Twitter just scared me. A lot.

So okay, yeah, I know...it's TMI Thursday. And you should really go look at LiLu's TMI Thursday Post Secret blahbadies. Like now. I'll wait.

I actually did have a TMI story all ready to write up today, but...then I decided to search for something on Twitter. And my mind has been blown. In a bad way.

Shot through the brain! And you're to blame. Twitter, you give the English Language a bad name.

Okay, I think I'm done with my Bon Jovi moment of the morning.

I've been thinking to myself (because really who else hears me when I think?), "Self, there must be a better way to googly chat on your phone than this really stupid Google Talk application that shuts off every time you close the window. I mean, people out there are clever. They must have come up with something."

And then Jenn over at You'll Grow to Love Me (WHAT? You're not reading her stuff? GO READ IT NOW. I'll wait...again.) tweeted a little somethin' somethin' about downloading an application called BeeJive. Hmmmm...

Then I promptly forgot all about it.

This morning, I remembered and looked to Twitter for advice. None was forthcoming, so I typed "BeeJive" into the search box.

Such a bad idea.

Here are some of the profiles that caught my eye:

ThaNiggaD

Favorite Tweet: Its crazy when u sellin drugs @ a yung age but u doin it n the wrong way! U gotta kno 2 hand off the right way!wtf I seen ur whole exchange

JAZZY_C0UTURE

Favorite Tweet: #twitterafterdark get me open while im cummin down ya throat and! U wna b my main squeeze nigga? dnt ya? Ya wanna lick btween my knees niqqa

DreyDayBaby

Favorite Tweet: @[some other twitterer] oh yea I feel u .. Your a junior rite? I'm at my cuzins job christmas party deep in da bx sumwhere lol

Patticakez

Favorite Tweet: #sidechickawareness you call him and he talking to you like u 1 of his boys then says aight my nigga ima call u later and hangs up lmfao

And my PERSONAL FAVORITE - Swaggz9mg

Favorite Tweet: Dis new ubertwitter app is iight I cud fuck wit it

I love that last guy because between all the horrid spelling and bizarre sentence structure, there's this tweet: Work is dead right now surprisingly.

That one tweet gives me hope that people actually DO know how to spell and make sentences. And then crashes me back to the ground when I realize that this means that they're just CHOOSING not to bother.

Sad Panda.

In other news, I think I'm going to go ahead and download BeeJive.

Okay, yes, I've talked about this before, but it's my blog and I'm going to talk about it again.

Grocery stores. Grocery stores. GROCERY STORES.

As I'm sure most of you know, this past Thursday was the day of the turkey. Frankly, I'm not a fan of turkey, so Thanksgiving is one of my least favorite holidays.

This year, Princess and I were going to hang out with two of my friends (who just got married) for a grown-up Thanksgiving. They were doing most of the cooking (because they're both really great cooks), but I was told to bring anything that means Thanksgiving to me. So I did.

Unfortunately, this meant a trip to the grocery store. I shudder to think what might have happened had I been there to pick up more than five items.

Here are the items I needed: noodles, Kosher salt, cheese, cream.

This particular grocery store has always made very little sense to me, as is the case with most of the Albertson's in the metroplex. On top of that, they decided that the Thanksgiving holiday would be the best time to rearrange the store.

So there were boxes all over and most of the aisles were mislabeled. My personal favorite: The milk/cream, yogurt, cheese, and eggs? Are all in different locations around the store. The cheese, specifically, isn't even all in one place. Half the cheese is with the produce and the other half? Is in the aisle with lunch meat. That aisle is labeled "frozen foods" and is in the middle of the store. No, I'm not joking.

It probably took an hour to navigate and find the simple things I needed. More than once, some poor (usually male) soul looked up at me when I passed, "Do you know where I can find baking soda (or some such item)?" Sir, I don't even know where you can find the door at this point. (It turned out he really needed baking powder, and that they were completely out of it. Good thing he didn't get baking soda instead, we all know how that goes...)

I have to say, if I never have to go to another Albertson's again? It will be far too soon.

But then I made cheese and spaghetti (my must-have Thanksgiving food) and it was delicious. Princess and I made it to my friends' place, where we feasted on beef tenderloin, au grautin potatoes (for which, you probably would have given up your first-born...I have the recipe, but I don't want your children), cornbread dressing (seriously, we all have our own, and I didn't really like this variety as much as the one my Granddaddy makes), cheese and spaghetti (I can eat my weight in this stuff, seriously), and some really crunchy green beans (which I don't like).

For dessert, my friend out-did herself with a Triple-Chocolate Mousse Cake. TASTY.

And if that had been the end of the day? It would have been a fun and relaxing Thanksgiving.

Cancellation feels pretty darn good.

I canceled my MySpace account today.

Let me say, though, that I probably hadn't logged in or used the thing since February, at least. I would have probably canceled sooner, but I couldn't remember my password. It came to me in a flash of brilliance and short-term memory this morning, so I took the plunge.

I know there are probably some friends that I only communicate with that way, which probably means I haven't talked to them in nearly a year. So I guess maybe we weren't very good friends, eh?

Canceling my MySpace account feels like permanently closing a door on a past I no longer care to contemplate. It's not about you, MySpace friends. I assure you. If I remember who you are, I'm sure I love you dearly.

I would say you should look me up on Facebook, but I barely use that. What can I say? Follow me on Twitter. Occasionally, my head finds its way out of my ass and I tweet something. Sometimes it's even funny. No promises, though.

So long MySpace. I doubt I'll miss you.

Oh, and Princess and I went to see Bob Saget on Saturday night. He wasn't really as funny as I might have hoped. And I love Bob Saget. The problem, I think, is that he's Bob effing Saget, so he doesn't have to bother to write material any more. He just says whatever comes to mind, with a healthy dose of curse words and a foul mouth. My thought for a good half of his act? I'm funnier than that (okay, maybe not today, shut up)...

That's not a good sign, Bob. Pull it together.

It didn't help that the people sitting in the row with us each individually climbed over us to take a piss/get a drink/smoke/have sex in the bathroom three to four times (there were four of them). The rows at House of Blues are so tiny that there's literally no way to get out of the way without standing up. So every five to ten minutes, we were having to stand up to let these people by. Until the fourth or so time...then we just sat there and let them struggle. And seriously...DON'T touch me. If you can't hold your pee for an hour and a half, I have no sympathy for you. None. And if you know you have a bladder problem or are just completely obnoxious and rude, please...get an aisle seat.

The guy who opened up for Bob, though? He had me doubled over and unable to breathe in all the right ways. Ryan Stout? Call me.

Is it just me?

