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.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Car? Fail. Shitty TV FTW
So.
My car tags are expired. They have been expired for some time--such niceties often escape my notice. However, now that they've caught the notice of the PoPo, it finally merits attention. I figure if I don't do something about it quickly, I'm going to jail. And, unlike The Boy, I don't think that I'm bound for "Sexy Jail." I will just plan to continue doing all my underpants pillow fighting on chick date night while the menfolk game.
Now, the Bitchin' Sentra is not a bad little car. She starts. She runs. She blows hot or cool air on me per my request. She has never abandoned me by the side of the road. In short, she's 1000 times better than my previous boyfriends AND my ex-husband. That said, though, she's won't pass inspection. She didn't two years ago, she won't know. Stubborn bitch.
Short story long, there's a fucked up censor. Or not. The bloody thing has been replaced twice, that's not really what the problem is, and frankly I don't give a tinker's damn anyway. I really don't want to go $1000 in the hole to fix a problem on A CAR THAT RUNS.
Today? Computer fiddling, drive cycle following, blah blah blah. It's fucking JULY, and TOO HOT TO BE DRIVING AIMLESSLY IN TRAFFIC. And I still didn't pass.
Hot, tired, and cranky--I arrived home. Where there is a big tramp on Wife Swamp, and I'm waiting for SuperNanny to start. I don't have cable; I watch terrible television. I have come to like terrible television. I like to feel superior to people with their fucking functional, legal cars. Bastards.
My car tags are expired. They have been expired for some time--such niceties often escape my notice. However, now that they've caught the notice of the PoPo, it finally merits attention. I figure if I don't do something about it quickly, I'm going to jail. And, unlike The Boy, I don't think that I'm bound for "Sexy Jail." I will just plan to continue doing all my underpants pillow fighting on chick date night while the menfolk game.
Now, the Bitchin' Sentra is not a bad little car. She starts. She runs. She blows hot or cool air on me per my request. She has never abandoned me by the side of the road. In short, she's 1000 times better than my previous boyfriends AND my ex-husband. That said, though, she's won't pass inspection. She didn't two years ago, she won't know. Stubborn bitch.
Short story long, there's a fucked up censor. Or not. The bloody thing has been replaced twice, that's not really what the problem is, and frankly I don't give a tinker's damn anyway. I really don't want to go $1000 in the hole to fix a problem on A CAR THAT RUNS.
Today? Computer fiddling, drive cycle following, blah blah blah. It's fucking JULY, and TOO HOT TO BE DRIVING AIMLESSLY IN TRAFFIC. And I still didn't pass.
Hot, tired, and cranky--I arrived home. Where there is a big tramp on Wife Swamp, and I'm waiting for SuperNanny to start. I don't have cable; I watch terrible television. I have come to like terrible television. I like to feel superior to people with their fucking functional, legal cars. Bastards.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Weekend In Review
Not much going on, really, on the personal front.
Good weekend on the home front. Friday night was a quiet evening in, during which the boy and I finally devoted ourselves to our wedding contract. Despite the fact that The Boy and I are agnostic goyim, we decided to make a brit ahuvim part of our marriage. Oddly, two articulate and open people can actually have a pretty hard time saying "I expect this from you and from me in our marriage." We do, however, finally have it well in hand.
Saturday, baby shower of a family friend and his lovely wife. We attended their wedding last year, and now they're expecting. It's wild, really, he and I used to play Star Wars together--hell, our moms were pregnant together. Now he's going to be a DAD. How the FUCK does that happen?
Saturday night? Birthday party for T-Del and Bunny. A glorious night, October in July. Friends, good beer, yummy snacks. Bourbon slush, which is TOO TASTY and a damn shame I'd never heard of it before. Nothing like drunken chit-chat and just random, happy time.
Sunday? Couching. Not much of one anyway.
This is all a good thing, as it took the edge of the idiocy of today, and the week ahead.
Good weekend on the home front. Friday night was a quiet evening in, during which the boy and I finally devoted ourselves to our wedding contract. Despite the fact that The Boy and I are agnostic goyim, we decided to make a brit ahuvim part of our marriage. Oddly, two articulate and open people can actually have a pretty hard time saying "I expect this from you and from me in our marriage." We do, however, finally have it well in hand.
Saturday, baby shower of a family friend and his lovely wife. We attended their wedding last year, and now they're expecting. It's wild, really, he and I used to play Star Wars together--hell, our moms were pregnant together. Now he's going to be a DAD. How the FUCK does that happen?
Saturday night? Birthday party for T-Del and Bunny. A glorious night, October in July. Friends, good beer, yummy snacks. Bourbon slush, which is TOO TASTY and a damn shame I'd never heard of it before. Nothing like drunken chit-chat and just random, happy time.
Sunday? Couching. Not much of one anyway.
This is all a good thing, as it took the edge of the idiocy of today, and the week ahead.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Secretary of Japanese Game Shows
So, today Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson explained the mortgage crisis to people. Here, for your enjoyment, my literary interpretation.
"Because people are dumb, and bankers are greedy, there are a lot of motherfuckers who have houses they cannot afford. You know why? Because no damn money, divided by 12, equals BROKE. They are going to lose their houses. Can't help'em. Bummer. Thanks for coming, cocktails will not be served on the promenade deck."
