Peein' Outside on Summer Vacation

It wasn’t a vacation exactly. I had one more class to finish up before they would allow me to graduate from college in 2007 (Yeah, I was old when I graduated. You wanna fight about it?). The class in question was Field Botany. Exciting, eh? Unfortunately, the class wasn’t offered at our regular campus, only at a campus in Taos, New Mexico. So I packed up all my gear and headed out for a month in Taos.

I had spent the summer before in Taos, too. It was my first field experience in archaeology. It was an amazing summer. We were required to camp out for the five-week duration of the class. I had never been camping, and I was scared to death of doing it for over a month. I just couldn’t imagine living in a tent for five straight weeks. Well, I liked it so much that time, that when I went back this summer, I requested to be allowed to camp instead of staying in the dorms. I love camping. And the thought of being cooped up in a dorm with seven other girls for a month made me nauseous. It was the right decision.

The other girls in my class were so puzzled by me. I was this strange creature who took four-minute showers and wasn’t afraid of bugs and slept in a tent because I wanted to and didn’t wear makeup everyday. Or any day. I mean really, we were in the woods. They started calling me “The Rugged Outdoorsman.” Every time there was a bug in the dorm, they would call me in to get rid of it. While they screamed and hid on the top bunks. I’ve never seen such prissy-ness.

My tent was like heaven. I could go in, zip the door closed and be in my own world. I set it up right in front of a stream, so I could hear running water all the time. There was a field school going on, so I wasn’t camping alone. We had a little tent city. My tiny two-person tent was sandwiched between Cam’s six-person monstrosity and Rey’s eight-person castle. Though neither of those compared to Angela’s tent. Angela’s tent is the tent that gave birth to all other tents. It even had a “sun-room.” Putting that thing up was a treat.

Living in a tent does have its difficulties. Namely, no bathroom (LiLu's recent post made me think to share this, by the way). Which isn’t usually an issue, but can present a problem in the morning. Leslie and I established a system early on in the summer. No liquids after seven, pee at ten, go to bed. Well, you can imagine how often that actually worked out. Leslie is good at schedules and she rarely wanted to be awake past ten anyway. I, on the other hand, am not good with schedules. So I often woke up with that I’m-going-to-piss-in-my-sleeping-bag feeling. It’s unpleasant, to say the least. The bathroom was a good three- or four-minute walk from tent city. Add to that the time it takes to put clothes and boots on, and you can see how tricky this can get.

Most of the time, I made it. One morning, I knew that I wouldn’t. I woke up at seven and felt like the pee was about to escape through my mouth there was so much of it. So I was going to have to pee outside. Now, I’m not against peeing outside. I did it frequently the summer before, but then my tent was sandwiched between the tents of two other girls. Not two dudes. I wasn’t that interested in showing either of them my fancy girl-parts. Especially not in the unflattering squat-without-pissing-on-my-feet position.

There was this nice big tree behind my tent, where Cam had been peeing all summer. I figured it would provide a little privacy from the other tent city residents. I got myself out of my tent (putting on my boots almost sent me over the edge), only getting the zipper stuck ten or so times in the process. I didn’t hear any noise from the surrounding tents, so I went for it. I positioned myself behind the tree to provide maximum cover, yanked my pajama pants down and squatted. In all my efforts to keep a look out for people, I hadn’t really scouted out the tree very well. In my haste, I had failed to notice the large, sharp, broken branch projecting out at the bottom. And of course that’s where I decided to put my ass. Hard. I yelped in pain, jumped back up and over about a foot, and tried again. I had to pee so bad I barely felt the pain.

After the sweet relief of peeing, I assessed the damages. That tree had left its mark. I had several cuts and a big bruise. Had I been a few inches further front or back, I would have needed lube. It was a close one. I know trees can’t get you pregnant, but attempted rape is not out of their realm.

That same tree got another visit a week or so later when, after a night of drunken Uno, my friend Hannah had to pee. She had never peed outside before, and she was too drunk to even stand up unaided, so I went out with her. You can read that as, I carried her out of Rey’s tent. She couldn’t manage her pants, so I helped with that. Then I was scared she was going to fall in the stream, if left to her own devices, so I talked her through the whole thing while holding her hand. It was quite the bonding experience. I warned her about this tree’s particular affinity for kink, so she avoided violation.

We did a lot of drinking. And Taos sits around 7700 feet above sea level. We were a lot of drunk. Just as a piece of advice: never chase warm grape vodka (this was sort of my fault. I like grape vodka, but this was more like cough syrup) with warm Dr. Pepper. The combination is likely to cause you to make out with a classmate (Ahem. You know who you are.) or puke on yourself in your tent (Ahem. Me. But only after I woke up to them making out on my face, so I can never be sure if it was the vodka or the making out). If you ever get a chance to hang out in Taos, New Mexico, I would go. Just watch out for those ass-raping trees.

Well, we think he might be gay...

So I already told you about my first morning in Tennessee. Now let me finish up the day.

After my little chat with Granddaddy, Grandmother and I went to the grocery store. This would be the first of about six trips. On the way there, I mentioned that Granddaddy kind of cornered me to talk about politics that morning. She rolled her eyes and said that she wished he wouldn't do that.