So the big hullabaloo on the (sports talk) radio station I listen to this morning was...the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader who dressed as Li'l Wayne for Halloween.

The controversy is this: She's a little white girl with blonde hair. And she dressed up as Li'l Wayne for Halloween. In order to accomplish this, she used dark makeup to darken her skin. BECAUSE SHE WAS TRYING TO BE LI'L WAYNE. Who, ya know, isn't white.

For reference, here's her picture, both as a cheerleader and as Li'l Wayne, and a picture of Li'l Wayne:





Now this poor girl is being labeled as a racist and being disciplined by the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading Nazi, Kelly what's-her-name. For her HALLOWEEN COSTUME.

Look, if she had dressed up as a person of color being hung by a noose from a tree? That's incredibly offensive. But to dress up as a famous rapper? I'd say that's complimentary. Maybe she was being offensive about it at the party she attended, I don't know.

However, not that I'm watching the fourth season of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team, because that would just be silly, Kelly what's-her-name just nearly cut someone on the last episode because she was "looking a little chunky." Which means that normally girls "her size" weigh 112 pounds and she weighs 123. So she really needs to cut that down if she expects to make the squad.

You know what I find offensive? THAT.

Who knew a purse could crash a plane?

This weekend, I traveled to Huntsville, Alabama for the wedding of two of my friends. It was beautiful. A bug flew in my eye and caused it to tear up, but I did NOT cry. Of course, I don't want to talk to you about that sappy stuff, though.

Let's talk airlines. As an experiment, I left my cell phone on for the duration of both flights.

The plane did not crash.

Has anyone ever contemplated what would happen if we all just refused to put our seat backs and tray tables in their fully upright and locked positions? If this actually affects the way the plane takes off and lands, someone please let me know.

I'm pretty sure this is all just an elaborate game between flight attendants to see what they can get a flight of people to do next. Or rather, not to do. Because they still have to give their oxygen mask/seat belt demonstration every time and no one has bothered to listen since 1982.

The latest? You can't even hold your purse in your lap while the plane is taking off and landing. So I was sitting on the plane, in the first row, where I couldn't put my purse under the seat in front of me because there was no seat in front of me and I was thinking to myself, "It's cool, self, just hold your purse." Then they told me I couldn't hold my purse. Unfortunately, it's the kind of purse that has no zipper. As you can imagine, I didn't really feel comfy putting it up in the overhead bin so things could fall out of it all over the place.

--You know what they never say any more? They never tell you to be careful opening overhead bins because carry-on items may have shifted in flight. You know why? Because overhead bins are now stuffed like sardines in a can because they've limited what you can bring on the damn plane while simultaneously deciding that the cargo space they already built into the plane for your damn luggage is now prime real estate, for which you must pay. Assholes. In other news, my hair is a frizzy mess without some kind of product in it and they don't make mousse in travel size. So yeah, I looked vaguely like carrot top for the entire weekend. I can only hope there are no pictures. But it was a WEDDING.--

Instead of holding my purse, I held my wallet, phone, two books (I was almost done with one, so I had to have the second to start before the pilot turned off the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign...which he never did), and chapstick. I feel sure that this was better than me just holding my purse. I mean, if I need my hands, I could just sit my singular purse on the floor or whatever and now I'm doing a juggling act, but I kind of wanted to join the circus anyway.

To sum up, fuck you airlines, for making my life as difficult as possible. Also, homeland security? Let's get rid of the pretty color system, shall we? Has the threat even GONE below orange in the last eight years?

Oh, they'll pick you up all right. But then they'll bend you right over that counter without even buying you coffee first.

"Call Enterprise! We'll pick you up!"

Yeah, no. They won't. Well, they might, but it will take three hours.

This weekend, I had a little car trouble. And by little, I mean a lot of car trouble. Like, my car is in the shop and I can't get it out without paying them more money that I have car trouble. Good times.

I was in my car Friday night, driving to girls' night sushi, when I realized that my car didn't really want to accelerate. I mean, it would accelerate, but it clearly didn't want to do it. Which is weird, since acceleration is most of its purpose.

I made it to the sushi place, had a rockin' time with my girls, then we went for some karaoke and I had a date. (Brave soul came out and met me with all of my girlfriends...)

I made it home, but the car still felt really weird. It was 4am, though, so I went to bed and didn't think about it until the next day.

As I was driving to my rock climbing gym, I found that my car wouldn't really go over about 45 MPH. Huh.

Then when I left the climbing gym, it wouldn't go over about 30 MPH. Oh dear.

I knew I was due for an oil change and I was hoping that would solve the problem. No, I'm not stupid enough to think it actually would solve the problem, but a girl can hope, right? Plus, it wasn't making any weird noises, so I couldn't do my usual turn-up-the-radio-and-drown-it-out plan, hoping it would spontaneously go away. Silent but deadly; it has a whole new meaning.

I sat at the oil changin' place for quite some time while they changed the oil, topped of the fluids (TWSS) and inspected my vehicle. I had mentioned my little acceleration problem, hoping they would locate the issue and tell me all about it. My car passed inspection with flying colors and I drove off the lot...once again realizing that I couldn't accelerate. But this time, it wouldn't go over 15 MPH. It seems that passing inspection has nothing to do with the car actually...going. Interesting.

The Move Trading Company parking lot was looming, so I pulled in there and had my car towed to the dealership. Which meant I was without car for the rest of the weekend.

It was too late to rent a car that day, and I was in a hurry because I was supposed to have a date, which I had to move to the bar across the street from my apartment (so I could walk), rather than going to Oktoberfest.

Rental car places are closed on Sundays. Who knew? So I made a reservation and asked that Enterprise pick me up the next morning. The guy on the phone said I had to call them an hour before I wanted to be picked up.

The next morning, Monday, I talked to the people at the dealership and talked to my boss to remind him I would be late. I called Enterprise for a ride and was told that the driver was out picking someone up, but that as soon as he got back, he would be on his way to my place.

Thinking I had a limited amount of time, I hopped in the shower and got ready quickly. Then I settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.

Two hours later, I called the office. No answer. GREAT.

Another hour later I called back. No answer.

Ten minutes later I called again and got the same song and dance about how the driver was out picking someone up and would be on his way as soon as he got back.

"That's what you told me at 8am. I'm really late for work now..."

FINALLY, an hour after that they called to tell me that the driver was on his way. Twenty minutes later they called to tell me he was lost. The office is three miles from my apartment. (I should have walked.)

When the dude finally arrived, I was beyond annoyed and he was trying to tell me what I should have done about my car. I almost killed him.

