Category Archives: letdown

This little piggy went to market…and left sadly disappointed.

Well, here I am, the last day in the condo. Tomorrow (well, today, since I’m writing this a day early, as I do, because I am PREPARED) we check out of here, get a hotel closer to the airport, and then Sunday mid-afternoon my plane whisks me back to real life. Blergh. This week’s gone by really quickly. I’ll be glad to be home, but I have enjoyed taking a break.

Much, much theater when I get home. Monday and Tuesday night: auditions for Twelfth Night, our first show of the new season. Potential read-throughs for the one-acts I’m stage managing later in the week. Seeing a play possibly Wednesday; seeing another play Saturday; house managing at my theater Sunday. Aren’t I just the most fancy? Mostly I’ll just be the most tired. And poor Dumbcat, who will be so excited to see me but I’ll never be home to see him. Aw, Dumbcat.

Today, we went to the SIXTH BEST FLEA MARKET IN THE WORLD, according to the brochure my dad brought home. Some research tells me that this was judged by the Travel Channel. I don’t recommend clicking on the link and trying to read about my flea market, though, because there’s something wrong with the text under my flea market and it’s just a repeat of the text under the flea market above it. Way to go, Travel Channel.

Anyway, here’s the website. On their website they say they’re one of the top FIVE in the country. Well, make up your MIND, flea market. Sheesh.

I was very excited about the flea market. I had GRAND PLANS. I was going to buy ALL THE THINGS. All the things = nail polish, books, jewelry, many turtle-related things, and anything else that struck my fancy. Oh, and look at all the tea for Ken. Dad said it was huge and we could walk around all day and STILL not see all the things and I’d want to buy a million things and have the best time.

We got to the flea market and it was huge. He was right. And it was right next to the Daytona Speedway. You know, in case I wanted to see car racing! (Spoiler alert: I didn’t.)

OK, you know how I can’t read maps? This place was totally a maze. And there was a map, only…well, I can’t read maps, really. I mean, I always try. I try REALLY HARD. But I think it’s kind of like a person who’s dyslexic trying to read. It just doesn’t work. It all turns around in my head and becomes squiggly lines and such. It’s a nightmare.

Oh, shit, look, it’s a THING, I have a THING. I have developmental topographical disorientation! Ok, no, not really, the article says probably I just have a poor sense of direction. But I like to pretend things are worse than they are, so I’m going to of course pretend I’ve got this insane syndrome. It’s what I do.

Anyway, against his better judgment, Dad decided to leave me alone for a couple of hours. Because he wanted to look for man-things like chainsaw blades and tiny paintbrushes and sharp cutty things. They sell such things at the flea market. So we set up a meeting place a couple of hours later and I started walked cheerily through the flea market.

About twenty minutes later I realized the following things about the flea market:

  • mostly, what’s for sale at the flea market was junk;
  • no, I’m serious, like, it’s one huge dollar store, but with much higher prices;
  • any jewelry they had for sale was for blinged-out old ladies;
  • there was much, much less nail polish than Dad had purported;
  • everyone shopping there was old, and walked slower than death; everyone selling there was pushy, and got all up in your face
  • I got lost about five minutes after Dad walked away and stayed lost until he randomly found me looking all worried by the “why are these melons so huge NO THAT’S NOT A EUPHEMISM” fresh-fruit stand;
  • there are those bathroom concierges there, like it’s a fancy restaurant, or the carnival;
  • the whole place made me exhausted and then sad.

However, there was a LOT to see. Like, there was one kiosk with the MOST DEPRESSED TAROT READER LADY EVER! And one with a bunch of birds, and you could get your photo taken with those birds for only $5! (There were macaws, and I honestly thought about it, but decided against it. I mean, it was only $5, but it seemed kind of sad. Those poor birds, all hanging out in a flea market with people gawking at them.)

So I walked around for an hour. In that hour, I purchased three bottles of sparkly nail polish and a book. Oh, and a bottle of water. Because I got overheated because it was a zillion degrees in there. Grand total: $12 plus tax. I know. I’m a high roller, baby. Then I got well and truly lost. I walked past the Desperate Kettle Corn Lady 47 times. Desperate Kettle Corn Lady was all “FREE SAMPLES! FREE SAMPLES!” in a screechy painful voice every time anyone walked by. Listen, I hate kettle corn. I know, you’re probably freaking out right now because of that. I know most people love kettle corn. But I don’t like popcorn that is trickily sweet. Like, I don’t mind caramel corn. That’s SUPPOSED to be sweet. You can tell, because it’s shiny, and sticky, and smells like caramel. Kettle corn looks like it should taste like regular popcorn – salty and maybe buttery. Then you taste it, and it’s all, SECRETLY SWEET! Gack gack gack. So every time I walked past Desperate Kettle Corn Lady, I of course turned her down. This made her MORE DESPERATE FOR ME TO LOVE HER. “Kettle corn? Kettle corn? KETTLE CORN? IT’S A FREE SAMPLE MA’AM!” she’d shrill, and I’d be all “no thank you” and powerwalk past and she’d be all “FREEEE SAMPPLEEEEE” and then I’d get lost and there she’d be! Again! Dammit! Desperate to ply her tricky sweet wares!

I don’t want your corn, lady!

Also, I was very excited about the jewelry. Dad said there was a lot of jewelry. So I was PREPARED to drop serious COIN on some JEWELRY, dammit. However, the jewelry was…um…really horrendously ugly. With lots of fake gems. Very bedazzley. Lots of rings with those stretchy ringbands. And the pendants were really heavy on the skulls. And snakes. Or really large and ALSO bedazzley. Also, the people selling the jewelry were super-desperate and watched you with hungry eyes.

There were many wig shops. And women trying on wigs in them. That was sad. And a teeth-whitening place, right in the middle of the concourse, where people were getting lasers shot in their mouth where everyone could see. And a WEAPONRY SHOP! Oh, that one was hilarious. There were swords and nunchucks and spiked maces and flails and machine guns. RIGHT OUT IN THE OPEN. You could totally go medieval on someone’s ass at that flea market, no fooling. It made me laugh and laugh.