"But I am really scared because I think we're heading towards socialism. And that scares me."

The thing is, though, I suspect that she doesn't really know anything about socialism or what it is. And we're really soooo not headed there. We are capitalists. Plain and simple. But a pure capitalist system is just not realistic. So we have lots of programs in place that are more socialist in nature. And that's okay.

Otherwise, please return your social security check. Thanks.

Feel free to not use the post office. And your roads? Yeah, we can stop fixing those.

Just putting it out there.

Anyway, I think she pretty much just believes whatever Granddaddy tells her. Oh, and that God will take care of it.

After the grocery store, we went to have lunch at O'Charley's. She told me about how all my aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and cousins were doing. I hadn't seen anyone in three years or so.

My dad has seven kids, aside from me. He's never really been much a part of my life. He and my mom were married for about an hour (okay, it might have been a year), 29 years ago. He remarried when I was six or seven, I think. And then the baby making began. My youngest sibling is 24 years younger than me. And I have had apartments that were larger and had more bathrooms (2) than the house where these nine people live.

But they are all well behaved and smart. And very talented musically. Except maybe the youngest one. They invented the recorder as a torture device for grown-ups, right? Cause that thing is terrible. To be fair, she's only five and I'm sure she will be amazing should she ever take up a real instrument.

Anyway, one of my brothers decided he wanted to play the oboe. And since they're all home-schooled (yes, all seven...though the oldest is now in college), my step-mom had to find an oboe teacher.

Grandmother said: Well, she finally found someone, but...we think he might be gay.
Me: So?
Grandmother: Well, she went ahead with it. She never leaves him alone with [my brother] and always monitors their lessons.
Me: Um...why?
Grandmother: Well, she doesn't want him to do anything to [my brother]. I told her that it would probably be okay as long as she kept a good eye on them.
Me: Because he's gay? Grandmother, you do realize that just because someone is gay doesn't mean that person molests children, right?
Grandmother: Well, I know that...
Me: Do you? Because it doesn't really sound like it. Straight people are perfectly capable of molesting children, and probably far more likely. Being gay has nothing to do with it.

I can only hope that my step-mom keeps as close an eye on her children who have straight music teachers.

I'm not naive, okay. I realize that my grandparents are social conservatives. Hell, they're about the only people I know who are still Baptists. But to sit and say this crap out loud was just too much for me. It's so unfair. I hate it when people just stand by and let others say hateful things, so I said something.

But she didn't stop talking about it. So I just sat there, with my teeth clenched, trying to keep my mouth shut. Because it's not okay to tell your Grandmother to shut up either, right?

Then she told me about how one of my cousins "got in with the black boys at school," and how they were such a bad influence on him. Ugh.

Me: You realize that bad comes in all colors, right?
Grandmother: Of course I do.
Me: But you felt the need to point out that they were black boys. If they had been white, would you have said "white boys"? Or just "boys"?

She didn't have much to say to that. I spent the rest of the day shaking because I was so angry that my family could be so hateful. Then I had to go to church to watch my 7-year-old cousin sing for 30 minutes in the first grade choir. I don't do church. Or kids.

My Granddaddy spent the rest of my trip getting little Republican barbs in whenever he could. My Grandmother spent the rest of my trip talking about nothing but calories and Jesus.

It might be another three years before I go back.

Oh crap, now I have to respect Kim Kardashian?

Does anyone know how I go about that?

It seems that she's speaking out against all the people who called her fat...which seriously, people, can we talk about this? The woman is not fat. Obnoxious, but not fat. Famous for no reason, but not fat.



But I do kind of love it that she's cool with admitting she has cellulite. Who doesn't? And at least she pretends to be uncomfortable that everyone stares at her ass all the time. Though, really, I think it's possible she brought that one on herself.

All Liberals are Pro-Abortion

AKA what my Granddaddy said to me at 8:30 AM on the first full day of my visit to Tennessee.

I haven’t been to Tennessee to visit my family in about three years. I know, I know. I’m a horrible person. I’ve been busy, okay?

In the car, on the way home from the airport, I accidentally let it slip that I voted for Obama. I didn’t realize it should be a huge secret, mind you. I thought we were still free to vote for whomever we wanted in this country, even Paris Hilton (I’m still surprised she didn’t win after those awesome campaign commercials).

I thought my Granddaddy was going to pull the car over and make me pick my own switch. For those of you not from The South, it’s a version of psychological warfare that parents and grandparents used to torture children.

My grandparents have always lived in The South. And it shows. The next morning, Granddaddy was on a mission to convert me. I guess he thought we would have a mature conversation in which he would tell me all the reasons why voting for Obama was “Un-American” and I would say, “Golly gee, you’re so right! I’m going to call and see if I can change my vote!” Which, by the way, didn’t even really matter, since I live in Texas. Every vote counts, my ass. But that’s neither here nor there.