He walks me into the Enterprise office and asks for my ID and my insurance and all that jazz. (JAZZ HANDS!) I hand him my debit card (I don't like credit cards, so I don't have any) and he said, "Oh, do you have a major credit card?"

I said, "No, I have my debit card."

He said, "Oh, if you're going to use a debit card, we have to charge you a $250 deposit AND we'll need to see two recent utility bills."

Um...what?

I said, "Don't you think it might have been wise to tell me this before I left my apartment? Do you really think I just carry two utility bills around with me at all times in case someone wants to look at them before letting me use my own ACTUAL money from my own ACTUAL bank to pay for something?"

He said, "Adam? Did you not tell her about this on the phone?"

Adam said, "I didn't know she was going to pay with a debit card."

I said, "So this is my fault? You don't think if you had mentioned any of this on the phone, I might have mentioned I was paying with a debit card? You know what? This is fucking ridiculous. Give me my card back, I'm leaving. And if you charge me even ONE CENT, I will be back in here with some words for your manager."

With that, I walked out the door and realized I was stuck, three miles from home, with no car and no way to get to work. Of course, it was noon anyway, so I'd already missed half the day.

Sometime in the middle of all that, the dealership called to tell me that my car needed new coils and spark plugs and the pistons were misfiring so much that they couldn't even tell if this would fix the problem, but that these things had to be replaced for them to even look any farther.

"How much?"

"Ma'am, with labor and everything, that will be $878."

"Fuck."

Here's my thinking at this point. I've already spent money having my car towed there (For which they, of course, accidentally charged me twice, so I have $200 sitting on hold at my bank for three business days. Goody.). They charge $100 to even look at it, which they'd already done. This money comes out of the repair cost, if they repair it. I can't drive the damn thing as it won't accelerate, so I'd have to have it towed somewhere else anyway. Just to likely find out exactly what they just told me and have someone charge me almost the same amount, which, when you add in towing fees and $100 would possibly even be more. So I said, "I don't really see what choice I have. Go ahead and do it."

And please, please, one more person tell me that they're doing too much to my 7-year-old car which has 140,000 miles on it. PLEASE. Guess what? It's a piece of crap, but I have no payment and I don't want one. And sometimes cars need work. Especially when you know nothing about cars and haven't bothered to do anything you're supposed to except change the oil. SHIT HAPPENS.

Every single time someone not at the dealership has tried to work on my car, from individuals to other auto shops and such, it has been a SHITSTORM OF FAIL. I don't know why. Also, the dealership people work fast and I know where they are and they're unlikely to be gone next time I need something.

Ahem. Can you tell I've been dealing with this for three days straight now?

I had a little bit of a breakdown when I walked out of the Enterprise place. So I called my mother. Which I was trying damn hard not to have to do. I'm almost 30, for cryin' out loud. However, at this point, I was stuck and trapped and they have an extra car.

I walked home and my Aunt Dana (who's been working on cars since she was old enough to walk) came to pick me up. We went to the dealership and evaluated the situation. As it turned out, the car needed several other things, including a new timing belt (which should have been replaced at 100,000 miles) and a coolant flush because the asshats at the oil changin' place had put the wrong coolant in and now they were all mixed in there and my car is old, yo. Dana said that the car gods had clearly been smiling on me and she thought that the work they suggested was warranted if I wanted to continue to drive the car.

SEE? I didn't just go with whatever they said. I'm not a complete idiot. (Even if someone did happen to call me one for being an atheist...on our first date. Wanna guess if we had a second one?)

At this point, making it to work was out of the question, so I went up to my mom's to work there and pick up my sweet ride. For the next two days, I am the proud driver of this:







Oh baby. HOT. It has the same size steering wheel as a racecar bed, I think. Maybe smaller. And it's ELECTRIC blue; inside and out. And doesn't the exhaust pipe look a little...phallic? Oh yeah.

Aunt Dana and I also saw this gem on our way to my parents house from the dealership:





The first thing Dana said? "That's a Pops move, right there."

My Pops (her dad, my granddad) is the master of all things bungee cord or rubber band or duct tape or...bubble gum. He tried to fix a gas leak in my mom's car with bubble gum when I was a baby. Bubble gum. Just in case you're thinking maybe that's pretty clever...it's not. Gasoline takes all the sticky out of gum in about five seconds flat. But he's cute. And he's the only person I've ever known who actually drives just as well asleep as awake.

TMI Thursday (not really) - My vacation hated me. Or at least the travel parts did.

Okay, so I know it's TMI Thursday, and I should be writing a gross or hilarious story to entertain you. But I'm not gonna. Today, you get to hear the story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down...oh wait, that's the Fresh Prince theme song.

You get to hear about my vacation. Or at least the travel portions of it. It was almost as eventful as my trip to Tennessee. But with less funny stuff and more almost crying. Mostly, it's just that I'm a dumbass. So you already know that:

1. I made my flight arrangements with the AM/PM screw up.
2. I managed to get food poisoning or some kind of bug two days before my trip.
3. The same day I was puking my guts up, all my sleeping arrangements fell through and I had to scramble around to get a hotel in Seattle. By the way, nothing is cheap in Seattle.

What you may or may not know is that on Saturday, after I went to work at my mom's, I was finishing up my packing. I went down to my car to get something and I...fell down the stairs and twisted my ankle. Not a sprain or anything, but still.

So I wrapped it up and kept on truckin'. (That's what she said! At least in my head, somehow.)

My friend Leslie took me to the airport and dropped me off. I decided to check my bag because when I'm traveling for nine days, I really don't want to have to worry about my liquid situation. Plus, I totally hate going through security anyway. The whole thing is getting a little out of hand.

When I checked in at the gate, the woman said, "Well, you got the last seat on the plane!"

Um, hi, excuse me. I bought my ticket on this plane weeks ago and you're telling me that I JUST NOW got a seat?!? Buying a ticket now means the same thing as thinking about buying a ticket, apparently. Let this be a lesson to all you smug bitches who think you've got a seat on the plane. YOU DON'T.

After all that, I figured I deserved a beer. I walked over to the bar and ordered a tall one. The bartender asked the usual questions, so I told him my story. And he totally gave me free beer! The woman next to me said I had "great style" (ahem, in my $15 Target dress, thank you). Things were looking up.

The plane to Denver took off and landed without a hitch, and my friend Bones was there to greet me at the airport. We decided to just stay and hang out in Denver with Joanna and Tony. Everyone had a good time, and on Monday afternoon, Bones dropped me off at the American terminal at the Denver airport for my flight.

Only my flight wasn't on American. Instead, this leg of my trip was on Alaska Air, something I totally didn't realize. So, off I went, across the entire terminal to find Alaska Air. Not that I don't enjoy a good scenic tour of the airport, of course. And this fit perfectly in with most of the other things that had happened on my vacation.

