Archive for the 'life story' Category

Stop freaking out… and please don’t poop in here.

I have a new pet. It’s our old family cat Maimer whose habit of terrorizing my parents’ other cat and leaving angry vengeful turds everywhere almost got her euthanized but somehow landed her in the lap of luxury at my mini mansion instead. It is because I am weak.

And I am running my dishwasher tonight for the first time since her arrival a few days ago. So as I slipped under the covers these are the words I just found myself saying to the cat staring wild-eyed at the bedroom door and gripping the foot of my bed like one would the steering wheel of a car going over a cliff: “Mei-mei, stop freaking out… and please don’t poop in here.”

Cats are dumb. And they are pitiless pooping machines. If you cross them, they will get you back with their poop. End of story.

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and also i shouldn’t talk to coworkers about Hot Lunch

There’s a reason I defriended him on Facebook. I don’t want to know about the new girlfriend who has the same name as me. (Whoops one coworker let that slip a few months ago.) I also don’t want to see the photos of them together… on an exotic vacation. (Whoops I got to hear about that tonight.)

So here is what happens when you combine large quantities of wine, self-pity, jilted rage and Adobe Illustrator.

Hot Lunch, this is for you. I hate you so much. And also I calculate you owe me about $1,074.88 for the movies, the dinners out and that plane ticket, you cheap-ass bastard. Enjoy.

friends share special times together

While not the most IMPORTANT thing that happened on my birthday yesterday, this was certainly memorable. And not the kind of memorable moment that can be planned, either, which makes it like a little unexpected treasure along the path of life and turning 35.

While eating rice bowls outside of Zen Bento in Eagle, we all witnessed a pinecone whack Sis in the back of the head. Sis’s look of surprise was mingled with tinges of personal outrage that can’t be truly captured by mortal pen or digital stylus. For those of us there, memory must suffice.

there was this sound when I went Mac, guys, I swear something went KAPOW!

I have a confession to make, Reader. I lied when I inferred that I was still making up my mind about what computer to buy. The truth is that a cascade of events has already been set in motion.

Event #1: Temptation. Digerati and Motormouth teamed up to corrupt my mind by whispering one word over and over at me, with psychedelic hand motions, until it replayed in my sleep…

MacBook. MaaaaacBoooooooook.

The price tag is horrendous. But in the time that Mac owners like Digerati, Motormouth and Cupcake have been happily using the same laptop they bought years ago, I’ve been through several frustrating demises of PCs.

Event #2: Discovery. At the Apple store online, there is a refurbished MacBook Pro for the same price as a new MacBook.

MaaaacBooooook Prooooooooooo!

Event #3: Realization. One day last week, I decided to visit the local MacLife store on my way home from work, then walked around with butterflies all the way down to my toes all day, just like when I have a date after work. Hold up. This new computer might also be a viable substitute for Hot Lunch?

Event #4: Strike out. Despite Motormouth’s ominous warning not to hold my MacLife experience against Apple, I was still caught by surprise. I walk in and say I’m looking into maybe getting a MacBook Pro and MacLife guy jabs a finger at a table of laptops and says, “There’s the MacBook. There’s the Pro. You can try them out. Let me know if you have questions,” and quickly walks away. The consumer in me feels adrift, but the librarian in me knows why: THIS IS A REFERENCE INTERVIEW FAIL. Here’s how it should have gone. MacLife guy: “Oh! What led you to the MacBook Pro? What computer do you have now or have had in the past? Have you had a Mac before? What are your computing needs? Where did you acquire such fantastic fashion sense?” Any or all of these questions would have proven helpful, or at least appreciated. Strike one, MacLife.

I walk myself over to the Pro, sit down and open Safari, intending to view a few web pages and get the overall feel.

You are not connected to the internet.

Huh. Hard to get the feel for a computer when the demo can’t do the task that I spend 90% of my time doing. Strike two.

I open the text editor and type a few things. (“I am excited! I want this computer! My shoes feel sweaty!”) By this time, MacLife guy #2 has walked a couple of people over to try out the MacBook Pro that I am on. I’m just wasting time and now I feel awkward, so I step aside for them. As MacLife guy #2 is scurrying away, I catch him and ask about their financing options. Is it just the card I saw online? I get a fairly irritated lecture.

