Ads on FaceBook

I know everyone likes to mention the weird shit FB spits out in the right-hand column of your home page. Usually my favorites are when FB really wants me to reach out and connect to a friend it has deemed lonely and needing of my attention. However, today it is really feeling up in my bizness, and trying to validate its nosiness by offering me free stuff in return! Hot damn, it is my lucky fucking day!

Getting Married? Sign up for a free class & receive a free marriage license from the state of TX. Click here, make it a forever thing.

I wondered what I would get if I decided to make it "a forever thing," so I clicked, and oh, the rewards of doing so!

Getting Married? Got the dress? The Flowers? The forever... You do mean forever, right?
Soul Mates is a free course for newly-wed, nearly-wed and seriously dating couples. Come discover proven ways to:

* Help strengthen your relationships
* Deepen your intimacy
* Prepare you for a lifetime journey together

Complete this ten week course and receive a free marriage license from the state of Texas.

When The Boy gets back from making a death-in-the-family food delivery to some friends, I'm going to sit him down and see if he's ready for some Christ action in our lifetime journey.

I was a little suspect of this "free" marriage license business, so I looked up information about getting married in Texas, in that I felt the license was either already free or there was a way to get it for free. There was just no way that some church was shelling out the dough to help couples get married--maybe if they promised to enroll in a one-year, automatic direct-debit tithing from your personal checking account.

ID Requirement:
In Texas, you will need one valid form of id such as drivers license, certified copy of your birth certificate, U. S. passport, military ID card, and your Social Security number.

Residency Requirement:
Neither one of you have to be a resident of Texas. Texas is a great locale for a destination wedding!

Pre-marital Education:
In Texas, couples are encouraged to attend a premarital education course that is at least four hours duration. It must be finished during the year preceding applying for a marriage license. Contact the county clerk for a roster of area course providers.

Previous Marriage:
If divorced within thirty days, Texas requires that you show a certified copy of your divorce decree stating the 30 day waiting period is waived.

Waiting Period in Texas:
The 72 hours (3 days) waiting period in Texas can be waived for active duty military personnel.

Fees and Other Tests:
$31 - $41 cash, so don't leave home without it! The fees may vary from Texas county to county. Blood tests or medical examinations are not required in Texas.

NOTE: Effective September 2008, the license fee will be waived if a couple takes an 8-hour premarital preparation course that covers important marital skills and issues such as conflict management and communication.

Never mind the abysmal punctuating in the above, I do enjoy how it points out that Texas is a great destination place to get married. "Oh hey, honey, I know there are many wonderful spots to get married in our own state, but really, I've always dreamed of getting married in Texas. Preferably on the Ewing Ranch. I hear it is such a great destination place!"

Now, if I take an 8-hour course on some Tantric sex, would I qualify for the *FREE* marriage license? I would certainly learn important marital skills! Also, I'm fairly certain that to achieve awesome Sting-level Tantric sex, me and my fiance would certainly be good at conflict management and communication. "Sweetie, while I like that you are being forward thinking about toe placement, I would rather you spend more time flexing your vaginal muscles than putting your right big toe in my left ear. Thanks, doll."

What We Talk About When We Start Talking About Snot

Guamainiac: hey snotty
Grumples: hey yourself
Grumples: i can drown you in my snot
Grumples: or in the heaving waves of my headache
Guamainiac: luckily I am into that.
Grumples: sweet
Grumples: come dive in to my nostrils and start swimming upstream
Guamainiac: ahhh just like a salmon. what shall i do if i make it to the top
Grumples: spawn and die, obviously
Grumples: then i'll have all these guamainiac babies swimming around in my rough currents, and will soon find their way back downstream and fall out of my face on to my boobies
Grumples: we should write a comic book detailing this
Guamainiac: babies on boobs
Grumples: mustachioed babies on boobs!
Guamainiac: mom, will you buy me an Ipad? I really need one
Grumples: do you have diarrhea?
Guamainiac: Snot-stachios!
Grumples: are you trying to win a car and need something to piddle on so you don't have to take your hand off the vehicle?
Grumples: oh yes, snot-stachios! very catchy
Guamainiac: yes all of those things.
Grumples: do you really want an ipad?
Guamainiac: yes please. i need one real bad. i'll come pet the cats weekly and give (The Boy) hand jobs for a month. and i'll take (Wikus) out to play and i'll watch hoarders with you. whatever. i need that pad!
Grumples: hmmm, that really sounds worth it
Grumples: how much do i have to shell out for this fancy iphone that isn't a phone?
Guamainiac: only $499. it's a bargain really
Grumples: and what will you do with this wonderous machine?
Grumples: (i was interrupted by my boss)
Guamainiac: oh no! JD Salinger died!
Grumples: man, it's been a crappy january for death's
Grumples: (The Orange Lover), howard zinn, and now salinger
Grumples: goodness
Guamainiac: and like 50,000 haitians. come on february
Grumples: oh, good point
Grumples: sorry haitians!

Leftover Baby Spinach

ET has some schmootz on his little beaky face. He is very adverse to me spitting on a tissue and rubbing it off of him.

Darts & Pool Kick My Myopic Ass

Someone I know only through FB is in town and would like to get together, you know, to actually become more than just an abstract idea (or he wants to really see if I am as crazy as I sound online). To some this may seem crazy weird and like a bad idea, but he is friends with people I completely trust (or trust enough to take naked pictures of me with band-aids on my nipples--no, you will not be seeing these pics any time soon). If he turns out to be a crazed psychopath complete with mossy teeth and bloody hangnails, he'll have to get through The Boy and Wikus first. Wikus could certainly kill anyone with his long lecture giving step-by-step details on how to make a ribbon controller from scratch. He'll tell you even if you've fallen asleep with your face in a plate of greasy onion rings. Wikus is that awesome. He has such Pedantic Superpowers! Hello, I'm Pedantic Man--ask me anything, and I will become a walking Wikipedia page complete with detailed instructions where no instructions are needed!

While lazing at work (doing my best to stretch lots of nothing across a whole eight hours is exhausting) I received a text message from him asking if I played darts or pool. If only I could snort through the medium of text messaging. I have some really thick snot today to really make a good snort.