I got to Seattle and my friend Brian picked me up from the airport. We hadn't seen each other in five years, so there was much hugging and excitement. Seattle was wonderful and I promise to tell you more about it at a later date. This story, however, is all about travel hell. For this purpose, I'm going to skip to the end of my vacation.

My flight was at 11:30 pm on Sunday night, which put me back in Dallas Monday morning at 5:00 am. My friend Patrick (Don't blame me if you click that link and don't understand anything on his blog. I don't either.) actually agreed to pick me up. When I got to the airport in Seattle, however (after a day of drinking and hanging out by the pool), I found that my flight had been delayed for an hour. I called Patrick to let him know, and Brian hung out with me for a little while.

My flight was set to board at 11:50 pm, and take off at 12:30 am. They loaded us on the plane around midnight. But the plane went nowhere. At 1:30 am, the pilot's voice sounded in the cabin, "We're sorry folks, but we've decided to screw you all over. This plane is broken and it's not going anywhere. Please file off the plane and line up at the gate to change your travel arrangements."

Okay, so that's not exactly what he said, but it's the general gist of it.

Lucky for me, I was sitting in row 12. Which meant there were only about 40 people in front of me in line. At no point did they bother to call in extra American Airlines employees to help sort out their mess. I suspect that there are some people who are still standing in that line.

I thought maybe I would be sneaky and call to change my flight arrangements while I was in line. My phone had very little battery, but I whipped it out and dialed American Airlines.

First of all, technically, my flight had left the day before. So the system thought I was trying to make flight arrangements for the following year. Yeah, that's not annoying. Once I finally got a person on the phone, she said, "Well, ma'am, I can't really help you. They're not showing that flight as canceled in this system, so I can't change your reservations."

I said, "Okay, let's say I missed my flight."

She said, "Ma'am. As far as I know, you're on that plane. I can't do anything to help you."

Seriously?

So I gave up and hung up the phone. What else could I do?

A few minutes later, the women from the gate (who's supposed to be helping people change their flight arrangements) comes by to hand out the number for American Airlines, so we could all call and settle things. I let her know that they wouldn't help anyone until she pushed the little button for "Cancel This Flight."

She didn't seem to think this was terribly helpful.

I waited in line for almost two and a half hours before I got to the counter. And I was in ROW 12. At one point, someone got on the speaker and said, "We've rescheduled this flight for noon tomorrow (when really they meant the same day, as it was 3:00 am), but there will be limited seating for those of you in line." Really? Who the fuck else have you put on this flight? Shouldn't the people you just screwed over at least get the first chance at the seats on the new flight? No?

The soonest I could get to Dallas was 2:45 pm. My new flight was scheduled to leave at 6:00 am, with a layover in LA. I was so happy to have a flight, I didn't really ask any questions. And she never mentioned my luggage, which I had checked to be on this flight. She didn't even tell me what airline I was flying (Alaska Air...again). The thing about American is, even if you're flying a different airline, they don't really tell you. Nor do they give you the real flight number. You get the American Airlines version of the flight number, which has little to do with the actual flight number on the actual airline. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I finally figured out the airline situation and decided that my best course of action was probably to go find my luggage and make sure it got on my new flight. So I went down to baggage claim, found my bag, went back up to the ticket counters. Alaska Air is, of course, on the opposite side of the airport. I had to pay to check my bag (AGAIN. I had just paid to check it on the American flight), which pissed me right off. Then I had to go through security again because they don't really care if you've been inside the airport all night and just had to come out of the secure area to get your bag because your airline is so jacked up that they canceled your red-eye flight and you just want to get back in there so you can possibly take a nap with the homeless dudes sleeping all over the airport. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I made it to the gate, tried to fall asleep, didn't fall asleep, got on the plane and took off for Seattle. I had a middle seat, making it nearly impossible to sleep on the plane. I'm going to just make a new rule here. If it's a two hour flight, YOU CAN HOLD IT. Stop climbing over me to pee. Go before you get on the plane, and then sit there quietly for the duration of the flight. You're a grown-up. You do NOT have to pee every hour.

What? Everyone else is allowed to make rules, but I'm not?

Anyway, I get into LAX to discover...LAX is like the shithole airport of the planet. I don't know where anything is and there's no one to really tell me. I can only seem to find four other gates, but none of the televisions have things on them that are useful to me. I have no idea where I need to be, I only have an hour to get there, and my phone is almost dead.

I decided that getting to my next flight was totally worth killing the rest of the battery in my phone, so I looked my flight up online. It said I needed to be in Terminal 4. Great. Now where the hell is Terminal 4?

I found a little place for a "shuttle." I think bus would probably have been a more appropriate word, but whatever. I had to take two, TWO buses on the tarmac, WHERE THE PLANES FLY to get to my terminal.

This is when I discovered that it's not possible to get anywhere in LAX in under an hour. The good news (depending on your perspective) was that my flight to Dallas had been delayed for two hours. Not exactly comforting, since my last delayed flight was canceled.

After I made it to the proper terminal and even the proper gate, I realized I still needed to check in to get my boarding pass. BUT WHAT IF I DON'T HAVE A SEAT? There are 25 people in line in front of me and at this point, I was almost in tears. I had been awake for over 24 hours and hadn't had any food since the previous day around 4:00 pm.

It turned out that I did have a seat. And the plane did take off. So a mere 16 hours after I arrived at the airport in Seattle, my flight landed in Dallas. By the way, this was also only about 15 minutes sooner than I would have landed had I just stayed in Seattle and taken the rescheduled flight. Awesome.

I had already decided that there was no way my luggage had made the trip with me, but it rolled off the carousel. I thought I was home free.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

On the way to my place, having stopped to get some food and feeling much better about life, I stuck my hand in my purse to retrieve my keys. But there were no keys to be found. In a flash, I remembered using my bottle opener earlier in the day and tossing my keys on top of my bag. They must have fallen into the couch or something.

My apartment complex does not consider being locked out an emergency and the tears of frustration and exhaustion were threatening to fall. I won't bore you with the rest of the story, but I will say that there was a locksmith involved (and the stupidest man I've ever met in my life) before I finally found my keys in the bottom of my suitcase. WHERE THEY HAD BEEN THE WHOLE TIME.

Asshole keys.

Please feel free to share your traveling horror stories to make me feel better.

TMI Thursday - Lock it up

Even though I'm on vacation (sitting at Tougo Coffee in Seattle, having a latte with Brian who runs the place), I thought I would share this little TMI Thursday story with you. Thanks to LiLu for once again encouraging me to make an ass of myself on the internets.