So Granddaddy starts in about how Obama wants gas to get above five dollars a gallon. How he’s going to take our guns away and then all the criminals will kill us in our beds, but they won’t even get punished because Obama won’t want anyone to be in prison. Okay, he didn’t say that business about prison, but it seems like something he should think.

He spouts off about how he just can’t stand to see our rights taken away like this. Even though he was totally fine with W. stripping away his rights for eight years.

Do you know what caused the mortgage crisis? Clinton gave mortgages to all those black people who couldn’t afford houses. Apparently the white people who couldn’t afford houses don’t count.

And the economy? Why is it in the toilet? The fear of Obama getting elected put everyone in a panic and the entire economy collapsed because of it. Then they all went out and voted for him. Odd.

Obama’s a Muslim. Obama isn’t a citizen of the US. Obama probably wasn’t even born on this planet. I think he’s from Saturn or something. Maybe Pluto.

And for all this, I just sort of smiled and nodded and kept my mouth shut. There’s no sense in arguing. Plus, this is my Granddaddy. I can’t tell him to shut up, right?

Then he told me that “all liberals are pro-abortion,” and that they’re going to take away a doctor’s right to refuse to do an abortion, so then no doctors will want to even perform births and hospitals will get rid of their OBGYN programs and people will be having their babies on the streets. Now, I’m not sure how you follow that train from the beginning to the end, but that was where he crossed the line for me.

“Granddaddy. No one is pro-abortion. No one. Okay, there might be a few people who are actually pro-abortion, but they’re weird. It’s about choices. It’s about women’s rights, which you clearly don’t understand. But no one is ‘pushing abortion’ on people who don’t want it.”

He just looked at me. Can he really think that people are yanking pregnant women off the street and forcing them to have abortions against their will?

Then he reminded me that Obama voted to kill new borns after they’d already been born. Uh…no. He didn’t. Good grief. He voted against something because it was redundant. There are already laws that protect babies from murder.

Granddaddy does think that the laws about hate crimes are redundant, though. I mean, there are already laws about murdering people. Why should it matter that it was because of hate? Just though homosexuals pushing their crazy “have the same rights as everyone else” agenda on us again.

So I got him off track by talking about football. So, how ‘bout those Titans, eh? Whew.

You know those emails that circulate around with all the crazy stuff about Obama and liberals and crap (I’ve never gotten any about Republicans, really)? The ones most of us just delete? Yeah, my Granddaddy believes all of them. He probably sent them to you. I’m sorry.

Stay tuned for the next installment, “My Grandmother thinks all gay men want to rape little boys.”

No, really. It's a scholarship program.

As I was doing laundry and packing for my upcoming trip to Tennessee to visit my grandparents, I noticed that the Miss USA pageant was on television. I don't really think I was consciously aware that the Miss USA pageant still happened.

I shouldn't say that. I was painfully reminded of the Miss South Carolina incident of 2007:



Aaaahhh, pageants. They're so relevant. She didn't win...right?

Anyway, so I flipped over to Miss USA. Just to check it out.

Wow.

I'm just going to put aside all of the normal reasons why the Miss USA pageant (and Miss America, which is apparently separate?) is royally fucked up. So aside from the sexism...let's just talk about why our country can only be represented in these pageants by a skinny girl with big boobs and even bigger hair? Normal sized people don't need cash and prizes? And a free New York loft? I could sure use those things. And I have nice boobs! They're real even.

The Miss USA website says this about its contestants:

"These women are savvy, goal-oriented and aware. The delegates who become part of the Miss Universe Organization display those characteristics in their everyday lives, both as individuals, who compete with hope of advancing their careers, personal and humanitarian goals, and as women who see to improve the lives of others."

I guess we could agree that they're savvy. As long as we're talking about makeup or how to keep your swimsuit from riding up your ass (A skill I still really haven't mastered. This is why I'm not a beauty queen. And that whole dignity thing.).

I suppose we could agree that they're goal-oriented. I mean, they all had the common goal of being in the Miss USA pageant. And here they are! Goal achieved!

But really? They're aware? Because Miss South Carolina 2007 wasn't really even aware of...maps. Or geography. Or that the question she was asked wasn't even remotely about the "educational systems" in "the Iraq." Ahem.

Excuse me while I puke.

So I decided to dig a little deeper and find out what the eligibility requirements are for this staple of American goodness, Miss USA. To become Miss Texas (which is where I would have to start...), a contestant must be between the ages of 18 and 27. So I'm already out. Of course she also:

"Must not be married, never have been married, and never have had a marriage annulled. Must never have given birth to a child, can not be pregnant or be a parent.

Must be of good health and moral character."

I think it's interesting that they're so adamantly opposed to a contestant never having been married, but say nothing of the contestant never having been pregnant. So as long as you're not pregnant that day, I guess you're good.

I understand that they think they've taken care of the abortion thing by requiring all contestants to be "of good moral character," but c'mon. Who exactly gets to be the judge of that anyway? Perez Hilton? Yeah, he was a judge this year.

In the FAQ on the Miss USA site, the "Can a contestant be married?" question came up again. This is the response:

"No. contestants may not be married or pregnant. They must not have ever been married, not had a marriage annulled nor given birth to a child. The titleholders are also required to remain single throughout their reign."

