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Category Archives: neuroses

Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone…your vote is never lost.

Well, here we are. Election day. After today, will all the shouting stop? Or just get worse? At least all those political flyers will stop getting stuffed into my mailbox, right? That’ll be nice. There’s not enough room in there for all those flyers and I just have to throw them away anyway. Such a waste of treeeees.

Stop wasting us for GARBAGE!

I guess I don’t have to tell you I’m petrified about what’s going to happen today. Well, today/tomorrow. It might be tomorrow until we know who wins, I suppose. I didn’t know who won in 2008 until I woke up the next morning. Then I collapsed on the couch and wept and was almost late for work and then everyone I worked with was SO PISSED ALL DAY LONG because I worked with a billion conservatives. So I had to pretend I wasn’t in the throes of the biggest relief ever and maybe just coming down with the flu or something.

This year is WORSE. So, so much worse. If I thought I was scared of the what-might-be 4 years ago, I’m utterly petrified this year. I know I’m all jokey about going to live with Andreas in Finland but I can’t even imagine living in a country run by a Romney/Ryan White House right now. I don’t want to think about it. I do everything I can to NOT think about it. If I think about it too much, I start crying in strange places like the car or the shower and one time on the cat. So I’m not ALLOWED to think about it. If I start I have to tell myself NO NO NO. Please do NOT bring that PARTICULAR badness down upon yourself right now, you’ll have plenty of time to freak right the fuck out in a few days if things take a very dark turn. Well, what I think is a dark turn. I suppose some of you reading this might well think that the OPPOSITE outcome would be a very dark turn, and I suppose that’s what’s nice about opinions and assholes, isn’t it. How they’re so all-inclusive.

OK, this just made me snort-laugh. I like this chicken.

So, no. No, I’m not going to get more political than this, here. Other than, I’m going to vote today, and I hope you are, too, because I think it’s important everyone does. (Well, I suppose this is moot for those of you reading this in countries other than MERKA, but the sentiment still stands. When you can vote, please vote. It is something we here at Lucy’s Football feel very strongly about. And as always, by “we,” I mean me and Dumbcat, of course.) I will be schlepping on over to the local elementary school, even though I am very, very busy (which is, I think the huge excuse people use – “I’m way too busy!” – well, try being busier than I am, jellybeans, and I still get out the vote, you know?) and taking my sadly not-at-all fancy Scantron voting sheet into my foldy cardboard divider privacy booth and scribble in my bubbles for the correct people and then run it through the scanner and not even get an “I VOTED!” sticker because I guess my area doesn’t DO those. I’m going to do all that. Then I’m going to (depending on when I get time to vote, either in the wee small hours or right after work, because right after work I have to eat quick and then run to auditions) walk around all day worrying. You think I worry a lot on a NORMAL day? Well, wait til you see me until they announce who won the election.

These are our voting “booths” now. I know. QUITE fancy.

I have no idea who’s going to win. None. I don’t even have a prediction or a guess. I don’t know what way the national winds are blowing. Most of my people are liberals, so of course they’re all RAH RAH OBAMA. But there are a lot of people who just HATE the president. They blame him for everything from the lack of jobs in the country to their girlfriend breaking up with them to that stubborn nose-hair that keeps poking out all weird. The country’s very shouty and very divided. It makes me sad. Was it always this bad? Has it always been this bad, every election? I’m not old enough to remember them all, going so far back. I am the first to admit that I didn’t pay a lot of political attention until probably the last…oh, I don’t know, 12 years or so? Shh, I was busy. Doing what? THINGS, ok? ALL THE THINGS.

So, anyway. Go vote today. I will not attempt to bias you. You already know where my vote’s going and I would hope your mind is made up by now, anyway. I refuse to cast a vote for someone who thinks women and homosexuals (shit, not to mention people of color and anyone who’s on government assistance and probably people who don’t own a dressage horse) are lower-class citizens than straight white (rich) men. I know a lot of people are scared about the economy and are voting because they think the current government has royally dicked it over and anyone, ANYONE, would better fix it than Obama would; I get it. I do. I’m working, on average, 45-60 hours a week just to pay my bills and I’m still not doing great. It’s a scary, scary economy. But I don’t vote for the economy. What the hell do I care about the economy? Money’s been confusing me since I got my first allowance. (FIFTY CENTS, thank you very much.) I vote with my heart. I vote for social issues. Does that surprise you at all? I might pretend to be scary but I’m squishy as hell. I pay attention to which candidate most clearly aligns with me on the social issues, and then I give him (or her, please, her, before I die? Come on, Merka) my vote. I think you know which candidate that is.

Also, I enjoy the hell out of him. There. Hate me if you must, but I do.

Also, just in case: what does one need to pack, to move to Finland? Just in case. I like to have a contingency plan completely ready to go. I’m guessing…something warm? It seems like it would be chilly in Finland. Also, we’ll be on an island and I can’t swim so I think I’d need floaties. Andreas, is everyone blonde in your Finland? Am I going to stand out all weird? I don’t want to have to dye my hair blonde to fit in, Andreas. I make a terrible blonde. I tried to go there once and it was a disaster. I looked like a science experiment gone wrong. I am meant to be a wicked brunette. With a funny white streak near one temple, apparently. As if I saw a HAUNT and it MARKED me.

Also, Andreas, I am NOT going into a sauna. The internet seems to show a LOT of photos of saunas when I Google Finland. I AM NOT DOING THIS ANDREAS. And what is that last guy holding on this lap? It looks like a large hedgehog, or a holly bush. NO THAT’S NOT A EUPHEMISM.

