Welcome to my wonderful, terrible, soap opera sit-com world.
Monday, March 31, 2003
It's sushi week for Rose. And I'm thrilled.
Sushi. I love it. I love everything about it. Love sushi. Sushi sushi sushi. If it were considered a vice, which it darn well could be since it's so damned expensive, it would be mine.
David is in town and I haven't seen him in around a year. I would have to say it's close to exactly a year since I saw him, maybe a little longer. I think last time we saw one another I was in the process of my divorce. David is a dear friend of mine, we've known each other pretty close to forever. We "dated" when we were 14-15 years old. And we've been close friends ever since. We've seen each other through weddings, he's seen me through a divorce, he lives in California and his mom still lives here. So he comes back to visit her from time to time and we try to get together. I really wished David could meet S. on this trip to town, but it didn't work out that way. Maybe next time.
But I digress. David is a sushi freak. He, like me, would eat it every day if time and money allowed it. And we are going to dinner together. Which means we are going to get sushi. We will feast on sushi, maki, and sashimi. We will dine on anything but Uni, if I have my way. Uni, for those of you who don't know, is disgusting, slimy sea urchin roe that looks, smells and tastes like big batches of brown boogers. I made the mistake of trying it. Once. I will never make that mistake again. So we'll be eating sushi. And I can't wait. I can already taste it, and it's making my mouth water.
Then, on Wednesday, my friend Ron who has recently gone through a divorce and found out some nerve-wracking news wants to get together and have a friendly bitch/vent session about everything that's going on with the two of us. Over sushi. Yes, Virginia, there is a Sushi Claus. We will be going to the local sushi joint that has "Sushi Happy Hour." We will drink $4 sake bombers. We will eat cheap maki rolls and raw fish, pop edamame like they are candy, and leave the restaurant for under $30 between the two of us. And we will be gorged on wonderful sushi. Not as good as the night before because we'll be eating the cheap stuff, the things that aren't so yummy they make you want to just crawl in a hole and die a happy woman... but it's still sushi. And that makes it good enough for me. It's still good sushi. It's just not Toro or Tuna Tatake or sake sashimi.
I'll be eating it.
As a side note - S. has let me know that he'd be amenable to trying it some time. He hasn't eaten it. S. is the kind of person who I can see calling it, "bait." But he also shares my fondness for good food, and adventurous food, and I've not given him anything or suggested anything he didn't like yet. So maybe I'll make a new convert. And that, my friends, is a case study for you. If you're a woman - and your military-trained meat-and-potatoes drink-a-good-beer man is willing to try raw fish for you, and is sincere in his efforts to let you know he'd be willing to eat sushi with you if you wanted... that, right there, is love. No mistaking it.
I love sushi.
Ann gave her notice.
S. has the papers filed and is mailing them to his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
Apparently there's a celebration lunch for Ann today.
I'm so there.
Well, it's a day of many changes around here.
S. is going today to file his divorce paperwork and get it started with the Court. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking he's standing outside the courthouse right now waiting for them to open the doors. I can see it almost like one of those bad Mervyn's commercials. "Open. Open. Open. Open." He's going to be so happy to have that done.
On Friday, one of my dear friends at work gave her notice. She's been under the same kinds of stress all of us in my office have been, and I am thrilled that she's getting to give that place the old heave-ho. She really deserves it and hopefully where she's going they're going to realize what an amazing asset they have among them now. She deserves so many wonderful things, and this has been a long time coming. Congratulations, my friend, and I sure hope they love you to death.
This morning, another of my dear friends at work will be giving her notice. And then I have like, one real friend left here. It's going to make it a little bit rougher on me but even so, the friend who is giving her notice this morning is in an even worse situation than the one who gave her notice on Friday. Things are falling apart around here, and I just wish a world of happiness on anyone who can manage to get out of here in one piece.
In the meantime, the 420 copies of an 8.5" x 11" ad that was produced for me, just showed up and they aren't 8.5" x 11". So. Just another thing that needs to be corrected. I'm going to be spending a lot of time today in the mail room making sure everything is taken care of and set up and ready to go for a big trade show everyone's going to, and I'm just going to be glad to see the stuff on its way and out of my hair.
I hardly slept last night. I tossed and turned all night and kept looking at the clock. I hate nights like that. It's like I just couldn't get comfortable or happy or anything. Nothing was right. My brain was racing - my mom - S. - my sister - work - job possibilities - one thing after another. It's all very draining.
Now I'm just waiting for the next good news, which will be S. calling me from the court house to tell me that he's filed his paperwork.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
I'm a sinner, I'm a saint. I do not feel ashamed.
I'm your hope, I'm your dream. I'm nothing in between.
I know you wouldn't want me any other way.
Just how I'm feeling today.
I don't know if it's a combination of PMS and general stress, and stuff like that, but I'm tired, and grumpy, kind of pissy. Not really happy with anything in particular. Yeah, just generally feeling grumpy.
I don't like people to feel sorry for me. When I start to get pissy and grumpy and upset and frustrated, I also convince myself that everyone who comes into contact with me and has any inkling that I am going through a strange time, is feeling sorry for me. And that's just enough to royally piss me off.
I'm frustrated about my mom. I'm frustrated about my job. I'm frustrated about so many things. And I've been blogging around reading other "popular" blogs and sometimes I wish I wrote about funnier stuff. You know, things that would make people say, "Hah, that's very entertaining!" Instead, I feel like I'm writing about things that make people say, "Wow, that's fucked up." Or, "Gah, she's writing about (work/love/family) again."
Blogs are cathartic vomit. Period. It's what people spew out onto "paper" whether or not it makes sense to anyone else, in an effort to cleanse our souls. It's something we do to help ourselves feel better about ourselves. It's something that maybe helps us work through the rough stuff.
If I wrote about every little thing, I'd talk about the stupid tape I transcribed today or the fact that my boobs are swollen and hurt or the weeds in my back yard and how they're still back, or that I have chapped lips or what I think I should have for dinner tonight. Instead, I write about my relationships and my job and the little things that make me frustrated or happy or sad or ecstatic or confused or puzzled or entertained.
I guess that's just kind of how I handle it. At least for now. I wish I were more entertaining.
Friday, March 28, 2003
Good morning, all.
Job interview news first. I happen to think I kicked ass, and I would like to think I’m going to be called back for a second interview. I really liked the people I met with and I’m real excited about the prospect of going to work in that office. I think I’d be excited about it even if I didn’t know someone who already worked there. It’s a great environment and a good place to work. And they do some phenomenal things. And everyone was so nice.
So. Apparently if I get called back for a 2nd interview it will be next week. I have to figure out what to wear to my second interview, considering I will be meeting with the Senior VP, to whom I would be reporting. Dress to impress.
S. saw a lawyer yesterday and now has all his divorce papers ready to go. So he’s seeming in a much better mood, which is nice. He’s been letting me lean on him for the last couple of days, as I have hit a bit of a rough patch. He’s helping me be strong and insists that we can get through everything together.
Having a taste of new job possibilities makes it even harder for me to drag my butt in to work every day. Now that I’ve actually been on an interview and I remember that I’m good at that, and valuable and a good investment for a company, I get frustrated at the things that happen here. For example, right now I’m journaling. Because I’m caught up on other projects and I’m just dreading the moment that my boss comes back through the door.
I’ve been showing some preliminary physical “symptoms” related to my eating problem, and even actually let some evil devil food come into my house this week. There was a two pound bag of tortilla chips. I had neglected to mention these to anyone until I mentioned in passing to S. last night that I wanted to have some “nachos.” He picked up immediately on the fact that to have nachos, one must have chips. And chips, being on the list of “bad things,” shouldn’t be in my house. So I confessed my transgression and we talked a little while about some of my challenges. He was incredibly supportive and interested in making sure I’m okay. I’m honestly all right. I’ve just been having some queasy-stomach problems and little issues like getting full really fast, not wanting to eat, and the like. I think between the not liking my job any more, wanting a new one, my mom, my sis moving, and wanting to be supportive of S. in all he’s going through, it’s just finally starting to catch up with me. I cried some yesterday. Maybe that’ll help.
As a side note or related note. I started to get kind of sick this morning. I heaved a little, but really didn’t have anything in my stomach to “get rid of.” Sometimes mornings are harder for me. I woke up with a queasy stomach, possibly because I didn’t eat right last night (I did not have chips). I used to have the roughest time in the mornings. I just brushed my teeth and tried hard to keep everything down. I’ve had a couple cups of coffee and can’t wait until lunch, because I think I’ll feel better when I have a little food in me.
S. called me this morning just to tell me he was thinking about me and see how I was doing. I don’t know if he realizes how much those little things matter to me. He’s so insistent that we are going to go through all these things together and come out of it stronger in the end. I have always been able to lean on my friends, and some of them I bother with my issues more than others, but it’s so refreshing to be able to lean on my boyfriend. We’re taking turns being each other’s rock. He makes me feel strong and intelligent and beautiful and wonderful, just like all of my friends do, but there’s that extra added dimension. Somehow we’ve picked one another to share life with, and that puts it on a different plane than dealing with your friends. It’s not to discount how much my friends mean to me, as my friends are my family. Just ask my “brothers” Mark and Daryl. And Maury takes my shit 8 hours a day every day. And David’s known me longer than anyone but Tara, who has known me since kindergarten. And Kelly and I share a connection that’s so strange sometimes, I can’t even fathom it. My friends are my most important asset and blessing. But to have that kind of support from the man you love, that’s just over the top.