I found the tea stand that was advertised so heavily, but a., it was all herbal tea and I didn’t want that, and b., the man working there looked like a knifekiller. He looked INSANE. Like you know how Charles Manson had a child that he named Zezozose Zadfrack Glutz? But his adoptive parents renamed him Paul? I’m pretty sure Zezozose was running the tea stand. Not Paul. Zezozose. He was all, “HOW CAN I HELP YOU” when I was there for about .0001 second. No, thanks, I don’t want to watch you pull my intestines out and wear them for a scarf, thanks.

Oh, and headshop after headshop. Now, I don’t have too much of an issue with headshops. I mean, I don’t want to hang out in them, or anything. And I don’t really patronize them. But I understand they exist, and whatever. There are worse things. (Um…like the really creepy “Hardkore Porn” booth that I kept walking past with the SKANKIEST GUY EVER manning it, for example.) The main headshop’s name was “Wysefyre.” The spelling was more offensive to me than the wares, to be frank.


When I talked to her last night about our plans for going to the flea market:

Mom: Do you know what they have at the flea market?
Me: Wigs? Body piercing? A psychic?
Me: Oh, yeah. Those are all over.
Mom: Can you even imagine they’re allowed to sell those out in the OPEN like that?
Me: Yeah, there are worse things in the world, Mom. It’s not a big deal.
Mom: How can they DO that? Those are for DRUGS! Drugs are ILLEGAL!
Me: They just say they’re for tobacco to cover their butts, legally. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to buy one, Mom.
Mom: When I walked past that shop, I LOOKED THE OTHER WAY. I wasn’t even going to pay ATTENTION to those drugpushers.
Me: They don’t really sell drugs there, Mom, that I know of. I mean, they MIGHT. If you know the PASSWORD.
Mom: Really? There’s a password for the drugs?
Me: No. I made up the password. There’s no password.
Mom: I hope when you go to the flea market, you don’t buy marijuana pipes.
Me: I’ll do my best to abstain from buying multiple marijuana pipes.
Mom:  Because they are EVIL.
Me: Yes. So evil. Like Satan himself, were he a small pipe used to inhale intoxicating fumes.
Me: Yeah. No. Not at all the funniest and weirdest conversation we’ve had this month. That’s what’s sad, actually.

Then, finally, when I just started wandering around aimlessly, I found Dad, and so I stuck with him like glue because I was afraid of being stuck at the flea market for the rest of my life and ending up like a carny and I didn’t want to be a carny. Dad bought a bunch of man-things like tools and sharp things and wasabi peas (FINE, those were for me) and then we found a perfume stand with a bunch of perfume oils and one was “Obama” scented and you KNOW I had to smell what that smelled like, I mean, come on, like you wouldn’t? (SIDE NOTE: it smelled like generic man-cologne, I find it hard to believe Obama wears something that bland) and then Dad was all, “IT’S TIME TO GO” because he can’t stand the President and I guess by smelling that perfume I betrayed him? I don’t know. I was ready to leave, anyway. All was well.

So, the flea market? Unimpressed. I honestly don’t know who would find that exciting. Survivalists? Old people who like garbage jewelry? I guess there were a lot of cheap plastic homewares if you were starting a new home and were poor. Meh, meh, meh.

Off to the hotel tomorrow, then on the plane Sunday. If blogging is weird Sunday or Monday, I’ll get back on track soon. Bye, ocean. *sob*

If nothing else, I now know I have just the most AMAZING PUPILS ZOMG.

Whoo! Day off day offff!

I’m writing this Thursday night so I can relax on Friday. Also I’m writing something EXCITING tomorrow, so I want ALL THE TIME for the writing of the awesomeness.

First, Dumbcat would like to thank you for all of your kind words for his guest post yesterday. He worked REALLY HARD on that. His poor mitten-paws were SO TIRED. He’s been sleeping ALL ALL DAY. Except when it was treat time. Then he was active and hoovered up those treats like a little vaccuum. Then slept some more. DUMBCAT! Come HERE and tell the internet people THANK YOU!

I em slepy but Mommy sayz to say thakn you so hi helo thank yuo to teh peoplez. I am famouse now? Famouse people get to wear crownz like a king or a quen or a man in a mattresss commercail so I can hav a crowne? I wuld like also moar treetz now MoMMy becauz I am famouse. LOVE DuMBCATTE

Now, let’s talk about the SADDEST DISAPPOINTMENT EVER.

So I need new glasses. My current glasses are almost two years old and also I HATE THEM. I used to have this horrible eye insurance and it only let me get my glasses at this one place that was totally the worst thing ever. You had a selection of about ten frames, all of which looked like Sally Jessy Raphael’s glasses from the 80s. So I ended up getting men’s glasses, which at least didn’t make me look like a weirdo talk-show host. Then the glasses lady talked me into getting the transitions sunglasses things, by telling me they’d be great when I was driving.

I can tell you these stupid lenses do NOT make me grin like this lunatic-woman.

Well, one of my biggest complaints is that it’s too damn bright when I’m driving but I can’t afford prescription sunglasses. So I was all, SIGN ME UP LADY. Well! Come to find out, they only work in the presence of UV rays. And your car windows are polarized or whatever, I’m not sciencey. So no UV rays come in. So your glasses don’t transition, and it’s SO DAMN BRIGHT IN THERE but you don’t have sunglasses even though you PAID FOR THEM. But but but BUT! They DO transition EVERY TIME YOU ARE OUTSIDE. No matter how dim or bright it is. So you’re that asshole wearing sunglasses on cloudy days, and you’re that asshole wearing sunglasses in every outdoor family photo forever. DON’T GET TRANSITIONS LENSES. I know they seem like a totally awesome future thing and you think “my cool aunt had them when I was a kid and she seemed SO COSMOPOLITAN I TOTALLY WANT THEM” (oh, wait, is that just me?) but DO NOT GET THEM NO MATTER HOW HARD THE LADY AT THE GLASSES PLACE TRIES TO UPSELL YOU. Do you want to look like an asshole? DO YOU REALLY?

So anyway, we got new insurance in December. And, SURPRISE, it’s the suck. It has no vision coverage at all. Well, no, that’s not true. It covers an eye exam every two years. With a huge co-pay. But not lenses and not frames.