Happy Election Day, my fellow Merkans. Whatever happens, please just vote, ok? We don’t get a lot of chances to get our voices heard; this is one of the ways you can shout. Go shout today, ok? Loudly. Shouting loudly is very, very Lucy’s Football approved.

Time for me to start worrying. I’ll be in the pots-and-pans-cupboard until tomorrow morning, if you need me. Send in some fruit punch every now and then so I don’t get dehydrated, ok? You’re the best, thanks so much.

(Title is a John Quincy Adams quote; it pretty much sums up how I vote every year. Nice one, JQ.)

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Buying (and marrying) the cow

You totally get two posts today. You’re the luckiest.

I’m writing this a couple days in advance – you know, as I do – and have a job interview today, which is super-duper-scary. I haven’t had a job interview in almost seven years. I’m not ever quite sure what to say, or what they *want* me to say, or how best to represent myself, or what you’re supposed to wear, and when I’m nervous I talk too much and laugh obnoxiously. I’m trying to reassure myself by telling myself that no one enjoys job interviews. Well, maybe job interviewers do, since they have all the power. I can’t imagine an interview is as awkward for an interviewer, right? I’ve never interviewed anyone. Have any of you interviewed anyone? Is it easier to be on the other side of the desk? It must be, right?

Oh, THIS looks scary. I would not like this at ALL.

So in a couple of hours, I have to get all professional-looking with PANTYHOSE! and a SKIRT! and shoes with HEELS on them! (well, the heels aren’t very high, let’s be honest – I’m not much of a high-heel kind of chicky, they’re too unstable) and then I drive on down to the office and meet with the people and hope they like me and hope I don’t embarrass myself. Eee! Nervous-making!

Damn you, pantyhose. So CONSTRICTY.

I am also telling myself it’s not the end of the world if I don’t get it, that everything happens for a reason, blah blah blah blah, but it’s not helping much. I still have a very nervous tummy filled with all MANNER of butterflies. I’ll let you know how it goes. Unless it’s totally the worst. Then I probably will pretend it didn’t happen.

IT IS TOTALLY A SCIENTIFIC THING!

This is going to be random-crap-day. When you’re home most of the day, you don’t have a lot to blog about, I’ve noticed. I’d better find a job soon, yeah? Or you’re going to start getting posts full of “IT IS 1PM! I MADE SCRAMBLED EGGS ZOMG!!!1!” You can argue I was only one step away from madness already. You might even be right.

Yesterday, BFF sent me this article. Yes, this is the whole article. He thinks the last sentence is the best. I tend to agree, although there’s another sentence in it I love almost as much.

An 18-year-old boy in Bali who was caught having sex with a cow was forced to marry it in front of hundreds of people, according to video from Buzz: 60.

The teen said he thought the cow was a beautiful woman and it wooed him with compliments, the video says. Officials didn’t buy it, deciding on the marriage as punishment.

The teen passed out during the ceremony and the town decided to drown the cow.

(As you can see, BFF gets me, because he knew I would love this article a great deal.)

Ooh, look how pretty Bali is. I want to go to Bali.

“…thought the cow was a beautiful woman and it wooed him with compliments” is my second-favorite part of the article, in case you were wondering. (Of course you were.) Wooed him! With compliments! “Oh, young man from Bali!” (Shit, I need to come up with a name for him. INTERNET! I NEED YOUR HELP! I asked the internet and it says a name for someone in the Brahmana caste in Bali might be “Ida Bagus Ngurah” and I’m pretty sure if you had sex with a cow you’d be a member of the Brahmana caste. Because isn’t a Brahma a type of cattle or something? So this kid’s name is Ida Bagus Ngurah henceforth. HENCEFORTH SAYS I. I’m going to call him Ida, though. “Oh, Ida!” says the cow. “You have such lovely eyes and such intelligent thoughts! Please be my interspecies friend! There is no one I love more in the whole world, as you are the sunshine of my life and the grass in my field!”

Wink wink! Those are some sultry eyes!

But those damn officials! They did NOT BUY IT. Nope! Because he tried to get the milk for free, they made him totally buy the cow. My mom always SAID that wouldn’t happen. HA HA MOM. It happens in BALI.

Look how depressed that cow is. The MOST depressed.

Then our friend Ida I guess got overwhelmed during the ceremony – probably because of his overwhelming love for his lady-friend – and swooned like a Victorian lady, and then – and this is perplexing – the town decided to drown the blushing bride. That part’s a little confusing. Why are they drowning the cow? That poor cow. It just wanted to be LOVED. It complimented the object of its affection with the intention to woo; it won its quarry; and then, on the HAPPIEST DAY OF ITS LIFE, it was DROWNED. This is the worst wedding day ever. You’re all happy and getting married and then BAM you’re getting drowned by a crowd of townsfolk. Dammit, Bali. I’m never coming there to get married to a cow NOW.

*sniff* I’m just going to go over here and…DROWN, then.

I am back from the job interview! This is like a post full of time-traveling, isn’t it? Are you confused? Don’t be confused. I saved the draft and went to the interview and came back. LIKE A BOSS.