My house is a wreck. I haven’t cleaned it all week really. My kitchen is an absolute pig sty and I think something died in my sink. Tonight when I get home, I have to clean up the dog tinkle I found on the floor, the hairball in the living room, clean the toilet in the hall bathroom, clean my kitchen, have some kind of food ready for Shawn when he gets to the house, clean MYSELF, shower and get rid of this day, make my bed, clean the guest room, get all my work clothes hung up… I’ve been lax in my duties as a home owner.
I know, this is kind of a rambling mess today. I’m having a rough time focusing on things.
Just got off the phone with my mom, I’m going to go with her to a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday which will be two days after her CT-scan. They should have some more definitive information at that point. My sister and the baby will be there too. I’m sure no matter what happens, it’s something we will all get through together.
I just hope it’s nothing.
Thursday, March 27, 2003
Job. Interview. Today.
I'm freaking out, but in a good way.
I have a job interview at the same place a dear friend of mine works, and it all sounds awesome. I'm on my 2nd cup of coffee, I have a new navy blue pinstriped suit that's just waiting to be put on (I'm sitting here half naked), my hair's done (twice), my face is made up, and I'm ready.
S. and I have done a lot of thinking and talking about this - if this is mine to get - and it is - then me showing up is basically a technicality. I have also decided I'm going to be myself when I meet with them, same strategy as I've used in the past - no point in trying to be someone they want me to be. If that's not me, then I wouldn't fit in.
So I'm going to go knock them dead. Interview is at 8:00 a.m. Then I'm coming back here and undressing and redressing and going to work. I think they're going to think I'm off at medical tests with my mom (who is in fact having more tests this week) but I'm not going to worry about what they think.
So my mom said, "If it's a lateral move, is it really worth moving?!" Yeah. It is. I'll tell you why. Just because I got a bonus this year doesn't mean I'll get one next year. Which pretty much automatically would make this job a higher paying job. Plus - I can actually GO SOMEWHERE in the new job. The job I have now, I'm stuck in. It's a rut. I'm going to do the same thing forever, and keep getting asked to do more and more with less and less. Even if I take this new job just for the opportunity, it's got to be a much better situation for me.
The other thing is, my attitude lately has sucked at work. I mean I go in there and I do what I have to do to get my job done - but that's not my style. Doing "what I have to do" isn't my style!! Doing more and more and above the call is my style. Doing the kind of job that people look at and say, "Wow," that's my style. I have always blown people away. It's just something I do. I take immense pride in my job and my work. I don't feel that lately. I haven't felt it in almost a year. And I want to feel that again. If I'm in an environment where the bar is raised a little, the expectations are higher, all eyes are on you - that's going to be better for me. It's going to improve my self esteem, my working habits, and my desire to prove myself.
I have always been the kind of person who bends over backwards to prove why they can't live without me. Unfortunately for my current employer, I think they might find themselves in a situation where they can't live without me. And they're going to have to. It's going to be interesting.
I'm really excited. Excited on so many levels. Okay, well, I should go get dressed now, and get ready to get on the road, check my hair and my face one more time, et al. Take care, y'all, update as soon as I have one for you.
Keep your fingers crossed.
Monday, March 24, 2003
Have I said before that betrayal fucking sucks?
Well, it does. Suck. This morning I got accused of not inviting someone to a meeting that I had explicitly invited them to three times, in email, and had a long email conversation with them about that very invitation no more than three days ago. The fun part about that was, said person emailed me – and carbon copied my boss - to say that I have repeatedly not invited them to this type of meeting.
And that, my friends, is pure and complete bullshit. So, I rectified that situation – I shot off an email with a forward of the meeting invite, showing they were invited, and asked for specifics about the other time(s) that they had not been invited to meetings. Of course, said backstabber couldn’t come up with anything because it wasn’t correct, and ended up backpedaling and saying that they cc’d my boss to make sure he knew someone other than me was dropping a ball by not inviting them to the meetings. What? Huh? Sheesh.
It’s coming up on 4pm. 4pm on Monday, the time of day that I dread. I dread it because it means I get to go in my boss’s office and “remind” him that I am leaving for the day, when I “remind” him that I was here between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. today, and that it’s time for me to leave. And it’ll be about the time he makes some snide comment like, “What, you don’t think you have to work an eight hour day?” or, “What do you think you’re doing, leaving at 4pm?” And then he’ll try to laugh it off and pretend like he’s joking with me. Funny, ha ha, eat shit.
And more in the vein of work, let’s mention that I’ve asked my boss for the same two pieces of information every day for the last week and a half, and he keeps putting me off. Well, my deadline for this information for one of the biggest trade shows of the year, is Wednesday. When it becomes Wednesday and I still don’t have the information and we don’t have the appropriate information to the tradeshow people, somehow that will be my fault. And when I manage to finagle an extension on the deadline, like I have had to do many times before, because I’ve worked for four years to develop a good relationship with these people, and it’s two days past the deadline and I still don’t have the info I need and I’m breathing down someone’s neck about it, I will be labeled as the one who doesn’t handle stress well and who doesn’t have her crap together and who needs to calm down, because it’s not a priority for them. It’s not part of their job. It’s part of MY job to have it all taken care of. Not theirs. As far as they’re concerned, half the stuff I do just magically happens, without me.
They’re going to be so shocked when I quit.
And to top it all off, one of the salesmen just asked me for something I gave him three hours ago. It’s one of those days.
I Was Born Under The Sign Of Cancer.
My mom phoned me this morning to ask me what a CT-scan is. Why, you might ask? Because there’s an abnormality, what appears to be a mass, on her recent X-ray of her lungs that was taken at her physical that she’s been putting off for years. My mom, who’s been a pack-a-day smoker for as long as I can remember, and whom I have begged to quit every year for her own health and because I’d like my kids to know their grandma.
So now she has to have a CT-scan to see what the mass is.
I wonder if she’ll quit smoking now. She had about four days in the can last week, but I don’t know if she made it through the weekend without a cigarette. When does it finally become worth it?
Shooting Sharp – As Fast As Lightning – Turn And Go – Scorpio Rising
When I start to lose some faith in astrology, the world rears its head and gives me reminders that this stuff’s real. The Scorpio-Aquarius relationship is almost textbook to what’s going on with S. and I right now. He, of course, is the Scorpio. And he’s stinging left and right. Lashing out. A lot. That’s what Scorps do when they feel backed into a corner. He’s got so much going on with him right now, lashing out might feel like the only alternative. Somehow he’s managed not to lash out at me, which is something I appreciate more than words could ever, ever dictate. I’ve actually been a little hesitant lately because I get concerned I’m going to say or do the wrong thing and he’s going to lash out at me. I’m sure I’d make it through – we’d make it through – okay if that were the case – but I might take it a little personal. I think he knows that and is being extra-cautious. And the the Aquarian – me – I just want to fix stuff. I just want to shelter him and protect him and help him take care of everything. I want to be the balance, everything’s groovy, we’ll get through it together, flow from one thing to the next, the hippie of the Zodiac. I swear, in some ways we’re almost like Dharma and Greg. Except that Greg wasn’t Pagan. Or younger than Dharma. And Greg was a rich lawyer. And Dharma’s parents were hippies too.
Okay. So we’re nothing like Dharma and Greg.
Oh, well. I’m sure you know what I meant.
Sunday, March 23, 2003
I wish I would have gotten paid for everything I got done today. I was a rather productive chick, if I do say so myself.
I went on my own personal war rampage against the weeds which are populating my yard - that was no fun. I got between 1/3 and 1/2 of the yard mowed and the weeds butchered. I did not put down the weed killer stuff because I wasn't quite ready to do that yet. Plus, I was fairly hot and tired by the time that was over with. I also evaluated the situation with my herb garden - things are looking good. My lavender has come back for the third year in a row and has some wonderful blooms on it - I can't wait to make myself some knock-my-butt-out-in-the-bath bath oil with it. Might even make some massage oil, maybe it'll help S's back some. My rosemary is also going crazy, and two kinds of mint are peeking out. I can't tell if the Catnip has come back yet. Happiest yard news yet is, that my Aloe Barbadensis Miller has pups! There are four or five small aloe pups in the garden barrel, and that is good good good, as I can re-plant them and have even more aloe.
I did three tapes - oh, I guess I do get paid for those. :) So I got paid for SOMETHING today!
Got my hair cut. Not short or anything, just barely trimmed in the back, and a little bit neater in the front. Gotta try to make it presentable for the job interviews which I hope will be taking place this week.
Dug all my old work clothes out of the gargae and went through them, segmenting them into possible interview outfits and trying to figure out how much, if any, new clothes I'm going to have to buy if I get the fabulous new job. Thankfully I can still fit in, with room, most of my old clothes, as I've lost some weight since the last time I had to wear them. So I've got a few different options for interview-ready clothing. Yay, me!
