In the spirit of blogworld, I feel it is only fair to let everyone know that this entry will not be about my bowels.
Sorry.
Rather, I'd like to talk about how absolutely annoyed I get when I have to stop the car to do something. Like get gas. Or get the dogs out to pee. Or get myself out to pee. Actually, with some finangling all of the above can be accomplished at once, and usually without too much police involvement, so that's not really the issue.
Ok, you know that saying about "the journey being half the destination" or the "journey being the destination" or the "destination is actually the journey" or "fuck the destination, all I want IS the journey"?* That saying is so my life philosophy.
I don't like to stop and smell the roses. The first reason is because a lot of other people have probably been jamming their noses into said flowers with nasal drip and I don't want to share. The second is that there are plenty more roses where those came from. Seriously, when have you ever encountered a "rose shortage"? I'm sure should I ever decide to follow your sage advice there will be plenty for me to smell. I'll probably buy my own though, just in case.
When I'd make the semi-annual journey from France into Prague (and vice-versa) I'd take this 14 hour long overnight journey on a bus. It was actually a lot cheaper, faster and nicer than a train - I recommend it. It was always the same bus, with the same slightly mafiaesque looking drivers. And it made the same stops.
Halfway through our journey, we'd stop at some exit off of the German highway, and everyone would get off the bus. This was always at about 2:30 in the morning, and at that point (depending on the direction) I would suddenly awake and question (Paris to Prague) "Why am I still dating this guy?" or (Prague to Paris) "Why do I like this guy so damned much?"**
So, I'd wake up with this jolt of panic and self-doubt and existentialism, which I usually attribute to a seizure without all the weird burning smells and the bus would be stopped. I mean, it wouldn't be moving at all. There we would be, at some rest stop in Germany in the middle of the night and no one seems like they want to get back on the bus and get going. And you think "God! It's only Germany for fuck's sake! Nothing to see here people. Move along." And you start willing them to be magnetically attracted to the bus until their wills give in and they start clambering in.
It's at this point you start remembering that there are in fact some very nice things about Germany, like lots of streetcleaning, beer, and easy access to concentration camps to make you feel bad about being so whiny. And you also realize that you kind of have to go now that you've woken up. But that's the point where the bus driver puts out his fiftieth cigarette and cranks her up. And your soul settles back into complacency as the bus moves on.
I have suffered great disappointment ending almost in tears when I thought my train was finally moving out of the station only to realize it was an optical illusion and only those lucky bastards in the next train were escaping to their next destination (a journey). I have banged my head hard enough to bring bruises when I am stuck in traffic. I do not like to stop when I am in things designed to move.
And one of those things is me.
*Sorry to paraphrase, but I really only got that from a school poster that some friends and I stole when we smoked too many clove cigarettes, and then we drew some testicles on it or maybe it was a butt, because they kind of look the same when you are wielding the Sharpie that SOME of you (present company excluded) might have been huffing and then stuffed into a dumpster.
**The Paris to Prague was my last bus journey and probably why we are no longer still together.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Rejection
My preoccupation with the goings-on in facebook land are occasionally tantamount to my granddad's obsession with daytime television. Both involve a lot of projection of our own desires, fears, and paranoias onto the lives of virtual strangers. The only difference is that the film quality is a little better on facebook. And I don't talk to it. At least not so far.
I like to think of myself as a fearless woman who couldn't give a bird's poop about what other people think of her. This is why, for example, I have no trouble saying callous, hurtful, and inappropriate things in refined social situations while I am "networking." However, I've come to realize that this pooh-poohing of others' opinions is not true, and not only because of the Tourettes diagnosis.
Yes, sadly there will always be a little part of me that will still be bitter about the day I scratched my nose a little too intensely in sixth grade and all those kids started calling me "Ms. Gilbooger" and saying that I was eating boogers and I wasn't. I mean who eats boogers when you can put them on a plywood board and threaten to touch your younger sibling with them while they're sleeping like my deranged Uncle David liked to do to my father. But whatever, those kids were stupid.
Except now all the stupid kids want to be my facebook friends, and out of a sense of munificence (brought on mostly by the fact I am a big-time attorney and their job description is "my husband is a plumber which gives me the flexibility to be a full-time mom") I have agreed to their proposals. But which unfortunately ensued in annoying little griefs that I thought I had left fah fah behind.
The first came from this bitchy cheerleader girl. I remember two very important things about this girl. The first is that she had disproportionately large calves. The second, and most important, is that she told people I had lost my virginity at a party on someone's back porch swing. That last part is not true, and in fact not even believable since most adolescents can barely get it together enough for missionary style, much less moving surfaces. Anyway, she dated an ex of mine and they pretty much both hated me, and really, the story should end there. And indeed, I had long buried it until she "friended" me.