I used to live in this house in the suburbs with a couple of roommates (one of whom was my boyfriend at the time). When we all moved out of the house, I had to move back in with my parents for a little while. Yuck. Love you, Mom!

My neighbors had a little dog named Hunter, or "Hoosty." I have no idea why he was Hoosty, but there it is. Shortly after I moved out, they asked me to dogsit. Of course I was happy to do so. My boyfriend wanted to go to some party with his work people, so we did that first. I soon got tired and wanted to go home, but he wanted to stay out (I used to be kind of a wuss...). He drove me back to the neighbors house and then went back to the party. But he was going to come back and stay with me later.

I put on my cute little white nightie with the little pink flowers. And the matching cute little white panties with little pink flowers. You know...so I would be ready.

Then I walked out into the backyard with Hoosty.

Seems pretty safe, right? But what I had failed to notice (and my neighbors had failed to mention) was that they had the kind of door that appears to be unlocked on the inside, but when you get outside (in your nightie), it is most definitely locked. And then you're stuck outside. In your nightie.

Probably in this scenario, you would stay put. Wait for your boyfriend to get back from the party and let you in, right? I mean, he had a key and everything.

But it was cold. And I had no idea how long I would have to wait.

My parents house was only about two miles away, and I was a little tipsy, so really my only logical choice was to walk. To my parents house. Barefoot. In my little white nightie.

So I set off. I should mention here that my feet are really sensitive. I can't even walk on those aggregate sidewalks. You know, the ones with the little pebbles in them? Yeah, no. Ouch.

Well, between my neighbor's house and my parents house, there was maybe a half mile of sidewalk. I spent most of the walk through the neighborhood on my tippy toes, trying not to step on so much as a twig. Unsuccessfully.

Once I made it out to the main road, I had almost forgotten that I was only wearing my little white nightie. Which maybe covered three-quarters of my ass. And maybe three-quarters of my boobs. Sexy.

All I could think was, "Oh, sidewalk! Glorious sidewalk!"

Then, "Oh fuck. I'm naked."

What choice did I have at that point, though? I was no longer tipsy and really contemplating my course of action. It was a stupid thing to do, but I was already halfway there. The half ahead of me had a sidewalk, where the path back to the house had twigs and rocks and crap. I forged ahead.

It was about midnight and cars were sparse on the road. Two cops passed me, though. You'd think, if you were a cop, you might come to the conclusion that the chick on the side of the road walking barefoot in a little white nightie (in a residential neighborhood) might be having some kind of issue. They did not.

Right about then I heard an odd hissing sound. I looked around, but didn't see anything and then --

FWA SSSSSSSSS CH CH CH CH!

Sprinklers. On me. On the side of the road. In my little white nightie. Ugh.

Quickly I was soaked to the bone. And far more naked than I was before.

A pickup truck sped by me on the road. I thought, "Whew. At least he didn't stop." And then I saw his brake lights. He threw his truck in reverse and backed up to my location. The whole time I was chanting, "Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit" under my breath.

He got back to me and leaned over to roll down his window.

"You look like you've gotten yourself into a bit of a mess. You need a ride, little lady?"

Uuuuhhhhhh. Crap.

"No, sir. I'm good." I meant to do this, obviously.

"Is there someone you could call or something? Do you want to use my phone?"

"YES! Could I please call my 6'5" tall, incredibly buff (this was a lie...) boyfriend and tell him I'll be at my parents house. It's just right up the road."

"Sure. You sure you don't need a ride?"

"No, thanks."

So he let me use his phone and I called and left a message. Then I walked the rest of the way to my parents house, soaking wet and freezing cold. But I made it.

When my boyfriend came to pick me up, we had a "discussion" about how stupid it was to walk to my parents house naked. I had no choice but to agree. I didn't even get any that night.

And I haven't worn that particular little white nightie again.

UPDATE: Upon request and because I forgot initially. My little white nightie possibly looked something like this...but white. And with little pink flowers.

If this is really a thing now, someone please just put me out of my misery.

I was really craving a soda this afternoon, so I hopped in my car and drove over to McDonald's.

While I was sitting in the drive-thru, waiting, I saw something I'll admit that I've never seen before. Good thing I had my camera ready, eh?



Okay, I lied. I couldn't get my phone out fast enough. So I used MS Paint to recreate the masterpiece for your viewing pleasure. Since I'm a terrible artist, I'll explain:

This girl coming out of the McDonald's was wearing a shower cap just perched on top of her head. A SHOWER CAP*.

And not even over her curlers. Just sitting there. On her head. Like Little Miss Muffet. At least, that's where I went with it. She was like a poor man's Little Miss Muffet. I think she was on her way to sit on her tuffet. What the hell's a tuffet?

Please tell me I'm not going to have to start wearing a shower cap perched on top of my head to fit in with the cool kids.

*Author's note: The shower cap was indeed bright blue. Why?

Remember in the second grade when we all learned how to tell time? Apparently, I missed that day.

I'm taking a trip up to Seattle next month to visit friends and see if I might like to live there. Driving seemed like kind of a hassle, so I decided to fly. And since I was already flying, I decided to take the opportunity to visit a friend who lives in New Mexico and see some friends who just moved to Denver. I got online to make my plane reservations yesterday and it went something like this:

Go to the website, choose the "Multi-City" option.

Plug in the cities. (Basically, I'm leaving Texas, flying to Denver to see my friends, traveling to New Mexico by car to spend a couple of days with Bones, then traveling back to Denver and boarding a flight to Seattle. After five glorious days, it will be back home to the Texas HEAT. And it is capital letters HEAT.)

Find the perfect flights. The times all worked, everything was harmonious.

Airline website's insistence that I log in causes all my information to be lost. Fuck you and the advantage number you rode in on (that makes no sense).

Experience much frustration when I finally get logged in, realizing that I have to re-enter all my information.

Notice that the perfect flight is no longer a choice.

Almost break down into tears.

Hold it together.

Search and search until I find yet another perfect flight.

Book the flight.

Sigh with relief.

Not so bad, eh? I got a pretty good deal and all my flights are non-stop, so I don't have to spend nine hours on a plane on my home from Seattle.

The schedule looked something like this:

Texas to Denver - 10:00 am to 11:00 am
Denver to Seattle - 5:00 pm to 7:00 pm
Seattle to Texas - 11:30 am to 5:00 pm

Perfect, right?

Or so I thought.