Well, once I had to get glasses without insurance, and I paid for it then. I thought, I can do this! I can totally do this. And also, I have a cafeteria plan at work, and I’ve saved up a bunch of money in there. I CAN DO THIS. Arrivederci, shitty transitions lenses! Also, I had these kickass black-framed semi cat-eyed frames about eight years ago and I MISS them SO MUCH. They were PERFECT FOR MY FACE-AREA. I looked like a sexy librarian smartperson. However, they got old, and no matter how much I tightened the screws, the screws kept falling out. (If you read that sentence and said, to yourself, “Of course they did; the world’s an imperfect place, screws fall out all the time” YOU WIN A COOKIE. Well, a virtual cookie. Let’s not get crazy here.) I wanted NO SUNGLASSES and I wanted MORE CATEYE FRAMES.

They kind of looked like these. I LURVED THEM.

So I made an appointment for an eye exam at the same place where I got the sexy cateye frames and went in and was SO SO EXCITED. This was a very good plan. I was going to get new glasses! I was going to be stylish!

I went to the eyeglass place and got there early so I could get my frames picked out so by the time my appointment rolled around, I could bing-bang-boom send them into the lab, they could make my glasses, and I could get out of the mall in an HOUR. I know! I was in the mall! ON PURPOSE! But, glasses! And I’d even called ahead and been ASSURED they’d be ready in an hour. THIS WAS GOING TO BE AWESOME.

I started looking at frames. Are they expensive? Yes. Yes, they are. Also, WHY ARE THEY ALL SO SMALL. I always make fun of people whose glasses are too small for their faces, but I think they probably didn’t have a choice, because ALL the glasses are so so small. I mean, I don’t THINK I have the biggest head in the whole world. Maybe I do, I don’t know. But WHOO were these glasses like Barbie-doll glasses.

I found four pairs that were not tiny like weirdos. I tried them all on. I debated back and forth between two. I finally decided on one pair. Not cat eyes – but there weren’t any like that, at least not any that weren’t little teeny tiny Barbie-doll glasses what the hell. But nice, sturdy, black frames, and they made me look serious and smart and a little kooky. I liked them mucho.

Of course, of the four pairs I had, they were the most expensive. I have that talent. Someone can bring me, say, ten purses at Marshall’s (that’s a discount outlet here that I irrationally love, don’t judge me) and ask me which one I like best. Without any price tags on them, that’s important. And I would, invariably, pick the most expensive one. Without even trying. I have a knack.

So then I had my pre-appointment. This consisted of me sitting in front of a number of machines and telling a boy who looked young enough to be my kid things like “I can read row 6” or having air blown in my eye. Then he had me put on MAGIC SUNGLASSES and he made me look at a magic eye book thingy. Apparently, a little number 0 was supposed to be floating off the page. I saw the os in the first and second rows. I didn’t see any in the third row. I told the kid that. He said, “Oh,” in a sad voice. “There aren’t any, right? It’s a trick question?” I asked him. “No, there are,” he said. “This is to check your depth perception.” “Are you saying I LOSE DEPTH PERCEPTION?” I asked him. This scared him, I think. But listen, this explains a LOT. Like, why I fall all the time and why I run into my cubicle wall at least three times a week. I AM BROKEN. This is EXCELLENT news. (Also, no surprise to anyone, I still couldn’t see the sailboat.)

Then I met with the doctor. It was brief and he was weird. However, he told me my astigmatism makes my eyeball the shape of a football. Aw! Like my BLOG! I love that! Thanks, astigmatism! He also reveled in how bad my eyes were and said, “You’re almost blind without your glasses!” in a wondering voice. Yes. Thank you, doctor. I wasn’t aware! A couple other things that bear note:

  • He did this test where he held a super-bright light to my eyes for like a month and then couldn’t stop talking about how much he loved my pupils. “You have AMAZING pupils! They’re HUGE! It’s so easy to see inside your EYE! LOOK at those PUPILS!” Blah blah blah. I like compliments as much as the next girl, but THIS IS GETTING EMBARRASSING. Also, what’s IN my eyes? Could you see my SOUL? I’d like a detailed report, please.
  • He also told me that in about five years, I’d be needing bifocals. WHAT THE HOLY HELL. Just when things couldn’t get MORE weird, I have to get OLD PEOPLE GLASSES? NO THANK YOU. Ugh. Next I’ll be drinking Metamucil and snacking on prunes and watching stories with my gramma. Sheesh.

FINALLY! Glasses-time! I met with the tiny kid again. He asked me what I wanted. I told him, NO TRANSITIONS LENSES. He laughed. Then he wrote some figures on a piece of paper and said, “the top figure is the thinnest lens. The bottom figure is the next thinnest. You can go with the next thinnest. It should be fine. I put in the cost of your frames and also took out your AAA discount.”

The prices were:

Top price: My rent plus my cable bill for the month
Bottom price: My rent for the month

I was thinking MAYBE it would all cost me a little over $300. WHAT THE HELL. Since when are glasses the price of RENT FOR YOUR APARTMENT FOR A WHOLE MONTH?

So I did some mental gymnastics and calisthenics and such and thought, “Well, if you just don’t EAT for a week or so, you’ll be ok.”  So I quietly said “Yes, the lower price” and my whole stomach was rocking and rolling.

Then the kid was SUPER BOUNCY (I assume he works on commission) and went into the lab and came out all sadface and was all, “Sorry, with your very serious prescription, it’s 7-21 days before the lenses will be in.”

“You said they’d be ready in an hour when I called,” I said. He shook his head. “Nope. That’s for NORMAL people.”

I thought about the cost and I thought about the other eyeglass place I’d checked into where they were currently running a BOGO sale and I thought about the one up the road where they had a $200 all-inclusive special and I said, “I’ll just pay for the prescription and leave, then.”

The kid was NOT HAPPY. “What? No, they’ll be here. You just have to wait,” he said.

“I’m going on vacation in a week and I want my glasses for vacation. Sorry.”

He went into the lab and came back out like a used-car salesman. “Tell you what we can do. We can get you the thickest lenses we make, no frills, in an hour.”

“I have to wear these glasses for TWO YEARS. I’m not wearing thick glasses for two years. My eyes are so bad that if I don’t get the thinner lenses, my eyes look distorted. I did that for years. I’m not doing it again.”


I’m not even kidding. He was SO MAD. He rang me up in a stony silence.

So tomorrow I’m scoping out the other two quickie eyecare places and checking into my options, dammit.

I so wanted my sexy librarian smartperson glasses today.