I don’t want to talk about it too much because we all KNOW that blogging plus work = BAD BAD NEWS but I think it went well. I think you either leave a job interview with a good feeling or a bad one. A good feeling doesn’t mean you have the job, of course. And a bad feeling doesn’t mean you’re down for the count. (My last job? I had the WORST feeling when I left that interview. I was all, “They HATED me. I’ll NEVER hear from them again.” Two days later, I had the job. AN OMEN FOR BAD THINGS TO COME? Perhaps.) But I feel like it went very, very well. I liked the people I met with; I feel like I answered the questions they asked in the way they wanted, and truthfully, without coming across as a simpering sycophant; I feel like I was a good fit for the position; it’s close to home, I like the location and the hours and the company size and – and you’re going to laugh at me – it felt COMFORTABLE. I live my life on hunches and guesses and whims, sometimes. It’s what I do. I like a healthy dose of both magic and whimsy in my life. So I left with a very good feeling, like everything just clicked. Will I get the job? I don’t know. The person who hires is out until next week so they said they might not get back to me until late next week either way. But at least I left knowing I did everything I could do and it went well.

Ooh, look, like the Hoff, I have a GOOD FEELING. Don’t you hassle him. DON’T YOU DO IT.

(BUT, I was as nervous as a…hell, I don’t know, nervous-person, and had to keep my hands tightly-laced in my lap the whole time because they were shaking so badly, and they had me fill out a lot of paperwork before they talked to me and if they’re hiring based on handwriting, they’re not going to hire me because I was shaking SO BADLY my handwriting looked like a third-grader’s. Also, at one point they asked me a question? And kooky Amy came out? I can’t HELP it. I can only hide her for so long, you guys. They asked me what I’d think about doing something, and that something sounded AWESOME, and I said, “I’d get to DO that? How awesome would THAT be?” Luckily, they laughed – nicely, not weirdly – so I think kooky Amy was welcome. To an extent.)

So cross your fingers. I think this place would be good. I mean, if it doesn’t work out – well, things sometimes do, and sometimes don’t, I suppose – it won’t be the END of the world, but it’d be nice to put one in the win column, especially after last week.

CROSS ‘EM!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go geek out over the fact that I WROTE A BOOK and IT’S ON SALE TODAY YOU GUYS! Here, in case you missed my early early EARLY morning post, like EIGHT A.M. ZOMG, here’s the one where I freak out all over THAT news. Love your faces. Have a fantastic day!


Especially at night, I worry over situations.

I like this photo because crazy eyes? CHECK.

I have been an insomniac since I was about 13. That’s almost 25 years of very, very poor sleep. In case anyone’s counting. Is anyone counting? OH WAIT I AM. Because I have all the time for it, you see. ALL THE TIME. Because I CAN’T EFFING SLEEP.

I come by it naturally. Every single person on my dad’s mom’s side of the family, going back to…wherever they go back to (I don’t know where, we’re apparently in some sort of ancestry witness protection, because whenever I ask, people just say, “CANADA” and then get shifty-eyes, and when I say, “Well, there must have been something BEFORE Canada, or are we Native Canadian people, or what, exactly?” they clam up and start talking about the weather or snowmobiling or hunting or something. They’re shady, those upstaters. This is QUITE A MYSTERY.)

My dad can’t sleep. His mom couldn’t sleep. None of her siblings could sleep. Her dad couldn’t sleep. I can only assume one of HIS parents couldn’t sleep, and there we go, back to the wilds of Canada or wherever my ancestors are from. I’m going to pretend Italy. Let’s pretend Italy, ok? I’d like to be pretend-Italian. It would explain my love of carbs and insistence on talking with my hands. OOH OR MAYBE ATLANTIS. Yep. That would totally explain all the secrecy. I’m going to start telling people my ancestors are the last of the people from the lost city of Atlantis. This is going to be GREAT.

My main problem is, I can’t turn off my brain. You read my blog. See all this crap? This is not just how I write. THIS IS HOW I THINK. My brain is going a million miles an hour and it’s all Ricochet Rabbit bing-bing-binging around in there. If there were a way to get that all to just STOP, to go to static like the TV used to sign off at the end of the day? That would be great. But brains aren’t like television sets from the 70s. They DON’T EVER STOP WORKING. It’s not even nightmares. It’s that I can’t get my brain to turn off long enough to get to sleep in the first place. I’d WELCOME the nightmares. At least that means I’m SLEEPING.

I have sleeping pills. Well, here’s the odd thing. I went through a million sleeping pills, and none of them worked. First, they tried to do herbal and did the melatonin thing. That worked for a little while, but then I had to keep upping the dose until I was taking about ten of those things a night and they weren’t having much of an effect and when I told the doctor that she was all, “Um…yeah, that probably isn’t a good idea, let’s stop that.” Then she said to try over-the-counter medication, but not to bother with something fancy, just get Benedryl. That did nothing other than make me fall asleep for about an hour, then I’d be awake, and very, very dry. Because it’s for allergies. So it dries you all up. So mostly I was all dried up for a week or two. Not working. Then some herbal calcium supplement, which again, worked for a week or so, then my body was all, “WE’RE HIP TO THIS JIVE” and right back to staring at the ceiling at 3am.

Then she tried precription sleeping pills, but the first couple did nothing at all. NOTHING. It was like taking sugar pills. Which they might have been, I don’t know. I might have been in a whole medical test situation that I didn’t know about.

Then she got frustrated and said, “Here, try these” and wrote me a prescription for something else. When I asked what it was (probably between yawning) she said “Well, that’s a funny story. It was originally marketed as an antidepressant. But people who were taking it as such remained depressed, and then some of them started killing themselves? So doctors knew it wasn’t actually a very good antidepressant and probably just about the worst, actually, so they don’t really prescribe it as that anymore. But a side effect of it is, it makes you VERY DROWSY. So now we use it as a last-ditch effort for people who can’t sleep.” When I asked her if she really thought it best she called that a “funny” story she thought about it and said, “No, probably not.”