I'm assuming they just mean that the winner can't get married while she's still holding the crown. Because they can't prevent a girl from having a boyfriend, right? I mean, who else is going to kill bugs and change light bulbs? Miss USA don't play that game.

How awesome is it that it's called a reign? Just in case you didn't know, dictionary.com defines "reign" as:

1. the period during which a sovereign occupies the throne.
2. royal rule or authority; sovereignty.
3. dominating power or influence: the reign of law.

Because Miss USA is totally sovereign. And kind of a dictator, right?

Incidentally, this year's winner, in an interview with some local news show in her hometown, used the word "attitudinally." Which is actually a word. But I would be willing to bet that it's not one she knows. Or maybe she does, and I'm just being judgmental and bitchy.

I'm pretty sure she also listed her main interest as "online shopping." And her dream is to become a motivational talk show host. So I guess she wants to be Oprah, but with more online shopping. Who are you going to motivate, honey? Other online shoppers who have lived their lives with the dream of becoming Miss USA?

I hate to break this to you folks, but life is not all about caked on makeup, huge hair, and being skinny. It is about keeping your swimsuit from riding up your ass, though. So I guess that's why we still have Miss USA. We can learn so much from her. Please watch the above video again.

And the quote of the day:

"Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke..." --Gloria Steinem

You Look Great

So I follow this...guy? girl? bot? on Twitter. And I love him/her/it. Number four is possibly my new favorite quote (if anyone sees my ex somewhere, please lay this one on him). Number one is truly a motto for life. Here are the last 20 tweets:

1. says when you give freely of yourself, your reward is often a serious case of crabs.

2. says the lower you keep other people's expectations of yourself, the more surprised they will be when you fail to live up to them.

3. says use other people's lack of faith in you as extra motivation to question your own self-worth.

4. says lying to yourself is the best way to make your actions seem noble and heroic instead of thoughtless and petty.

5. says if you keep reaching higher towards the stars, your lungs will collapse from lack of oxygen.

6. says your body is a temple. Whether or not it's the kind of temple where ritualistic sexual sacrifice is committed is up to you.

7. says doing unto others as you would have them do unto you usually involves ass play.

8. believes dreams are like life's road map: filled with confusing symbols and really boring to talk about.

9. says most people are like Easter eggs: colorful on the outside, hard-boiled and kind of gross on the inside.

10. says the meek shall inherit the earth, and when they do the strong will beat them senseless and take it back.

11. says give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, he will eventually hunt fish to extinction.

12. says diet and exercise are a good way to ensure a long life, but plotting revenge is better.

13. says let us forgive ourselves for our mistakes and keep stoking our hatred towards others for theirs.

14. reminds you on this Easter weekend that Christ loved you so much he totally took off like a deadbeat dad.

15. believes that we are all surrounded by an invisible energy field, which comes from cellphones, and which will give men cancer of the balls.

16. says those who have achieved greatness have one thing in common: they are not you.

17. believes your hidden talents are simply waiting for the perfect moment to present themselves before being crushed.

18. says being thankful for what you have doesn't preclude you from also being totally jealous of what everybody else has.

19. says when you live each day as if it were your last, you have no excuse not to take all the painkillers you want.

20. says if you always put your best foot forward, it will be far worse when you encounter the inevitable landmines.

It's Friday, we should break up - People Who Do Not Understand the Meaning of the Words "Exit Only Lane"

In keeping with blogging tradition, I'm going to start doing a weekly blog on Fridays, in which I break up with people/places/inanimate objects that might have pissed me off. I already have a list a mile long, and the sandwich lady at the grocery store is totally on it.

Today, People Who Do Not Understand the Meaning of the Words "Exit Only Lane," we need to talk. It's not me, it's you. Because of you, it takes me an extra ten minutes to exit the highway each day. You've been warned that you're in an exit only left lane for two miles, but do you care? No.

You drive home from work this way everyday, but you never bother to get out of my lane before that solid white line appears "out of nowhere" and there is a semi sitting next to you, forcing you to sit in your car without motion while I frantically honk and flip you off from mine.

Frankly, my middle finger is exhausted. And it's my favorite finger. (There's a "that's what she said" in there somewhere, isn't there?)

And we do this everyday. Well, every weekday. I suspect you do it on weekends, too, but since it's less traumatic for me, I won't say anything about that.

I understand that the people who designed most of the street and highway systems in Dallas, Texas were clearly on crack. But that's no excuse for you to be a dumbass. Get out of my (would be really convenient) exit only lane (if it weren't for you motherfuckers). I'm sorry that it means that you'll have to sit in more traffic, but maybe you should have thought of that when you moved further south than my exit. Because it's a great exit. And I will roll you next time. In my Saturn.

Be afraid.

Now, I'm off to take the stupid GRE. I will likely be in a really bad mood when I'm done. Just a warning.

Weekend in Review

I did a lot of drinking this weekend.

Friday night, I went bowling with a couple of girlfriends. The bowling alley was like the Twilight Zone. And no, I don't mean there were sparkly vampires running around. It just wasn't very "bowling alley." (I nearly typed "blowing alley." At least I make myself laugh!)