Cleaned some in my house and went BACK to the grocery store. Just picked up a few things. Got those avacados I've been jonesing for. Man, I ate one and it sure tasted good.
Am currently doing some laundry. I'm productive. I'm very, very cool.
Make Up Your Mind, Decide To Walk With Me
Phase one of things that pissed me off today. When I was in the grocery store, I saw a small family. Small meaning, there was a little boy, had to be maybe three years old. And a mom and a dad. Both rather young. And this is what pissed me off and started my small rant... the dad.
The mom had her purse, was carrying the basket (not pushing a cart) and was looking at a grocery list. The child was running rampant. Shouting for mommy, shouting for daddy, climbing on things, making a general nuisance of himself. The mother, between trying to hold the basket of food, look at her grocery list and carry her purse, was having enough of a time figuring out about the shopping and as a result, was not very responsive to the child's antics. The dad, who was doing absolutely nothing... did nothing.
Any relationship is a partnership. I'll make dinner if you wash the dishes. I'll clean the floors this weekend if you'll take care of the laundry. I'm working two jobs, you're working two jobs, let's trade off on some of the chores. Pick up after yourself and I'll pick up after myself. And when we meet in the middle, we'll spend time together and have a little bit of fun, but in the meantime, here's the shit that has to get done. When you have children, it compounds that. Yes, I understand the typical gender roles and everything, and that's fine. If a man wants to be the "man of the house" and the woman wants to stay home and raise children and keep the house clean and stuff, that's fine. If the man of the house is the sole income and takes care of everything, the woman's role - and job - BECOMES taking care of things. Managing the household. Making sure there's food and the mail gets brought in and the meals get prepared and the house stays clean and the animals are fed and stuff like that. It's fine. Seriously. It's all a partnership, people should find some kind of middle ground to decide where things are equal, and go from there. Share responsibilities. I don't give a crap if this "dad" in the grocery store was the sole income provider or not - if he's at the store with his woman, he should be helping her out. Carry the goddamn basket, meathead! Pay some attention to your child so he/she isn't wrecking the store systematically because he feels neglected or he's just being spoiled. Give the woman a little help, please. Do SOMETHING. Go over the grocery list. Carry the child. Carry the basket. Something. Don't just stare at her strangely while your child runs rampant and she can't juggle everything at one time. Get a freaking clue.
I honestly can't say when I've felt like I've had a partner in a relationship. I've lived with people before, and I was married for a number of years, and I always kind of felt like the one driving the boat. One of the reasons why I talked myself out of having children when I was married, even though I think I would make a kick-ass mother, is because I was already doing everything, and couldn't imagine doing everything AND having to raise children basically on my own too. My husband wouldn't have wanted anything to do with kids until they were old enough to be fun on their own and could actively communicate or throw a football. And that means the first year or two, I'd have been on my own. And that would have sucked.
Frankly, I see the time I spend with S. and how we interact with each other and I think we would make good partners. I mean we already make good relationship partners, we just don't live together or anything. But I can see it being a fair and equitable arrangement if we shared living quarters. I can see us supporting each other, instead of each doing our own thing and hoping the other one would catch up. I think any arrangement like that, we were to get ourselves into, would be a good one. And that's a hell of a compliment because it means I already feel a closer partnership with him than I've felt with just about anyone. That's one of the biggest compliments I could give anyone.
Okay. Pet peeve number two.
I'm in Starbuck's today treating myself to an iced venti quad nonfat caramel macchiato with extra caramel. For those of you unfamiliar with Starbuck's lingo, that's a 22 ounce iced espresso with four shots of espresso, nonfat milk, vanilla syrup, and extra caramel goop. Basically, it's a caffeine and sugar bomb, and I needed one.
So while I'm waiting for my beverage, two silicone-breasted Scottsdale, Arizona hoity toity bitches were sipping their chai lattes in front of me with a young girl, had to be maybe 3-4 years old, and they were waiting on a hot chocolate for the child. The barista, coffee-maker girl, who had to have been about 22-23 years old, called out, "One child's hot chocolate! Thank you!" One of the women, not the mother of the child, approached the counter in her hoity-toity-swaggering-bitch way, grabbed the cup, and found it to be a little warm. Instead of just asking the Barista if she could cool it off, she had to make a scene.
"Look! This is so hot! Look how hot this is! She can't expect this to be for a child! This is SO HOT!" She handed it to who I can only assume was the girl's mother, who agreed, it was a little warm, and started chiming in. Bitch #1 took the hot chocolate back up to the counter. Now understand, this is 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday at the only Starbuck's in the area. The place is packed and drinks are backed up and there's ONE barista running the espresso machine. And I am still waiting.
"This is too hot. This can't possibly be for a child. This is much too hot. How could you expect her to drink this?" Scottsdale Bitch #1 hovered over the counter trying to get the Barista's attention. The girl behind the counter kindly took it back and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm sure I checked the temperature. Child's hot chocolate is supposed to be no hotter than 140 degrees. Let me check it again."
"140 degrees. Oh yeah, it shouldn't be more than 140 degrees," Scottsdale Bitch #1 said to Scottsdale Bitch #2, now making a scene in front of the entire Starbuck's and talking loud. They started openly mocking the Barista as if she wasn't even there. The Barista offered to put some cold milk in the hot chocolate to cool it off, and did so. Bitch #1 hovered some more.
And surprise, surprise - now there's something else wrong with it. "How much chocolate did she take out of this thing??" whined Bitch #2. "This isn't even chocolate now!" Bitch #1 grabbed the hot chocolate cup back and went straight back to the counter, hovering.
"Can you put more chocolate in this? This isn't acceptable." Scottsdale Bitch #1 was now dangerously close to getting my non-bitch-Scottsdale foot right up her liposuctioned ass.
The Barista was very kind and added more chocolate to it. Not surprisingly, there was STILL something wrong with it in these Bowtox-Bitches estimation, and they continued complaining to one another until Bitch #2 said, "It's obvious this will have to do. She'll just have to make due. Come here, honey, and have your drink."
But is the saga over? Of course not. As I am praying they would just get up to leave, Bitch #1 says, "Oh wait, I got us a Grande to top us off!" So they park their designer-clad bodies back in the chairs and wait once again for the Barista's call. "Grande soy no water chai latte, extra hot. Thank you!" As Bitch #1 approached the counter, the Barista looked right at her and said - "Now, that's extra hot. You asked for it extra hot, so it's really quite hot, be careful." Bitch #1 grabs the paper cup, squeezing it just a little too much, and as the foam from the steamed soy milk overflowed the cup and ran down the side, she took a big swig. She made an inappropriate face, looked with disgust at Bitch #2, shrugged her shoulders, made a huffy noise, and turned back. Around. Again. And she hovered.
The barista was now steaming milk and pulling shots, and there was a lot of noise behind the counter. So Bitch #1 leaned over the counter. Lifted her feet off the floor and actually LEANED on the service counter, around towards the Barista. "Excuse me! Excuse me! Hello! Hello, excuse me. Can't you help me?!". The Barista actually STOPPED STEAMING MILK AND PULLING SHOTS and the wonderful noise that makes Starbuck's what it is, came to a halt. "Yes," she asked.
"This isn't right. Can't you put more chai in this??" Bitch #1 was hovering again, this time about two inches from the Barista's face, over the counter, her liposuctioned ass in the air and her feet still dangling. "Sure," said the Barista. She added chai to the no-water chai latte and handed it back to Bitch #1, who now made a comment about it not being hot enough. Because, after all, she wanted her fucking chai latte, fucking extra hot. Without giving the Barista a chance to remind her that she'd just added chai, which wasn't hot, to the already hot chai latte, at this woman's request, Bitch #1 turned her back and started making mocking-whiny noises at Bitch #2, they topped off their lattes, and headed out the door. Leaving the empty paper cup from the fresh Grande chai latte sitting on the table for the next person.
Treating people in food service like shit because they're the ones behind the counter is a bad enough thing. Teaching a three or four year old little girl that it's okay to treat people in food service - or any service - poorly, is 10x the crime. May that girl grow up to know better.
I did, finally, get my foofy coffee drink. It was perfect. The first time.
Is This Love That I'm Feeling?
Yup. Still is. More than ever. Just a little barometer check. Definitely still madly and completely in love. S. should have a bunch of balls rolling this week. It'll all be good. Good, good, good, good, good.
Still in love.
Prisoners of war. 10 captured, some dead. Patriot missile shoots down RAF aircraft. Army dude goes crazy and tries to blow up his CO and ops center with three grenades. First woman POW of the conflict captured.
Can I just go back to bed?
S. has given me permission to link to his blog.
Please find it in the lower left list of blogs.
Feel free to visit.
Saturday, March 22, 2003
RAIN ON A TIN ROOF SOUNDS LIKE A DRUM
Any idea what this is going to be about?
This is about a little thing called, "Civil Disobedience."
Today for example, in New York, supposedly over 200,000 people gathered to protest the war. And I believe people have the right to do it. In this country, everyone has the right to their opinion, and everyone has the right to express it. I am not going to go off on a pro-war tangent preaching about how the men and women of the armed forces who are off in Iraq right now are "fighting for your right to have your own opinion," because that is not necessarily how I see the what-and-why of this war... but we're going to talk for a minute about the REALITY of civil disobedience.