“Well THAT is the APPLE store. WE are not AFFILIATED with them. WE are MACLIFE. WE are a SEPARATE ENTITY. WE have been in business for FIFTEEN YEARS.”

All things I have no way of knowing because your store representatives don’t initiate any kind of interview, choosing instead to react to interested customers’ questions with Borg-like diatribes. Strike three. Thank you for your time, MacLife. Goodbye.

Event #5: Kapow! 15 minutes later, I am irritated and drinking a beer at home. (Also uncannily like I just had a date.) I get online. There’s that refurbished MacBook Pro at the Apple store, taunting me with its $300 savings and seamless aluminum unibody.

MaaaaacBoooooooook. Proooooooooooo…

That’s it! I feel pissed. I feel drunkish. I feel reckless. “I never do ANYTHING impulsive!” I shout aloud to myself. Next thing I know I’m applying for a $1000 Barclaycard and moments later a MacBook Pro is in my shopping cart and I have clicked SUBMIT.

“What have I done?!?” I immediately ask myself. Myself answers, “Only the BEST THING EVER.”

Apple takes a long ass time to send a confirmation email. While I’m obsessively watching my inbox, a message from HP pops up. “Please give us feedback on your last support experience! We look forward to helping you with your future computer needs!”

Sorry, HP, it’s over. I’ve moved on. Switched teams, if you must know. Sorry MacLife, there won’t be a second date. Me and Apple have this thing. It’s intense and it’s completely satisfying for both of us. You wouldn’t understand. A love like this is worth the 3 to 5 business days’ wait for free shipping.

like a virgin, typed for the very first time

Now that HP and the Geek Squad have failed me (NBC’s Chuck you are full of lies), Digerati has come through in the form of a library-owned laptop that I can check out from him while I ponder my computer purchasing options. My choices range from the quick $400 laptop from HP (only a little over $100 more than fixing my old desktop would have been) all the way to putting a $1200 MacBook Pro on a credit card and finally getting serious about my computer love.

I don’t have long to make my decision, 1) because I can’t keep a workplace computer indefinitely just to meet my Pandora and Lolcats needs and 2) because using a public computer protected by software that erases all changes upon shutdown is sure to slowly erode my sanity. I complained about this annoying detail to Digerati, whose response was simply, “Ah, that’s the best, though isn’t it? It’s like the first time, every time.”

Not helpful, Digerati, but as usual you get extra points for making it dirty.

I’ve had to re-learn all the passwords I enter online because I’m ACTUALLY entering them now. What am I, a pioneer woman? I don’t want to have to TYPE to catch up on my reader! I want my content presented to me with a mere double click. Now I’m typing a user name AND a password, each a minimum of 8 characters! That’s a collective minimum of 16 characters! And I’m doing the same for my email, Pandora, to check my bank balance… And like a pioneer woman, I AM TYPING WEB ADDRESSES!! Where oh where are my precious saved tabs?

And every time I log in somewhere, Firefox asks me if I want it to remember my password. HA, FIREFOX, THAT’S FUNNY. I don’t know, Firefox, why don’t you check with Public Amnesia Laptop first? The irony is, Firefox, that you won’t even remember me clicking the “Never ask me again for this site” button. Next time we meet in a mere few hours, I will not only have to type an assload of passwords, but also click answers to your same inane questions over and over.

Just getting online, I have to connect to my network EVERY TIME and enter my super secret secure 29-digit WEP key. TWENTY-NINE DIGITS. EVERY TIME. I have it written in pink sharpie on a sticky note that conveniently disappeared this morning. So I found myself TYPING IT FROM MEMORY. 29 digits. From memory. I’ve had this computer too long.

But the worst for YOU, Reader, is that I can’t draw pictures with Amnesia Laptop. Look at that big ugly block of text you just read! No pictures of laughing marshmallows or depressed people or even boobs. I’ve never drawn boobs for you before, Reader, but if I could I would. Too bad I don’t have a computer right now. Who loses when there’s no boobs? Everyone.

don’t make me get out my harsh language

I know, I’ve been slacking. No posts. No funny. No drawings. There are a few reasons.

Reason number one is, I am currently insane. Insane with lady hormones coursing through my system like never before. If you’ve ever been on birth control for a really long time and then went off, then you know what I mean. I forgot how INTENSE things get when not numbed by the pill. The day I shouted that I was on my period, at work in front of several members of the Public? That was just the start of it.