There were table cloths on the tables and a menu full of $10 entrees. My burger was sooo not worth $10, just in case you were wondering. Anyway, we bowled in style. (You guessed it. I almost typed "we blowed in style.") I even broke 100 in the first game. This almost never happens. Oh, I didn't even throw the ball backwards, nearly breaking my friends' toes. Go me!

After that we went to a bar to hang with some mortgage people. Some guy who is three years younger than my mom tried unsuccessfully (even though I had many beers in my belly at this point) to get in my pants for the rest of the evening.

Saturday I got up early to go to a "Coffee Meet-up Group." Yes, I'm that pathetic. I've decided that maybe it's time to make some new friends, because all my current friends (with the exception of one, and she's in her first year of grad school...and has no life) are couples or marrieds. So I don't have anyone to hang out with on weekends, because they're all doing their couple-y stuff and going to bed at 11:00.

I'm not interested in joining some singles' group and fighting off the douchebags at every turn, so coffee sounded like a safe choice. Safe, maybe, but not normal.

At 10:00, I got to the coffee shop. This lady in the parking lot said, "Are you here for the meet-up?" Score one for me looking sad enough to immediately be pegged as "needs more friends." We walked in together, and discovered that we were pretty much the first ones there.

After a bit, a small group formed. Everyone was going around, introducing themselves. "Hi, I'm so and so and I pick lint out of my belly button for a living. My collection is now the size of a small child and I've named it 'Barney.'" That kind of thing.

One guy thought the question "what do you do for a living?" was a tricky one. He said, "What do you mean by that? You want to know what I do for work or you want to know what I do?"

Um, sir? If you don't get paid to do it, it doesn't count as "doing it for a living." As it turned out, he does something IT related for work, but really he's an astrologer. Oh and he talks to his cats. And I'm pretty sure they talk back. And no, I didn't spit my coffee out all over the woman sitting across from me. She has two pet cows. In Dallas. Really. They got her through her divorce. And to that I say...ever heard of a dog? WAAAAYYYY less clean up.

Saturday evening I went to my married friends' house and had dinner. And drank some beer. And made some funnies. Good times.

Sunday was Easter, so I did what any other normal, atheist girl would do on Easter. I drank. A lot. A bunch of us went to brunch at this little Italian place. For a dollar (with the purchase of an entree), you could have your choice of bloody Mary, Mimosa, or Bellini. With a six drink limit. Yeah...right.

They weren't even keeping track. I had a bloody Mary, at least eight Mimosas, and a Bellini. And they only charged me for three drinks. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I had ten drinks for three bucks. Win!

After that, a couple of friends and I decided to go play some skee ball and have some more Easter beer. There's this great little bar near my apartment that has super old (ahem, classic) video games and skee ball. We had a blast. I invited one of my friends to roll around on the floor and get all sweaty with me. He said, "Not today. It's Jesus's day." I'm pretty sure that was me getting rejected. Who wouldn't want to roll around on the floor and get all sweaty with me? Then we traveled to another bar for more beer and an impromptu hot coffee drink ordering contest, which I won at the last minute. I'm such a sneak. Mine was delicious.

The only thing left to do was go back to my friend's apartment and watch BeerFest and drink some more beer. So that's what we did. Easter rocks. My liver cried.

The next morning, when I woke up, my ulcer was having issues. Oh yeah, I found out two weeks ago that I have an ulcer. I spent most of Monday in the hospital drinking nasty chalky white liquids (that's what she said) and being X-rayed. Now I don't get to have drinks (or caffeine or spicy food...) for two weeks. Sad face.

Teabag Mouthpieces Lick Obama

A friend just sent me this little gem:



I think it speaks for itself.

How NOT to get a job.

Several months ago, an amazing find just fell into my hands. I meant to blog about it, but I forgot. And now, my friends, now it is time.

This poor woman sent her resume out to who knows how many places in this condition:



Wait for it. There's a page two:



I'm going to take a potty break while you figure out what's wrong with this picture. Understand that I'm totally judging you for taking too long to see it.

Okay, I'm back. Figure it out?

I've been trying to figure out what they even teach kids in English class these days, because it's clearly not grammar or spelling. Is it only literature? Or does everyone just sleep through the other days?

Because this lady clearly fell asleep on the day they taught apostrophe usage (among other things, but it seems to be the most glaring error). Yep, that's the problem with her resume. She didn't use a single apostrophe correctly for two pages. Not a single one. I counted over thirty apostrophe catastrophes.

And she wasn't even consistent with her mistakes. Most plural words have an apostrophe (part's, memo's, invoice's, order's, etc.), but not all of them. And the two places where she needed apostrophes (customer's account's...twice) she still used them the wrong way. I mean, yeah, and account's doesn't need one at all.

This woman has been an Administrative Assistant for nearly 20 years. Twenty years. Imagine all the misplaced apostrophes she must have executed in all that time. And no one ever corrected her?