There are people on this planet with conspiracy theories. People think this war is about oil. People think this war is about Weapons of Mass Destruction. People think this war is about a cowboy president flexing his muscles and rushing us off into something that will boost the morale in this country. People think this is a war against terrorism. People think this is a war to protect the kurds and Iraqui people and other people of the middle east, and keep a psycho madman from gassing innocent people. People think this is a way for us to show Korea we're serious. People think this is a way to protect half the world from the wackos. Any of those things could be true. Any of those things could be false. Not for me to say. That is because I have my own opinions about the war, and those opinions have had to be put aside no matter what they were, for one very simple fact.
The fact is, we're having a war.
So. Since there is NOTHING that I can do about the fact that there are 300,000 coalition forces in and around Iraq looking to kick some Saddam Hussein And Sons Ass, and considering there's bombing raids over major cities in Iraq, and considering there's 10 oil wells on fire, and considering there are now casualties as a result of this war... there is NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT except try to be supportive of the effort and hope that the men and women who are over there doing whatever it is they're doing, come home soon.
So you can imagine how I felt today when I was looking at CNN and was watching video footage of war protesters causing all kinds of problems.
People in this country have the right to protest. They have the right to assemble, they have the right to express their opinion. They can chant, they can carry signs. They can make up slogans and discuss the problems intelligently and they can do all kinds of things to convey their point to the people who might be able to listen to them and it could make a difference in their opinion. Even if all they are doing is possibly swaying public opinion or the opinion of their neighbor, discussing issues with intent to sway opinion isn't a bad thing. It's practically our duty in this country.
Breaking the law in the name of protest, is not anyone's right. It's not a protester's right to block traffic. It's not a protester's right to trespass, to damage property, to harrass people. It's not a protester's right to slander or libel anyone, for any reason. It's not a protester's right to endanger the lives of others in the name of their cause or their protest. And that's what's happening around this country, and it's starting to fucking piss me off.
There were the protesters that vandalized property belonging to Donald Rumsfeld in Taos, New Mexico after a protest. They illegally blocked roads to traffic and marched up to Rumsfeld's property while he wasn't there, and stuck "No War" stickers all over his property and threw children's clothes all over as if to call him a baby killer. What's the point in that? Whose opinion is that going to change?
There were the protesters in my city that blocked off roads and took up the valuable resources of law enforcement personnel to control them because they started to get "out of hand." Okay, people, let's get a FUCKING CLUE. Police officers are here to protect us from CRIMINALS and to take care of things that need to be done - not to babysit a bunch of whining assholes with their heads up their asses. There is no point in blocking roads and vandalizing and trespassing and "getting out of hand" so the cops can't go do their own thing. You're adults. It is your responsibility to question authority. It is not your job to divert resources from people that need it.
And THAT is what pisses me off.
What about the woman getting the shit beat out of her by her husband or boyfriend, who can't get the police there five minutes quicker because they were out managing protesters? What a crock of shit.
What about the fire truck that had to be diverted around a 200,000 person protest, that would take 30 seconds or 3 minutes longer to get to the burning building or the suffocating woman or the drowning child.
Extreme examples? Maybe. But in my opinion - and it's my right to express my opinion - if ONE law enforcement officer - one M.P., one Sheriff, one Deputy, one Officer, one Firefighter, one Paramedic - if ONE of them has to waste ONE SECOND OF TIME taking them away from ANYTHING ELSE THEY SHOULD BE DOING, to deal with a bunch of protesters who have nothing better to do than inconvenience other people because they think it's their right... that's a fucked up situation.
Protesters should gather in public places, in the public eye, but not in places that are going to divert any resources from anything else. A public protest is not worthy of resources. Especially if they are breaking the law in their protest.
Protest because you think it's the right thing to do. Speak your mind because THAT is your right. Have thoughts and feelings about issues because you're human. If you're going to be the idiot that goes on TV in a mumu with a bumpersticker stuck on your FOREHEAD and talk to a reporter, and say "War is bad! I don't know, it's just, like, bad!" (yes, I fucking saw that today!) Then do that. Fine. That's your right. Make an ass out of yourself on international television. Go for it. Knock your socks off.
Just don't stand in the way of people who have jobs to do and families to take care of. Don't destroy property. Don't break the law. Half half a brain.
That shit just pisses me off.
All witness Grandpa, the Betta Fish. Junior stayed with S., and Grandpa came to live with me. Figures, since I'm "Granny."
He likes to eat, and he seems to like my bass-thumping music.
And he's all settled in., in his little two-gallon condo.
Friday, March 21, 2003
Crock pot dinner is wonderfully smelling up my house, onions, garlic, yum yum yum. I spoke to S. on my way home and he had dozed off - he's so tired lately. So much stress. Stress sleep can be the worst thing in the world sometimes. You hate it, but you can't get enough of it. It's amazing. I would imagine it's like heroin.
So I have poured myself a wonderful glass of Shiraz, I figure S. is at least an hour away from being here, dinner is on the simmer, dishwasher's running, I'm gonna get into my kickarounds and shrug off this day, primp and fuss and make myself beautiful for my man, who would think I were beautiful no matter what I did but hey, it's what chicks do from time to time, and try to relax.
Blockbuster Video loved me today, spent $16 there. Got: An Evening With Kevin Smith, I Spy, Ice Age, and 40 Days And 40 Nights. All of which seem cute. I Spy is due back Sunday, but I've got a week on the others. I'll enjoy watching them even if S. can't watch them with me.
I'm feeling good. Worked late, closed the office, but I'm still feeling good. Gotta clear a space on my desk here for Junior, and if I ever figure out how to post pictures here I'll post one of him maybe. You know, we'll start our own little family album. He's going to sit on my desk in between my tower case and my monitor, where I can see him in all his glory since I basically live in JUST THIS ROOM. I know, it's pitiful and sad. Demented and sad, but social. Seriously. It'll be good. He'll love it here, and I'll get to look at him for the eight hours a day or so I end up finding myself here.
I'm looking around me - I am for some reason surrounded by cookies. All of them are of the Pepperidge Farm cookie family. Creme Filled Pirouette cookies (hazelnut), Orange Milano, Raspberry Milano, and Endless Chocolate Milano (otherwise known as the Devil's Cookie).
They're good. But I can't eat any of them because I am waiting for S. For dinner. We're going to have dinner
Right? No cookies before dinner?
Last time I checked, I was 33 years old. Maybe I'll have one. Who's gonna tell my mom?
Act Your Age, Mama, Not Your Shoe Size.
I found out today that S's ex wife is 23 years old. And they were married 5 years or so. Which means that she got married when she was like, 18 or 19 years old. That's amazingly unreal to me. I can't conceive that. I waited until 26. And it makes me feel old. She's 23. I'm 33. I'm 10 years older than his ex. Interestingly, that puts him right in the middle of the two of us, age-wise, as he is five years older than her.
No wonder he calls me, "Granny."
But it sure does give me a whole new insight on her, why I've heard the stories I've heard, and how she manages to get away with acting like a child. It's because she **IS** a child. When I was 23 years old, all I cared about was going out on Friday nights, drinking, my boyfriend at the time, playing AD&D every Sunday, working my full time job, working my second, part time job, getting a paycheck, managing my budget, living on my own, taking care of my pets, getting my degree...
Oh wait. I wasn't your average 23 year old.
No wonder he calls me, "Granny." I've been an adult since I was 15.
Wow. Even I feel sorry for me.
I'm gonna be a proud step-mama.
S. has fish in a really big tank. Those fish had babies. Woo! But you can't leave the babies in there, they'll get chewed up. That would be bad. So, over the Yahoo! IM last night came the fateful question....
rav*******: do you want a betta?
And thus began the journey. I just got back from PetsMart, where I purchased a 2 gallon tank, a light bulb, and some foofy little impulse buy nifty glass seashell things to put in the bottom. Junior will be a welcome addition to my little family. And now I have the mammals AND the marine contingent represented.
So, that's cool. We're the Brady Bunch now, a blended family.
ASK ME, ASK ME, ASK ME...
I won a prize today! At our little company mini-picnic, which was themed, WHOSE LINE IS IT ANYWAY?, I got to play the game "Questions Only." The scene was an Italian restaurant and went something like this:
Rose: "Is there anything I can get for you?"
Thursday, March 20, 2003
So. Am I the only person on the planet who's so completely horny they can't stand it any more?
I love the grocery store.
What I bought: Carrots, celery, onions, Bisquik, diet Vanilla coke, white cranberry juice, two lemons, six limes, an orange, macaroni salad, dill pickles, 2% milk, parsley, 6-pack of Sol, 6-pack of Wider Brothers Hefewizen, eggs, yogurt.
What I wanted to buy but did not: Potato chips of every shape and size, every flavor known to man, preferably kettle-cooked. Avacados. Salsa (I have 3 jars in my fridge). Hot sauce (I have bottles all over my house). Pre-made cheese sandwich from the deli (I have sandwich fixins here). Ice cream (I have 3 pints open in my freezer).
I love the grocery store.
