Blue Monday

Boring night here in the NoCo. After a rather shit day at work, I find myself decompressing on the couch and trying to convince myself that I don't really want to eat the remaining Thin Mints in the house...or at least not all of them.

It's been a boring and rather quiet evening. The Boy was good enough to fix dinner for us while I managed to get in and out of the grocery store without even once considering punching someone in the face, which any more is the best I hope when interacting with the general public. Since then I've planted myself on the couch, surfing the internet for utter bullshit and a few recipes.

Clearly, I need a hobby.

Welcome, Mr. President

I had to work today, and didn't get to take time out to listen to the Inauguration address until hours later.

However, driving home from work, I got all teary eyed over the people on NPR referring to "President Obama." Somehow that shift, from President-elect, to President, brought it all home

Since then, I have been weepy eyed over the speech, over the new President's stinking adorable children, over the people who traveled for hours and days to see it happen.

Wow. For the first time in a long time it is a fucking righteous day to be in America.

Post Presidential Debate v.1

John McCain causes terrible vaginal dryness and itching.

Seriously, I think my pussy hates him.

Here's to hoping I have something more intelligent, if not as succinct, to contribute tomorrow.

Post Veep Debate

Ohmyfuckinggod.

So, Sarah Palin. Let's talk about this.

She is a woman. Ovaries, breast, lipstick, woman. Check. And a wife. And a mother. Fine. Great. Whatever.

She's also a publicity stunt; a disaster; an insult. She sounds like a moron, with her "nookyouler" and her "up there." People keep talking about her like she's the second coming. She's "like us." She "folksy." She's "down to Earth."

Like who? Not like me. She's not like me. Oh wait! Do you mean she's like me in that she's uninformed and intellectually lazy? Then yeah. Okay, then she's like us. Except that she somehow thinks that a $5000 tax credit--to be paid for by taxing workers' employer paid-health benefits--will somehow work as comprehensive tax care.

Look. People thought Bush was folksy, and like us. LOOK AT WHERE WE ARE NOW! This is something we want to repeat? This? So great we want more?

"People are picking on her because she's a woman!"

Nope. People are picking on her because she's an asshat. She is Dan Quayle with a slightly better grasp on spelling. She's uninformed and unprepared. People are picking on her because she's ignorant.

I'm not proud she's running for V.P. because she's a woman and I happen to be as well. Instead, I'm embarrassed that people think she somehow deserves a pass because of the happenstance of her two X chromosomes. Does her inability to pronounce nuclear stem from a wandering uterus? Is that what causes her to support abstinence only education? Pray, do tell.

Sarah Palin doesn't make me embarrassed to be a woman. She makes me embarrassed to be an American. What does it say about us as a people that we would settle for her?

Morning Surprise

I woke up late this morning with a Benadryl hangover. All fuzzy-headed and drowsy, I walked into the kitchen . . .

Huh. What the hell is that in the water dish?

Huh. What the hell is that by the water bowl?

Huh. What the hell is thOH MY GOD WHO IS BLEEDING?

Pug check. Jack check. Bennet--was in her kennel all evening so unlikely but check her anyway. Sammi cat? Where are you, kitty? Ack!

She seems fine, now. Her rumpled-y ear is all swollen, and yes, bloody. However, she's been purring and cuddling and basically being herself. We'll be gong to the vet in just about an hour; I expect we might get a cat lampshade out of the deal. She's napping comfortable on The Boy.

Holy shit, though. Fucking 5 plus feet of blood spatter in the morning before coffee? REALLY? Is this entirely necessary?

Smile Pretty

I have discovered that, all to often, there is an positive correlation between the discomfort and embarrassment of an activity and its resultant beautifying properties.

Nothing, I think, proves this better than the tooth whitening strip. The Boy barely even attempts to hide his amusement as I walk around the house, *shlorking* up extraneous saliva and breathing through my mouth, pausing occasionally to spit into a sink.