I once got an hour long lecture from my boss for using the wrong version of the spelling of archaeology in a letter to a particular state agency. You see, the world spells archaeology just like that. Archaeology. But for some reason the state of Texas has decided to spell it "archeology." Some say it was to save typewriter ink when they got rid of that funny ae key. But I'm not sure if that's true or not. And I promise not to bore you with the details of how every single company, school, and agency in the state of Texas spells the word. But I could. Because I heard it all. And that wasn't even a typo!

I wanted to write this woman a letter and say, "If you never use another apostrophe in your entire life, you will be right more times than this. Just stop, woman!" But I didn't. Because who knows? Maybe I'll be trying to get the same job as her someday. And my resume will be so much more awesome. And I like to think about her and laugh.

Also, did anyone else notice how many of her responsibilities were matching one thing with another?

I have no idea what you're talking about.

I feel like I say this about 15 times each day at work. Most people in my office start their conversations with me as though we've already been talking for 10 minutes...but we haven't.

"So, that's great. We're all good with that. They've said they'll accept what we've sent them."

Huh?

From the other room, "I tried to put that photo in here, but it's not there."

What?

"So those boxes weighed 19.5 pounds. Are those all the numbers you need?"

Did I ask you for numbers? Do I look like the recorder of all weights and measures?

Why do they all think that I can read their minds? I can't. I'm good, but I'm not that good. And I don't care. That's probably the biggest problem.

But today, when I arrived at work, I got a doozy from my boss.

Him: So are you all oiled up?
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about. Am I what?
Him: Are you all oiled up?

Thoughts running through my head include: Am I competing in some kind of body builder competition I don't know about? Should I be on my way to the beach (YES!)? Do I seem constipated?

Look, I can't control my brain, okay? I have no idea why it went to constipation.

Me: Seriously, I have no idea what you're talking about.
Him: Was I not talking to you?
Me: I really don't know what you're talking about. Talking to me when? You're talking to me now...
Him: No. You called. A little while ago.
Me: I didn't call. I certainly didn't call you about oiling myself up.
Him: I wonder who I was talking to. I thought it was you.
Me: Uh, yeah. That wasn't me. And I still have no idea what you're talking about.

It seems that one of our other employees (there are only three of us girls) called in to say that her oil light came on and she was going to stop and have it checked out before she came in. And he thought it was me.

Of course, he also thought that "So are you all oiled up?" was an appropriate question for his much younger female employee.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Do you recycle? I do...sometimes.

I can admit that I may not care about the environment as much as I should. Here's the thing, though. I don't want to have kids. And I figure you people can't screw up the environment so much that it's unlivable in the next, say, 60 years. So I'm kinda...good.

It's not that I'm against recycling. When it's easy, I'll do it happily. But I don't really go out of my way to recycle. Plus, to be honest, I get confused. Do you still have to rinse everything out before it goes in the recycle bin? Because that's a pain in the ass. And do I have to separate things? Because that's also a pain in the ass. And what exactly can I recycle anyway? Yeah, you can act like you know, but I bet a lot of people have these same questions. And I bet they don't bother to do the research either.

I even set up a little paper bag for my recycling at home. Now it's full. And I have no interest in taking it anywhere.

Anyway, here's my beef:

A lot of companies and schools are getting on the "we should recycle" bandwagon. And that's good, right? Actually, no. It's not.

These environmentally friendly companies and schools start massive recycling campaigns. They put recycle bins out everywhere. This one is for 20-oz plastic soda bottles. This one is for paper. This one is for other plastics. This one is for aluminum cans. On each one, there's a long list of things they would really like you to not put in there. Gum, cigarette butts, food, etc.

But here's where they've made their mistake. Recycle bins in abundance. Far fewer trashcans. And guess what, people? We freakin' need trash cans. I have to throw my paper towels, gum, food somewhere. And if I can't find a trashcan, the most likely place for me to throw it away is in your recycle bin. And if that happens, how is it different from a trashcan anyway?

It isn't.

And the people that you hire to take out the trash? Don't know the difference. On my college campus, I saw many a recycle bin get emptied into the trash with everything else. Because there was trash in it and because the trash people don't want to deal with separating stuff out. Do you blame them?

I have to go to FedEx/Kinko's/FedEx Office or whatever it's called once a week to do work for my mother. There isn't a single trashcan there. I understand that they have a lot of paper waste, so recycle bins make sense, but good grief...where am I supposed to throw my broken binder clip? Are post-its recyclable? They have all that sticky stuff on the back, so I'm not sure. And what about the plastic-y thing I peel off my FedEx Pak envelope? Is that recyclable? Gah!

Usually I just stuff all my trash in my pockets and dispose of it at home.

BRING BACK THE TRASHCAN*!




*They say you have to stand for something, right? So I'm speaking up for the trashcans, as they cannot speak for themselves. I'm pretty sure I deserve my own National Holiday for this crusade.

Instead, I think I'll just be a piece of shit.

I really don't think there's a whole lot to this "good person" thing. So I think I'll skip it.

I mean, okay, I'm not going to run around killing small animals and children or anything, but it seems to me that being a good and kind and caring person gets you nowhere. Whereas being a complete piece of shit is just a happy place.