OK. Off to bed, cherryblossoms.


One, two of my most favorite people got ENGAGED the other night! CONGRATULATIONS K. and A.! I love you both to pieces and could not be happier that the two of you found each other and are getting married!

Two, R. and A. are VERY IMPATIENTLY AWAITING the arrival of Baby Girl Awesomesauce. She has gone past her due date. She is like a library book. There will be a fine owed! If I remember correctly, R., you were a little late in coming, too, weren’t you? Maybe it’s hereditary? I promised them I would write them a very funny email in a minute to make R. laugh enough to induce labor. MAN I hope I  can bring the funny! Whoo! HERE COMES BABY GIRL AWESOMESAUCE!

Oh, also, if you’re reading my actual blog, you may notice there are ADS on it. Yeah, I know. I have totally been chosen to be one of these ad beta-tester people. AND I GET PAID FOR THEM. So I’m waiting to see if I hate them or if the money starts pouring in or what happens. It’s worth a try, right? I mean, it’s PAINFULLY obvious the rich people aren’t sending me to Europe; I need to be proactive, here.

Happy weekend, all!

Way to fail me in my time of need, interwebs.

I was talking to a friend the other day about guys. You know, as you do. When you’re an adult. Have the same conversations you had when you were fourteen and bored and passing notes in study hall.

We were talking about how our list of what we want in a guy changed, as we got older.

When I was young, it was all about EXCITING. I wanted a Heathcliff. I wanted the brooding and the romance and the drama.

Ooh, Ralph. Love, love, love, with the broody.

Now I kind of just want someone to watch Game of Thrones with who’d help me bring in the groceries. And also liked Dumbcat, and of course sex. And who knows how to use a semicolon, and doesn’t live in his mom’s basement. And who makes me laugh. And who I make laugh. Because I’m funny as hell, no joke.

Someone who agrees that Joffrey needs all the bitchslappery would be JUST PEACHY WITH ME.

The friend was all, “I think you need to know more of what you’re looking for than that,” and I said, “Really? I won’t just know when I meet him?” and she said she didn’t think so. I don’t know if I 100% agree with that but you can’t really say that to people because you look like a douchenozzle.

So I went to the interwebs because I thought, the interwebs will be a nice way to find out what I’m looking for, because apparently that’s something that normal people know and I don’t. I know, total surprise, right? Also, have I mentioned I have a very, very stupid heart? I have a very intelligent brain and a very stupid heart. It wants what’s bad for it. It wants all the Cheetos, this heart of mine, and none of the salad. It’s not a smart heart. Not at all.

First I found this quiz, and it seemed promising (because it said it was FOR GIRLS and I am totally A GIRL) until there were 47 billion popups. Don’t click on this quiz unless you like 47 million popups.

But it told me this is what I wanted in a guy:

You like The Populars! You have a love for those who are oh-so-smooth around you! You also love them because they know how to talk and make your heart melt! They’re perfect for you, because they also love to be cool, like you! You’re a sweet gal, so stepping up and talking to them shouldn’t be hard for you!

Um. No. No, I don’t think I do. I think that’s the opposite of what I like. Bad job, popuppy quiz.

Then I found this one, and there were a lot of typos. Listen, I’m starting to despair for the state of the interwebs. HOW ARE PEOPLE SUPPOSED TO FIND OUT WHAT THEY WANT IN A GUY IF THERE ARE ALL THE POPUPS AND TYPOS.

But it was totally smarter, yo.

YOU WANT TO DATE A GEEK! You love geeks! Not to say that you ARE one, but… I’m just saying. Anyways this is the perfect guy for you. You like school, plaid, and your family. So go ahead and don’t care what anyone says: DATE A GEEK!

“Anyways” makes me want to commit kitten-murder.

I DO like school and my family. I’m kind of meh on plaid, though.

Ooh, now THIS ONE is for GROWNUP LADIES because it is from a site with GROWNUP things on it. So this is more promising. Listen, we’re going to crack this code sooner than later, I’m promising you this right now. This one’s going to tell us what type of man I attract. I’m going to predict right now it’s homeless people who want to borrow money.

One of these questions asked where I like to go for a date. My options for answers? A dance hall (that’s still a thing? Are we also time-traveling?), a strip club (um…is it s first date, or…let’s just say no, for now), the theater for a Broadway show, or “I don’t care.” You think I answered the theater, but you’d be wrong. I said I don’t care. Because the last thing I want to do is drag some date to the theater when he doesn’t want to be there. That’d be awkward, and ruin it for everyone.

This quiz sucks and won’t give me my results unless I sign up for some spammy email shit. NO WAY CHARLIE. I guess we’ll never know what kind of men I attract. However, while taking this quiz, I stumbled upon an article called “14 Embarrassing Sex Questions” which you KNOW I had to read, I mean, you would have, too, and found out the following information:

  • Farting during sex is NORMAL and NOT FUNNY (come on, that wouldn’t make you laugh? That would make ME laugh. And if the guy I was schtupping DIDN’T laugh, that’s a sign I’m with the WRONG GUY.)
  • Having gay sex dreams doesn’t mean you ARE gay (um…someone asked this? I dreamed my finger fell off once, does that make me leprous?)
  • Cybersex does not count as cheating (really? I think I know a LOT of people who’d beg to differ on that point. I am one of them.)
  • Playboy airbrushes their centerfolds’ coochal areas (hee, what a job for someone)

These questions were less “embarrassing” than they were “stupid.” I don’t care for this website. BACK TO SOLVING MY LOVE LIFE DILEMMAS.

Now, this one is promising. Because it’s on a site called All The Tests. I like All The Things. so this will probably be very helpful.



You like the academics. Overachievers in school, these guys are intelligent and may edge on geeky. But, when they aren’t busy studying they will make time to adore you! Often enough, these guys are too shy to show they care, so try and be friendly towards them and something might happen.

OK, so we’re two for two on the geek set. I like that. I approve. This imaginary guy will be watching Game of Thrones with me in no time. Although I don’t know if I love that “something might happen” with this guy. That seems kind of up-in-the-air. I don’t have time to wait for him to get his shit together, dammit, I’m pretty old right now.

OK, enough with the teeny bopper bullshit. NOW WE ARE GOING TO USE SCIENCE.