She then offered what appeared to be the peace pipe in the form of a "message" wherein she told me I looked beautiful, that she was amazed at my travels and how she always knew that I'd be a success (?). She then offered info in the form of having kids and invited me to look at her kid photo album. Okay, so I did because I knew she was looking for me to write back and say "Hey, you're also a success because someone put a penis in your vagina and nine months later things came out that can breathe. And they're adorable!" But I looked at ol' Ray-Lynne and Dewayne and I knew that I would hate myself forever if I ever in any way praised their aesthetic value. And yet I also hated the fact that it seemed like she had really tried and yet, there I was, being all petty. So, I hemmed and hawed and then noticed about a week later that she had "defriended" me. And to add insult to injury commented on another mutual "friend's" status that "her status wasn't as witty as some show-offs we know."
Okay, this is actually pretty funny but I am so sick and tired of people who don't respect what should be the cardinal rule of facebook. If you "friend" someone, you do not get to defriend them unless that person really wrongs you in some horrible way. Like kicking your dog. Or sucking as your partner in a clinic. But really, was I chasing you down? No. You wanted me, and you don't get to decide that you don't want me anymore. Or something.
Yeah, that didn't really make much sense. What I meant to say is: Fuck you. And Ray Lynne and Dewayne. And my only regret is that I didn't make that into my witty status for that day.
The second happened a little more recently and involves a girl I may or may not know. We have mutual "friends" but she doesn't look familiar except as a girl who may or may not have been in my math class (and of that I can't be sure because I spent most of my math classes absolutely panicking at the thought that numbers would ultimately be the downfall of me getting into a good college and the hell away from this redneck town). But, whatever ... accept, accept. Then the other day I logged on to find that she had nominated me as "most likely to come on too strong."
What the fuck? I don't even remember this girl, and yet somehow my encounters with her seem to have left such an impression that 13 years later she needs to put out just how over-the-top I was. I'll admit that I had a panache for getting myself in trouble (the strip poker in the hotel with the Beta Club president comes to mind, but we were just faking it, and when he leaned out the hotel room when you stupid people knocked he was only naked from the waist up for fuck's sake). I'll admit that at times it may have appeared that I was on more drugs than I actually was on. And maybe I didn't need to be so enamoured with Tori Amos that I also dyed my hair red. But you are not allowed to friend someone who hardly deigns to know you and take advantage of their goodwill by blessing them with a superlative that makes it sound like I hang out with a cloud of aftershave engulfing those around me as I lean into their personal space and make kissing noises. Fuck you also.
Wait, maybe I don't actually care. Maybe these ruminations are more of an effort for me to get inspired to blog more often. Except now I'm convinced that a colleague hates my guts. But then again, she's the type of person that's so uptight, when she reads microwave instructions that say "make a 1" slit on the top" she probably gets out the ruler. So, I don't really care what she thinks.
Or do I? Did I mention she had the nerve to defriend me at one point? After SHE friended ME?
Duh duh DUH!!!!!
I like to think of myself as a fearless woman who couldn't give a bird's poop about what other people think of her. This is why, for example, I have no trouble saying callous, hurtful, and inappropriate things in refined social situations while I am "networking." However, I've come to realize that this pooh-poohing of others' opinions is not true, and not only because of the Tourettes diagnosis.
Yes, sadly there will always be a little part of me that will still be bitter about the day I scratched my nose a little too intensely in sixth grade and all those kids started calling me "Ms. Gilbooger" and saying that I was eating boogers and I wasn't. I mean who eats boogers when you can put them on a plywood board and threaten to touch your younger sibling with them while they're sleeping like my deranged Uncle David liked to do to my father. But whatever, those kids were stupid.
Except now all the stupid kids want to be my facebook friends, and out of a sense of munificence (brought on mostly by the fact I am a big-time attorney and their job description is "my husband is a plumber which gives me the flexibility to be a full-time mom") I have agreed to their proposals. But which unfortunately ensued in annoying little griefs that I thought I had left fah fah behind.
The first came from this bitchy cheerleader girl. I remember two very important things about this girl. The first is that she had disproportionately large calves. The second, and most important, is that she told people I had lost my virginity at a party on someone's back porch swing. That last part is not true, and in fact not even believable since most adolescents can barely get it together enough for missionary style, much less moving surfaces. Anyway, she dated an ex of mine and they pretty much both hated me, and really, the story should end there. And indeed, I had long buried it until she "friended" me.
She then offered what appeared to be the peace pipe in the form of a "message" wherein she told me I looked beautiful, that she was amazed at my travels and how she always knew that I'd be a success (?). She then offered info in the form of having kids and invited me to look at her kid photo album. Okay, so I did because I knew she was looking for me to write back and say "Hey, you're also a success because someone put a penis in your vagina and nine months later things came out that can breathe. And they're adorable!" But I looked at ol' Ray-Lynne and Dewayne and I knew that I would hate myself forever if I ever in any way praised their aesthetic value. And yet I also hated the fact that it seemed like she had really tried and yet, there I was, being all petty. So, I hemmed and hawed and then noticed about a week later that she had "defriended" me. And to add insult to injury commented on another mutual "friend's" status that "her status wasn't as witty as some show-offs we know."
Okay, this is actually pretty funny but I am so sick and tired of people who don't respect what should be the cardinal rule of facebook. If you "friend" someone, you do not get to defriend them unless that person really wrongs you in some horrible way. Like kicking your dog. Or sucking as your partner in a clinic. But really, was I chasing you down? No. You wanted me, and you don't get to decide that you don't want me anymore. Or something.