Yes, I realize I’m taking pills that failed in their original goal. That’s ok. Everyone deserves a second chance, even pharmaceuticals.

I’ve been taking it for almost ten years now. Up until recently, it’s worked fairly well. FAIRLY well.

Here’s a normal person’s night of sleep:

Gets sleepy
Gets ready for bed
Gets into bed
Falls asleep
Stays asleep
Wakes up feeling, for the most part, refreshed

Here’s MY night of “sleep”:

Gets close to bedtime; remember to take your pill so you’ll get sleepy
Wait for an hour for the pill to get you sleepy enough to want to attempt to sleep
Get into bed
Lie there for anywhere from half an hour to an hour tossing and turning, kicking Dumbcat out because he is stepping on you with sharp feet and refuses to JUST STOP IT, thinking about EVERY BAD THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO YOU EVER plus ALL THE THINGS WEIGHING ON YOUR MIND plus ALL THE PEOPLE YOU FORCE YOURSELF TO NEVER THINK ABOUT DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS
Fall asleep (most of the time)
Wake up 3-5 times a night, randomly, and repeat the whole process
Wake up in the morning CRANKY AS HELL and WANTING TO PUNCH A KINDERGARTENER IN THE FACE AREA

(From this, I think you can see why me ever getting married or sharing my bed with anyone but Dumbcat would be a very, very, VERY bad idea. Also, I don’t like anyone touching me when I’m trying to sleep? Because it’s like work, and that’s distracting. I mean, sure, fine, let’s have some sex, that’s nice, that’s good, but then why don’t you go sleep elsewhere because there’s no WAY I’d get to sleep with someone touching and breathing and being all up in my space when I wanted to toss and turn and huff and puff and look at the clock and go “ARGH!” and such.)

At this point, I’ve gotten used to it. There’s no point in NOT getting used to it. It’s not like it’s going to get any better. I know I’m always exhausted; I’ve been that way for the majority of my life. It does make me sad when people say they’re looking forward to bed, though. The only times in my life I’ve slept without a problem are when I’m sick, when I’m depressed, or when I’m not supposed to (in class, when someone’s talking to me, in movie theaters – pretty much when I’m bored and should be paying attention to something.)

The only, only, ONLY good thing is that sometimes I come up with kickass ideas when I’m in bed unable to sleep and it’s 3am. And not all of them are harebrained schemes! I know, right? I know you’re probably wondering, why don’t I get out of bed and do something? I am ETERNALLY OPTIMISTIC. I keep hoping if I stay there, I’ll fall asleep – and even a little sleep is better than none. If I get up, I know I’ll never get back to bed, and then I have no one but myself to blame when I feel like shit the next day.

So anyway, here is last night. Ready? Last night was a BLAST.

The new thing is: panic attacks. Does anyone have those? They are a TREAT.

My fight or flight is ALL EFFED UP, you guys.

They’re LIKE a heart attack, only my doctor assures me they’re not. So, that’s nice. You can assure your BRAIN that you’re not having one. HOWEVER. Your heart is beating a mile a minute; your chest hurts; your arm hurts; your neck hurts; and sometimes, SOMETIMES, your limbs twitch uncontrollably and if you’re half-asleep when they hit, YOU SHOUT. Yep. They are the prettiest things in the WORLD, panic attacks are. They were fun when I had roommates, who often thought I was being murdered in the middle of the night, not just panicking over things that weren’t real.

I haven’t had one in a while. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Work stuff. Personal stuff. I’m on stuff-overload. Last night, Panic Attack Time! Wahoo!

So I went to bed EARLY. Well, for me. Because Mondays at work kick my ass and I wanted to face it with ALL THE INTREPIDNESS. Also, I had gotten less and less sleep over the last week. It went from 6 to 5 to 4 hours of sleep over the week. I wanted to get ALL the sleep. So I was just curled up for about fifteen minutes when PANIC ATTACK. The worst one EVER.

“I’m fairly sure I’m dying right now,” my brain said.

“Don’t be absurd, it’s a panic attack,” my brain replied. “You KNOW these can’t kill you.”

“But has my chest ever hurt THIS much? Or my ARM? Also, I bet the morgue is FULL of people who ignored these VERY SIGNS and then their cat ate their face because they are Forever Alone. I think I should call 911.”

“The doctor TOLD you these are panic attacks. You KNOW they are. Do you really want to be the asshole who went to the hospital for a panic attack? Also, your copay is $100. Kiss your laptop fund goodbye, sis.”

SHIT.

So this went on for three hours.

Then I decided, because I was SO TIRED and also WEEPY, that it was the BED’S fault. So I went to sleep on the couch.

Dumbcat was on the couch. He was VERY EXCITED it was playtime.

“Meow? Meow? MEOW?”

“No Dumbcat not playtime let’s sleep so tired” I garbled at him and flopped on the couch.

More panic attacks, but this time with the added “over twenty-pound cat walking to and fro on me because he thought I was a bridge and this was super-fun-playtime and he was KING OF THE MOUNTAIN and I WAS THE MOUNTAIN” accouterment.

Eventually, I guess I fell asleep. I opened my eyes and was SO EXCITED. Had I conquered it? Surely I had! The BED was the culprit! That damn bed. Was it time to get up? Was it time for work?

Yeah. Twenty minutes had passed. It wasn’t even light out yet.

