAN’T LEAVE UNTIL YOU TAKE CARE OF THIS LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME.”

My response? I laughed until I choked, told him that’s what God gave him a left hand for, and walked out. Seriously, it was PG-13 making out. I don’t even think he went for second BASE, you guys. What the hell?

This is why making out with strangers is a bad idea. They drop their pants in the laundry room when you are all unawares.

Oh, and whenever I saw Clark or Chris or whatever in the future after that he totally gave me a death glare. Sorry, Clark or Chris or whatever. Best of all things to you and your pants-droppy assumption-makin’ self.

That kind of went off topic. Stalker! If you’re trying to be funny, well, it’s not, really. If you’re trying to be a stalker – nice job, well done, you can stop now, thanks. I totally have pepper spray and a really, really shitty attitude.

One Ringy-Dingy, Two Ringy-Dingy

So as mentioned earlier, I’m playing receptionist this week. That’s fine, whatever, I hate it but it’s only a couple times a year I have to take over the reception desk. This week, however, is the WORST.

It’s the end of the year, and I work in an accountant’s office. So everyone calling is all “ZOMGGGGG, I have to get my AFFAIRS in ORDER the YEAR she is ENDING.” And that’s fine, whatever, I think you might have done this a little earlier? But that’s just me, I’m a planner. Here’s the thing, though. NO ONE IS HERE. There are like 7 employees in the office this week. Most of us are lower-level employees who are not able to answer questions that are as detailed as these people are asking.


And who are they pissed at? The answer is, the receptionist. Because, obviously, it is MY fault that these people are on vacation. Or, maybe I’m lying. I might, in fact, have them under my desk, and be all “shh, Jane Doe is on the phone for you, Jimmy Joe Johnson, don’t say anything, I’ll say you’re on VACATION! Hee hee hee!”

Listen, here’s a tip, from me to you. The receptionist isn’t lying. The receptionist, odds are good, hates her job, hates being there, hates talking to you, and wants to get you off the phone, but probably is telling you the truth. It’s the week between Christmas and New Year. It’s a dead week. No one is ever around that week. So stop yelling at her. She has the grippe, seriously, what kind of asshole yells at someone with the grippe?

OK, there. RANDOM CRAP FRIDAY. One more day and this year is KICKED, you guys. Can you even imagine? 2012. That is all KINDS of exciting. I like even years. They are invariably nicer than odd ones. Although I have to say, 2011 was a good one, overall. So maybe my data is flawed.

‘til tomorrow, my little wild Irish roses!

Bored Now

I am a fairly intelligent woman; not to toot my own horn (eh, who am I kidding, HONK) I was the valedictorian of my high school, did fairly well in college once I realized it wasn’t the smartest idea to stay up all night drinking, and still keep up on current events, read, and do generally nerdy things for fun. I like researching things. I make pie charts and find it enjoyable. I collect obscure grammar rules like shiny river stones. I have a necklace of an antique semicolon typewriter key.

But there are certain things that I cannot wrap my head around. I don’t know if it’s my adult onset ADD (which, listen, IS A THING! A friend informs me it is ACTUALLY A THING! I have been joking that I have this but it’s a real, live thing, not something I made up to explain why I can’t pay attention in boring office meetings! So of course now that I know it’s real I’m convinced I have it, like every obscure disease in the world. I’m very often most likely dying of whatever I’ve heard of most recently, if you haven’t guessed) or the way my brain is wired or that these things are deathly boring or what, but there are certain topics that can guarantee my eyes will glaze over and I will go into a boredom coma faster than my nephew will move onto the next toy in his gigantic Smaug-like pile of Christmas presents every December.


Ok, listen. I am the most uncoordinated person alive, as discussed many times in the past. I had to take (I am not kidding about this) remedial skipping in kindergarten. When I was in kindergarten, I would try to skip in gym class, and I kept falling down. My mother became concerned (and, seriously, wouldn’t you? That’s a little alarming. I mean, who can’t skip?) and brought me to the pediatrician. The diagnosis was (I wish I was joking about this) too much cartilage. He showed her that I was way too bendy and then bent parts of me (like my nose and my thumbs) at weird angles. He then told her I would most likely always be extremely clumsy, even when I solidified (which I have, so don’t go thinking I’m all limber, because nope), and so I got a DOCTOR’S NOTE THAT SAID I WAS EXEMPT FROM SKIPPING. No joke. So while the other kids skipped gaily in a circle around the gym, I was told to plod in a small circle in the middle of the gym. I think you can see that I’ve always been small-bus special.