This website is called PSYCH CENTRAL. I’m sure this will be very helpful. And this quiz is going to tell me what my style of romantic attachment is. HELPFUL ALREADY.

OK, this quiz says I am “fearful and shy” about relationships because I don’t want to get hurt.


Also, it wants me to put a badge on my site that says “My relationship style is Fearful and Shy” which I think would be the perfect milkshake to bring all the boys to my yard.

Now I”m just getting bored, let’s see if I have a sexual addiction.

Sigh. ZERO POINTS. UNLIKELY. I apparently am not a deviant.

OK, I have learned NOTHING today. This is just the worst. I am no closer to finding my Game of Thrones grocery-carrier sex-fella than I was when I STARTED this situation.

Oh, I totally met my future husband at work the other day but then I found out he was married with three kids so I was told I was not allowed to lust after him. He was a Doctor without BORDERS, you guys! So adorable! So when I got over him fourteen minutes later I met my NEW OTHER HUSBAND who was irreverent and wacky and looked like he knew how to repair cars. I like a guy who looks like he knows how to repair cars. I mean, I have a car, that’d be a handy skill. Also he used a long word that I’ve already forgotten so I got lustful. AND his dad apparently is a rich person so once we get married and his dad dies we’ll totally be jetting off on my European trip. But I was told that new husband hardly ever comes to my office so if I ever see him again probably it would just be a fluke and I’ve already forgotten what he looks like and also his first name so I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him. So then my coworker who was sad that all my future husbands were falling through told me she would be on the lookout for a musician for me because she thought that would be a good match for me and I said “AGREED, except make sure it’s not an asshat musician, I dated one of those once and it was nightmarish” and so that’s exciting except she’s really flaky and sometimes calls me Marnie even though I’ve known her for like six years so I think this might fall through.


Whatever, imaginary guy would probably just talk during Game of Thrones anyway. Then I’d have to break up with him. NO TALKING DURING TYRION UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE PUNCHED IN THE NECK YO.

*sigh* Yes, yes, Tyrion. Everything you say. Got it.

(Psst, happy birthday to my baby brother. Yes, the one who thinks you all have either one hand or are rapists. He will not be seeing this. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY BROTHER. You do not care for the internet and think it is shadytown. I…think otherwise. Genetics are a funny thing, sometimes. ENJOY YOUR DAY!)

Everything’s shiny, Cap’n. Not to fret.

OK, I am officially writing this from my new laptop.

Ooh! Aah! New laptop!


Here’s a list of pros and cons I have discovered in the past hour of working with the new laptop:


  • WHOA it is fast compared to that piece of shit I’ve been working with! I can have MORE THAN ONE WINDOW OPEN AT A TIME. I know! It makes things a lot easier, being able to have more than one browser tab open at once.
  • It’s portable. (Well, it will be next week. More on that later.)
  • I feel more writery owning one.
  • It’s NEW. New things are happy.


  • The keys are smaller than I’m used to and not all of the things are in the same place so I keep typoing.
  • I can’t figure out how to use the mousepad. Seriously, if someone can explain to me how to cut and paste text from a webpage using a mousepad on a laptop, that’d be great. I’m pretty sure it’s something simple I’ve overlooked, like the time I got my cellphone and couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t turn on and it was because it was locked and I didn’t realize you had to drag the unlock bar over and the instructions didn’t even mention that because it was assumed any yahoo understood that and then I felt idiotic. (UPDATE UPDATE OH SNAP I TOTALLY SOOOLLLVED IT YO! I feel like an ASTRONAUT.)
  • I keep turning on the capslock by accident. Luckily, I’m Amy, so probably no one will notice.
  • I can’t leave my bedroom because it has to be hooked up to the internet cable because TIME WARNER CABLE ARE A BUNCH OF ASSHATS
  • I accidentally click on things I shouldn’t because I’m confused by this mousepad situation.

I’ll learn. I’m a learner. It’s my first night with it, cut me some slack, Jack.

OK, so here’s the Time Warner Cable sitch. Hee! Sitch. I’m all street right now.

I called Time Warner on Friday. I blogged about that. I said, hey, Time Warner! I’m getting a new laptop Sunday. Can you hook a gal up with the wireless? And they were all, no problem, drive on down to our store, get a router. And I was all, can’t! Can’t get out of work in time to make your business hours! And they, again, were all, no problem! We’ll UPS you one now. It’s on the way, you’ll have it by Tuesday.

So I’ve been sitting here with my shiny laptop for DAYS, just gathering dust. WAITING AND WAITING.

Yesterday! Ran home! NO ROUTER. I was sad panda. NO! WORSE! I was SAD OWL. Did you see Sad Owl yet?

Sad owl is so sad it makes your heart hurt, seriously.

But I was sure today I’d have it. I mean, they promised! Right? RIGHT?

Got home, NO ROUTER.

Listen, for all of my ranting and raving, I’m usually pretty rational. BUT I WANT TO PLAY WITH MY NEW LAPTOP DAMMIT. I scrimped and saved for this puppy. You don’t even know the hardship that old computer was causing. YOU HAVE NO IDEA. A regular post should take probably 2 hours? They were taking at least 4, because it froze up. Constantly. I NEEDED MY LAPTOP.

So I IMMEDIATELY stomped up the stairs, told Dumbcat “no time for love, Dr. Jones” when he wanted to cuddle, and called Time Warner.

What happened next was such a clusterfuck of dumbassery I can’t even describe. SUCH A CLUSTERFUCK I AM USING THE WORD FUCK. But I’ll try. For you, I will.

First, you have  to deal with the voice recognition part of the fun.








Wireless service.


Wireless service.





So first we got Patrick. Yes, this is his real name. I remember it because he made me mad. He was the first of THREE people to make me mad.

Patrick: Thank you for calling Time Warner Cable! This is Patrick, before we get started, just let me verify some information!
Me: OK.
Patrick: What is your name? Last four digits of your social? Address? Phone number? Blood type? Organ donor, yes/no? Can you digest lactose?
(I might have made up some of those.)
Me: (spouts off information in a very pissy tone)
Patrick: GREAT! And how can I HELP you today, Amy?
Me: I was told my router was mailed on Friday for delivery Tuesday. It’s Wednesday. No router. Where’s my router?
Patrick: Before we get to that, we have a great deal on a package we call the Roadrunner Real-Good-Times Package, and…
Patrick: Let me just pull up your account here. Beep beep beep boop! This work order is closed. You have your router.
Me: I can assure you I do not.
Patrick: But the work order is closed.
Me: Well, that’s great. Open that sucker up again, because I don’t have the router.
Patrick: I’m going to have to transfer you to technical support if you’re having trouble with your router.
Patrick: Hold for technical support, please!