Sadly, because of my disordered manner of swallowing, if I close my mouth I push the strips off my teeth. I don't know of a solution other than this one. These fuckers had better work, is all I'm sayin'.

Check Out the Pork and Beans

Sweet holy hell. Behold, my dream job.

People would looked at me funny for sniffing payphones, mashing Fig Newtons onto walls, and throwing pasta at crack houses to see if it would stick (yep--overnight), and along comes "Will It Blend?" to bring form and purpose to my childish visions.

Le sigh . . .

An Open Letter to Bommarito Nissan, et al.

To Whom It May Concern,

Perhaps the best measure of one's service is that determined by its comparison to others.

So, when I tell you that a trip to the Ferguson DMV on a Saturday in August was a painless joy in comparison to each and every interaction I have ever had with one of your staff, then I do hope you understand my full meeting.

Yours sincerely,
Future Toyota Customer

What I Did Tonight.

This evening? I changed my own car battery?

I can make a pie. I make a mean motherfucking eggplant parmesan. And now? Now I can change a car battery.

I love The Boy, yes. But maybe the folks should negotiate for more goats in the bride price or something.

And you know what? This totally goes on the list on of Shit My Dad Was Right About. Working on cars sucks balls.

Update

So, the oven has begun working again.

Additional support for my Unified Theory of Inattention.

Note To Self

You know you're ready for spring when. . .

you walk by the shop window in the mall and see a pair of lovely pink wedges and your first instinct is to lick the glass.

Fucktard, Holding on Two

I found myself in the unenviable position today of having to rely on someone who MAY or MAY NOT have suffered traumatic brain injury in the past month or so in order to do my job. After not one, not two, but SIX requests for this person to do HIS job so that I could do MINE, I finally called one of his employees and asked HER to do it. I would have, by the by, done that in first place, but the demented fucker with a dent in his head just kept answering the goddamned phone.

I spent about 20 minutes this morning thinking about taking up cutting like some emo 13-year-old. Is that weird? That seems weird to me. . .

For Your Viewing Pleasure

Okay.

I'm not too familiar with the bible, or too down with religion generally, but I gotta wonder . . .

Do you really think it's . . . appropriate . . . to liken Jesus to a toilet lid?

It's amazing what's on tv at 2 a.m. when you don't have cable . . .

The Best Hangover Ever

I have the best boyfriend in the world, perhaps the best boyfriend in the long and storied history of boyfriends. If my boyfriend were a car, he would start reliably, get 300 miles to the gallon, and vacuum his own floor mats.

Why, you ask, am I waxing so fond of the boy?

Because he took me out and he got me really drunk.

After days of feeling ineffectual and useless at work and random other bummers that made me want nothing so much as to take to my bed, Jason decided that he was taking me out for drinks. Nothing fancy, just he and I and our friends in a bar.

It was glorious. Hours of gin and tonic and conversation about things that had nothing, NOTHING to do with Corporate Happy Fun Job: writing, art, the dispensing of romantic advice. For the first time in days I feel as though the wrinkles in my cortex are not filled with dryer lint. I enjoyed people! Wit! There was actual laughter, instead of wizened and bitter chuckles.

Plus, if last night’s company and cocktails wasn’t enough, as an added bonus today I just. Don’t. Care. I am exploring new and unplumbed depths of professional indifference. Right now, this instant, I truly believe that I’m earning every penny of my paltry fucking salary by holding my chair in place. My god. This is absolutely brilliant.

Feeding Frenzy

It is GO LIVE week at Corporate Happy Fun Job. GO LIVE is a very big deal, much fanfare and brouhaha surrounding our stage-one roll-out. Various systems people are wandering hither and yon discovering what we’ve known all along, that is, that this software is about as nice as an economy tub of lube mixed liberally with sand.