Have I mentioned my serious depth-perception problem? When I get out of my car, I am always surprised about how many feet are between me and the car parked in front of my car. When I was parking I could have sworn that I was an inch away from eating that bumper, but no, I could fit like 10 motorcycles in that space between us. Darts and pool. Ha!

I lived in Alaska at one point during my wee years, and the house came with a pool table. My sister and I really didn't know how to play pool, but damn did she get good at sinking the balls. (Seriously, sinking the balls!) I was really good at putting chalk marks on the felt, and worrying that my dad would beat me if he saw them. Luckily, I never tore the felt. This may be where I learned to be an awesomely bad sore loser. Being bested by my little sister was way too much for me to handle. That pool table moved with us to Texas, and I tried making out on it a few times, but really, the couch next to it was way more comfortable. It was also harder to look innocent sitting all dizzy and puffy with kisses on the pool table when my dad broke in to the room to try and catch me making out with someone. That is really my last interaction with pool tables.

Darts were never really part of my life in anyway. There were plenty of dartboards glimpsed in dark smokey bars across the years, but I didn't know anyone who actually played them. That is until a close friend of mine revealed his love of darts (and motorcycles, that bastard). He showed me a very fancy, shiny set of them. They looked really cool and pointy! Then came the worst moment of his life (at that time, because before that the worst I could find was that time he wore that hot-pink shirt in middle school and tried to hit on girls). He instructed me on what to do, he had me toe the line on the floor, he directed my arm and had me aim and let go. He was so certain that this was something I could accomplish. I thought he was going to puke and pass out when his precious dart came nowhere near the board and instead landed with a sickening thunk against the concrete wall. I tried to validate my poor showing by explaining I was too short and he was too tall, and how that dart board must be hung for him, not me. Not only did I manage to go to the side of the dart board, I was also under it. I tried again with the same ending. He silently took those darts away from me with tears in his eyes. I really let him down. I'm so sorry NN. I hope you have forgiven me. Or, I've opened something you had repressed, and now your wound is bleeding and you're clutching your darts while riding around JP on your motorcycle. I can see you in MY MIND, you know.

So, no, I don't think pool or darts are a good idea.

Just Another Work Conversation

Boss: I have these snacks (present an array of Weight Watcher chocolate goodies to one of her coequals, exclaiming, "They're only 1 point each!").
Coequal: No, man, it's not worth it. I'll want the whole bag.
Boss: They are individually wrapped.
Me: Meaning we can just give you one.
Coequal: Nah. I won't be able to handle just one (and walks away with his belly leading him out the door)
Boss: blah blah blah, candy, tasty, getting heavy, blah blah blah
Me: I have grape tomatoes at my desk. They are very tasty and nutritious.
Boss: I'm happy for you.
Me: No really, they are a great snack.
Boss: Uh huh. Good for you. At least you won't get prostate cancer.
Me: (stunned silence)
Me: You are aware that I do not have a prostate, right? Nor do you, or you left something out during the description of your colonoscopy last month.
Boss: Well, it's a well-known fact that tomatoes lead to good prostate health.
Me: Be that as it may, I still don't think I'll be developing prostate cancer.
Boss: I'm glad.
Me: Me, too.

Teenage Savants (From Mars)!

For this Wednesday morning, my iPod through out some Misfits for me to listen to, which is really a very nice thing to listen to mid-week. It played "Teenagers From Mars." What I love so much about this song is how for so long I thought they were saying, "Teenage savants and we don't care!" Yes, I never cared about teenage savants either! I'm right there with you Danzing.

This morning I played a fun game of grossing out my awesome coworker (he has picked bar fights in Mexico and we love to talk about the inevitable zombie invasion; there's also his fierce love for animals and his anti-government stances that make him my most favorite loner cowboy who lives in town ever!). This involved me yelling "SCOOP HANDS" and both of us waiving our palms-down fingers-pointed-up hands at each other. Seems I am obviously the queen of scoop hands, he laughed and said, "ew" a lot. Twit tried to get involved in the shenanigans, but she just couldn't figure out what to offer us beyond some giggles that fell flat.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend I just don't see enough of. She is such a kick-ass sweet person. She has a lot of love in her heart, and like The Boy (whom I met her through), she's always busy. I cannot imagine the well of energy she has to be such a good friend and be a professional musician. She is involved in a lot of high-profile groups, and it is a bit humbling since I really don't do anything I love to do for profit (except all that whoring I do on the weekends). We went to an Argentinian place for lunch, and the waiter was this young man, who was so eager to impress us. He even told me I was funny, when I couldn't pronounce what I wanted, and said "yeah, that" when he pronounced it for me. That was not remotely funny; it was pathetic on my part, but hey, if he wants to think I'm cute, that's great. After lunch, my friend went to the restroom while I held her "axe" (as she so dearly calls her viola), and our waiter came over to me to ask if it was a violin. Not wanting to engage in too much conversation on a subject I know nothing about, I simply responded that "no, it's a viola." At which time, he felt this was an opening to flirt with me. It was hilarious. It gave me a chance to talk my friend up while she was in the loo, and to learn that he hasn't been to the symphony...yet. It kind of felt like he was hoping I'd invite him as a date. Only if he bought the tickets! I'm no sugar momma, kiddo.

I wore a bit of a complicated outfit yesterday, in that there were many layers and tights were involved. Unfortunately, not paying a lot of attention when I woke up, I was also wearing boxer-brief underwear (boy-style for girls! Or, as Hanes calls them, "boy short panties"), which just did not work well under tights. There was a lot of shoving my hands down my tights trying to get the boxers to roll back down on my leg without actually pulling my tights down with them. This made for some fun dancing in the bathroom stall. A lot of pulling, tugging, jiggling, sighing and bending. It's not something I would ordinarily even think much about, other than the automatic toilet kept flushing each time I moved. These toilets do not have covers, and therefore invisible droplets were being flung at me each time I tried to get my boxers to lie flat, my tights up, my layers unstuck from each other, and my skirt to sit where it should. Gross.

How is Creepy Defined in the Dictionary?

Today I was browsing a friend's profile on FB. She had just posted some nice pictures of her kid, who must be like 12 years old by now (damn girl, when did we actually get to that age?). Her daughter is beautiful just like her mom, but the creepy thing to me (to me) is that they look exactly the same with the exception of eye color. Now I can only base this off of her face alone, but seriously, same face. I don't know why I define this as "creepy," but it is the word that keeps coming to mind. It's probably that I cannot fathom a) having a child, and b) one that looked exactly like me.

