Oy - such stress....

Today at work I have had to deal with major issues like PAGE MARGINS and PARAGRAPH SPACING and MIXED USE OF STYLES!

Gasp! Quel Suprise! Shocked looks!

I know, my life is so chock full of glamour and excitement that you wish, just for a moment, you were me. Ah, my dear misty-eyed friends, this cannot be, and for that I am wholly sorry, for to give you just an hour of my life would bring me so much pleasure, and yet I cannot, for you couldn’t know that strength it takes to not burst out in joyous song every time I get another e-mail asking about things like APPROVAL PROCESSES and MEETING REQUESTS and SYSTEM OUTAGES.

It is nearly too much for me to bear, and I’m an experienced professional.

So, take my word when I tell you that all the glamour is exhausting, as well as is all the actual work that is the output of decisions made about things like STATISTICAL PROCEDURES and DROPOUT RATES and VENDOR LISTS.

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For those of you who are a touch shy on the definition of ‘sarcasm,’ that right there was it.

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Turning now to the weather, because we are currently having some:

My oh my, Ida, how you do roar and guh-nash your choppers are our fair Triangle,. How you do soak and blow (ed note: GREAT name for a bathhouse!) our fair region with your moist offerings, your vivacious breath.

But Ida, sweet wonderful Ida, did you have to make it so VERY crappy outside that instead of having delicious sushi for lunch at an actual restaurant, I instead had a cafeteria salad while sitting in my cube, AGAIN?

I know, luscious Ida, that I will not melt if I go out in your rains. I will not fly apart in the clutches of your brisk zephyrs. I will not perish in the combination of attenuated weatherly offerings you have served up, but dang if I won’t get a little wrecked, a little tousled, a little tossed, a little nerve-bent while on the wet wet roads fighting off people who apparently believe that the rain is a sign of impending doom (perhaps even the Apocalypse, which sounds nice but probably isn’t accompanied by maracas) and thus should rive as irrationally as possible because hey, there isn’t any more tomorrow so let’s Danica Patrick the MUTHA out of Route 55.

Thanks, sweetie, for nothing. And hey, in case you don’t know it, cafeteria lettuce tastes NOTHING like Rock Star Roll.

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And that’s it dudes. I figured I’d better post something else for our new friend the disgruntled blogger (or is it the whiny-ass mocker? The silly stalker? The blasted mewly-mouthed bitch-ass complainer with a short resume and a pocketful of sophomoric insults? I simply don’t know) to kvetch about.

Just a little public service, people. You’re welcome.

And if I had my druthers, I’d be off to ride a giant spotted monkey across wet fields of soybeans while shouting tangentially anachronistic phrases into a howling wind, but instead will simply turn my attentions back to the work at hand. Surely, SOMEONE must have needed my opinion of what size font to use in a table by now…

Have a grand day.

Tonight we had dinner at 5:10 p.m.

"Big deal," you say? Not for us, a 5:10 is easily 3 HOURS earlier than our usual prandial appointment.

Why the rush? Well, tonight is Monday, which means band practice night for Biff, meaning that if he's to eat at all he's to eat before 5:30 (band practice [or, 'first note'] starting at 6:30). What's more, he has to fast for 12 hours tonight because of a little oral surgery matter tomorrow morning so what the heck, let's eat early and call it good.

The 5:10 thing would have been impossible on a regular day because we both WORK and don't normally even get home until 5:30 or 6 (or 7....or 8), but today he 'worked' at home and therefore got the guilts offered to cook, resulting in a wonderful concoction that smelled up the whole house most wonderfully by the time I walked through the door at 5:05. My Gods, I thought I was a man in the '50s for a minute...spouse all cute and cozy on the couch reading, children amusing themselves, house smelling utterly edible. Why, I almost expected someone to fetch my pipe and slippers!

So. Dinner before 8. I didn't mind it, which is shocking. See, all the time I've been an adult I've been the 'dinner at 8' kind of person, mocking the folks who eat at buffet hours as common or more easily amused by food than I who prepare a meal each night using techniques varied, complicated, and time-consuming. Which worked, mostly, unless we were really hungry or had 'something to do' (A thing which in my history was grossly underrepresented, but we're catching up thanks for asking).

Sure, it was weird having ALL THAT TIME after dinner to do 'stuff,' but it being dark at 5:30 helps to ease into the 'evening' mentality and dang if there wasn't homework for the Things to do and my book to finish and "Good Eats" to watch and a couch to snuggle on. People, by 8:30 I was seriously nodding off...