I went through “panic attack panic attack PANIC ATTACK sleep for twenty minutes” a few more times, then decided I needed some aspirin because the guy in the Bayer commercial told me at the first sign of a heart attack to take some. And since I wasn’t going to the hospital for what might or might not be a panic attack, I was going to take some aspirin to stop the heart attack panic attack so at least when they did the autopsy they’d know I was paying attention to the Bayer commercials. So I got out the aspirin bottle but it has a childproof cap. You know. Because of all my children. NO not the soap opera. So I got it open in a feat of strength that was heretofore unknown in my household only to spill half the bottle on the bathroom floor. Then I couldn’t decide – could aspirin kill cats? Or was that ibuprofen? Did I care enough about Dumbcat and his middle-of-the-night foraging to clean up all these aspirin?

I did. I got on my hands and knees and cleaned them all up on the off chance it would save my cat’s life. YOU OWE ME DUMBCAT.

Then I realized I could have just shut the bathroom door until the next morning and just started BAWLING because I was SO EFFING TIRED SERIOUSLY.

Then I somehow ended up back in my bed. I think I’d forgotten my bed was conspiring to keep me from ever sleeping again? I’m not sure. But in a strange turn of events that I can’t quite explain, I fell asleep with my HEAD near the FOOT of the bed and my feet on the pillow. With no pillow. Or sheets.

At this point in the night it was 5am. I get up at 6:20. So, all in all, I got an hour and twenty minutes of uninterrupted sleep, and two or three 20-minute catnaps, while being walked on by a cat. A VERY DUMB CAT.

Added up: a little over two hours of sleep.

And Mondays are HELL at work during tax season.

So, I was a zombie today. I ran into a wall; I answered questions with the wrong answers (and, not just KIND OF the wrong answers – I was asked, “What’d you do this weekend?” and I said, “Thanks, I got it at Rite Aid,” and when they said, “What?” I said, “The movie was good.” Those kind of conversations happened more than once today), I started crying when a very nice coworker told me it was ok if I left some work for the next day (not because he was giving me permission – I was going to leave it anyway – but because he was BEING SO NICE), I got a call from Adam to Christine, and called Christine, and said, “I have Christine on the line for you, Adam” to her, which was classy and not at all word salad.

My dad is very “WHAT WILL WE DO TO FIX THIS PROBLEM” when I tell him things, so his first thing was, “well, it’s the blogging’s fault, quit the blogging” and I was all, “um, no, can I quit work? I’d sleep like a baby then” and he said I could not. Dammit. My mom said warm milk. WHO DOES THAT. Ugh. I only like very cold milk. THAT’S WHY YOU KEEP IT IN A FRIDGE.

I’ve TRIED all the normal fixes. I know, people love to give insomnia advice. It’s very nice, it is. But when it’s been happening for so long, and when the nights are so damn long and dark and seem endless and all you can think of is how bad the next day will be because your brain will be mush – all the advice in the world can’t fix that. Andreas wrote a very helpful post about how to combat sleeplessness not too long ago, and I loved it – but I’ve tried all the things. None of them work once my head hits the pillow and my brain starts being a hamster on a wheel.

I’m thinking lobotomy, right? Because that would turn off ALL THE THOUGHTS. Good idea? We like that? Yes? Wait, what, we don’t? Ugh, dammit, fine.

Wish me all the best. That bed’s giving me a look I don’t like. A very, “It’s you and me, buckaroo, and only one of us is winning this one,” look. I think it underestimates how very much I like to win. Also, how bone-tired I am. Dumbcat, you’re staying in the living room tonight. Sorry, buddy. Your feet are too sharp and I don’t feel like playing King of the Mountain tonight.

(UPDATE: This was written Monday night, right before bed. I SLEPT LIKE A CHAMP. Didn’t wake up ONCE. Fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. Woke up and Dumbcat was sleeping on my face and even THAT didn’t wake me up. BED. I totally conquered you. WIN! WIN!)


Clearly, there are forces at work here beyond our understanding.

I consider myself somewhat savvy. I mean, sure, I’m totally old and all, whatever, and when the kids start doing what kids do, like, oh, I don’t know, having all the sex really young or wearing pants with “Juicy” written across the ass, yes, I find that perplexing, but I just chalk that up to being old. I’m sure my parents were equally confused with teenage actions and fashions when I was going through puberty. For example, the time I decided to dress like Cyndi Lauper for Easter Mass and they made me change my clothes even though that was a totally happening outfit, you guys, seriously. I mean, all they told me was to put on a skirt. They didn’t tell me the shirt couldn’t be a flared acid-washed denim miniskirt with feetless black tights with lace around the ankles. BE MORE PRECISE IN YOUR DIRECTIONS AND MAYBE THE PROBLEM WOULDN’T HAVE OCCURRED, MOM AND DAD.

If there is new technology and I think I might find it interesting, I make an attempt to learn it. Sometimes this meets with better results than other times. Facebook? Totally learned it. It was confusing at first, but I picked up on it. It doesn’t help that they change the damn thing every six months or so (come ON, Zuckerberg, and also, am I the only one who can’t get the damn timeline to stay set on “most recent?” It always defaults back to “highlighted stories” so I’m reading stories from two days ago. I don’t care about two days ago. I already read those. Gah) and when I wanted to learn Twitter, EVEN THOUGH everyone was all “Twitter is TOTALLY LAMESAUCE” I learned Twitter and now I win Twitter so suck it, haters. I’m not having as much success with Google Plus or Tumblr, but mostly because I spend all my Google Plus energy on Facebook and all my Tumblr energy on my blog, so it seems extraneous to have another Facebook (although it’s prettier and set up better) and a smaller blog. But I HAVE them. And I UNDERSTAND them. I just don’t enjoy them as much as other people seem to do.