I would say it has taken me a good 30 years to actually be pretty happy with my appearance. Maybe my daughter would be a lot stronger and more secure than I was, but I think the perspective I am looking out is more having to deal with watching myself outside of myself. Even while knowing she is not me, I feel as if I would like at her and feel confused and wonder, wow, is that how I looked as a teenager? Then I'd probably feel really sorry for myself for not realizing how hot I was back then, and eat some hot dogs in self-pity over my lost glory days.

I asked Frijole and Fink-Nottle about this as they are also happily living without child. FN didn't think it was creepy at all and proudly kept with the stance that his wife is beautiful so why should he mind. Frijole groaned when I told her, because we both knew that was obvious, and so not the point. While Frijole did not agree quite as strongly with the creepiness of it all, she did bring up a completely different horrifying point that she finds creepy: watching her friends turn in to their mothers. That totally got me off thinking about is it creepy if your child is identical to you in person, and had me crying in the back of my closet in fears that I would start to look like my mother.

This was so appropriate because a woman I knew over 20 years ago (aka: pre-teen) posted a note on one of my FB photos saying she can see my mom in me. That's a slap to my face and spitting on the Orange Lover's grave as an insult. Beside how I may feel toward my mother emotionally, I never found her to be particularly attractive. She wasn't ugly per se, just plain in that drab English way (including some seriously mangled teeth). She had nice gray eyes, I'll give her that. I always liked to think I was adopted (because if I was an insecure child, I still had a sense that I was attractive in some sort of way that I had just not figured out yet). I asked Wikus if he felt I looked like my mother, since he's the only one who has actually met her in real life (I only have one picture of her for others to reference), and he snorted and said something like, "hell no." I don't think he said that out of love for me either. We really just don't look alike. Then again, I don't think my sister and I look anything alike, but The Boy totally thinks we do. So I concede that I may have a problem with self-evaluating my features when it comes to my family members. However, I still trust Wikus on this one, and seeing as the The Boy hasn't met my mother, I don't have to worry about anyone disagreeing with him.

The other two big topics of conversation today were television shows and the news that some douchey California elementary school banned the fucking dictionary. It is so infuriating how those 9- and 10-year-old kids know that the dictionary has words in it. Haven't we been looking up "bad" words in the dictionary, you know, since the fucking dictionary became available in all homes and schools? How is this news, and where the fuck does this school get off banning the fucking dictionary from its classrooms! Never mind the fact that kids can just go online and look up the word, or are they banning www.dictionary.com at the school, too (I'm assuming they at least have a computer in the library)? If, as a parent, you are so paranoid that your child will come across something you feel s/he should not see, then you better take that kid out of school, both public and private. Just keep your asshole, censoring bullshit out of the public and keep it at home, and one can at least hope the kids learn on their own once they get out of their parents' sheltered house.

That whole conversation with Fink-Nottle happened because I messaged him that Ex-Cop was yelling for me from his office (I always pretend to not here the first time), and even when I was listening, I still couldn't understand what he was saying; thus, forcing him to come out of his office and approach me with his question:

Ex-Cop: How do you spell "ad-ad-adjoining?"
Me: Excuse me (in disbelief)
Ex-Cop: "Adjoining" like an "adjoining parking lot"
Me: Yes, yes I know what you meant
Ex-Cop: How do you spell it?
Me: A...D...J...
Ex-Cop: "J!" Got it, thank you!

How was he spelling it? With a "G?" Anyway, I messaged Fink-Nottle to inquire why this man, a former detective, didn't know how to use his computer to find out that really pressing question? Then you really wonder about removing resources from children. What if they end up like Ex-Cop?

Time To Reflect

This weekend I accomplished this:

1) Taking Wikus' cat to the vet (she's the sister of Whoopis) to determine why she is "self-barbering." Answer: Who knows. This is what I expect from vets these days. Hey we got a problem and we're going to pay you to tell us what it is. Ah, you don't know? Hmmm. Interesting. I'm sure if I had some mysterious ailment, doctors would play the same game with me. We know she doesn't have mites or fleas, but she may be allergic to something, so Wikus has to give her an antihistamine. If that doesn't work, full blood panel and urinalysis. There better be nothing wrong with her because I won't be able to deal with another death in the family.

2) Watched all my DVRed shows to clear the queue.

3) Two naps in two days.

4) Started "The Children's Book," by A. S. Byatt (just finished "Chronic City," by Jonathan Lethem). The Boy just spilled a can of water on it, but swears he didn't. Guess we'll have to blame a cat. It's a first edition, fourth printing, so I am not going to freak out over it. I'm not her hugest fan, so this isn't like the time The Boy left my first edition, first printing of "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell" by Susanna Clarke sitting in the Orange Lover's favorite place to pee. That was anger inducing. He had to find another one for me, and couldn't get a white cover, only a black cover. The peed-on one lived in the garage for awhile until the smell got better, then it sat on the bookshelf. I eventually gave it to my gorgeous Amazonian friend, who may or may not have read it, but is pretty sure her husband did. She has two boys and works like 60 hours a week. She claims she can only read while brushing her teeth. I've met her boys and absolutely believe this to be true.

5) Watched the first six episodes of Mad Men with The Boy. I don't hate it, I don't love it. It was fine for what it was, and it was a joy to see little Connor trying to be a man and not be all feral vampire-slayer. If I didn't see another episode, I wouldn't cry over it. I'm sure we will watch them all, though. There's a trend in this house for a certain someone to poo-poo television, but then get addicted to it when you can watch it on DVD or Netflix. Funny that.

6) Not showering. That's right, didn't take a single shower this whole weekend. I thought about doing it after waking from my nap at 6:15pm today, but then felt that was kind of pointless.

7) Did my taxes in under 10 minutes and am getting a hefty refund. Wikus chided me for letting the government have an interest-free loan on my money. I totally understand the point, but psychologically, I enjoy getting a lot of money once a year. I realize it is MY money and I could have had it in an interest-bearing account, but that just doesn't seem as fun to me. It's stupid, I know. Also, I learned that most of my friends have way more diverse financial situations and have CPAs. The Boy does, and I don't get involved in his taxes (always one extension filed, sometimes two). I never moan about taxes, since mine are so damn simple.