On a lighter note, the best show in America is now on television. The Japanese really embrace the strengths of the medium of television--that is--the purveying of bright, loud, annoying shit. It would actually be better if we weren't burdened with the stupid mixing in of typical American reality show garbage. I'd rather just see flummoxed Americans getting yelled at in Japanese. That would be better than CANDY.
"Because people are dumb, and bankers are greedy, there are a lot of motherfuckers who have houses they cannot afford. You know why? Because no damn money, divided by 12, equals BROKE. They are going to lose their houses. Can't help'em. Bummer. Thanks for coming, cocktails will not be served on the promenade deck."
On a lighter note, the best show in America is now on television. The Japanese really embrace the strengths of the medium of television--that is--the purveying of bright, loud, annoying shit. It would actually be better if we weren't burdened with the stupid mixing in of typical American reality show garbage. I'd rather just see flummoxed Americans getting yelled at in Japanese. That would be better than CANDY.
Monday, June 30, 2008
I Like My "Fuck You" Neat
So, until today, I'd felt we'd turned a real corner at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I had come to accept that I was, and was likely to remain, a corporate whore. I had made an uneasy peace with doing shit work for shit money, while using my considerable talents to try to provide camouflage for the uncovered asses all around me.
Like any golden age, it had to end. While knowing more than my boss has proven rewarding in its own way, it's not really my goal. Speaking slowly and using small words has its own charm, but really, it gets old. Except for the necessity of a constant exercise of self-control not to throttle the dimmest of my co-workers, my job had lost its zest.
And yeah. I am seriously under-fucking-paid. File monkeys who can barely alphabetize make as much as I do, and they let me make decisions regarding hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. The thought kind makes me tinkle my panties a little, too.
So, as part of my ongoing plan to better position myself on the fluffy corporate tuffet, I applied for a promotion. Since I'm bottle a bottle of wine into an evening spent at home in my underwear with a fiance who is petrified of my ever-accelerating mood swings, I think you by now have safely guessed that I did not get the job.
Considering who actually got the position, I can now see that my mistake has been my failure to veil my contempt behind a thick haze of pot smoke. Apparently, corporate enthusiasm is aided by weed. Who knew?
So, tonight? Drinking of wine and sour grapes. After I work through my considerable snit, I will decide if this is the path for me. I would have, and could have ROCKED this job. However, it might have required slightly more of a personality lobotomy than I am willing to obtain. So, really? Fuck it. Drink up, buttercup.
And, as a note, to my dumb CHFJ boss. Lady? We need to clear up some shit. One, I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I'm the least bit stupid, but that half eyelid look I give you is the result of indifference and a hangover, not low IQ. Two, although I am sick of being smarter than you are, I'm kind of used to it by now and it doesn't bother me. I'm pissed about the money. I don't work because I can't find better shit to do with my days, you dig? So don't expect me to thank you for the chance to continue underpaid. Three, don't blow sunshine up my ass. I'm pretty much a Kinsey 1 and I don't let The Boy blow sparklies up my ass; you sure as shit are not going to get an invite. Don't try to make me feel better about this shit--I know the score and I'm not buying it.
Like any golden age, it had to end. While knowing more than my boss has proven rewarding in its own way, it's not really my goal. Speaking slowly and using small words has its own charm, but really, it gets old. Except for the necessity of a constant exercise of self-control not to throttle the dimmest of my co-workers, my job had lost its zest.
And yeah. I am seriously under-fucking-paid. File monkeys who can barely alphabetize make as much as I do, and they let me make decisions regarding hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. The thought kind makes me tinkle my panties a little, too.
So, as part of my ongoing plan to better position myself on the fluffy corporate tuffet, I applied for a promotion. Since I'm bottle a bottle of wine into an evening spent at home in my underwear with a fiance who is petrified of my ever-accelerating mood swings, I think you by now have safely guessed that I did not get the job.
Considering who actually got the position, I can now see that my mistake has been my failure to veil my contempt behind a thick haze of pot smoke. Apparently, corporate enthusiasm is aided by weed. Who knew?
So, tonight? Drinking of wine and sour grapes. After I work through my considerable snit, I will decide if this is the path for me. I would have, and could have ROCKED this job. However, it might have required slightly more of a personality lobotomy than I am willing to obtain. So, really? Fuck it. Drink up, buttercup.
And, as a note, to my dumb CHFJ boss. Lady? We need to clear up some shit. One, I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I'm the least bit stupid, but that half eyelid look I give you is the result of indifference and a hangover, not low IQ. Two, although I am sick of being smarter than you are, I'm kind of used to it by now and it doesn't bother me. I'm pissed about the money. I don't work because I can't find better shit to do with my days, you dig? So don't expect me to thank you for the chance to continue underpaid. Three, don't blow sunshine up my ass. I'm pretty much a Kinsey 1 and I don't let The Boy blow sparklies up my ass; you sure as shit are not going to get an invite. Don't try to make me feel better about this shit--I know the score and I'm not buying it.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Update
So, the oven has begun working again.
Additional support for my Unified Theory of Inattention.
Additional support for my Unified Theory of Inattention.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Wednesday
What happened today:
I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.
I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.
I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.
I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.
I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.
Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.
And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.
We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.
*sigh*
I'm going to bed.
I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.
I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.
I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.
I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.
I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.
Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.
And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.
We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.
*sigh*
I'm going to bed.
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