Then proceeded two minutes of the LOUDEST HOLD MUSIC you have EVER HEARD IN YOUR LIFE. I put the phone on the arm of the couch and I could STILL hear it.

Then Patrick hung up on me.

So I called back. Listen, I’m the little girl with the little curl right in the middle of her forehead, ok? When I’m good I’m VERY VERY GOOD. But when I’m mad I’m so pissed one look from me could peel paint from the walls. That’s how that rhyme goes, right?

This time I YELLED at the automated system. That didn’t make it understand me any better, but it eventually got me to Deepa in technical support. This is not her real name. I don’t remember her real name. She was Indian, and I knew a lovely woman named Deepa who was Indian once. There you go.

Deepa: Time Warner technical support, this is Deepa, how can I help you?
Me: I ordered a router on Friday, it was supposed to be delivered on Tuesday. It is Wednesday. It is not here. I was told to hold for technical support, but then Patrick put on some really loud hold music and hung up on me.
Deepa: I can see how that would be frustrating. Please verify a metric shit-ton of personal information for me?
Me: UGH FINE. (I do so. AGAIN.)
Deepa: Great. How can I help you today?
Me: Just told you.
Deepa: Yes.
Me: Router. Please check my file. Patrick in customer support said I have it. I obviously don’t, or why would I be bothering you?
Deepa: Just a moment please. Beep beep beep boop! Oh. Oh, dear.
Me: What.
Deepa: You’re going to have to speak to customer service. You don’t have a router. We can’t help you here in technical support.
Me: I KNOW THAT I TOLD PATRICK THAT. Are you transferring me back to Patrick? I think he hates me.
Deepa: Please hold.


Mike: Time Warner Cable, this is Mike, how can I help you?
Me: Mike, did Deepa fill you in on this situation?
Mike: If I could just get some personal information…
Me: OH FOR THE LOVE OF PETE. (Gives it to him)
Mike: Great. How can we help you today?
Me: OK. Here’s the story. I ordered a router on Friday. I was told it would arrive on Tuesday. It’s Wednesday. No router. Patrick in Customer Service said I have it. I don’t. I need the router. What’s happening with this.
Mike: Please hold. I’ll look into this.
Me: NO. OK, no, I call bullshit on this whole thing. Don’t you even DARE put me on hold. Look it up right now. I will wait. I will breathe in your EAR. Look it UP.
Mike: (now using the “this is a crazy person proceed with care” voice that I hate) O…kay…

Mike proceeds, for ten minutes, to type. I don’t know if he was really looking things up or playing Minesweeper or searching for kangaroo porn or writing notes to his coworkers about what a crotch I was being. I DON’T CARE.

Mike: OK, what seems to have happened here, is that it was never mailed.
Mike: I don’t know why. But you ordered it, and the order was placed, but then the ticket was marked closed.
Me: So Time Warner made a mistake.
Mike: We can’t say that’s what happened.
Me: As far as I can tell, two parties were involved: me, and Time Warner. I called Friday to place an order for a router and was assured it went out in the mail the same day. Did I make a mistake?
Mike: No, ma’am.
Me: Then, as a mistake WAS made, and I didn’t make one, I think we CAN say, Mike, that Time Warner made it.
Mike: No. I can’t say that.
Me: OK. Well, that seems suspect. So, how are you going to fix it?
Mike: You can run to the office tomorrow and get a router.
Me: Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t that fix all that ails us? See, Mike, I would have done that last week, but I work at a tax firm. We don’t get lunches anymore. And my hours are longer than you’re open or closed in that office. So that doesn’t work for me.
Mike: I can UPS you a router. You’d get it next Tuesday.
Me: So, a week from when you promised it last time. How would I know you mailed it?
Mike: I’d UPS it. I could email you a tracking number?
Me: I don’t want a week-late pity-router. What I want is for one of your techs to bring me a router. Right now.
Mike: We’re not a delivery service, ma’am.
Me: Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask for a pizza. I know you have night techs out, because I’ve had to use them before. I’m sure one of them has a router and instructions on how to install it in their truck, and I’m sure one of them is in my area. Have them swing by and drop it off. It’ll take five minutes.
Mike: There’s a $49 service charge for a home installation.
Me: I didn’t ask for an installation. I asked someone to bring me a router. And you’ll be waiving any fees related to this situation, as the mistake wasn’t made by me.
Mike: There are no openings for techs until Friday.
Me: You’re telling me no techs could swing by my place and drop off a router. That’s not possible.
Mike: No, ma’am.
Me: I’d like your manager, please.
Mike: Um. Just a minute, ma’am.

(Puts the phone down, types furiously)

Mike: Ma’am, as a one-time and one-time only courtesy, because a mistake was made but I don’t know if we’ll ever know by whom, I can send a tech out to your home. But it won’t be until Friday.
Me: And it will be free. Right, Mike?
Mike: One time. One time only.
Me: Not the best solution, but it will have to do.
Mike: The tech will be there between noon and three on Friday.
Me: Did you want to come into my office for training tomorrow? What time will you be there?
Mike: I’m sorry, ma’am?
Me: I can only assume you, personally, will be covering my job for me while I sit at home waiting for the cable guy?
Mike: That’s the only time the tech can come.
Me: I explained why I couldn’t get the router. For the same reason, I can’t sit in my apartment on a workday waiting for cable installation. If I could, I’d PICK UP THE ROUTER FROM YOUR OFFICE.
Mike: We can also do Saturday morning.
Me: I work Saturdays, too.
Mike: What?
Me: I’m a poor person, Mike, it’s what we do. You can’t possibly tell me you have no evening hours.
Mike: No, I’m sorry, we don’t. We can do Sunday.
Me: Sunday it is.