8) Wikus brought over Inglourios Basterds, which was a great Sunday night romp. I suspect some revisionist writing, but it was far more entertaining than what the writers of The Tudors have been churning out for us.

9) Consumed tons of allergy medication. More than will ever be good for my liver. At autopsy, it will be concluded that I did not die from allergies but from poisoning my liver as a really slow suicide. Here's to you Benadryl, Allegra, Zyrtec, Aleve, Celexa, iron and vitamin C pills! I love each and everyone one of you; especially you, iron pill, for making my poos green.

AT&T Must Enjoy Being Assholes

As mentioned here, we've been having phone and internet problems. After putting in an online request last Sunday (that would be 6 days ago for those of you who are counting), and AT&T felt that they were so fucking busy that they wouldn't be able to come out and check our service until Thursday (and of course charging us for not being able to provide us a phone signal at all and intermittent internet connection). On Thursday, The Boy reported that no one rang the bell, but the phone mysteriously started working in the late afternoon. The internet connection is still spotty (we must unplug the router several times a day to reboot the damn thing). This afternoon, I was napping (the molds and cedar are so fucking high that I am basically a zombie with sinus pain) and the bell rang. I thought maybe it was FedEx since I am waiting for 30lbs of calci-sand for our favorite little tortoise friend. I roused myself solely based on that thought, and it was some AT&T guy. I was surprised, just woken, and a bit woozy, and treated him coldly asking why he was here. He had no idea about the Thursday appointment, and was ready to run away when I managed to spit out that we were still having internet troubles. After he mucked around in the backyard, making my internet go on and off, he zoomed off without ever coming back to tell me what was wrong and if he had fixed anything. The Boy received an email saying AT&T closed our ticket. Only problem was that there was no internet when the guy left, and we had to reboot the router twice before we could get it to work.

Do I call the motherfuckers out and see what happens, or do I just deal with it and dump them as soon as I possibly can and go with Grande (I hate Time Warner just as much as AT&T)?

It seems taking an additional 50% of my anxiety/depression medication has left me with seriously low blood pressure. Beside wanting to die from allergies, every time I get up I go blind and have to wait for my vision to slowly fill back in, while I grab at various items to keep me upright. Thus, it is more of me and the couch. Tonight The Boy and I started Mad Men; we'll see how it goes.

There was a gorgeous sunset tonight. Blazing hot pinks folding in to fiery gold with light blues and purples at the periphery. I love the sunsets here.

For Your Enjoyment

Text Messaging With Boss

6:40am, Me: Allergies so bad. No way I can operate car much less smaller tasks. Almost gave insulin to wrong cat. Aiming for 9/10am.

9:40am, Me: Argh. This is terrible. New plan. Come down before noon to handle payroll/w2s. Then stay as long as my evil allergy overlords will let me. How are you?

9:43am, Boss: I am doing okay. Hope you get better.

9:46am, Me: When people come to you panicked saying Death has been spotted in the building, comfort them by saying it is just me.


9:47am, Boss: I will do that!

9:48am, Me: Sweet. You may also want to assure them that I am not carrying the plague.

______ Later, upon arrival in the office _______

11:45am, Me: People are scattering and screaming whilst shouting, "Death! Death!" I keep raising my arm and pointing at them. Funny

My Bad

Ex-Cop (shouting at me from his office while I'm hunkered down below my half-wall): Are you a golf-person?

Me (popping up and giving him the stink eye): Excuse me?

Ex-Cop: Are you a dog...puppy-person?

Me: Oh! Yes. I like puppies (thinking to myself: shit, my bad, not golf, dog!).

Ex-Cop: I'm going to email something you might like then.

Me: Ok, great.

______ Later, I rouse myself to check my email _______

Ex-Cop's email:

You probably don't clean your computer screen very often

and it is really hard to do the inside,
so here is my present to you.

Click on the word "here" above and wait for a few seconds and the inside of your screen will be cleaned for you!

Old Women and Animal Prints

Why is it that old woman really enjoy animal prints? Especially leopard? This one lady in my literature volunteer class was wearing a leopard-print blazer and pointy leopard-print kitten heels. Excessive! And to mentor 6th-graders who have home tattoos and babies. Baffling.

In Other News

The psychologist is upping my anti-anxiety/depression meds in hopes that I am less moody and can get out of bed in the mornings.

The seahorse mosaic now lives in my kitchen window.


(That's a small black bear on the table.)

Wikus is going to be moving to a new apartment right down the road. Not so he can be down the road from me, but so he can have a porch. This is very high on his life list.

The Boy totally accidentally sliced my knee through my awesome blue tights when he was vigorously waving away a nice little happy fart I sent his way. His fingernails seriously need to be trimmed, but he won't do it claiming he needs them for the guitar. He actually drew blood. There's blood on my tights on my knees, and I am not an 11-year-old.


(Awesome tights for an awesome dress with awesome shoes.)

The Boy is obsessed with The Tudors. It is a perfectly tolerable show if you had not previously spent a whole semester taking A History Of England class with the best professor in the whole world. Instead of enjoying the show, I have to sit with my computer fact-checking, because Showtime seems to know a different version of England's history than what I know. Seriously. Wolsey did not commit suicide in the Tower of London. Please don't believe everything you watch on television! Also, very important annoy-the-fuck-out-of-me factor: The first season has good ol' King Henry VIII doing a voice over during the credits, and he says something like, "To know a story, you have to start at the beginning" or some crap like that. The thing is, the fucking Tudors don't fucking start with King Henry VIII. Was it so hard to start with the War of the Roses and King Henry VII? This seriously makes me angry, and am glad it has been dropped in season two. I can stop shouting at the show from the very beginning, and can usually last at least 20 minutes in to it before I start grumbling about plot points.

How Not To Use a Whiteboard at Work

It is 2010, right? Seriously. 2010. We all have access to some type of calendar app through a computer or phone, right? At a major company's office, most people definitely have a computer with Outlook on it and it totally has a calendar feature. I know, because I have Outlook, and I use it daily. In fact, I keep the application open all day because that is how much I have to use it.