But there are some things I just, for the life of me, do not understand. Like, things that I have TRIED to understand, but that completely and totally elude me. And I think I’m alone in them. I’m pretty sure I’m one of the only people in the world who feels this way. I AM CONFUSED.

THINGS THAT EVERYONE SEEMS TO LOVE AND I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND THEM BECAUSE I THINK I AM FUNDAMENTALLY BROKEN IN SOME SERIOUS IRREPARABLE WAY

Pinterest

I tried SO HARD. I don't get it. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.

OK, so how excited was I when I finally got my Pinterest invitation? The most excited. ALL the cool kids are on Pinterest! So I was all, “This will be a total time suck! I am the MOST excited. I cannot WAIT!”

I’ve had Pinterest for about two weeks now and how many things have I pinned? ONE.

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND PINTEREST.

Here are my problems with Pinterest.

First, I don’t ever come across anything on the Internet I feel is worth “pinning” so everyone can see. Mostly because I don’t look at pretty pictures online. I read dense slabs of text online. That is what I do with my online time.

Second, I am not planning a wedding, decorating a house, and I don’t cook or bake. These are the things that people seem to pin. Also, you know how some people are color-blind? I’m pretty-things blind. I mean, I see a pretty thing and I’m all “that’s pretty.” But I don’t appreciate it for its prettiness. And I don’t think, “I should pin that.” Last night, on Parks and Rec, Andy (who I love) was supposed to be finding clues for a treasure hunt. Instead, he brought back a huge gnarled branch. “I found this cool stick,” he said. “Maybe it’s a clue?” I’m Andy when it comes to Pinterest. I don’t see pretty things, even if they’re right in front of me. I see gnarly sticks that may or may not be clues.

Third, Pinterest is blocked at work, so even if I were to find something while killing time and web-surfing here, I can’t pin it. BLOCKED.

Fourth, I found some things that I randomly wanted to pin last week, and everything I clicked on said, “I don’t see a photo on this page” when clearly there WAS a photo on that page, and then come to find out you can’t pin things from Flickr, which one of the things I wanted to pin was from Flickr. The other thing wasn’t from Flickr. And there was definitely a photo on the page. Pinterest HATES me.

But people love Pinterest! SMART PEOPLE! That I love! I mean, I looked up tutorials, I’ve looked at the boards of the people I follow, I’ve tried to light the fires of Pinterest interest (heh) in my soul – NOTHING. My soul is DEAD to Pinterest. Sorry, world. I don’t get it.

Bon Iver

Even his emo FACE makes me annoyed. Even his emo BEANIE.

According to people who know things about music, Bon Iver is good. I didn’t even know who Bon Iver was. I just knew that every once and a while, this soporific crap would come on the radio and I couldn’t change the channel quickly enough.

To me, Bon Iver sound like the music you would put on repeat as you sat in the bathtub and slashed your wrists with razors and then put a dry-cleaning bag over your head for good measure.

SO EFFING DEPRESSING.

They also sound a little like my record player used to sound when I would speed it up to make everyone sound like The Chipmunks, and a little like people talking sound when your head is underwater, and a little like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

They are everything I hate about music. They are a suicide note set to Musak.

But people seem to LOVE them. LOVE LOVE LOVE. Like, their shows sell out, and when people have tickets to a Bon Iver concert, people on Twitter are like rabidly salivating all over them all, “SO JEALOUSSSSS” and can you even IMAGINE sitting through two hours of this.

I’d put in a video, just in case you haven’t heard any of their music, but I don’t want to. I don’t want them on my blog. I DON’T WANT THEM HERE.

I realize this may make me some sort of troglodyte. What do you want from me. I said I was broken up there, did you not read that?

Family Guy

Nope. Still not funny.

I’ve watched, all-told, I think three episodes of this? Because people keep saying, “YOU HAVE TO WATCH FAMILY GUY.” And listen, I hate Family Guy. Like, HATE, hate.

I don’t think it’s funny. At all. I think it’s strangely animated, and I think the lead character’s voice is discordant, and one of the episodes I watched part of seemed to be making light of domestic violence, and this is humorous? I don’t get it.

Yet, again, VERY INTELLIGENT PEOPLE find this funny. So I’m either too old to get this, or it’s one of those shows like Arrested Development where I’m not intelligent enough to get it (but I totally usually get those shows, so I don’t think that’s it?), or I don’t like cartoons (again, probably not true, I haven’t missed an episode of The Simpsons since it started) or the rest of you people drank some sort of magic Koolaid and I wasn’t invited to the Jim Jones party. WHICH ONE IS IT.

Emo statuses on Facebook, and, subsequently, when people comment on them, saying, “I don’t want to talk about it”

The sheer fact that this graphic exists is distressing.

This is happening more and more and MORE. Listen, I’m totally the most closed-mouthed about my personal shit. I know, right now, you’re all, “LYING LIAR WHO LIES, we know ALL your personal shit.” But you don’t. You know what I want you to know of my personal shit. There is a lot of stuff I don’t tell you. There is a lot of stuff that only BFF gets, and, honestly, there’s a lot of stuff that even BFF doesn’t get. Because I was taught you keep your personal shit to YOURSELF, and you work through shit YOURSELF, and I AM A ROCK I AM AN IIIIIIIIISLAND.