So: in conclusion. Router was SUSPICIOUSLY NOT MAILED on Friday as promised; no one at Time Warner Cable knows what’s up or will admit any wrongdoing; being firm with them (which I really hate doing, I’m usually a total pushover about things like this because I work the phones and I know how hard it is) had very little effect other than the cable guy is actually going to install the router on Sunday and odds were good I would have screwed that up, so I’m pleased with that.

But otherwise: TIME WARNER CABLE IS LE SUCK. Also, their customer service? Not so grand.

I feel like "the power of you" is not a very good slogan. More like, "the power of us, doing whatever we like to you, as we're the only game in town and we know it."

They kind of have our area in a stranglehold, though. There’s Verizon, but I hear bad things. And Dish Network, but my dad has a dish and it seems to go out a lot. Time Warner really is the best option, and I’m a media hooooor so I need my tv and phone and interwebs.

Doesn’t mean I have to LIKE it, though. Jerks.

(Before you get all “AMY YOU WERE SUCH A DOUCHE TO THE CUSTOMER SERVICE REPS!!!” I think it is important to tell you a bit of the above might have been exaggerated for comedic effect. I won’t tell you which bits. You can decide which ones for yourself, it’ll be like a little puzzle.)


Also, wait til I figure out this webcam thingamabobber, this is going to be GREAT.

Happy Thursday, my little creme brulees!

(PS. This is TOTALLY my THREE HUNDREDTH POST. I know, right? Who would’ve thunk it? THREE HUNDRED, BABY! Thanks for sticking with me, let’s do three hundred more, what do you say?)

My seasons in the sun are fading. I think it’s like, late fall for my seasons in the sun. THANKS SEVENTEEN MAGAZINE.

When I was a totally angsty teen with very tall Aquanet bangs and a regrettable perm (SHUT UP IT WAS THE 80s AND SOME OF THE 90s) there was nothing I liked more than Seventeen magazine. It was just the best. It taught you all the smart things: how to dress, how to get guys to like you, what to do in difficult situations like if you caught your BFF smoking dope in the bathroom. VERY HELPFUL.

The best things were the quizzes. My friends and I would just obsess over these quizzes. We’d get the magazine and we’d all huddle around each other in study hall and think VERY SERIOUSLY about our answers and then score them on scrap paper like we were taking the SAT and wait none-too-patiently for our results and then discuss our results. VERY SERIOUS STUFF, this. Like, “Does He Like Me More Than a Friend?” And “What Will I Be When I Grow Up?” and “What Haircut Is Best for Me?” I mean, seriously. HOW were we supposed to plan our lives without Seventeen quizzes?

So today I was thinking, probably I need help, let’s see if Seventeen quizzes can help me out. I totally have a lot of questions. Seventeen was always so helpful, yo.

Um. Apparently I am very, very old. Or Seventeen got really stupid. Or a little of both. I think I failed all the Seventeen quizzes today.

What started all of this was that I was typing in “How to…” into Google to look something up and you know how it autofills shit and sometimes it’s hysterical? One of the things that popped up was “How to Make Out.” What? People worry about this? Was I supposed to worry about this? I just did it, I mean, back when I used to do it. Not NOW. I’m not doing it NOW. Grumble. ANYWAY. Was I doing it wrong all those years ago? I mean, no one COMPLAINED. But I didn’t go online and look up HELPFUL TIPS, either. SHIT. Now I feel like I probably should have had a makeout to-do list and I let a lot of people down. Dammit.

So one of the results was a Seventeen quiz about “What is Your Kissing Style.” Well! I mean, I’ve gone almost forty years without knowing what my kissing style is. Probably I should figure that out. I mean, the next time I’m on a date and I start having ALL THE SEX that’s totally right around the corner according to Dr. Ernie probably that imaginary boyfriend’s going to be all, “Amy, what is your kissing style, I don’t date just any yahoo WHAT IF OUR KISSING STYLE IS NOT SYMPATICO” and what if I didn’t know the answer? That would be alarming. And who even knew there were STYLES? A-LAR-MING.

So you KNOW I had to take the quiz.

After asking me some totally weirdo questions, one of which was squeeing about Pattison and Twilight and sparkly vampires (I don’t like the direction Seventeen is going with this) I found out this:

“You’re a Phi Beta Kisser! When it comes to kissing, you’re at the head of the class! You’re kissing M.O. is simple: Smooch well and smooch often, even if it’s on your first date with a guy! As long as you keep things from getting too heated up, why not have a little fun?”

I think Seventeen just called me a cocktease. A sorority cocktease.

Then I was totally pissed at Seventeen for implying I was a cocktease (SEVENTEEN, it’s like you don’t know me at ALL, I TOTALLY put out) so they recommended I take some Hunger Games quizzes. I like The Hunger Games. I’ll totally take some Hunger Games quizzes, Seventeen.

So first they wanted to know what Hunger Games character I should date. Well, really the only viable answer is Haymitch. Because anyone else would be jailbait. I was fairly sure that Seventeen would figure this out about me, because Seventeen is nothing if not savvy.


OK, fine, I’m all about Team Peeta, but not to DATE him. I’d like to feed him a cookie and tell him to stay in school, Seventeen. I’m old enough to be his MOM. Seriously, Seventeen, I’m starting to doubt your veracity.

However, I’m not taking any more of these Hunger Games quizzes, Seventeen, they’re creeping me out.

But I was NOT DAUNTED. Next Seventeen indicated that I should take a quiz to find out which “HGP” was right for me. What’s a HGP? I don’t know. Research tells me it is “Hot Guy Panelist.” Um. I don’t think this is going to end well at all. BUT I PERSEVERE. It’s what I DO. There’s isn’t a dead horse between here and Antarctica I haven’t beaten into submission, seriously. One time Ken gave me an AWARD for it. SHUT RIGHT UP. It was NICE of him. It’s because I LOVE awards. And he KNOWS that. Even for horse-beating. That is NOT A EUPHEMISM.

Now, already, on the first page of this thing, it asked me what my dream date was, and I sat here for like three minutes confused by one of the answers. Answer C was “You like your date to go all out — candals, mood music, dancing, the whole works!” And I was all, “What the hell is a candal? Is it a sandal? Why would he bring me sandals? Or am I wearing sandals? I hate wearing sandals, I never do that, toes are ick. Or is HE wearing sandals? If this asshat can’t even be bothered to put on real shoes for our dream date, we are SO OVER.” But then I realized it was “candles.” Who is writing these things? I could do a better job with my eyes pecked out by a flock of sparrows.