So, why, exactly, does Twit insist on putting her schedule on the whiteboard hanging above her desk? Her desk is not in an office, it is in an open space that everyone can see as they enter and exit the building. Right now, we can all see that on 1/12/10, she had a 3-hour glucose-screening test.

What's actually even more amusing about this, is she wrote this item down AFTER it happened. Thus, leading me to conclude that its only purpose is for people to ask her about it, since it obviously is not serving as a reminder of an upcoming appointment.

So, yes, everyone, Twit has gestational diabetes. I know this because someone read her whiteboard and fell for her trap, and asked about it, and she was only all too glad to go on and on and on about it. Unfortunately for me, I sit a mere few feet away, and had nowhere to hide. Thanks, Twit.

On Merging

Lately, the concept of "proper" merging has been on my mind a lot. It started when I read "Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What It Says About Us)". This was the first time I was presented with the idea that merging late is good, instead of being the basest, evilest act of human stupidity that I heretofore always thought.

Then yesterday, I was reading some one's blog (and I'm terrible for not remembering whose, I realize that and have punished myself adequately by feeling terribly guilty for at least 30 minutes now...ok, the guilt forced me to go find it), where she talks about the "zipper-merge method" and links to another blog of a woman who gives her view on it.

I have spent the past month really thinking of the late merging (now with a friendlier name, zipper merge!). I have looked at it from many angles, and I understand the basic idea: The merge lane is empty and not freely moving traffic if everyone is merging at the beginning of the lane. Therefore, there's just an empty lane next to clogged lanes. I can see the insult in that. Zipper-merging is pretty much the same idea, except where I had always practiced it at the beginning of merge lanes (where I let one person in, and the person behind me lets one person in, and so on), the proponents of zipper-merging want to do that at the end of the merge lane (which of course is how late merging should work as well).

This all makes sense to me when traffic is freely flowing. Use all the lanes, get in at the end by the person at the front making a space for you. In concept that is really pretty and efficient. Except, come on, nothing works in reality like that. It is a fucking free-for-all out there. People are going to merge when they have space to do so at any point in the merge lane; whether that be over a solid white line, anywhere along the lane or at the very end when the line is solid again and the vehicle is about to hit a guardrail unless someone kindly lets him/her in (which, for the record, will not be me).

What really happens is I am kind and let someone in at the beginning of the merge lane, and then usually another person in the middle of the lane who wasn't able to get over earlier probably due to some asshole who just doesn't let a single person merge. Then there's usually a Ford F-150 or the ridiculous Caddy SUV that will force its way in front of me whether I like it or not. At this point I am now 3-4 cars behind where I want to be, and this is happening also to all the other cars in front of me putting me what, 10+ cars behind where I want to be? Then to finally be past the merge lane to have some jackass nosing his/her way in front of me? I don't fucking think so. If everyone was let in at the end, then that would be fine. That would mean that whole lane waited just like my lane waited. Only one vehicle would get ahead at a time and in turn. Since that is not remotely how it works, why would I let someone go to the very end and pretty much try to dare me to not let him/her in to the pack? Go ahead and hit my car jackass; I believe you have to yield to me motherfucker. And so help you if you actually drive in the merge lane all the way past it to the breakdown lane; I will eat the car's bumper in front of me before I would ever let your holiness in to my lane.

We can all talk in theories but the problem comes in how they are applied and enforced. Since the majority of drivers are abusing the merge lane when they drive to the end, I'm not going to start changing my behavior because in theory it sounds good.

However, zipper-merging in crowded parking lots is perfect, and I find is usually pulled off just fine by the majority of drivers. Probably because there is no empty lane for everyone to crowd in and get in front of other people who have been waiting patiently to exit. We're all pretty much in the same situation: We all want to get out of the parking lot and we're all stuck in it until we all cooperate together by letting one person out/in as we go. That just doesn't work on the highway.

Beside, driving to the end of a lane and then expecting that someone will let me over, just feels like a serious asshole move. It shows I am selfish and feel I am more important than the people in the other lane. That is how it feels to me; I understand not everyone feels the same way, which is fine. But yes, I am going to judge you, and probably on very little other than my mood that day, and decide that you are being an asshole and I will totally not let you in the lane and you'll have to wait for someone nicer than me. Feel free to yell and honk; I do the same when I feel it is my right. We are equals in that!

Three-Day Weekend With Inconsistent Internet Connection

Apparently, last Thursday, there was one hell of a thunderstorm. I say apparently because I somehow slept through it, which surprised The Boy, who claims I normally cry during storms. Cry is our word for being a totally whining baby. There are no tears shed during these times (unless you consider allergy tears which are more like goo than drops). I have been feeling particularly hellish lately, a combination of allergies and the Orange Lover's death have left me in a state of torpidity that is bottomless in its darkness (hello melodrama). The Boy tells me that a bomb basically went off in the backyard, and I didn't even whimper. Everyone was talking about it the next day. I chose not to say anything, since it would only seem like bragging that I can sleep through some monstrous storm.

Unfortunately, when ever we get a major precipitation event, our internet stops working. We've had problems with our internet pretty much from day one. We have called SBC/AT&T so many times, that we can practically repeat their troubleshooting speech right along with them. Yes, my phone is plugged in with DSL filters! Yes, we have checked the line and believe it or not, I'm actually calling you from it, so eat me. No, we did not melt the router and throw it out and hoped the wireless would still work because we deeply believe in magic. Every single time we go through the rigmarole where SBC/AT&T insist it is inside the house or that we did something wrong, when we can clearly see that the wire to the D-mark is practically on the ground outside. In the end, they'll send out a contractor who will say how fucked up the outside wiring is, and that we have water in the lines.

This time around we don't even have a phone signal. I went online to report the problem, since I'm so loathe to talk to customer service (every time one of us calls, they act like it is our first time, and are just SHOCKED when we say this is our 53rd problem over 6 years because they just have NO RECORD of us ever having any work done on our line). Reporting online was relatively simple, other than they wanted me, the customer, to go through some troubleshooting before they'd send someone out to my home. Normal stuff like make sure my phone is working, various things are plugged in, etc. Whatever, I do that before reporting because I have pride. However, a new thing with a nice little diagram to help me: They wanted me to go outside to the AT&T box, and do various things inside there to "reset" the system and see if that would work. Who knew that my AT&T bill covered not only service charges but for me to pay them to have me do their work for them! Awesome.