But putting a status on Facebook like “You tore my heart out and stomped on it and how will I go on” and then someone comments with an “are you alright?” (NOT ME, I ignore those statuses as if they’re STDs) and you’re all “I don’t want to talk about it” CONFUSES ME. Why are you airing your dirty laundry? Don’t you have close friends you can share that with? Or, do you not have close friends? That makes me so sad for you. Is it attention-seeking? Are you attempting to get the attention of the person who scorned you? Are you just so sad you can’t help yourself and your fingers are working of their own accord? Don’t you have family on your Facebook page? Can’t they see that? Someone’s going to think you’re suicidal. Is that what you want? Do you want someone to think you’re suicidal? Is this a cry for help? WHAT IS GOING ON. I AM SO CONFUSED.

And listen, before you’re all “this is teens doing this” IT IS NOT JUST TEENS. It is ADULTS TOO. I don’t get it. Not even a little bit.

The world’s seeming obsession with Channing Tatum

Come on, ladies, seriously, this is a BRO. With a HUGE EFFING NECK AREA.

There are 43,000 actors more attractive than Channing Tatum. By the way, that’s not even a real name. It’s not even one of those “two last names” names. It’s like he picked two random street names out of a phone book and said, “That will be me now.”

Channing Tatum’s neck scares the bejeebers out of me. It’s like his head is an extension of his neck. His neck and head are the same circumference. Also, I think he seems like a bro. I hate bros.

Also, he can’t act. It’s like watching an alien from another planet attempt to fit into American society, watching this kid act. “I-AM-A-HUMAN-MALE-OF-YOUR-SPECIES.”

People luuuurrrrrve him, though. I don’t get it. There are other actors in a similar age range who actually have acting skills and necks that don’t look scary. Why don’t people obsess over those actors? Also, who put him in a movie with Rachel McAdams? If I was her, I’d have stayed in the coma. No one wants to wake up to that monstrosity at your bedside. Eek.

Yes. Yes, I know I’m probably broken. I SAID I WAS BROKEN. Whatever, I accept it. Probably I’m like poor Channing Tatum and am just attempting to fit into your human society. At least my neck is of normal circumference.

Also, I don’t know if you’re aware? But Saturday Night Live this weekend? Just found out that host: Channing Tatum. Musical guest: Bon Iver. IT IS MY WORST NIGHTMARE YOU GUYS. Maybe they’ll have a Family Guy skit and also pin a bunch of shit on Pinterest while putting up emo Facebook statuses. SO MUCH AWESOME IN ONE PLACE HOW WILL I SURVIVE.


After a terrible struggle, he got his head into the daylight again, and said cheerfully: “Have I won?”

I have a totally weird thing for the Hundred Acre Wood.

I know, I seem like I’m all mean and hard-core and I’d kick puppies (no, wait, rewind, I would NEVER kick a puppy. I really, really like animals. I might kick a toddler if it got too close, though, I’m not going to lie) but I totally am a complete puffball when it comes to Winnie the Pooh and his friends.

Mostly I like the original text (you are all aware that 99.99999% of the time, the original text is ALWAYS better than a Disney-fied version, or an adaptation, right? Right. Good) but I’ll watch the Disney versions, too. I’m not picky when it comes to these animals.

As far as I can figure, it’s because somehow, because I’m totally undiagnosed bipolar, I am a total 50/50 mix of two of the characters? But maybe I just like stuffed animals that can talk and get into comical situations, I don’t know.

ALSO, that Kenny Loggins “House at Pooh Corner” song IS THE SADDEST. Here. Don’t even watch it if you’re already sad because then you will be SO DEPRESSED YO.

Let’s discuss some of the things that are going on over there, shall we?

OK, so apparently, all of the goings-on in the Hundred Acre Wood are all figments of Christopher Robin’s imagination. Some people online are all “CHRISTOPHER ROBIN IS SCHIZOPHRENIC YO.” What? No he is NOT. Christopher Robin is a completely normal kid who is PLAYING with TOYS. Who didn’t make up little scenarios for their animals when they were kids? Well, kids who were raised by wolves, I suppose, but normal kids do this ALL THE TIME. It is COMPLETELY FINE. I had little stories and romantic lives and fights and all the dramas with my stuffed animals. And now I’m…well, kind of a looney but I TOTALLY MEAN WELL.  NO, SERIOUSLY, I DO.

Piglet is worrisome. I’m not going to lie. Piglet is so nervous that it makes ME nervous. Piglet reminds me of those people who always need reassurance because they lack all the self-confidence, and that makes you SO EXHAUSTED because you’re always having to be all “It will BE OK, Piglet. NOTHING BAD will happen. IT IS ALRIGHT.” And he gets so nervous, he stutters. PIGLET! STOP IT. All is WELL. Calm DOWN. Also, Piglet doesn’t look like a pig. Piglet looks like…I don’t even know. What DOES Piglet look like? Not a pig. A kid, actually, with big ears. Piglet looks like a kid. Not a pig. BABE looks like a pig. Aw, I love Babe. Babe is my favorite. If you can watch that scene with the farmer dancing without crying, seriously, did you lose your soul in a wager with the Devil? Because I think you might have.

I don’t care about Owl. He’s smart. Whatever. He’s kind of peripheral. Although I totally dig his treehouse and want one. It was so wee! And everything had its place! I hate clutter. I like when things are all tucked away nicely. I think I might have OCD or something.

Kanga and Roo are fine with me, too. Although don’t you think Kanga was totally probably all, “I AM SO TIRED OF ALL THIS TESTOSTERONE ALL UP IN HERE” because she was the ONLY WOMAN THERE. Also, where is Roo’s dad? There’s no Mr. Kanga. This is VERY MYSTERIOUS. Did he leave in the middle of the night all secret-like? Did they all Orient-Express murder him? MR. KANGA. I AM WORRIED ABOUT YOU.