My piece of shit ex-boyfriend started dating someone else less than a month after we broke up. This weekend, he's taking her on a camping trip that we were supposed to go on together (with a big group of people). Because, you know, she means that much to him. I decided not to go, as I didn't want to watch him fuck people in front of my face. This was before I realized the new girl was going. Although, yeah...it still applies.

So here's my question: why does he get to be all happily dating someone new, while I'm still living in crazy land because I'm so hurt over the breakup of a relationship that clearly meant nothing to him? Because he's a piece of shit?

Ah, good. Then I want to be one, too.

Of course, he judges me and acts like I'm insane every time I do something that he deems less than perfect, but it's totally okay for him to parade his new girlfriend around in front of me, kissing her and rubbing on her and shit. But the second that I decide okay, I'ma get drunk (and this was St. Patrick's Day...everyone was drunk), I'm the one who's ridiculous. It was a dick move.

And here I am, sitting in my bed, writing this blog, thinking, "Does he love this girl? How can our relationship mean nothing to him? How can I mean nothing to him? How can he just pretend like none of it ever happened?"

But there are no answers to these questions. He can be all of those things because he's a piece of shit. But I'm the one who's sad. So the joke's on me.

After we broke up (and I mean three weeks after, because for the first three weeks he refused to speak to me because of his "anger." Yeah, he's the one who broke my heart, but whatever.), we had a long talk and he said a lot of things. A lot of nice things, even. Then he proceeded to act exactly like that never happened. And he doesn't even understand why I would have any trouble believing anything he says, since none of his actions match up with his words. Sure, it's easy to say, "I would never want to hurt you intentionally." But then if you go and do that...which am I to believe?

So I'm tired of being the one who gets stepped on. I'm tired of being the one who does the right thing (okay, not always...we all have bad days. St. Patrick's Day was a doozy.), who is the bigger person. Fuck looking at myself in the mirror tomorrow, I'm done. It's my turn to be a piece of shit. It looks like a happier place.

Everywhere I turn...

There are more stupid people.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store for some cleaning supplies (because we still have no cleaning service at work...ugh). You may have already read my original rant about grocery shopping. If not, it's long, but I find it entertaining.

I decided to stop and get a sandwich in the deli while I was at the store. Stupidity ensued:

Me: I'd like a pastrami panini with cheddar cheese, please.
Deli Lady: Okay, ma'am, I'll get that right out for you, ma'am.
Me: (Internally) Ouch. Two ma'ams in one sentence.
Deli Lady: That comes with spicy mustard. Is that okay with you, ma'am?
Me: (Ouch) Actually, could I have ranch dressing instead?
DL: Yes, ma'am. That's no problem at all ma'am. Would you like to pay $1.50 more for chips and a drink today, ma'am?
Me: Sure.
DL: This sandwich look so good. Will you be needin' some dessert today, ma'am?
Me: No thanks.
DL: We got some good pastries now, before you just say no, why don't you go over and have a looksee, ma'am.
Me: No thanks. I don't want dessert.
DL: You say you wanted what on this sandwich?
Me: Pastrami, cheddar cheese, ranch dressing.
DL: What kinda cheese?
Me: Cheddar.
DL: And would you like to pay $1.50 more for chips and a drink with your sandwich today, ma'am?
Me: (Ugh) Sure. That sounds great.
DL: And you'll be wantin' some dessert. Go on over there and pick you out a nice pastry.
Me: No thanks, I don't need dessert.
DL: Now we got some good desserts. You need to take a look before you say no.
Me: But I don't need to look because I don't want dessert.

At that point, she started to put the ranch dressing on the bread (what she's been doing up to this point can only be described as nothing). I guess the bottle was almost empty because when she squeezed it, it gave that smoker's cough sound like squeeze bottles do when they're almost out of stuff.

She gave it an almighty shake and a giant mound of ranch goo plopped down on my sandwich.

DL: Well, now, let me go get a fresh bottle. That one didn't hardly have nothin' in it.
Me: That's more than enough for me. Thanks.

She didn't spread it around or anything. She just left it as a big blob in the middle of the bread. And proceeded to put the pastrami on top. The pastrami to ranch ratio was about 1:300. I'm not sure about units, but you get the idea.

DL: Now, do you want to pay $1.50 extra for chips and a drink today?
Me: Sure, that sounds great.

At this point, I feel like my 88-year-old dead great-grandmother has come back to life and I'm sitting on the couch with her that day in December when she thought it was June and she told me 37 times in as many minutes, "My, this is awfully strange weather we're having for June."

DL: And will you be wantin' an ambrosia salad for your dessert?
Me: (I don't even know what fucking ambrosia salad is, but as I've already told you at least three times that I don't want any variety of dessert, what do you think the answer is? Bitch.) No, thanks. I don't need any dessert.
DL: No dessert? Well, all right, if I can't convince you. Did you want to pay $1.50 extra for chips and a drink?
Me: (Goddamn insane fucking grocery deli woman, FUCKING YES I WANT TO PAY $1.50 EXTRA FOR CHIPS AND A DRINK. At this point I would pay $5.00 extra if you'd just stop asking me.) Yes, that would be wonderful.