I totally ignored that section and went straight to requesting service. This was on Sunday. They can't provide someone until Thursday. Motherfuckers. Where's my discount? Where's my paycheck for doing their work myself?

I have researched switching to cable broadband many times, but there is some procrastinating going on in the house that does not involve me. All I can do is keep providing the information and hope that something changes one day. Maybe after we get the hardwood floors installed (fingers crossed that it happens between 2/21-2/27). I have a router waiting and just need to switch our service. One day.

In the meantime, I'll just keep saying, "AT&T can fuck off and die."

A Short IM With Fink-Nottle

9pm, Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Fink-Nottle: you still around and watching the netflix?
Grumples: i just sent wikus on his merry way
Grumples: now i am alone until the boy makes it home
Fink-Nottle: no adult supervision!
Grumples: indeed
Grumples: so i'm watching "teen mom"
Fink-Nottle: is that a reality show?
Grumples: yes
Grumples: on mtv
Fink-Nottle: I think I saw pieces of a reunion show when I was at the gym once
Fink-Nottle: you hate teenagers and you hate mothers
Fink-Nottle: also, you hate mtv.
Fink-Nottle: why are you watching the show?
Grumples: i have a sickness
Fink-Nottle: gotcha

Kill Pat Robertson

It has now been a week without the Orange Lover. It's been so incredibly hard, and the allergies are not helping the matter. Then Haiti is hit with an earthquake and Pat Robertson has to be such a fucking douchebag about it. Seventy-five percent of Haiti is demolished and all this man can say is that Haiti made a pact with the devil to get rid of the French. Was the pact so they can practice voodoo? What a fucking moron. Will someone please just go punch him in the balls? Then rip his dick off and shove it down his throat? Pact with the devil. Fuck that makes me angry. I honestly do not know much about Haiti, beyond that it is an extremely poor country that has had a lot of misfortunes. Yet, somehow, I think that is probably more about how it sits on a fault line, is an island, has some serious political and class issues, etc. But let's go ahead and ignore that and just blame a truly horrifying event on something that happened before any of these people were even born. I'm always down for paying for the sins of my ancestors. Especially when they were so unruly to not want to be ruled by the French. The nerve of some people!

On Monday, at the grocery store with Guamaniac, we talked each other in to getting a box of "Smokey Bacon & Cheddar" crackers. Oh my fucking god. I can't stop eating them. Other than I was forced to when the bag was suddenly empty. Cruelly empty. Probably because I made that deal with the devil when I was 12 and got my ears pierced. I always knew he'd be back to claim my soul, and my soul was in those damn crackers. Fuck you, devil. You got me this time.

In honor of the one-week anniversary of the Orange Lover's death, I give you this picture of him and baby Whoopis.



Look how kind he is with that kitten dancing on his butt. This is in Boston, and I have such amazing memories of that summer. So at least I can look at this picture and laugh. Even though Whoopis did almost die that night because he got his little jaw stuck under the collar and was choking (we realized later that the dancing was him hating the collar, which led to him trying to get it off by putting his jaw under it--poor kitty and his tiny bitty brain). Wikus and I just managed to get the damn thing off as he was turning blue.

The things we have gone through with our cats. Remind me to discuss the one time Whoopis' sister (Wikus has her) bit the tip of her tail right off in complete panic mode. Or how we saved the Bear from a life on the streets and being forced to inhale marijuana from our stoned neighbors. Even Mattress has his stories, like how he has gay legs and will totally act like a pussy when someone shoves a thermometer up his ass.

Cops Fear Computers

It's a scientific fact that cops are totally scared of their computers. Daily, in precincts across the world, cops are pulling their firearms on their work PCs. It made a noise, quick, shoot it! I swear it snarled when I started it, and I took that as an act of aggression. That keyboard had white powder all over it, must be cocaine. Take that motherfucker down. The way that little line on the screen keeps flashing is totally intimidating and I think it just called me a "pig" and pulled a knife on me. It is totally hard being a cop near a computer. Risky. Have to think of one's family and whatnot. It's worse than being a firefighter and entering burning buildings. Computers are completely unpredictable. They just cannot be trusted. Therefore, cops will never learn how to use them, and are perfectly willing to risk their administrative staff's lives to use that scary plastic box that whirs with engine noises and glares with bright white lights. Cops are only willing to save your life on the street--not when you're in front of a computer. Just a scientific fact.

A snapshot of my day:

Ex-cop needed to know how to attach a picture to an email.

Ex-cop lackey needed to know why all the files he worked on yesterday are gone (worked on them straight from an email and did not do a "save as," so they were still in his temp files).

Ex-cop couldn't print a picture. I declined to help, pleading ignorance to why he was unable to print a picture.

Ex-cop Lady Lackey needed help figuring out when timesheets were due, even though it said in a) an email and b) I printed it on the bottom of the timesheets.

Ex-cop needed to know when timesheets were due, and I went over the same spiel that I gave Ex-cop Lady Lackey. The timesheets are due early this week due to the upcoming holiday; however, timesheets in general are due every other Monday. Seems Ex-cop hasn't gotten the grasp of the every-other-Monday deadline, because apparently he had no idea Monday was a holiday. At least Ex-cop Lady Lackey knew when timesheets are normally due.

Reading emails must be very hard for them, considering all those viruses running amok that could kill their dainty cop minds. Then again, I'm talking about a man (Ex-cop) who took over 30 seconds to sign his name. He stopped 3 times, and had to really work hard to form his letters. I felt like I should pat him on the head and give him a gold star when he finally finished.

Twit spent her afternoon discussing her pregnancy with anyone who would listen. She called people, she talked to the cop crowd, she caressed herself a lot. She is full of joy and caffeine. I expect her to go in to early labor and birth a cross-eyed baby Twit. She has gestational diabetes, so now she is bemoaning how she has to change her diet. I guess the doctor didn't tell her to cut the coffee out since she was griping while sipping. I'd like to stuff her in the trunk of her old-lady convertible for a few hours each day. With a rabid rabbit.