I'm making dinner for S. tomorrow night. I'm very excited we get to have some time together. This week has been odd. Not quite like the last few, I mean, it's just not been as physically draining. My back is significantly better than it was last week. For some reason I'm sleeping okay, despite the war. I feel some changes coming on.
There's been a cosmic shift. The planets are re-aligning. My personal power is coming back. The farther we get into the Spring and closer we get to the Summer, the more energy I feel myself having. I am growing as a person and becoming a better woman, and I have lots of things and people to thank for that. I honestly believe I in particular have S. and this relationship to thank for a great deal of it.
I know - am I manic depressive, going back and forth from death and gloom and hell, to this? Just a realization. Opportunity on the horizon for a new job, I spent today cleaning my desk, cleaning out drawers, boxed up two and a half boxes of personal crap that no one will miss and brought it home. Thinking, "This will make it that much easier when I quit." Kelly's on the verge of quitting too and she's teetering on the Next Big Thing. Kara is teetering on the Next Big Thing. Ann is teetering on the Next Big Thing. Nancy is teetering on the Next Big Thing. And S's life, right now, is just one gigantic Next Big Thing after another.
If you aren't part of the solution, you're part of the problem.
If you don't laugh, you'll cry.
I don't have a bit of give a shit, but I've got a bucket of fuck it.
Time to give all of this stress back to the Universe. I'm done with PMS, I'm over the stress thing, I'm done with the queasy stomach not sleeping craving salty food gotta beat myself up over every little bit of every little thing lifestyle. Done, done, done, done, done.
This is the beginning of a new and wonderful adventure. I have a wonderful man by my side to go through it with me, and I will go through his with him. My friends are closer to me and more important to me than ever. My life, compared to any given moment in 2002, is 100 times better than it's been in a very, very long time.
I am, at the basest level, happy.
Yeah. I think I'm just going to go with that for a while. Happy.
Thanks to Jose for doing something very cool for little old me! I now have my own domain name.
Check it out - a mirror of this blog set up at http://www.greatgooglymoogly.tk ! How cool is that?
It's the little things...
7:25 a.m. Phoenix time, my phone rings. It is my mother. I take a deep breath and answer the phone.
"Are you okay? What's wrong with you? Were you crying last night? What's your problem?"
"I'm fine, mom. The war affected me adversely 10 years ago, I just had to go through my little period of shock."
"We're the team here at home! We're the home team! We've got to all be in this together!"
"I know, mom. It's fine, really. I'm good."
"Did you know the air force base is on lock down? It's completely locked down."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is, I saw it on the news."
"Last night at 10pm, they were at level 'Bravo' which is like, the second to the lowest level."
"Anything could have happened overnight. I saw it on the news. No one comes, no one goes."
"Mom, I've got to go. I'm late."
"They're locked down."
--Text message to S's phone: Mom sez news sez Luke is lkd down, no one comes, no one goes. Talking out her ass? ILY - Rose
8:45 a.m., phone call from S., no lockdown, still on Bravo, business as usual. Everything's fine.
I am determined to be perfectly normal. I can be rah-rah. I just have to let the initial shock of war get past the hippie peacenick that lives in my heart somewhere, and then it's all good. I'm just glad I don't think being a sheep makes me a good American.
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
The war is on.
And, as much as a Pagan is capable, praying.
And I'm drinking.
So let's talk about magick.
Last night I did a little fairly impromptu Pagan magickal work for "job juju" and "money mojo" for myself and friends who are in need of fundage, job-age, and general financial security. Usually when I do things like that, my Pagan friends call me a "loose cannon" because rolls of quarters start falling out of the sky, job offers come from nowhere, money abounds. Typically for everyone but me.
My best friend Kelly says, "All you have to do is THINK about doing a money spell and I get money."
The last time I did a money spell:
You get the idea.
So last night I sent some good mojo out into the world. Everyone needs money including me. Everyone needs good jobs. Everyone needs.
Today, to give you an idea of how stress affects me, I looked up my bank account on the internet and found out that my house payment, which posted yesterday, almost bounced, and that I am $200 into my overdraft protection. Okay, fuck that shit. Why, how is that possible? How can I be $200 in debt instead of having money in the bank?
So I start figuring out - I haven't deposited checks for my typing work since...
January 21?? what the HELL??
So. Home I went, digging frantically for checks. I now have $1200 in checks to deposit. And I get paid on Friday. And I will have $200 in commissions on Friday. So, I'll be back in the money and I have already paid my house payment for the month. Ta-dah. Money mojo number one.
To the job juju - Maury called me today. Seems there's a position I might just end up loving, in his office, which I might just end up taking, if it's offered to me. Assisting the VP of the company he works for. That would rock the house. Salary could be same or more but benefits are thru the roof - and as they work with the state and the cities, government holidays apply.
Interestingly, my boyfriend has a government job, and government holidays apply.
In addition - 401(k) match -- no match where I work. Paid insurance of all types. (I pay $50/month). Covered parking (a bonus in Arizona summers and downtown Phoenix). Benefits out the yang.
I want it.
Money mojo and job juju. Thank you, Universe...
I wish I knew why I was feeling so tired. I've been reading CNN again, which is something I probably shouldn't do. I think I've reconciled myself with the idea of the war one way or another, and I'm going to be okay with it. No matter what happens or what has to happen, I'm going to find a way to be okay with it and not let myself get too worked up about it.
That's kind of a big step for me.
That's all for now.
Wow. Well. I feel another rant coming on. In case anyone hasn't been able to tell, I have been more emotional than normal. Even for me. I'm an expressive girl. And I've been expressing a hell of a lot. I'm actually amazed if people have bothered keeping up with what's been written, since everything has been so long. Unfortunately, this will probably be no exception.
I feel bad, actually. I feel bad because even though he has in no way made me feel like I have been, I feel like I've probably been kind of a pain in the ass to S. through everything that's been going on. Just like I've been a pain in the ass to Maury, Ross, Patrick, Kara, Ann, Brenda, Kelly, Nancy, and any other friend who would listen to me. It's the control freak in me. And interestingly enough, I am right now chatting with both Maury and Ross, two people I am constantly bouncing ideas off of, and am finding some solace in their company. Where would I be without friends?
As a card-carrying control freak, when things start happening around me that are beyond my control or things I don't have any influence over, a strange transformation starts to take place. Besides the various and sundry little quirks that manifest themselves in my day-to-day life, like folding napkins, re-arranging boxes of crap, anal-retentively doing laundry, cleaning my kitchen until the countertops squeak, and planning out my day on a schedule down to the minute, I also find myself becoming increasingly more and more frustrated, and that's just destructive.
S. and I are about to re-enter reality. We actually got an extension when he got back from Texas, because by all rights the reality should have began that week. But his second job didn't really kick in and won't kick in until this weekend, which gave us the illusion once again that we can have "normal" time together like "normal" people. I have never in my life been normal, and my relationships have never been normal, so I don't see why it should start now. Oddly enough, if I had to qualify my relationship with S. against all of the other freaks, assholes, jerks, idiots, asshats and dickholes I've been with in my life, this has to be THE most normal relationship I have ever been in.
From a perfectly honest and objective perspective, and without all the mushy-gushyness that comes out of my heart when I talk or think about S., I can honestly say that our relationship is very good. We listen to each other. We want to understand each other. We want to know each other. We like to be around each other. We have a lot in common, but not so much that we bore each other. We still haven't really run out of things to talk about, we're just having more in-depth conversations about different things. Love, politics, current events, cars, hobbies, music. We adore one another, and it's not a fleeting thing. It's a slow burn. Which is valuable and wonderful. We look forward to seeing each other and we acknowledge when we can't always. Something about the time and distance factor that honestly does contribute to making us appreciate the time we have together, more.
But here's the thing. S. made a really valid point tonight, and I didn't really get where he was coming from with it until he explained it to me in depth. This morning I got up, showered, dressed, started coffee, woke him up, he got dressed in kick-arounds, we had coffee (or tried), talked for a while, watched the news, I left for work, and he got ready for work. We talked on the phone once during the day, he messaged my phone with a message of love in the morning, I messaged his phone during the day with messages of love and affection, he got "home" before I got "home" and went through his "get home routine," and then I showed up shortly after and did the same. Our routines didn't clash, they overlapped a little but complimented one another. Everything was very comfortable. It was easy. And his point was - maybe this was a little snippet of what "it" could be like. Just reinforcing that even the time that's not hot and heavy lovey dovey cram-as-much-as-we-can-into-a-weekend time, can be enjoyable and comforting and nice.
These are the wonderful things he says to me. He consults me about things that aren't my decision because he's interested in my input. He showers me with love. He treats me with kindness and respect. He adores me, and I can tell when he looks at me. He feels about me the way I feel about him. And still I find a way to question things, because I am uncomfortable with so many things being out of my control.
My job. My sister moving. My dad's health. My job, and how much I hate some aspects of it. Friends that are out of work looking for jobs. Friends that have jobs that hate them, looking for jobs. War. Time on. Time off. Trips. Plans. Future things that are undefinable.
All those things together, make up lots of things out of my control. When you couple that with things that are going on for S. that I wish I could help with or assist with or do something else besides just "be there" - that I would want to be a real, concrete force in helping him reconcile but just can't be - it's even more.