I can’t do sports. I’m not good at them. I don’t understand the rules of them, and I am afraid of the ball that always seems to be rushing at my head/face/soft unprotected places/glasses. The only sports I was good at in school were volleyball (I don’t understand this, either, but I was so good at this! It’s confusing) and badminton, sort of. So the idea of watching sports on television confuses and bores me.

The only sports I can sort of get behind – I mean, I don’t want to WATCH them, or anything, but I don’t hate them – are basketball and baseball. Basketball because I used to watch it with my father as a kid, I kind of understand the rules, and I love betting on the NCAA tournament every year. Baseball because it’s the American pastime and it seems noble and I love the movie Field of Dreams.

I hate football with the fiery passion of a million suns because if a show is scheduled to run from 4-7 and it runs late, it is making my entire evening of television-watching run late and that is ANNOYING.


I say “most” because there are some political discussions I really like. Who’s going to be voted into office next. (Voting is one of my favorite things to do, ever. I would vote every DAY if I could. It makes me feel important. I know it probably matters not at all, but I feel like I have a voice when I vote. And I miss the old voting machines, which made voting a ritual. These new bubble sheets are kind of a letdown. I feel like I’m taking an unscored standardized test.) Anything having to do with people (equal rights, marriage equality, things of that nature.) How a bill becomes a law. However, take, for example, this “debt ceiling” thing that’s going on right now. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS. I know. This makes me irresponsible and a bad American. Here’s the thing. We, as Americans, we can’t do anything about this, right? Our elected officials are taking care of this (supposedly) for us? And I suppose it affects us, but the economy already sucks so hard that I can barely afford groceries or a full tank of gas, so what, is it getting worse? How much worse? Am I going to have to start prostituting myself to buy laundry detergent? Because if that’s the case I think I’m going to have really dirty clothes. I’d be the worst prostitute ever. “You want me to do WHAT? You want to put that WHERE? That’s disgusting. I’m too tired to deal with your nonsense. Go home to your wife, you sicko perv.” And there’s so much hate from all sides of the political arena right now. It’s exhausting. I mean, I have a side, I’ve picked my side, but I don’t want to fight about it all the time, you know? Debt ceiling. Start talking to me about the debt ceiling and I’m going to find something I desperately have to do elsewhere, like categorize and list my magazine collection, or something. SO BORED. And then I feel guilty about being bored. But seriously, I DON’T CARE.


I don’t have enough. Ever. And when people start talking about investments and 401(k)s and the latest cool thing they bought and retirement and whatnot I zone out. Because listen. I’m going to be working until I drop dead. I get that annual social security statement and I open the envelope and a little whiff of canned laughter drifts out at me. I’m going to be that ancient Walmart greeter you feel bad for when you’re running in to pick up tampons and she looks so confused and you think, aw, she must really love working! NO. She made BAD LIFE CHOICES and her jobs didn’t pay enough and she has to work until she drops dead at her post but not in a good, chivalrous, fantasy-realm sort of way, in a sad, pathetic, I’m-wearing-a-polyester-apron-with-my-name-on-it-and-why-won’t-I-die-faster way. I don’t want to hear about investments. They are out of the realm of my understanding and also they depress me.


Mine goes when I push the gas and stops when I push the brake. That’s the extent of my car knowledge. Oh, and I know where the windshield wiper fluid and gas go. I don’t know about makes and models and hemis and RPMs. It used to amuse my brother to no end when he’d ask, “What kind of car was it?” and I’d say, “A blue one,” and not only did I not know it was a Chevy Tahoe or whatever, IT WASN’T EVEN BLUE. I have the worst powers of observation. Does anyone remember that episode of The Facts of Life where they tested a classroom’s power of observation by having a man run in, steal someone’s purse, and run out, and then the class had to describe him, and no one got it right, they were all, “Tall? Short? Blonde? Scar across his face? Limp?” and he was none of those things? That’s me, only worse. I WOULDN’T HAVE EVEN NOTICED SOMEONE HAD RUN IN. People often ask me things like, “Hey, didn’t you notice six months ago when I’d lost fifty pounds?” or “Hey, what’s different about me?” and my answers are “Nope” and “You’re here and earlier you weren’t?” People start talking about cars and the extent of my contribution to the conversation is “Sometimes the cars I’ve had didn’t work well? But the one I have now does. I like cars that work.” (Also I like red ones. Or maybe they’re not red. I honestly couldn’t tell you.)