Fluffy Little Assholes

The Boy swung by with a nice salad for lunch today (we've been way too depressed to go to the grocery store, but the Guamaniac helped me out with that this evening), and when I went outside to get him (one must have an I.D. card to get in the office building), 3 small white herons landed on the creek at the same time. It was slightly magical, and made me happy for a few minutes. That and the fact that The Boy stopped by in the middle of the day with food. He's been so wonderful. I love him so much.

I didn't have my camera with me, so no pictures of the herons. Which also means I wasn't able to document the beautiful frost patterns on my car this morning. I totally thought I could drive with the frost on my windshield. I went about a block and decided that I may be really depressed, but I'm not quite to suicidal. I pulled over and used a Target giftcard to scrape off the ice. My fingers were miserable and I wanted to go home and go back to bed. Yet, I forged through and made it through 8 hours at work. Eight dull hours.

I was so tired today. For no apparent reason that I could discern, I just started crying when I went to bed last night. Great heaving sobs. That kind of sadness just comes out of nowhere. Or perhaps, from that big hole that the Orange Lover left behind. Maybe I was able to be stoic for a few days to help The Boy, or maybe I just really realized my baby was gone. I sat alone for most of Sunday, and there was no orange love lump cuddling against me. In fact, the other three cats who could very well give me some lovin', all chose to hang out in the bedroom instead. Assholes. Fluffy little assholes that I love. Still. Jerks.

Things I Cannot Control

Freshly tattooed with the smallest tattoo I've ever received, but probably the most important one.


1/8/10 (Yes, I know, I have the creepiest skinny arms ever.)

The Boy and Wikus got one, too (on the underside of their wrists versus the top--they have more free skin than I do). It was a great bonding experience, and I have the best tattoo artist ever, so it was a very good two hours for us.

Obviously it has been a hard weekend. The Boy got to go record but it wasn't as fun for him as it usually is, but at least he got out of the house. I drove Wikus around doing chores, but that was too depressing. Tedious work is not a great way to get away from one's thoughts. It hasn't all been bad. The Boy and I are being so kind to each other--more so than we probably ever have in our past. My little Orange Lover's death has given us a new-found respect and a well of gentleness for both of us. We can tap in to our patience a bit easier.

I downloaded the photos off my camera yesterday, and found some that The Boy took of the Orange Lover trying to steal my Christmas ham. So fucking cute, and damn did I cry. It was taken 11 days before his death, and I just had no idea what was around the corner when I was letting him nibble on the ham. At least he got some tasty ham before he had to go. That's pretty cool.

Driving through Wikus' neighborhood is particularly depressing because all the utility poles are covered in lost-animal signs. Where I live in Texas has an interesting dichotomy of people who are straddling the line of wanting to be urban-country people. Therefore they live in the city but let their pets roam around outside like it is the country. Thus, a lot of missing-pet signs. It makes me so angry and sad. I drive around this city constantly averting my eyes to the dead cats and dogs on the side of the road (or in the middle in some cases). This is Teas after all--there are a lot of big trucks and SUVs, and they don't slow down for anything on the street that doesn't have 4 wheels (they hate bicycles with a severe passion--just read the Letters to the Editor section of any paper to really feel the hatred). Even if these pets avoid getting hit by cars, they are still being exposed to the elements and getting lost and being picked-up by strangers. Heck, Wikus and I took in the Bear, and we have no idea if he was truly homeless or just maltreated by his owners. If we inadvertently stole him, then so fucking what. We saved his life.

Constantly walking and driving by these signs has always been particularly draining on me. I have lived in this town almost 11 years, and it never gets easier to see all these missing-pet signs. I have no idea the statistics of these pets being found. Maybe people are just bastards and never take the signs down, even when the pet is found. There are always so many rain-stained, faded signs clinging to these poles, with fresh ones stapled on top of them. They flutter in the breeze and call attention to them. Yet, I've never seen anyone actually stop and look. Which isn't surprising since there are so many animals running freely around the neighborhoods. How do you know if that particular animal is missing or just hanging outside because its parents are assholes and don't bother keeping track of their pet? You get so used to seeing the animals, that it gets tiring to always check a tag (usually only a phone # with no address), and leaving messages saying, "Hey, I am with your cat here in front of this restaurant, just in case you don't know where it is." In some cases you get people who are pissed off, because to them their animal isn't lost, just outside, so why the fuck am I calling? Sigh.

I truly believe our cats and dogs have been domesticated to a point that they should be indoor animals. Especially within cities. Even our next-door neighbor keeps his very sweet dog outside for about 20 hours a day. Sure, he is fenced in, but this poor dog spends almost his whole life in a backyard. He is obviously bored, and has nothing to do with his life beside barking at the other dogs locked up in their respective backyard.

This hurts me so much. I gave the Orange Lover 19 years of the best love I could give. I am so grateful to have given him that, compared to the life that so many other people in this city give to their pets. I really do wish I could save all these animals' lives. It hurts so much to know that not only is Orange Lover gone, but how many are probably dying each day out there because they weren't loved and respected enough to be taken care of properly.

Sad.

Losing My Best Friend

Some one's Wii remote batteries are low. Wii can be a great distraction, especially from grief. I found that it only worked for me for a half-hour or so, because it only pointed out to me that I suck at using the Wii (unlike everyone else who just thinks it is the best thing for video-game disabled EVER). Therefore, I am The Boy's backseat Wii driver. I find it very easy to point out what he should be doing while he deftly controls the Wii remote.

This has been a bad week. It went from the worst allergies ever to the Orange Lover's death. There aren't too many stops in between those two horrible things. I don't believe I'm really ready to talk about it. I do want to thank all my wonderful friends for their support and offering to come over and do what ever they need to do for me. Which, beyond grocery shopping, I really don't have anything for them to do. It was a day I have been dreading for at least 7 years now (that is how silly I am, yet also how well-prepared I am), and it went off pretty much in the worst possible way I have ever imagined.

For now, we'll grieve. We'll pet our 3 remaining cats and love each other and cry all over our shoulders and chests. Tomorrow I'll get his little paddy paw tattooed on me, so I can always touch him when I need him by my side.

The Punk in Home Depot

Tonight The Boy and I went and had an early, tasty dinner (I am a sucker for a good chimichanga [the word check thinks chimichanga should be "shamanic"]). We decided to finally go to Home Depot to get a replacement bulb for our living room fan.