And that's why I'm going insane.
So much out of my control. I just have to take a deep breath, and reach deep into the bucket of fuck it and remember what's important. My health. My sanity. The ability to have a meaningful relationship without getting dragged into the muck and mire of stupid life bullshit.
I'm grateful for my friends. I'm grateful for my family, oddly enough. I'm grateful for the man I love. I just have to let some of this bullshit go. It'll help me see things the way they really are.
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Blogger's been screwing up.
So I'm testing.
I'm pissed off at things that are out of my control. I'm pissed off that S. isn't scheduled at his 2nd job but found out today that he's got to be back on the base tomorrow on the day that was supposed to be his day off, to take some training thing. So, he's got to go back to the base. Instead of staying the night together.
I'm pissed off that his SUPERVISOR scheduled that day of standby time and didn't tell him about the training.
I'm pissed that I feel like we're getting robbed of time together.
I'm pissed that I have a night off work and now I get to spend most of it alone.
I'm just pissed. I'm an angry, angry woman. I'm selfish and greedy. I want all of S. I can get. As much of it as possible. All of it. Gimme, goddamnit, we deserve this, we deserve this, we deserve this, we deserve it. We're good people and we deserve each other and we deserve time. Fuck.
What I really meant to say
Is I'm dying here inside
I miss you more each day
There's not a night I haven't cried
And baby here's the truth
I'm still in love with you
That's what I really meant to say
What I really meant to say
THAT’S WHAT I REALLY MEANT TO SAY
An open letter of venting.
I know I told you that I only want you to be happy. That’s the total honest truth. It’s the insanely perfectly honest truth. I want you to be happy and I would never in a million years stand in the way of that.
Even if it meant losing you. Which makes me very sad.
I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to spend years away from you. I don’t want to spend months away from you. But we’re going to be faced with some decisions that could mean that.
I am so used to my life being a string of Murphy’s Law events, that I can’t help but conceive that if you were to go do your training and then get transferred to go live somewhere else, it would be Europe, where I couldn’t go – for multiple years, which would make us apart from one another for multiple years. And while I believe we could both be focused and stubborn enough to maintain our relationship long distance, it would suck. And it would be very, very hard. And I can’t imagine either one of us being very happy about it.
I would rather see you sent away to participate in the conflict and know you were coming home, than see you sent away to live in another country for years without me.
What if years away from me made you “realize” you didn’t want to be with me any more?
If you went to training which is what you want to do, to learn to do what you want to do, and if you were in a position where you were more financially stable and you were sent to live somewhere else in the country and asked me to go with you, I would probably go. I wouldn’t be able to just uproot myself and go without some promises. I don’t even know what I’d want – a handfasting? An engagement? Some kind of plan, stretching out over a few years, of where we saw ourselves and what we wanted out of a life together? Some kind of firm commitment. I would want to enter into it with very little fear I’d be running home with my tail between my legs after some amount of time. But I’d move. The only things I have here holding me down are my friends, who would be my friends no matter where I live, and my grandparents. I’d just have to find a way to come home and visit.
I don’t want to imagine my life without you. Maybe that’s dreamland thinking, fantasy world, my own little planet that I choose to live on. But right now, it’s what’s real for me. And I believe it’s what’s real for you
I would never expect you to allow me to hold you back from something you really want to do. So I will never tell you what I think you should, or should not, do. I will never tell you what I think you should, or should not, risk. What I would do and what I would risk and what I would want, might not match your perception. I’d do anything, probably, to be able to be with you. I would also do anything, probably, to avoid being without you.
I just can’t stand the thought of being without you for so long. Months with the good chance we’ll be together at the end, I can do. Years with not knowing what’s going to happen, I would try. But it would be hard. And it would suck. And we would both be sad. And it would suck.
If I could choose… you’d be able to do what you want to do in your job AND we would be able to be together. And I would gladly move to be with you and have a life with you. And I would love to go through the adventure of your life, together. We could share adventures.
If I could choose… we’d not be apart any more than we absolutely had to.
That’s if I could choose.
I love you. I want you to be happy and I want you to be fulfilled. I have to accept that it would be possible for you to be happy and fulfilled in a scenario that meant we weren’t together. I want you to be happy. You mean so much to me. Thank you for considering me in your decision. I love you.
This morning, the alarm went off on time, and I woke up to find myself snuggled up in bed with the man I love, his arm half around me, mine completely around him, without a care in the world. I reached up and snoozed the alarm, striving for nine more minutes of bliss like this.
I got up, put the coffee on, and can hear his soft snores coming from across the hall. I would venture a guess he's laying in there half asleep thinking to himself, "Damn, there she goes on the keyboard again."
What I wouldn't give, right now, to be able to just climb back in bed, hang on to him, and not let go.
And this is what the love's all about.
Maybe some day I won't have to get up in the mornings and deal with the idea that tomorrow morning, I won't wake up next to him.
Monday, March 17, 2003
I am not one of the ”Beautiful People.”
Let me clarify that. I think I’m a fine person. I actually believe I am one of the finest people anyone could ever meet. I have a lot of good qualities that people find appealing. I’m not that hard on the eyes, although I do have some junk in my trunk. I mean, I’m a good person. I’m just not one of the “beautiful people.” And I probably never will be.
When I was a teenager (and had much less junk in my trunk) I had a boyfriend for about four years, and I was just crazy for the guy. And he used to say something to me that really struck me – but it appears that it sunk into the depths of my soul and stayed there, because I can hear it in my head periodically. He liked to look at women, which was fine with me, men look at women and women look at men, looky no touchy. But sometimes he would think out loud and say something like, ”Wow. She’s gorgeous. I mean, she is strikingly beautiful. That’s amazing.”
One day, I asked him if he could refrain from that kind of comment unless he was going to say something like that to me. You know, I’m the girlfriend, and it would be nice to hear it every once in a while. I will never for the life of me, ever, ever, ever forget what he said.
”Well you know I think you’re cute and everything. You’re just not what I would call, “beautiful.” But her. Wow. She’s striking.”
It was pretty much then and there that I resigned myself to the “fact” that I am not one of the beautiful people. I guess sometimes I wear it like a badge. I am not beautiful. I don’t even think, honestly, that if I got the fat sucked out of my ass and lost 50 pounds and exercised every day and wore more makeup and did all the things that lots of women do, I would ever be, one of the “beautiful people.”
Why am I talking about this? A realization. My new roommate at work, his name is Bob, he sits in the cubicle next to me. I have mentioned him a couple of different times and I have avoided discussing his physical appearance, because I have a tendency not to see that kind of thing in people. But it’s hard not to see it in Bob. Bob weighs, at my estimation, between 400 and 500 pounds.
Bob is a nice guy. We have similar interests and can talk about things. But he has very few social skills in person, and uses his weight as a way of hiding. He has tendencies to an abrasive personality and speaks out loudly against people if he doesn’t like them. So. I am happy that he likes me.
Bob does not like the “beautiful people.” And today, while overhearing him interact with one of the people in my office who, although she is a fine, very nice, pleasant person I’m happy to know, is one of the “beautiful people,” I was reminded of that fact. Said woman is roughly 25 years old, about as big around as my pinky finger, easily a size 0 or size 2. She has trendy, attractive, long streaked blonde/brown hair, beautiful blue eyes, sparkling white teeth and a smile that would knock your socks off. She’s built like a brick shit-house, frankly, and just about every guy in the office would probably have something to say about the fact that she’s quite attractive. Beautiful, even.
Bob doesn’t seem to get along with her, just like he doesn’t like any of the beautiful, thin, busty blonde women in our office. He chooses to believe that they’re good at their jobs not because of their intellect or ability, but because they are beautiful and blonde. And he’ll say so to your face – just not to theirs. He's mean to them. He's afraid of them. He would rather not associate with them.
Bob does not like the beautiful people.
I don’t dislike them. I’m just not one of them.
But sometimes I wonder if the beautiful people are really at a disadvantage. I will never be beautiful. I can be appealing, I can be enjoyable, I can be approachable. I can be likeable, personable, and to some, even desireable.
Just not beautiful.
But maybe beauty truly could be too high of a price to pay.
I am afraid. Very, very afraid. I am afraid that this country is heading off to war. It's on the news. It's on the radio. It's in my war pool. Chad said this morning, "Whoever has Thursday or Friday is going to win this thing."
My perception of this war is twisted, and I will be the first one to say that. My perception of the war is not only based on my simple understanding of right and wrong, black and white, good and "evil," but is also based on the realization and reality that if there is a war, for real, S. might have to go. There's a chance he will and a chance he won't, but either way, it's something that will directly affect me.
The price of gas in this country is affecting armchair quarterbacks across the land, who are screaming that "we" should all go kick some middle-eastern "Hadji ass." People who are watching Fox News and CNN and listening to their morning radio DJ's talk about how "we" need to go over there and take care of business, think being behind the war effort makes them patriotic and good Americans.
I was deeply disturbed to see the backlash on the Dixie Chicks and their opinions about the war. Who the hell do these people think they are? Everyone in this country has the right to have an opinion about what's going on. Everyone in this country has a right to feel the way they feel. Does that make the Dixie Chicks unamerican for agreeing with anti-war sentiment around the world? No. People who want to call other people "unamerican" for their perception. They are no more "unamerican" or "anti-American" than I am.