But at least I’m starting to get a handle on the crazy. I mean I’m still crazy. But fewer people are aware of it. For instance. I recently walked into work where they are conducting job interviews, luckily for a position I will have little contact with. I say luckily because today I see a member of the Public who creeps me out. And he is dressed all fancy. Almost as though he expects to be interviewed today. Pants sees my “ugh” face as I walk into the staff office.

Pants: “What?”
me: “So-and-so got an interview?”
Pants: “Ha! I love the disdain.”
me: “Whatever. Like you want to work at a place he has keys to.”

Sunday was Beerfest. The crazy was just starting to set in on that day, lurking underneath the sunshine, the drunkenness and the rejoicing with friends and sharing shade with the random vomit-covered unconscious man. Hot Lunch and I each bought 17 tokens worth of beer and did our best to drink them all. Score at the end of the day, me 7, Hot Lunch 27. Level of drunkenness, equal. Drunk Hot Lunch is flirty affectionate Hot Lunch, always an arm around me, a hand caressing the back of my neck, or his forehead pressed affectionately against mine, gazing into my eyes. I have to remind myself that there’s nothing rekindling between Hot Lunch and me. The arm around me all day was just to keep his drunk ass from falling down. Once home in my own apartment, the buzz is wearing off. And the crazy is rising.

The phone rings.
Hot Lunch: “Are you ok? You were kind of quiet on the way home.”
me: “Not really. I guess I’m kind of sad. And frustrated.”

A few minutes into the conversation.
me: “WHAT I WANT? I WANT YOU TO GET LOST! I’M BUSY DATING OTHER GUYS! YEAH! OTHER GUYS! AND THAT’S YOUR LOSS, DUMBASS! BECAUSE YOU DON’T WANT TO DATE ME! BECAUSE YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT!”

And the other reason I haven’t blogged is that my computer died. I think my sister’s wedding killed it. Or maybe it’s scared. Of the crazy.

life’s hard, especially if you’re made of synthetic materials

I entitle all my storytimes for quick reference purposes later. Last week’s storytime was “Extraordinary Poultry.” There were chickens saving lives and ducks wearing underwear and we danced the Chicken Dance and it was extraordinary.

I tidied up my work space today FINALLY, sifting through a pile of papers and junk while Motormouth laughed and snapped candids and Facebooked them for the world or at least my network to see my shame. I found a lot of things including not my dignity but at least my storytime puppet that went missing last week (wearing a smooshed look between a stack of reports and craft supplies) and a copy of Diary of a Wimpy Kid, which I’d finally given up and paid for a month ago.

I also ran across a storytime plan from April 2nd. It was entitled “i just broke up ha!” Wow. I’d forgotten that morning after Hot Lunch and I broke up was really something. I brandished the piece of paper at Motormouth and described what it had been like:

I remember I’d just kept thinking, How am I doing this? How am I going around like my life didn’t just end last night, smiling and storytiming and singing SHAKE YOUR FUCKIN SILLIES OUT!?!

Whew. Life is much better now. In fact, I’m doing pretty good on the loving myself front. I took myself on my first date, just the one of us, a couple of Fridays ago. For my first try, there were only a few slight hitches.

I got embroiled in a one-sided conversation with my waiter that I didn’t know how to extricate myself from without wolfing down my meal and escaping. Which I did. While in line for my ticket I got a phone call from my mom who, when I boasted about what I was doing, responded thusly:

me: “I’m going to see Toy Story 3 by MYSELF!” 😀
Mom: “Oh I’m SO SORRY! What happened? Where is everyone?”
me: “I don’t know, I didn’t ask. I wanted to go by MYSELF!”
Mom: “Well I’m so sorry I’m not in town, I could have gone with you! We’ll take a rain check, ok?”
me: “It’s ok, Mom. I’m here on purpose. By myself. It’s FUN!”
Mom: “Ok then, take care of yourself, ok? And I’ll go to a movie with you when I get back.”

Toy Story 3 turned out to be a bad choice given the conditions. Long story short, if you were the family seated near the strange lone woman mopping tears from behind her 3D glasses, I am sorry for creeping your kids out. Blame those sadists at Pixar.