What my schedule really looks like:


Texas to Denver - 10:00 pm to 11:00 pm
Denver to Seattle - 5:00 pm to 7:00 pm (Look! I got one right!)
Seattle to Texas - 11:30 pm to 5:00 am

You'll notice that I got most of the am/pm times wrong and so will now be getting back into Texas at FIVE AM on Monday morning...upon which I'll have to drive to work. Plus, I lost an entire day of my vacation, since I'm not leaving Dallas until TEN PM on the first day.

Who does that?

Maybe I'll just start my own English Fail Blog.

Dear People Everywhere,

Be less dumb. Kthx.

Kisses with tongue,
shine

Just a few gems I picked up around the internets or on various products. I thought you might enjoy them. If you don't see any problem with the following statements, please stop reading my blog. Wait. No, I'm kidding. Don't leave! I love you!

On a website that sells cases and accessories for iPhones:

"The greatest guarder for LCD screen. 100% High Quality.

Show off your new iPhone 3G without the risk of scratching it. Our 3G iPhone screen protector are keep you an original color, protect against any dust and scratches and to eliminate glare. Precision made for and 100% fit on iPhone 3G. Comes with a free cloth to be used for swiping the screen clean before attacking the protector.

Prevent Peeping Design

Think about your privacy, everyone don't want to disclose your personal things to others. Think about a "prevent peeping" and "black voguish" design... then you won't be hesitated to have it!"

"Hard Plastic case is a miracle between Toughness and Luster, which gives a brilliant appearance, with high flexibility and durability, the shiny materials offer an excellent protection for your iPhone 3G."

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Let's have a party! Bring this 'bloody' sparkling case with your iPhone! You definitely will be the most extraordinary person in the venue!"

To be fair, I suspect these people are just the victims of a really bad translator. But it cracked me the FUCK up to read "bring this 'bloody' sparkling case with your iPhone!"

On my keyboard (years and years ago):

"Please read directions for proper use. Misuse of this product could cause fatal injury or death."

A couple of things. One, it's a KEYBOARD. Death seems unlikely. Two, fatal injuries usually involve death. Hence the whole use of the word fatal. Just sayin'.


This isn't about English, though there are a few bumps and bruises. I'm just wondering...who still FALLS for this crap? This one doesn't even make any sense to me:

FROM: MR. PHIL COLE
Dear Friend,

My name is Phil Cole, an oil merchant.
I have been diagnosed with cancer.
It has defiled all forms of medical
treatment, and right now I have only
few months to live, according to my
medical doctors.

I have not particularly lived my life
so well, as I never really cared for
anyone (not even myself) but my business.
Though I am very rich, I was never
generous, I was always hostile to people
and only focused on my business as
that was the only thing I cared for.

But now I regret all this as I now know
that there is more to life than just
wanting to have or make all the money
in the world.I believe when GOD gives
me a second chance to come to this world
I will live my life a different way
from how I have lived it.

Now that GOD has called me, I have
willed and given most of my property
and assets to my immediate and extended
family members as wellas few close friends of mine.
I want GOD to be merciful to me and
accept my soul, I have decided to give
arms to charity organizations and
research organization, as I want this to
be one of the last good deeds I do on earth.

So far, I have distributed money to some
charity organizations in the Peru, Brazil
and Malaysia where I made my money.
Now that my health has deteriorated
so badly, I cannot do this myself anymore.
I once asked members of my family to
close one of my accounts and distribute
the money which I have there to charity
organization in Eastern Europe and South
America, they refused and kept the money
to themselves.

Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as
they seem not to be contended with what
I have left for them.The last of my money
which no one knows of is the cash deposit
of Five Million US Dollars (US$5,000,000.00),
currently placed under the management of
my Fund Manager based in Europe.

Acknowledge this message so that I can
introduce you to my fund manager who will
handle the transfer of Trust Receivership
to you of the said funds as my Estate
Administrator.

I will want you to help me collect this
deposit and dispatched it to charity
organizations and Research Organizations
for research purposes.

God be with you.
Regards
Phil Cole
=

Serendipity

This post is something I wrote about my last apartment complex. My new apartment complex is nothing like this. Yay!

According to Dictionary.com, serendipity is:

1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident.
2. good fortune; luck

According to me serendipity is:

A horrible place to live. (And a not-so-great chick flick starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale.)

My apartments are called "Serendipity." I have to disagree with the naming, unless horrible smells, unfinished floors, missing drawers, horrible tasting water, constant loud music, people, and parties, and unfounded threats to turn off your electric bill "desirable discoveries by accident." I do not.

My apartment constantly smells of pot and Mexican food. I know what you're thinking, could there be a better combination? Yeah, I don't smoke pot, and I only want to smell Mexican food if I'm at a Mexican restaurant. It's not at all appetizing while I'm taking a shower. I asked them to fix it. I don't even think they ever came by for a whiff.

When I moved in my kitchen cabinets were missing two drawers. There are only three drawers total. It took almost three months to get the missing drawers. They tried to act like they had to order them...like I have custom cabinets. Please.

When I moved in, the floor under my dishwasher, stove and refrigerator was unfinished. Unpleasantly unfinished. That was nine months ago. The floor is still unfinished. I was told it was because when they have to move the appliances in, they needed that room. And I get that. But every other builder in the world has figured out how to finish the floor after installing the appliances. Why can't you? It's not like you're going to take them out and put them back once a week.

They decided to be cute and have all the light fixtures, with ceiling fans on remote controls. It's a great idea. Unless, of course, you don't bother to think out the fact that there are only so many codes for the signals, and my remote can work the fixtures in about 100 apartments. So at 4 am when I'm sleeping, but the girl downstairs is just getting home, you guessed it, she flips on my lights with hers. They came around a month ago and "fixed" the problem. In one room. It still happens in all the others.

When I moved in, my door was unpainted with no peep hole. My door frame consisted of several raw pieces of plywood. Stylish, eh? About three months or so after I moved in, they came by and painted my door frame to match the walls. Then a month after that, they came over and painted my door. Shut. They painted my door shut. I literally had to get assistance to get in my apartment. Then, a couple of weeks later, they came by and painted several splotches of a lighter color on my door frame. It has been that way for 4 months. They did install a peephole, though, so I guess I shouldn't complain.

Most of the other tenants in my building seem to know each other. One of them works for the apartment complex. He's the guy who gave me the brilliant explanation for my unfinished floor. He and all his buddies have a party every Friday night, in which they all stand outside, blocking various exits, shouting at the top of their lungs, and smoking. It's vile. And no one calls them on it because dude works at the apartment complex.

You know those drainage pipes that lead down the building from the roof, so that the water all comes down in an organized fashion? I'm sure you know what I mean. Well, at the bottom of those pipes, people often put these little...I don't know what to call them. Slanty pieces of concrete so that the water will run out and not just stop and puddle all in one place. Theoretically. You know the things I mean, I'm sure you've see them. Well, the dudes at my complex installed them backwards. So the slopes are facing toward the foundations of the buildings, rather than directing the water away. The cherry on that cake? They also left all the stickers with the pictures that show exactly how those things are supposed to be installed. Go Team!