It's a sure bet that pretty soon I'll be camped out in front of the Golden Corral at 4 p.m. waiting for the first bolus of banana pudding to be deposited in the trough...and I don't dread that thought as much as I used to.

Someone hold me.

nihilarian

PRONUNCIATION: (nih-i-LAR-ee-uhn)

MEANING: noun: One who does useless work.

ETYMOLOGY: From Latin nihil (nothing).

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I would have thought ‘nihilist’ would mean the same thing (much like ‘typist’ and ‘typarian’ do, or ‘agrist’ and ‘agrarian’. Look it up!), but that is not the case. In fact, a nihilist is a person who believes human existence has no objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. So, taking this to its logical ending, a nihilarian nihilist must be the happiest person in the world, having fulfilled their philosophy perfectly while making money doing so!

If that were the case for me, I’d be getting a paycheck for lazing around surfing the internet looking for gross pictures of surgery and/or infections.

Oh wait.



*Ahem*



Anyhow. It’s Thursday, otherwise known as ‘trash day’ in our neighborhood. It’s a big thing, the trash day. Garbage canes must be lined up not further than X feet from the roadside so the garbage truck motorized arm can effectively lift your bin o’ flotsam into it’s gaping maw, and heaven FORBID if you put the recycling container too close to the garbage can because wow, won’t that make it hard for the recycling people (a kinder, gentler garbageman, I think) to get to the precious load of green-living. So, bins n’ cans must be lined up properly and adjusted for wind speed and the sun’s angle as well perhaps as barometric pressure but we’ve not had a memo on that yet thank goodness.

Oh, and also? It’s common knowledge that if you do not retrieve your garbage coffins by Friday morning and place them neatly back in whatever area they live during the week, you’re kind of a sloth and the neighbors have every right to either 1) snigger haughtily at you while feeling superior at their own can-putting-away skills or 2) be concerned that you might be dead in your own home and your pets are snacking on your eyeballs.

Guess how often #2 happens.

Oh yes, it’s high times all around where we live, and we don’t even have a HOA. It’s just good old-fashioned neighboring, where detente is achieved through tacit understanding of ‘how people are supposed to behave.’ It a nice system we got going, fueled by nothing more than general decency.

Except of course for that house on the corner…but we’ve gotten used to the old trucks in the yard and the piles of crap peeking out over the pool fence. *Sigh* There’s one in every neighborhood, ain’t there?

You’ve got one of ‘them’ where you live, don’tcha? Whyn’t you spill your guts in the comments? It will help relieve some of that rage you have going on that’s keeping you from realizing your full zen potential. Trust me.

As for me, I’m off to shampoo a wild boar, plant a row of ‘maters, and slipstitch a fleece shroud for a newborn echidna that was born utterly hairless. Y’all have a glorious day.

Oh no, my pets, I did not forget the '69 question' thingie that was started here in stits and farts a couple of weeks ago. I might forget your name, where I live, how I got to bed last night, but forget a meme? NEVAH! So strap on (or is it in?) and let's get this thing done once and for all.

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61. Do you use cuss words in other languages? Mange merde et morde, cher.

62. Do you steal or pay for your music downloads? Neither. Biff does all the downloading into the monstrous pile of music that inhabits a fair portion of the memory on the home computer.

63. Do you hate chocolate? ……………….(all thought processes suspended while brain wraps around a world without chocolate)……………….No.

64. What do you and your parents fight about the most? My curfew. (Obviously, a joke. They won't let me stay out past midnight, no excuses)

65. Are you a gullible person? When an outrageous lie is delivered properly, yes. I like to believe people are trustworthy, more fool me.

66. Do you need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy? I’d say ‘no’ now, but 25 years ago? I was deluded enough to believe that I was happier with a boyfriend. This is one of those things I’d go back in time and lecture me about if I had the chance. Maybe even slap me around a little bit just to see how tough I really am/was. Other things I might lecture me on: Get your PhD, don't abandon your friends for ANY guy, enjoy your fabulous figure now because it's not going to last, take a picture of them boobies now while they're still almost-perky, take some time to get to know yourself, and start saving for retirement NOW.

67. If you could have any job what would it be? Radio announcer. (yes, the money generally sucks, but I’m making the assumption here that money is no object. My fantasy, my rules)

68. Are you easy to get along with? Just do as I say and nobody gets hurt. Easy!

69. What is your favorite time of day? It sure as hell isn’t when the alarm goes off. Otherwise, I’m cool with most of the other times of day, but the nicest associations are with the after-dinner hours, when the chores are done and there’s nothing left to do but relax with Biff and the Things. A full tummy, a full glass, everyone safe and near = total contentment.