Being behind a war doesn't make you patriotic. Complaining about the price of gas while you drive your outrageously gigantic H2 Hummer to soccer practice or cursing France while you eat your Freedom Fries doesn't make you patriotic. Even sticking a bumper sticker of an American flag on your car doesn't make you patriotic.
If anyone wants to see who the real patriots are, you should take a look at the men and women in this country's Armed Forces. These are the people who get up every morning and their only job is to do just what the Government wants them to do. If that's protect you, it's protect you. If it's to make sure you can fill your outrageously large SUV up with gasoline today at under $5 a gallon, that's what they do. If it's pick up trash on a flight line at an air show, that's what they do. If it's hop on a C-5 Galaxy transport plane to the middle of a desert somewhere to risk their lives so you can feel a little better about the American flag sticker on the back end of your car, THAT'S WHAT THEY DO.
To all the armchair soldiers out there who park their asses in front of the tube with a brew and some popcorn to watch CNN correspondents perched on top of a building in Bagdhad commenting about the noise from the anti-aircraft weapons and the stench of death, I say that you are no more patriotic than anyone else in this country, and I would gladly lump you in with the majority of people whom I have decided are "dumb Civilians." Don't be behind the war effort and think it makes you a better American. Be behind the men and women who have to go fight this war. If you're of an age that you could be part of this effort, before you go around yelling about how "we" should go kick some ass, why don't you wander your butt on down to the Reserves office in your area and sign up? Get a gun, hop on a plane, and join "us" in the effort.
If you wouldn't be willing to put your life on the line for the interests of this country's government, then in my opinion you should probably just shut the fuck up. Serve food to homeless families at a shelter. Donate time in your community cleaning up graffiti and litter. Plant a tree. Take a moment out of your day to do something to actually improve the state of your nation, your neighbor, your family, or your friend. Don't sit in front of the fucking television counting down the days until "we" go kick some ass.
I know someone who might have to go and kick some ass. And I have a friend who is a pilot who is there now. And believe you me, while they probably appreciate the idea that you would be supportive of THEM and hoping THEY get to come home safely, return to their families, etc., hoping that "we" "kick some ass" is hardly productive. Get a grip.
Be a real patriot.
Support the men and women of the armed forces.
Sunday, March 16, 2003
Number of pictures I took today: 6.
Number of pictures left on the $6 disposable camera I had to buy: 21
Number of camera bags we were allowed to take to the AFB: 0
Number of people with camera bags at the AFB: fucking all of them
Number of people with better cameras than me, because they brought camera bags: fucking all of them
Number of rules I broke today at Luke AFB: 0
Number of rules everyone else broke today at Luke AFB: fucking all of them
Oh, well. Seriously.
S. is coming over tomorrow night. I am very happy. I am also very tired. I walked a lot today and it was cold and rainy, and it is catching up with me. And I have to open the office tomorrow. So. That's that.
Luke AFB air show was today. Luke Days.
Rolled out of bed and was puttering around my house when my cell rang - it was S. Seems it was also pouring raint today. Rain and wind are not a good combination for an air show, so I waited around before going to get Brenda to see if S. would call me back and say if we were "on" or "off."
S. called back and it was on - by then I had already been on my way to Brenda's, because we were going to hang out a little no matter what. Considering I was up until 2:30 a.m. talking to S. the night before, making my 8:00 a.m. goal at Brenda's house wasn't going to happen, but at least I was there by about 8:40.
Brenda and I went to Perkins for breakfast, ordered veggie omelettes and got "everything omelettes" - I ended up finding the ham in mine and picking it out, but Brenda wasn't quite so lucky. The things pork products do to vegetarians. Ugh.
We showed up to Luke and made the half mile hike - through the mud - from the truck to the base, got on the base and settled in for what was supposed to be a day of fun. Thank goodness we had the umbrella! We were wandering around looking at planes and "static displays" when suddenly from behind me came a BEEP! I turned around and there was my honey driving his golf cart on work duty for the show.
Side note: My man in his BDU's, yum yum yum. I don't know what it is, but yowza, yeah, YUMMY. Dig it. Groovy. It doesn't hurt that I've had sex on my brain for the last ... three months? But I hadn't seen him in his "work clothes" yet, and I got to see him actually "working" and in his "work clothes" at the same time. I also felt incredibly special that he saw US, and came up behind US, and he stayed in touch with me most of the day even though he was working.
It's the little things that make me feel secure, special, wanted, needed, liked, loved, and adored. I don't need a dozen roses. I just want to know he was thinking of me. Today, mission accomplished.
That's about when the rain came. Then the lightning. Then more rain. I stood in the back-end of a C-5 Galaxy (a huge plane) with a few hundred other people bumping and brushing against me, and right about the time I thought I was going to go through the roof with a panic-attack-like reaction to a bunch of wet people I didn't know inconsiderately brushing against me, it happened.
Some guy grabbed me.
It wasn't a grope, there was nothing obscene or inappropriate about it. But this guy. Grabbed. Me. Wrapped his hand around my forearm, pushed me aside, and said, "Excuse me." And motored me right out of his way.
That was bad. For someone who has issues with crowds of people (me) and for someone who has issues with being touched by people I don't know (me), that was like, the Worst. Thing. Ever. I freaked. Poor Brenda, I wonder what was going through her head - I felt like Rain Man, spinning around on the platform trying to find somewhere to go, somewhere to get to, where I would be away from these people who kept TOUCHING ME. She somehow managed to find some space on the benches on the inside of the cargo bay of the plane and we went and sat for a while until they officially announced that the show was being canceled.
And we left.
And now I get to settle in to some work so I can try to get to bed at a reasonable time.
And I saw my boyfriend in his BDU's. Yummy. That might just tide me over until the next time I see him.
Saturday, March 15, 2003
I would very much like to throw up.
That, boys and girls, is a bad thing. So I'm going to go gaming instead.
Input: "There are no promises."
--See Also:"I can't promise you anything," "I can't promise you that," and "Let's be realistic."
Thank you for using TRANSLATOR! Translation follows.
--That's not worth it.
--You're not worth it.
--We're not worth it.
--I'm sure someone better's going to come along eventually.
--I'm sure something better's going to come along eventually.
--There's got to be someone better out there.
--You'll tide me over until someone better comes along.
--This will be fun while it lasts.
--You'll be fun, while this lasts.
--When I leave, this is going to suck for you.
--I'm going to leave.
--I don't want to feel guilty when I leave.
--Eventually, I'm sure you'll bore me.
--I don't want to have to owe you anything.
--I don't owe you anything.
--You don't owe me anything.
--I don't want to ask you for anything.
--Don't ask me for anything.
--It'll all be over soon.
--This could all be over soon.
--What's the point in speculating?
--You don't matter that much to me.
--I shouldn't matter that much to you.
--You're more invested than I am.
--You shouldn't be so invested.
--I'm not invested enough for that.
--Who knows what I'll want tomorrow?
--Who knows who I'll want tomorrow?
--Who knows where I'll be tomorrow?
--I don't consider you in my future.
--I don't consider us having a future.
--I really doubt we have a future.
--I'm afraid of the future.
--I'd rather not consider the future.
--There is no future.
--At least I love you today.
--I might not love you tomorrow.
--I don't want to feel guilty when I don't love you tomorrow.
--Maybe I'll love someone else tomorrow.
--Eventually I'll love someone else.
--Eventually I won't love you.
Friday, March 14, 2003
Work. Gotta love work. I busted my ass yesterday on a lot of different things, and feel actually productive. I am currently waiting on some new security clearances to be given to me on our company intra-net so I can access some important information that's going to help me complete an important project, but aside from that, I seem to be fairly caught up on stuff.
I went to lunch with Brenda yesterday and we talked a lot about the strange atmosphere around here. In the movie Office Space, which is one of my favorite movies of all time, the lead character says something like, "If a person's only incentive for doing well is to not get fired, they're only going to do what they have to do to keep their job." I think that mentality around here is contagious, and it pisses me off.
I am not what you'd call a workaholic, but I take an incredibly large amount of pride in what I do. I'm damned good at what I do. I'm a smart girl! I can do this job easily and I can do it well. While sometimes it's hectic dealing with four or five type-A salespeople, when they all want things at the same time, the fact that I am able to effectively juggle their wants and needs, I am able to stand up for myself tactfully and outline my priorities, and I am still able to have people say, "Wow, you did that really well," is quite a feat. I'm a hard worker and I like being able to look at my project or my day or my week, my month or my year, and say that I accomplished something.
In my first year at the company where I work, when I got hired (and took about a $6,000 per year pay cut for the privilege) I was told that they operated on a Performance Raise System which basically means, "If you bust your ass and prove yourself, you'll be making a ton of money in no time." People who over-achieve, get better raises than people who are average. That's perfect for me - because I am constantly over-achieving! I was also told that the quarterly profit sharing bonuses had run between $1,000 and $1,400 per quarter for the last however-many years. I got to wear jeans and T-shirts and tennies to work and it would be a lot of fun. All this I was promised.