Nearly all of the maintenance guys are skeezy and make nasty comments when I walk by, while looking at me as though I have no clothes on. It's lovely to come home.

I'm posting this because today, when I got home from work, they had put a notice on my door threatening to turn off my electricity. Why, you ask? Because I have an outstanding balance! Apparently, when I moved in, they didn't credit me for paying my pet deposit. I paid it. They just didn't record it. So I go in there, and the lady in the office says, "Oh, you didn't pay your pet fee." Like hell I didn't. She's currently going through her files, because they're not smart enough to see that when I make my monthly payments they're for my rent and my utilities. So I have a huge rent credit, but it looks like I've never paid my electric bill, save for once or twice. Plus, they never recorded my pet deposit.

See, every month, I get this notice on my door telling me they're going to turn off my electricity because I haven't paid my bill. Assholes that they are, they decided it would be really cute to have my electric bill due two days before my rent every month, so instead of just being able to make one payment, I'm supposed to make two. I refuse. I'm not fucking doing it. I will make one payment. It will include both my rent and my utilities, but I'm only doing it once. Fuck you.

My suggestion to you, friends, is that next time you're looking for an apartment, you think long and hard before deciding on Serendipity.

Damn it, they caught me!

So they caught me before I could destroy the entire infrastructure of the United States to smithereens with my...archaeology report. Oh, wait. That doesn't make any sense, does it?

Last week, I put a report in the mail to someone at the Army Corps of Engineers office in Fort Worth, Texas. Today it came back in the mail with this message:

"We regret that your mail was not collected or is being returned to you due to heightened security requirements. All mail that bears postage stamps and weighs more than 13 ounces MUST be taken by the customer to a retail service associated at a Post Office."

So they weren't worried about the fact that my possible terrorist device was in the mail twice as long as it would have been if they had just sent it to Fort Worth as requested. As long as I personally bring my possible terrorist device to the post office (does that really have to be capitalized? I'll admit I'm not sure of the rules in that case) they'll send it anywhere I want it to go? Huh.

So I'm warning any and all potential accidental terrorists out there, DO NOT PUT STAMPS ON YOUR HEAVY POSSIBLY TERRORIST DEVICES.



Take it to the post office. They'll help you out. Though not with a smile. Those people are pissed. Probably because Homeland Security now makes them deal with a person every time a package over 13 ounces runs through the mail. Go figure, we're more worried about terrorist activity than angry postal workers these days.

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

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 promise it's self-defense.

But I'm going to KILL. MY. BOSS.

I know everyone feels this way at one point or another, but really. I would be doing the world (okay, mostly me and my coworkers) a favor.

I work at a very small archaeological consulting firm. My boss has been (inexplicably) in business for a little over two decades. He has no idea how to run a business and he is possibly the worst communicator in the world.

Example: Part-time employees are only supposed to work 32 hours per week. This, you would think, would be a rather simple concept. But no. Because he won't actually tell anyone if he or she is full- or part-time. So no one knows. Or rather, some people don't. So one employee was confused (I mean, we all were, but one more than the rest, I suppose). And he kept working over 32 hours. So I told my boss that I thought that maybe this employee was unsure of his employment terms. I suggested he tell this employee that he needed to keep his hours at 32 or fewer. Here's a basic transcript of how that conversation went (and it's been a while, so I'm not exactly sure of the wording, but you'll get the gist):

Boss: You need to stop recording your hours for this week right now.
Employee: Um...okay. But I have to finish this map.
Boss: You're getting close to 40 hours for the week, so you need to go home. Now.
Employee: Um...okay, but I have to finish this map.
Boss: Someone else can finish the map. You need to work less hours.

Yeah. Seriously. At no point did he say, "You are a part-time employee here, so you're only supposed to work 32 hours per week."

So, naturally, this went on for several more weeks, until I had to be the bad guy and say, "Dude. You know you're not full-time, right? You need to keep your hours down. No more than 32 hours per week, unless you are expressly told to do so by a supervisor."

Using the word "supervisor" is just a joke, really. In a company with only seven employees...

Basically, my boss is completely incapable of even the most basic forms of communication. Unless he's being a condescending asshole. Then he's all over it. But it's rarely intentional. More in a Michael-Scott-from-The-Office kinda way.

We had a meeting a couple of months ago, in which he proceeded to go over what he considered each employee's "strength." The thing he would go to that employee about if he had a question. Now, keep in mind we're an office of archaeologists (well, except me...the Office Manager job pays better, so I do that). For most people, these strengths were archaeology-related. He's good at shells, she's good at ceramics, etc. Then he gets to the guy who's good at cars. Yeah, he has no strengths as an archaeologist, but if I had a question about cars, I'd ask him. Ouch. And another guy's strength was "the clarinet." I'm not even sure how that works...especially since he played the sax, which is infinitely cooler. What a jerk. (My "strength" was Quickbooks, so for the rest of that week, I refused to answer any questions that weren't about Quickbooks. Fuck that noise.)

As the Office Manager, it's my job to do...well, everything. But I have to deal with everyone's timesheets and expense reports (excel spreadsheets, this will be important in a minute). They are supposed to be filled out daily (we work on a lot of projects, so it's much more accurate if you're filling your timesheet out on a daily, or sometimes hourly, basis) on our server (which my boss may or may not think is the internet...). Then, when the pay period ends, I go on the server and clear them off. I put a fresh, clean, blank timesheet up for each employee and the process begins again.

Recently, my boss decided he was going to participate in the fun and fill out his timesheet and expense report on the server like everyone else. I should mention here that he used to print out blank ones and fill them in with a pencil. Until the day he noticed that no matter what he wrote on them, the cells with the formulas still indicated that he had "0" hours. Ahem. Think about that for a minute.

He was expecting that somehow Microsoft Excel could sense that he was filling out his timesheet by hand and magically make the correct numbers appear on his timesheet. On his desk. He actually asked me why there were still zeros in the boxes, when he had filled in other numbers. Really.

I've had to explain at least a dozen times that if he puts a zero for something that's getting multiplied by something else in a spreadsheet, the resulting product will always be zero. Always.

I'm just trying to paint the picture of idiocy that is my job.

This morning, when I got to work, there was a post-it note on my desk. Okay, let's be fair. There were 15 post-it notes on my desk, but I'm only going to talk to you about one of them.