Then on the next page, it wanted me to describe my “flirting style.” Since my “flirting style” is pretty much to ignore the object of my affection and be confused why they don’t psychically understand I want them, and that wasn’t one of my choices, I was forced to choose something else. Some of my choices were “baking for him” (um…I’m not Betty Crocker, make your own damn brownies, lazy) and “writing your crush a song” (hee! Yep! That would TOTALLY get him for me. I am SO the next Sondheim. I would totally throw in jazz hands which would NOT AT ALL scare him off!) I chose “showing off your smarts.” I think that could be interpreted as “sitting in a corner ignoring him until he gets the psychic call I want him to lick me like a summertime popsicle,” right?

Then it wanted to know if I have a big date, what I wear. THIS IS SO MUCH WORK. One of my choices was “A flirty dress and ballet falts.” WHAT THE HELL IS A BALLET FALT. I am not impressed with your copyediting skillzzzz, Seventeen. I don’t remember this being that bad when I WAS seventeen. And I was a totally snotty spellchecker even then.

Then Seventeen won my love again by having one of the options for “what is your biggest turnoff” be “bad grammar” because you KNOW it totally is. Well, that and being a psychokiller but that wasn’t an option.

Then Seventeen told me this was my dream date.

I feel dirty right now. This is distressing.


He doesn’t even have any CHEST HAIR. I mean, come ON. Also, what’s with that HAT? It looks like one of those hats you get free with purchase if you buy really shitty beer or an oil change at Jiffy Lube or something. Also, too many lady-necklaces and bracelets. I AM NOT IMPRESSED WITH THIS CHILD SEVENTEEN. Even if he DOES list “people who screw up your and you’re” as his biggest turn-off. Aw, Hector. Stay in school, here’s a cookie.

Well, I have just had enough. There was a whole section of “Vampire Quizzes” and I know ALL THE THINGS about vampires but much to my chagrin they were all Twilight-related. THERE ARE OTHER VAMPIRES IN THE WORLD SEVENTEEN. Even my new friend Hector probably knows that.

So THEN I thought, Seventeen! You are NOT helpful NOT AT ALL. So I will MAKE YOU BE HELPFUL. I found a quiz about “Could you Date Justin Bieber?” If Seventeen says yes I can? Then Seventeen is DEAD to me. You all KNOW I could not date La Biebs. His lips are too red and moist, I’ve TOLD you this. They squick me OUT.

I’m already having a really bad feeling about this. None of the options are “Does Justin Bieber squick you out?” Also it’s asking me questions I can’t answer honestly. Like, “Which MTV reality show is your favorite?” and I’ve never SEEN any of them but I have to answer this or I can’t go on to the next page and is getting really mad at me all, “please answer question four PLEASE ANSWER QUESTION FOUR” and I hate when people or webpages yell at me. Also, it wants to know which of these three teen girls I want to hang out with and has photos and names and the only one I’ve ever heard of is Miley Cyrus and I KNOW I don’t want to hang out with her because she annoys me but I don’t know who the other two are. I AM VERY WORRIED I’M GOING TO LOSE THIS QUIZ.


OK, I’m thinking that probably NONE of the answers were “you can’t date Justin Bieber” because then there would be a rash of teen suicides. Right? And who wants that, so much mess to clean up. But I don’t want to go to the prom with the Biebs. First, is he even 18? I think I’d be arrested. Second, THOSE LIPS UGH they look like FRUIT ROLLUPS. Third, the blurb where I won this date with Justin Bieber says that I am a “girly girl to the core” (what? I KNEW I picked the wrong teen girl to want to hang with) and that on our date we would be “spend(ing) serious quality time together (slow dancing, anyone?)” I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS I THINK I HAVE A PRIOR ENGAGEMENT THAT NIGHT WHAT IF HE TRIED TO TOUCH ME WITH THOSE RED RED LIPS THEY’RE LIKE CLOWN LIPS SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS SERIOUSLY.

I know I said Seventeen was dead to me but now I have to have one more palate-cleanser to get the thought of being forced to attend the prom with Justin Bieber out of my head.

Are you Emotionally Ready for Sex. AWESOME. I’ve always wondered. (They would NEVER, BTW, have had this quiz when I was a kid reading Seventeen. They were so not talking about sex in Seventeen in the late 80s/early 90s. They pretended we were all anatomically built like Barbies and Kens back then.)

Um…this test is bogus. One of the questions is, “What’s the reason you want to have sex” and my options are “I really love him and he really loves me,” “All my friends are doing it,” or “He’s pressuring me to.” THERE NEEDS TO BE A D. “Because sex is awesomesauce, momma.” Sheesh.

YAHOO. Seventeen totally thinks I’m ready to go all the way. This is fortuitous news! But it thinks I need to talk it over with a parent first. Probably I should call my dad. I think he’d love to have this conversation again and it would not at ALL give him flashbacks to when I was seventeen and he found out the FIRST time and there was all the screaming and yelling and crying. Cool cool cool I’ll call him tonight this won’t be awkward at ALL. THANKS SEVENTEEN!

Well, what have we learned today, ladies and gentlemen?

Seventeen is NOT GEARED TOWARD OLD PEOPLE who totally found enough white hairs on their head today that they have a little skunk-stripey thing going on that is the most awesome and they love it but probably other people won’t love it as much as they do.

Or people who like things to be typo-free.

Or people who don’t like Twilight.

Or people who think Justin Bieber’s mouth looks like the mouth of the Flukeman from The X-Files.

Would you rather go to the prom with this...

...or this? The answer is obviously "I'd stay home and play videogames."


This is just the worst, no fooling. Shit. Sorry. I have to go. I have to go prom-dress shopping, I think probably if I don’t go soon I’ll end up with the leftover dregs. Does anyone know what Flukeman Bieber wants me to wear to prom? Anyone? Sigh. This is just going to be the worst date ever, and one time I went out with a guy who had just gone off his meds and kept threatening to jump off this footbridge all night but the footbridge was only about a foot high (ha! FOOTbridge, get it?) so I kind of wanted to be all “whatever, go for it” but that seemed rude because he was threatening suicide and all. See what it’s come to, Seventeen? SEE WHAT YOU DID? Shame on you, Seventeen. SHAME.

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