In an effort to simultaneously celebrate our GO LIVE and suborn the rebellion in the hearts of the employees, they have been feeding us with in an inch our lives. Today? Cheesecake contest. And cotton candy, sno-cones, and a popcorn machine. The sugar and fat is making us compliant.

I figure if we can’t make this Corporate Happy Fun project work, they are going to cut up the staff and market us as fois gras. Genius, really.

The upshot of this ongoing feeding frenzy is that I have spent the entire day covered in foodstuffs. Cotton candy leavings; coffee that managed to dribble onto my shirt beneath my boobs where I couldn’t see it until I went to the ladies. Fuckall knows what else. On top of last nights unfortunate yard tumble, I am forced to conclude that I am having one of those weeks.

They Don't Like You, Either

So Friday night, I went with The Boy to his younger brother’s wedding reception. The wedding proper had taken place 10 days earlier in Jamaica. The reception was a reception. The bride and groom were good enough to trot out their wedding finery for us—they looked lovely. There was food and dancing and, best of all, little girls in fluffy dresses who were all twirly-whirly as little girls at weddings ought to be.

And, like any wedding, there were representatives from the contingent of People Who Were Raised by Coyotes.

I am constantly amazed at people’s inability to comport themselves appropriately. It’s not about knowing which fork to use, it’s about knowing that one ought to make sure that one’s thong isn’t showing before one leaves to go to a wedding. And men? You haven’t been forgotten, this one’s for you. It also means that one ought not to converse with a woman’s chest.

Not one, but two men preferred to carry on their conversations with my tits than with me. They were not subtle, quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, they drew attention to their admiration of my breasts through their conversation. Not that I could follow what they were saying, forced as I was to watch the top of their heads as they gazed longingly into my cleavage.

What planet are these men from, where apparently there are no breasts? They reacted as though they had never seen anything like it.

I, literally, could not think to do. On one hand, I wanted to embarrass and shame these men. Why would they so obviously impose themselves and their sticky, yellowed eyeballs on me? Whatever would make them think that would be okay. On the other hand, though, I was not raised by lichen. I could not bring myself to risk a scene at another woman’s long-awaited wedding reception.

Besides which, what can you really do to affect someone who would act that way? Mace his ass? I’m at a loss.

Whee!

The fact that Paris Hilton is going back to jail makes my heart sing.

It's not that I'm a hater. I'm just glad to know that "dumb whore" has not been declared an actual medical condition.

Going Soft

Today is one of those random weird St. Louis days where it feels like you’ve fallen asleep and woken up in another season. Today, St. Louis is proud to present fall, back by popular demand. It’s not bad at all, really, just a bit cool and breezy.

The loveliness of the day is helping me to keep my pervasive crabbiness in check. For over a week I’ve been waiting to hear about a promotion at work. Add to that waiting to hear about a recent audition. Throw in having to work Friday AND Saturday night at Pink Collar Wage Slave Job #2, and we should be rapidly approaching the point where Kate could gleefully punch a fucker in the throat.

Strangely, though, I’m doing okay. Anxious and extra-special whiny, but not seriously having a rage wallow. I must be going soft.

Who Would Jesus Hate?

Jerry Falwell dead of apparent butter overdose.

Crap.

Now how are we supposed to know which children's cartoon characters are gay, or who should be blamed for the tragic death of thousands?

Dead Like Dead, Dead

Wow. I mean, WOW.

St. Louis and its mercurial springtimes are, by now, familiar to me. I am more or less used to Aprils where the tulips are bent under the weight of a slushy, wet snowfall. That said, though, I don’t ever recall a year as bizarre as this. For while this started as perhaps the earliest and warmest spring I can remember, not only has it gotten colder, but we seem to have effectively returned to the end of February.

A series of hard freezes have effectively killed the little baby leaves on all the trees. Whereas 10 days ago everything was exquisite and perfect and green, now it’s all dead. Dead. Dead. Very dead. Dead like hope, dead. Bleh.