Rachel,

I am sure I filled in time last week thru Monday this week, but there is nothing there. Where did it go? Any ideas?

Boss

Yes, I have an idea, you fucking moron. On Wednesday morning, when timesheets were due, I cleared them all off the server and put in a new one for you. Just like I do every other Wednesday.

I just got a call from him. It was one of the more confusing conversations we've ever had (although nothing compares to trying to explain headers and footers to him...which I do at least once a week).

Him: Rachel, did you get my note about my timesheet?
Me: Yeah. I cleared it off the server on Wednesday morning, like I always do.
Him: But I looked yesterday and there's nothing on it.
Me: That's because you haven't recorded any hours on it for this pay period.
Him: But my hours from last week are gone.
Me: No. I moved that timesheet off the server because that pay period has ended.
Him: But I recorded my hours and now they're gone.
Me: They're not gone. I just moved that old timesheet.
Him: No, Rachel. I know I recorded hours on there and now they're not there.
Me: You recorded hours on there since Wednesday?
Him: No. Last week. And they've disappeared.
Me: No. I moved that timesheet. This is a new one. For this pay period. I moved the old one like I always do because timesheets were due on Wednesday morning. Remember how you got all upset with me that one time when I forgot to put a clean timesheet up for you on Wednesday and you couldn't record your new hours*? I'm trying to avoid that.
Him: But my hours are gone.
Me: They are not gone. I have saved that timesheet elsewhere and you no longer need to concern yourself with it. If you missed some hours, I can put them on there to make sure it's current. The timesheet that is on the server is the one you need to fill out for this pay period.
Him: But it has the date for last pay period and all my hours are gone.
Me: (Huge sigh) Oh good grief. I just forgot to change the date. You can change the date by clicking in the box with the date and typing the correct date. You can also type your name in the box for your name if I forgot to do that for you.
Him: I just click in the box? What about the date that's already there?

And it went on like this for another five minutes. Don't even get me started on explaining what it means to "Save as..." I do that at least twice a week. And each time he says, "Wow. That's really handy." As though he's never heard any of it before.

You can see how this will be self-defense, right?

*Because he couldn't figure out how to just delete the stuff that was in the spreadsheet and start over. I'm not kidding.

Shoplifting

**Possibly another reason not to shop at Target...but I love it there. Where else can you get cheap stuff that you don't have to feel guilty about throwing away in a year?**

I went shopping with my friend Nathan this weekend. I say “my friend Nathan,” but truthfully the boy has a mad crush on me. Which should be obvious since he volunteered to go shopping with me, right? But he’s 19, so I think I’ll pass. Anyway, we shopped at the mall for a while, and then we decided to go to Target.

I love Target, and I can stay there for hours, but this time I had a mission. I was out of blush. Major crisis! Nathan’s not crushing hard enough to actually stand with me while I find the perfect shade of blush, however, so he made his way over to the Music/Movies section where he ran into one of his friends. I had dinner plans at 6:00, so by 5:30 it was time for me to go. Nathan’s friend said he’d take him to his car (still parked at the mall). Cool.

We were walking out the door, when some overzealous first-day security dude ran up out of the blue and grabbed Nathan’s arm. “Get back inside the store! I’m store security! Get back in the store!”

Nathan did what any person would do when caught off guard by some screaming freak. He tried to shake his arm away while saying, “Dude, what are you talking about?” So security dude kicked his feet out from under him, and Nathan fell on his face. Two other guys rushed over to help him get handcuffs on the poor, confused, embarrassed boy.

I was standing in the doorway in absolute shock. In all my years working retail, I was told that you couldn’t touch a person unless they tried to attack you first. But, hey, maybe Target has special rules. Who knows?

So they hauled Nathan off to some dark room in the back, presumably to do some sort of strip-cavity-search, and left me standing there wondering what the hell just happened. I found someone to ask how long it would be and what was going on. I mean, I’m supposed to go to dinner, but I’m not going to just leave him there, you know? So the guy came back and told me to go sit in the Snack Bar area. Someone would be out shortly to talk to me.

Nathan’s friend (I apologize, but his name slipped from my memory…about two seconds after he said it) came with me and we waited for an eternity or 20 minutes, whatever sounds better to you. A police officer came over and told me to “Sit over there and stay there!” Yeah, that was necessary. He took Nathan’s friend out and searched his car.

Meanwhile, I’d started to wonder if Nathan really did steal something…and maybe stashed it in my bag. Thank goodness, no. Finally, some not-so-attractive woman approached to let me know that they’d been “exited” from the building. I went outside expecting sirens and police cars, but there was nothing. Nathan and his friend were standing by the car. They didn’t steal anything.

Apparently, Nathan’s friend had brought in a DVD with him. He thought it would be a great idea to show it to Nathan in the middle of the DVD section of Target. And Nathan decided to borrow it, so he stuck it in his pocket. As if there were no security cameras and/or the security dudes wouldn’t think of this as suspicious behavior. Yeah, be smart about that shit. I don’t want to have to wait around while you get questioned by the police for being a dumbass.

And to you, Target Security SWAT, be aware that you could probably get your asses sued for this kind of shit.

Today, on my Happy Birthday...

I've decided that heterosexual marriage isn't legitimate. From now on, that husband you worked so hard to get is now your boyfriend. That trophy wife you spent so much money on is your girlfriend. I just don't recognize heterosexual marriage. Sorry.

Until you decide to admit that gay marriage doesn't actually affect you at all, you don't get to have a legitimate marriage in my eyes. Until you admit that all you're doing is fostering hate and discrimination because you're scared (which I also don't understand), he or she is just your "friend." If I'm feeling nice, I might say "roommate."

And if you want to argue about how gay parents affect children, please read this (Thanks, Jane!). Just try to tell me that child would have been better off with his straight mom. I dare you.

So today, on my Happy Birthday, I ask you this: think for a while about why you're so bothered by gay marriage. Don't think about why all those people on the radio or the news or at your church have told you that it's wrong. Don't even think about your Bible today. Just think for yourself.

Half your straight marriages don't even work, what's the harm in letting gay people in on the action? Personally, I think we should do away with all marriage, or at least provide some alternative that makes logical sense.

Think for yourself and see where that takes you.

The story of an ear raping.

It's black Friday, and I've discovered the one thing worse than shopping.

I'm at a bar, listening to a "cover band." It's in quotes because I'm not sure it should be called music. It's most certainly an assault on the senses. All of them.

I think my ears are bleeding.

I actually feel sorry for these guys. Well, I would if I didn't wish they had raped me in the ass with no lube instead of subjecting me to their torturous rendition of someone else's music.

At least they came up with an appropriate name. Deaf child. I can only assume they were all once deaf children.