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There. List done. Aren't we all deliriously enthused over this turn of events? I can imagine your curiosity is so sated it's sitting back, tummy swollen, with legs splayed and pants undone as it digests the full spectrum of fascination that this list has provided. Not even room for dessert, I'm sure. Not even if it's a wafer-thin mint.

Ah well, all good things must come to an end.

So, have a consenscual rest of the day, and don't forget to brush your teeth. I'm off to bathe the Australian men's water polo team and bake the world's largest pickle loaf. Busy busy!

Apparently, whining to the internet about the weather is an effective means of causing a meteorologic paradigm shift, inasmuch as a short post on Saturday about the stupid RAIN that was present here resulted in a frontal system pass-through that brought with it a GLORIOUS afternoon and evening, just right for having a party.

So thanks, internet! You rock!

Oh yes, we had a party. The second Tiffowe'en (FIRST ANNUAL!) party was rather a success. By my count, there were at least 50 people who passed through our doors on the way to party central (da backyard), and BONUS, I knew fully 3/4s of them! Ahem. Not that it was a problem, because we knew one of our guests had asked to invite some other people, so OK, fine, that really tall dude dressed like the Jolly Green Giant and his wife the Little Green Sprout were cool, as was the chick dressed like an M&M, and several others. Sure, come on in, the beer’s out back! But you guys, who came with the dude we’ve met twice, who didn’t even bother to wear a costume (except maybe you just got those wicked pissah piercings for the occasion?) I’m not so sure about, but heck, come on in, the beer’s out back and I’ll keep my eye on you.

I think I may have stressed a little about that. OK, more than a little. Throwing parties is stressful! Who ARE these people? Why are they in my house? And why do MORE people keep coming? Apparently I’m a “20 people at a party” kind of person, not a “50 people at a party” person. God I’m getting old. Good thing I had a jug of liquid stress reliever at the ready. Plus coffee.

Anyhow – the bounce house was a huge hit (though folks were sad when it was taken down at 10), as was the bonfire (sawdust flame balls!) and the scavenger hunt. There was way too much food (yay! Leftovers!), we bought far too much potable liquid refreshment (yay! Leftovers!), the two sound systems were just about enough, the potato cannon was a remarkably good way to cap off the night, and by about 1 a.m. (or was it 2?) it was all over. By about midnight I think I’d completely lost track of what was going on (see ‘liquid stress reliever’), but from all reports there was no nakedness (our dog humping a toddler DOES NOT COUNT!) or fighting so it’s all good.

For some other folks’ perspectives, go here and here. Added enticement: They have pictures!

Now, to start planning NEXT year’s party. Your suggestions are welcome.

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Apparently the party and excitement was all a little too much for Skeeter The Dog (despite the aforementioned humping episode), as today’s dawning brought with it the distinct gut-churning odor of canine crap. Oh yes, dog poopy, all over the living room rug. The dang dog had an entire kitchen floor to shit on, but does she? No, she does not. She trots over to the dang RUG and lets fly, that what she does. Once, twice, a dozen times, with stuff that looks like pea soup as the endgame last hurrah. All before I've had my coffee, the cur.

It is a testament to Biff’s fortitude that he did not barf, even a little, while scraping all of it up with the use of two drywall knives. Oh, it was close at the end, but he held it together. Brave, wonderful man!

My job was to run the Bissellizer on all affected areas, which were hard to discern after I vacuumed up all the dry-ish bit, so 8 a.m. found me on hand and knees giving the entire rug a good going-over. Mmm, wet dog crap. Deelish! From the looks of the water coming OUT of the rug, it was well past time to have done this particular chore anyway, as the coffee-colored ick being extracted has to be a clear sign that there was more than canine fecal matter ground in there. So charming. It’s not like we never vacuum that rug; in fact I’m forever at that thing with the Eureka, getting crumbs and dog hair off it so people who MIGHT drop by (like the guy who showed up FRIDAY NIGHT for the party) don’t think we’re utter slobs, but apparently mere vacuuming isn’t sufficient. *Shiver* But hey, it’s done. I hope it doesn’t need to be RE-done once I get home from work tonight…because really, once is enough ‘ew’ for today, thanks very much.

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That’s about it from here. There’s much more to report about our fun-filled party and the things that occurred, but I need to leave something for the Biffster to write about. If he ever posts again, which seems to be less likely as the months fly by, but the fact that I and at least two other bloggers are calling him out on his lackadaisical attitude toward the blogosphere might compel him to write a lil' something for all of us who miss is unique style and humor.

Of course, y’all could go to his blog and pester him too if you want. I’m just sayin’ is all.

Have a lovely day folks!