We love the look of the fan, but it barely gives off any light (it's nice for ambiance, but not for say, reading). Also, the bulb only lasts about a month. I used to think it was because we always had the fan on, and that the rocking motion knocked the bulb around too much; however, we haven't had the fan on in a few months, and still have the same problem.

Therefore, after the light being out for about two weeks, we finally went to Home Depot. Luckily, the light aisle is right when you come in the door. Unluckily, this crusty punk guy shadowed us for a bit until we were standing still discussing which bulb was the right one (I brought an old one with me for comparison, since I'm smart like that).

While we were standing there, for like 10 seconds, he comes up to his and says, "So, I got a Home Depot gift card for Christmas, for like, $250 or something, and I don't really need anything here, so would you be interested in buying it off of me for like half the price?" I refused to even look at him as he rattled this off, so I have no idea what kind of expression he had on his face. The Boy was very cordial and smiled, and said that he didn't think we could afford such an offer. Snort. Man, if I was more willing to waste my time fucking with people, I would have trotted him right up to a check-out person and merrily asked for him to give the cashier the card so I can see what exactly how much was on it, so I could fairly pay him for exactly half.

What an assmunch. We were in Home Depot for quite some time looking at various things (The Boy gets a bit starry-eyed in there). We self-checked out with two bulbs in hand (one for back-up), and I started laughing at the whole scam in the parking lot. It took us a few minutes to figure out which row we had parked in (damn strip malls all look the same as do their parking lots), and so I had all this time to make fun of the guy, just for The Boy to start laughing and me to realize that the punk guy (and a friend!) were standing right there. Whoopsies. I have no idea if they heard me, but come on, it was a really lame scam. It deserved to be made fun of.

In other news, in traffic today on my way home, I was cut off by a compact car with a "Baby on Board" sign hanging in the back window. How insulting is that? Someone, who totally thinks it is fine and good to have such a sign in his car, here in 2010, cuts me off! The nerve of some people. Gah!

Reading

Last night I attended two birthday parties, which for a lazy person like me, is A LOT of activity in one night. I had a good time (one at a bar downtown, and one at a house near my home), and surprisingly, I wasn't even that tired when we got home a bit after midnight. The Boy actually went to bed, and I stayed up and read. And read. And read until 4:15am. The only reason I went to bed then was because I felt if I stayed up any later, I would never be able to get back on schedule for Monday if I ended up sleeping all day Sunday.

This book is fascinating--at least plot-wise. I read a lot of good reviews, but didn't scrutinize any so I could enjoy the book on my own. It's one of those books where the main character is pretty much a loser who can't see how much of a loser he is. It's on his periphery; like he is miserable and hates life, but doesn't seem to have any awareness in his own contribution to the way his life is. I'm sitting here reading and waiting for the epiphany, the life-changing event where he realizes what an ass he's been, but I'm 3/4ths of the way through the book and it doesn't seem to be coming any time soon, and I've worn weary of his self-pitying ways. I kind of want to punch him in the balls and tell him what a loser he is, and to get with the program.

Also, the book seems to be written quickly without much input from an editor. There's holes and strange skips in time, like the author couldn't be bothered to flesh out various chunks of time, so he just skipped right over them. It's akin to reading jump cuts. I'm not watching a movie so I want the shit to stop.

Lastly, I have the same puzzlement over the main character as I do with Harry Potter (these books have similar themes). Neither main characters are particularly talented but everyone is treating them as if they are. Maybe I could get past his self-pitying if he actually was good at what he is supposed to be good at. But no, all his friends are really good, and he isn't feeling sorry for himself because they are good, which would make sense. He just feels sorry for himself because life doesn't make him happy. Do like I do and pop some anti-depression pills, dude. Start working and stop getting drunk.

We'll see what happens in the last 100 pages. Luke was an insufferable idiot and he managed to pull through to the other side. Right?

Hello, Meet My Parasitic Head

Last night I was going to watch some show about a baby born with another baby's head attached to the baby's head. I mean, like conjoined twins, if you're conjoined twin just had a head and a bit of torso that ended before the bellybutton. The Boy was horrified, so I recorded it, and I hope to find out if the Head had a brain or not. I don't believe it did just from the few minutes I managed to squeak in before The Boy realized what was going on. It seemed to be a totally parasitic entity. Just draining life out of the fully formed baby. Hello, this is my parasitic twin head. You may stare, she doesn't realize you are being rude, and therefore is not offended. Science! Gross and amazing.

Speaking of more oddities created by nature. Let's discuss the cymothoa exigua (aka: the tongue-eating louse/parasite). Wikus, who is always thinking of great things to send me, sent a link that discussed six disgusting parasites. It had our good ol' friend the guinea worm (we are both fascinated by that little guy), and at the top of the list was cymothoa exigua:



Say hello to your new friend! Isn't he great. Sure, he looks disgusting, and you think that fish could not possibly be happy with that thing in his mouth; but that is where you are wrong! The fish doesn't even care. He thinks his life is just hunky-dory. He has no clue that his tongue has rotted off and been replaced by an ugly, mother-fucking parasite. It's not exactly a symbiotic relationship, in that I don't feel the fish gets anything out of having a parasite in its mouth. However, to the fish, he still has a tongue. The parasite acts like a tongue, and therefore dimwitted fish is none the wiser! The parasite gets direct access to everything the fish eats, and the fish just gets to go about his regular business.

The c. exigua can't replace a human tongue, but if you nab one and hold it, you may get a pretty nasty bite for your troubles. If you want something really gross to happen to you, go play with a bot fly.

I realize it is a bit weird that I know about so many disgusting things, but I find it is pretty normal because a) science is really cool, and b) my body is pretty gross with all the mucus it can produce, practically on demand. My allergies are so bad right now; I wake up every morning feeling like my eyes have finally exploded. I drink a Coke and take a shower, and manage to get through most of the day until I fall asleep for 3 hours on the couch. So it goes.

One more thing, if I haven't bitched about this yet, please know that I am one of the few people out there who does not fall for this end-of-a-decade crap. There was no year 0; years are counted 1-10, not 0-9. We still have one more year to go before you give us your best-of-the-decade list. Stop being in such a hurry to get to the end. If the sources out there are to be believed, we're all going to die in 2012 anyway. Stop rushing things! It makes me antsy. I still have so much lazing on the couch to accomplish!