I do not care about clothing. I don’t like shopping for it; I don’t like picking it out; it all looks weird on me because I have the oddest body shape you’ve ever seen in your life (like, in Cosmo, they’re all “your body shape is AN APPLE or A PEAR?” Mine is IN PLACES A WATERMELON and IN PLACES A PRICKLY PEAR and IN PLACES A STARFRUIT and I can tell you straight up there are no designers making clothes for that ideal); and it costs money I don’t have to buy it. Also, I don’t know what looks good together. I mean, I have a basic idea, but mostly I stick with some sort of non-offensive top and khakis, which work year-round. I don’t understand designers; I don’t understand fashion, as a rule. Also, fashion shows. I am confused about them. So, none of the clothes that people wear in those are ever for sale, right? Because no one wears, like, a floor-length fur poncho in real life. So why do they do them? To show off? Confusing.


I watch a few of these – I’m kind of embarrassingly addicted to VH1’s lineup of reality shows (side note – I was watching an old episode of Celebrity Rehab last night, and Leif Garrett, who will always make me laugh because of that Behind the Music about him where he confronted the friend he injured that one time and cried and cried, does anyone remember that? Yes, I know, I’m totally heartless – was shown walking through the hall cussing and they were bleeping it out and he was complaining about how he couldn’t deal with anyone and everyone was annoying him and then the voice over – the very foxy Dr. Drew, did you ever SEE him in a tight t-shirt? Rawr – said “coming down from heroin makes you very testy” and I thought, whoa, if a camera followed me around they’d see THE SAME BEHAVIOR AND I CAN’T EVEN BLAME HEROIN I JUST HATE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE ANNOYS ME WHAT’S MY EXCUSE) and I like cooking reality shows and The Amazing Race and Project Runway and such (I know, you’d think not, because I don’t like fashion, but something about that show is very soothing to me.) But I don’t watch, or like, or understand, or want to discuss, Big Brother, any of those shows where someone’s going on a “journey” to find “the one,” any of those stupid dancing shows, any singing show, any of those shows about jobs like fishing or trucking, any of those horrendous trainwreck housewife shows, or anything about hoarding (I watched a few minutes of one of these once and had to take a shower NO THANK YOU.) I just don’t care. I know America loves them. And yay, America. But sooo bored, just thinking about them. And everyone always wants to discuss them with me! And everyone gets this sad-clown “what’s wrong with you?” face when I say I don’t like them! What? Why? I like scripted television, mostly. Is that wrong? To like stories people made up in their heads? Because listen, the stories I make up in my head trump my reality any day of the week. Would you all like to hear about the hour’s worth of photocopying I did this morning, or what I’m saying right now? What’s that? Neither? NO ONE’S MAKING YOU READ, CHUMP.


I don’t like being steered toward the response you want from me. This is most prevalent when you want me to give you a false compliment. I HATE GIVING THOSE. Here is an example. I…made this up. This is not about a real person. At all. Totally not.

Person who is not a real person at all: I am bad at singing.

Me: Oh?
Me: That’s too bad.
PWINARPAA: I mean, SOME people think that.
Me: Huh.
PWINARPAA: Yep. Some people say, “You are a bad singer!”
Me: Do they.
PWINARPAA: They do. They do say that. To me. About my singing.
Me: Look at that shiny thing I want to go to there.

The response this completely fictional person was fishing for was “No! You are not a bad singer! That person is a LIAR! Who SUCKS! Who would SAY THAT? ABOUT YOU?” And if this weren’t a completely fictional scenario, I’d tell you the person is the worst singer I’ve ever heard. But since it’s fictional, I mean, it’s all a moot point, right?

Listen. I can’t be bothered to prop up everyone’s egos I meet. I just can’t. It is EXHAUSTING. If you suck, part of you knows it already. Just keep quiet about it. Also, don’t compliments mean more when they aren’t prompted?

So sorry, people who’ve tried to discuss these things with me. Like I said, it could be a number of reasons why I can’t stay awake for them, or find that I have pressing business elsewhere when they come up. But here’s a rule of thumb – when a person tries, nicely, to change the subject about fifteen times, and you keep steering it back to the original one? You’re a conversation hog. And you’re annoying. And I’m either replaying a Buffy episode or the lyrics to Martha Wainwright’s Bloody Motherfucking Asshole on repeat in my head while I map out potential escape routes. My apologies. And I’m sorry to interrupt, but where’s the restroom, by the way? I’ll be right back.

(After I posted this and was wandering aimlessly around trying to avoid “working” at my “job” because “I am lazy” I realized that my lovely Mer, without my brain even realizing this, inspired this post. So I am kind of a thief. Apology sent into the blogosphere! In my defense, I didn’t fall asleep last night until late. I’d like to say it was because I had a super-hot gentleman caller or something but really I was discussing Community’s casting with friends online until the wee hours. Anyway. Her blog is well-written and always a must-read for me, so if you like things that are awesome, click on her link! She handled the topic in a classier fashion. As she handles most everything.)

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