I picked out my chips and went to stand by the register, as my ranch-o-riffic sandwich was on the pannini grill thingy. The deli lady was still talking incessantly about who knows what.

DL: Well, now, let's go ahead and ring you up, ma'am. That sandwich will be ready in just a few minutes.
Me: Okay.

I put my chips on the counter and she looked at me, blankly.

DL: Now, did you want chips and a drink? Lord, child, why didn't you say so? That's just fine now, just fine. Let me just go ring that up.
Me: (red face, smoke coming out of ears, about to explode into a cussing mess) Okay.
DL: And can I get you some dessert? We have a lot of tasty pastries in our bakery.
Me: (actually holding hands behind back so as not to punch the bitch) No, I think I'm okay without dessert today.
DL: Okay, here's your cup. Now, let me tell you about this soda fountain, ma'am. Them lids, they on the bottom. But the straws? They on the top. You just come get me if you have any trouble.
Me: Thanks.

Finally I got my sandwich and started running for the door. Literally. I just wanted to get out of the store before my head exploded. And that's when I realized that I forgot to get any of the cleaning supplies.

I trudged back in and gathered them up, only to discover that they have two lanes open and each one has about five people in it. Murder. Rage. Death. The lady who bagged my groceries asked me three times if I needed help carrying my purchases out. I only bought four items. She only has four teeth. I win.

Squeez(e)* Bacon

Doesn't that just stimulate your taste buds?

ThinkGeek introduced this tasty new product today, and one of my coworkers went wild! He loves bacon, this kid. Loves it.

And since it was on one of my favorite websites, I had to check it out. I'll admit that I really only looked at the pictures. I didn't really bother reading the text because this sounds like the new Twinkie. Like...it will still be here after the nuclear holocaust. But my coworker was all set to order two bottles (tubes?).

Apparently, this Squeez(e)* Bacon was hand-crafted in Sweden by a scientific genius, in the wake of WWII. My favorite part? "Each serving is as healthy as real bacon, and equivalent to 4 premium slices of bacon!"



Product Features

* Each tube contains 21oz (595g) of Squeez(e)* Bacon®.
* 16 servings - equivalent to 64 slices of bacon!
* Bottled in Sweden, made from U.S. bred swine.
* Shelf Life of 12 years.
* No refrigeration needed.
* Jätte gott!

And just look at how tasty it makes this burger look!

Alas, when he clicked to order it, he got this message: "GOTCHA! This really never gets old. Happy April Fool's Day!"

I think he might cry. Right now he's curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth and mumbling to himself about those freakin' Swedes.

Happy April Fool's Day!


*Yeah, they left off the "e" at the end of squeeze and I just couldn't do it. Sorry.

I feel naked without mascara.

Does anyone else have this problem?

I don't wear much other makeup, but I feel totally naked without mascara. And chapstick, but I don't think that counts as makeup. Plus, I never leave home without my tube of Burt's Bees.

Last night, I watched Dancing with the Stars. It's just painful. Steve Wozniak, Steve-O, that one chick who used to be Heff's girlfriend and now is trying to be famous for...anything else. It was a LOT of bad dancing. With a super dramatic (not) double elimination at the end. Which, I suspect was to get rid of Steve Wozniak. And it worked!

Last night's performers, musically speaking of course, were some horrible guy who couldn't decide if he was singing country, pop, or rap (I know, you don't "sing" rap, but I had to be consistent. Shut it.) and Boyz II Men. Wow.

It seems that we just like music that really blows now. The first guy was TERRIBLE. I feel certain that he must have gotten picked on at school as a kid. Now he's in his 40s and trying to do the same music as Britney (sort of), but with a country and rap twist, while he dresses like that emo kid we all avoid like the bubonic plague. Except of course, that no one can avoid the bubonic plague, so it ends up on national television. It was painful.

Later, Boyz II Men performed. I'm going to admit that I was mildly excited. I loved Boyz II Men back in the day. Motown Philly. Back. Again.

Yeah, no. Remember when they used to be able to harmonize? Well, they can't any more. I was hoping that atrocity they called the National Anthem at the World Series a couple of years ago was a fluke. But no. The backup singers were the only reason that they didn't sound exactly like a cat sliding slowly and painfully down a chalkboard nails first. And they lost a boy...where did he go? Maybe he was the only one who could really sing? The skinny one has filled out nicely, though, I will say that.

Speaking of "reality" television, I'm thinking that the people in charge of running our country should take more of a reality television approach to solving our current economic crisis. Or this business with car manufacturers. Or, well, anything. Think about it. People get really fired up about this American Idol crap, right? Maybe set up a show where the "contestants" are actually solutions to some of our bigger problems. And let the people call in to vote. Or something. Possibly a drag race or hot dog eating contest is in order. C'mon government, get in there and get people excited!

It's just an idea. I mean, if millions of people can watch some "older" woman try to get with some younger men and care, why not care about the state of our health care system? Make it sexy!

(Because this Idiocracy thing? Is happening.)

Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TONY! Sorry you couldn't take the day off.