After my first year, of coming in at 6:30 a.m. every day, staying until after 5 p.m. every day, baking cookies for the guys in my department whenever they'd sell something "just because," handling lots of different things and finding cost-cutting measures to save the company $15,000, or half my salary, I was offered a 4% raise. Obviously, I thought that was the biggest load of horse hockey I'd ever been handed, and told my boss so. It was explained to me that everyone in the department was getting a 4% raise, because that was the "new policy." I was pissed. Seething. Angry. But I'd had bonuses that year around $1,200 per quarter, so I didn't have a whole lot to complain about. I guessed.
In my second year, I stopped coming in at 6:30, and started coming in between 7:00 and 7:30, still appreciating my ramp-up time. I also upped my side-work to three or four nights a week, and was selling my body to science on a regular basis. Anything to make ends meet. And I still busted ass at my job. When my next review came around in April of 2001, I once again was going to be offered a 4% raise. In case you're not paying attention, 4% of nothing... is nothing. Well, I was going to be offered the raise, anyway, until three weeks before my review when it was announced that for a year, raises were suspended. Starting that day. No raise for me. And let's not forget that in basically the same meeting we were told that profit sharing bonuses, which had dwindled to a boorish $25.00 in our last bonus from $1,400, were also being discontinued. Of course, they promised us if we hung in there and stuck with it, that we would all be rewarded handsomely when they all came back. Oh, and any kind of outside-the-office skill training was officially frozen - if you were going to try to find a way to improve your skills, you had to foot the bill yourself. Interesting, considering I had a proposal on the table to send me to a leadership training class, after I was told I should improve my leadership skills. It was a $2,500 class. I coudln't afford to take it on my own, which meant I would instantly fail at one of my goals for the year.
So in my third year, I stopped coming in between 7:00 and 7:30, and took to coming in between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m., and didn't much like to stay beyond 5:00 p.m. Why? Because I was now working four to five nights a week at my second job, still selling my body to science, was trying to get divorced, and was becoming increasingly more and more upset with the lack of good thoughts I had about my job situation. Flex-time became offered as a way to placate the masses. Pet Insurance was offered as a benefit. But we still didn't have a match in our 401(k) plan, and we still weren't getting bonuses, and no one was getting raises, and we kept being told we should keep cutting costs. I couldn't find any more ways to cut costs - getting generic office products, sending things regular mail instead of UPS, negotiating new rates for UPS, negotiating discounts at trade shows - anything I could get my hands on, any way I could change vendors or re-arrange things to cut costs, I had already done. In the middle of my divorce proceeding some time around January 2002, I had to stop selling my body to science because I was under so much stress from the money issue that I wasn't eligible for the studies any more due to some physical problems, but at the same time I was upping my side work to five-to-seven-nights-a-week just to make ends meet.
And lo and behold, the raises came back. And I received a 2% cost of living raise, which worked out to just enough money for me to eat at McDonald's once a week if I wanted. And yea, verily, for I did storm into my boss's office and give him what-for. And then he assured me it would all come back to me when the bonus situation was resolved.
And then, the bonus situation was resolved. Kind of. You see, they did bring the bonus program back in March 2002. But they told us that instead of getting it every quarter, we'd get it once a year (of course in December). And that instead of being guaranteed a slice of the profits, we had to keep the company's profit margins above 10% for all four quarters to be eligible. And instead of it being a set percentage of the company's profits, it was going to be based on the profit margin of the company. The more profit the company made, you see, the bigger the bonus. And it was also going to be contingent upon whether or not we lost any clients during the year. Not the net number of clients mind you - the net number of client LOSSES. And the peasants did complain.
But we all pretty much sucked it up.
So after getting handed an ass sandwich in November for my job performance, which was directly due to my attitude, which was directly due to having so much sunshine blown up my ass in the last three years that I could no longer distinguish that which was real and that which was part of an intricate fairytale, I'm a little paranoid about my job. I want to do a good job. I want them to appreciate me. If they would take a little bit of time every once and a while and appreciate me, god dammit, they'd probably see my job performance skyrocket. But my issue is, I went from anal retentive obsessive compulsive over-achiever "good child" to "average worker," and I'm being treated like I'm not even an average worker. That's how it is around here. If you don't work until 10pm every night trying to get your job done, you're not worth having around.
There's a peasant revolt happening here. Vice presidents, middle management, and lowly workers like myself are all going to our bosses independently of one another and saying, "I'm not working past my eight hours." Why is that? Because we shouldn't have to put in free overtime to prove our worth to anyone, and if we've got enough work that it's exceeding our eight hours - and we are all over-achievers anyway - we should be able to get 10 hours worth of work done in 8 hours, and we're still having to stay late. Something's wrong with that. The measure of a person's worth isn't how many hours they stay in the office. We have mothers bringing their kids in with them evenings and weekends to work. We have people who have other family obligations staying here until 10:30 p.m. without anyone blinking an eye. We have people coming in to do work on the weekends that isn't even real, billable work for the company, it's work for the family that owns the company that isn't "actual" work and no one seems to think there's anything wrong with that.
I said when the company will pay me for overtime (which they don't) and make it as much as I make on my side job (which they can't) then I'll feel fine about staying and working the extra hours, but otherwise, it's just not worth it to me. Maybe that's why I feel like sometimes my head's on the chopping block.
I'm grateful every day that I have a job, and I still want to do the best job I can. I just can't help but feel unappreciated, disrespected, and taken advantage of, from time to time. How many times does a person have to lay their hand on a red-hot burner, before they figure out it's going to hurt and they just stop doing it?
I want to like my job. I want to love my job. I want my job to love me. I take solace in knowing I'm not alone in my discomfort, but it doesn't make it any easier some days.
Thursday, March 13, 2003
I don't know why I chose that title for this, except that it reminds me of an interesting car commercial and I have an affection for good Motown. James Brown.
I finished my 2nd job work by about 7pm or 7:15 today and then said, "fuck it." I went and sat down and watched the last half hour of Survivor while I had some corn chowder for dinner, and sunk into my comfy chair as if I didn't have a care in the world.
For some unknown ungodly reason, I am currently chatting with my ex boyfriend, who is trying to be all nice to me and is sending me lots of songs through the Yahoo! messenger on .mp3 for me to enjoy. He thinks he's introducing me to groups like "Puddle Of Mudd," who I've been listening to for a year or so, and that's okay I guess.
I am also chatting with my friend Brenda from work, who is a joy. We're talking about cocktails, games, air shows, cars, her family, and whether or not I have space in my freezer for "medicine," her personal version of a slushy margarita she's going to teach me how to make.
She is also expressing an interest in gaming. Which could be really fun and possibly I would be able to teach both her and S. how to play some of the RPG's I play. That would be a hoot. I wish I could get my one gaming group person to agree to new people. I think Brenda would really like it. I really, really do. I've got to work on that.
I'm getting tired. I wonder if S. is going to be up for some Unreal Tournament later...
I'm not quite the Bionic Woman, but I'm getting there. How can I pull that off, you might ask? I would have to say it has something to do with the TWO STEEL GIRDERS that make up the muscles stretching from the middle of my neck to the ends of my shoulders. Add to that the STEEL PLATE that makes up my left shoulder blade and the PAIR OF WIRE CUTTERS that are jammed into my back just under my right shoulder blade, and we're getting close.
Then, if you take a final tally of the different electrodes that are attached to CAR BATTERIES that keep giving me electrical jolts every time I turn my head a certain direction or try to straighten myself up in my chair, we're pretty close to bionic.
All I ever really wanted was Abs Of Steel and Buns Of Steel. Fat fuckin chance.
We are having a war pool in my office.
Don't ask me why, but I'm in.
For $5, I have the opportunity to write my name in a box and we're going to draw dates in the next 14 days. If President Bush gets on TV and announces war with Iraq on my day, I win the pot.
I am on the express train straight to hell.
But if I win, it's $70. Seventy bucks is seventy bucks.
My job as a military wife is
to make it as easy as possible
for my beloved husband to do his job.
Where he leads, I will follow.
Husband: SSgt, USAF
Current Location: Tinker AFB, OK
Job: Self-Employed Transcriptionist
and Domestic Goddess
I am currently pimping:
me @ consumating
I play Everquest II!
Iksar Necromancer, Kithicor
We're trying for a baby!
Pagan Military Wives Webring
sablerose70 at hotmail dot com
Pagan Military Wives
More Military Wives
Thanks for the LinkyLove
Googly Moogly Home
< ? Pagan Military Wives # >
< ? MilWives Group H.U.G.S. # >
< Military Bloggers >
< ? Sarcastic Geeks # >
< ? Verbosity # >
< # Blogging Bitches ? >
< ? Cheeky Girls # >
< ? Not A Bimbo # >
< ? I Love My Cleavage! # >
My Mary Kay Consultant is Chris Noteware
I lurves me some Adagio Tea!
Saving Citizen Daryl
Internet Horndog Transcripts
Strong Bad Email
West Memphis Three
Original template by maystar
altered by Rose, graphics by Rose
Pinup Toon by Rion Vernon
image is used with his permission.
powered by blogger
|| maystar designs ||