I refuse to talk about Gopher or because he is a DISNEY addition and not real. He doesn’t exist. HE IS DEAD TO ME. Although I will say that Gopher’s speech impediment makes me laugh, and I sometimes use it to annoy people. What? ME? ANNOY PEOPLE? I know, right? Totally out of the realm of possibility.

I also know NOTHING about Heffalumps or Woozles, but people seem to love them and they WERE (this is being amended RIGHT NOW I AM SO SORRY THE INTERWEBS LED ME ASTRAY) in the original texts, just not illustrated. So, I’m cool with the Heffalumps and Woozles. I just have no opinion on them. SORRY HEFFALUMPS AND WOOZLES.

Rabbit is a bossy dictator asshole and I don’t know why anyone hangs out with him. What’s going on there, exactly?

Ok. Winnie the Pooh. Now listen, I love Pooh. Don’t even get me wrong, Pooh is great! But Pooh is also kind of a ball of trouble. First? He totally needs to be in OA. He can NOT control himself around food. All food, but honey in particular. To the point where he STEALS FOOD FROM OTHERS gets STUCK in a WALL and has to STARVE HIMSELF to get OUT. Also, he isn’t…um…how to put this nicely…very smart? Which he’s kind of the first to admit. He even SAYS he’s a “bear of little brain.” Which is kind of sad! I mean, if you’re SAYING that about yourself, that’s totally sad. Aw. Pooh! It’s ok.

(Side note, a boy I was totally head-0ver-heels for in college decided it would be a good idea to give me the nickname Pooh. That’s ridiculously stupid on a variety of levels. And whenever he tried to use it I gave him a total bitchface. But MAN could that boy write poetry. So I forgave him, well, just about anything, really.)

Now, let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we? The two characters that make me love Winnie the Pooh the most and are totally the two halves of me because I’m probably bipolar or something on top of all of the other things that I’m undiagnosed as.

Eeyore.

Man, do I love me some Eeyore.

YES! Eeyore is depressed. Like, CLINICALLY depressed. Eeyore lives in the swamp or some such nonsense and they always go out of their way to visit Eeyore and he doesn’t seem to want them there and he shoots out such bon mots as “Somebody must have taken it, how like them” and “Good morning, Pooh Bear, if it is a good morning, which I doubt, we can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it. Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush.”

I AM TOTALLY EEYORE SOMETIMES.

I don’t like people to come into my swamp, and I totally don’t go round the mulberry bush. I GET THAT. I have my Eeyore days. I want to hide under my bed and grump around and give all the dirty looks and mope until my moper’s broken.

THEN!

Tigger.

Tigger is ALSO the best. Because Tigger is SO EXCITED YOU GUYS. Tigger totally has ADHD. Tigger bounces all over and gets into scrapes because he can’t control his total unbridled enthusiasm for life and then feels REALLY BADLY he screwed up so bad, but you can’t really hate Tigger! Because Tigger DID NOT MEAN TO BE AN ASSHOLE. Tigger IS JUST SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU. Also, his theme song (this is Disney-fied, so please forgive me the indulgence) includes the quote “the most wonderful thing about Tiggers is I’m the only one.” YES. That’s wonderful for EVERYONE. The world could not HOLD more than one Tigger. Tiggers have HUGE PERSONALITIES.

I am, on my non-Eeyore days, often having a Tigger day.

I am ALSO totally excited to see you. I am VERY EXCITED. I love TASKS and PROJECTS and I LOVE TO HELP. I like to MEDDLE. I am VERY ENTHUSIASTIC.

And it’s totally an asshole thing to be sometimes! And also SCARY! Because Tigger often comes with CRAZY-PERSON EYES! I get that. I totally, totally get that! But it comes from a place of all the love, seriously. Because I have ALL THE TIGGER-LIKE ENTHUSIASM. And I want to SHARE IT WITH YOU. BECAUSE I LIKE YOU SO MUCH. It might be a little annoying, but it really is totally a compliment. I don’t really like many people, so if I turn the tractor beam of Tigger onto you, I really, REALLY like you. And I’m totally selective. Even if you’d rather I dialed it back a notch. SORRY I HAVE NO NOTCHES. I go to ELEVEN. ALL THE TIME.

Once time, I was madly in love with this guy? And I was completely being Tigger, because, well, romance has the tendency to turn anyone into a Tigger, let’s be frank, and I was telling him something, and a mutual friend was there, and Guy I Was in Love With Who Ended Up Marrying Someone Who Was Not Me said to mutual friend, “Isn’t she the best? I mean, look at those eyes! No one’s ever been so enthusiastic about anything in their LIVES.”

Yep. Because, TIGGER. I’m telling you.

Lately, there have been a lot more Tigger-days than Eeyore-days. Which is nice! I like Tigger-days more than Eeyore-days.

So I might totally have all the Winnie the Pooh related paraphernalia in my home? I know. It kind of makes me look like a crazy person, or like I’m baby-crazy, or something. No, no. Mostly it’s all Tigger or Eeyore-related, honestly. I promise my biological clock has not started ticking. I’d still kick a toddler. Sorry, toddlers. (Not really, toddlers.) Also, if I Tigger-pounce you? It’s a compliment. I promise. Don’t be afraid, little ones. I only body-check into submission the people I like. You have been CHOSEN TO BE LOVED. Are you not the luckiest? Y0u totally are.


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