Yeah, that didn't really make much sense. What I meant to say is: Fuck you. And Ray Lynne and Dewayne. And my only regret is that I didn't make that into my witty status for that day.
The second happened a little more recently and involves a girl I may or may not know. We have mutual "friends" but she doesn't look familiar except as a girl who may or may not have been in my math class (and of that I can't be sure because I spent most of my math classes absolutely panicking at the thought that numbers would ultimately be the downfall of me getting into a good college and the hell away from this redneck town). But, whatever ... accept, accept. Then the other day I logged on to find that she had nominated me as "most likely to come on too strong."
What the fuck? I don't even remember this girl, and yet somehow my encounters with her seem to have left such an impression that 13 years later she needs to put out just how over-the-top I was. I'll admit that I had a panache for getting myself in trouble (the strip poker in the hotel with the Beta Club president comes to mind, but we were just faking it, and when he leaned out the hotel room when you stupid people knocked he was only naked from the waist up for fuck's sake). I'll admit that at times it may have appeared that I was on more drugs than I actually was on. And maybe I didn't need to be so enamoured with Tori Amos that I also dyed my hair red. But you are not allowed to friend someone who hardly deigns to know you and take advantage of their goodwill by blessing them with a superlative that makes it sound like I hang out with a cloud of aftershave engulfing those around me as I lean into their personal space and make kissing noises. Fuck you also.
Wait, maybe I don't actually care. Maybe these ruminations are more of an effort for me to get inspired to blog more often. Except now I'm convinced that a colleague hates my guts. But then again, she's the type of person that's so uptight, when she reads microwave instructions that say "make a 1" slit on the top" she probably gets out the ruler. So, I don't really care what she thinks.
Or do I? Did I mention she had the nerve to defriend me at one point? After SHE friended ME?
Duh duh DUH!!!!!
Monday, March 9, 2009
Creativity
I haven't been blogging much because I kind of fell in lurv and a good part of my internet time has been spent researching sex positions. Actually, a lot of my work time, bath time, bed time and even dog walking time has been spent doing that as well. Such is lurv.
I also haven't been bloggin' lately because my only real exposure to people (with the exception of my lurver) has been those people who don't get my jokes, and I don't like being around those people because then I have to turn into serious girl, and apparently I have this very prominent worry muscle that only goes away when I drink. Or have sex.
I dread being serious. I am not even serious in court. Sometimes opposing counsel does something so ridiculous that I snort laughter, and then I have to start making it sound like an asthma attack so I look like the kind of person who respects the decorum of the court even though I spend most of time imagining what the judge looks like in a string bikini. Or wondering if I have something in my teeth.
On that note, NOTHING irritates me more than a so-called friend who neglects to inform you that you have something stuck in your teeth. My teeth seem to cage every scrap of food imaginable, most of it green. A favorite trap is the area between my front teeth and my teeth next to the front teeth (whatever they're called). I can't tell you how many fucking times I've had to go to this fancy business lunch or something and no one had the kindness to maybe hint that I had something stuck. Hey! Spinach is good for me and I need to eat it. If you don't tell me that there's something in my teeth, it's giving me a reason not to eat it. Then I'll get malnutrition and die and it will all be your fault.
Anyway, since no one's very helpful on this score and retreating to the bathroom is not always an option, my new method is talking with my upper lip curled around my upper teeth. This makes articulation somewhat difficult, but I usually don't have much to say at these things anyway since a novice lawyer is sort of like those kids in puritan times that were supposed to be seen and not heard, except that I don't even want to be seen since my teeth might have some anemones parked in them or something.
Ok, so there are a few friends who have proven their worth by letting me know - probably because I'm always the first friend to point out that their fly is down. Not that I'm a crotch starer or anything. But telling someone their fly is down is much harder than the teeth thing because you have to admit that some part of you is attracted to the vision of an open zipper and you have to tell yourself it's just that and not the fact that you may/may not be attracted to your best girl friend and will always remember the delicious afternoon you made your Barbie dolls do things that wooden puppets were not nearly nimble enough to do.
For crying out loud, teeth clearing hopefully does not give people the feeling that they are repressing homosexual tendencies (although maybe it should). But for those helpful folk, please make sure when you tell me which crevice the offending object is stuck in, you do it as my mirror image. Meaning if the spinach is stuck left, show me right. Don't do the opposite and get all exasperated when I keep digging in the other side and then baring my teeth at your questioningly. Remember, helping a friend clear her dentals sometimes involves being an aerobics instructor. It may feel weird having to do it the other way, but it's for everyone's benefit.
I also haven't been bloggin' lately because my only real exposure to people (with the exception of my lurver) has been those people who don't get my jokes, and I don't like being around those people because then I have to turn into serious girl, and apparently I have this very prominent worry muscle that only goes away when I drink. Or have sex.
I dread being serious. I am not even serious in court. Sometimes opposing counsel does something so ridiculous that I snort laughter, and then I have to start making it sound like an asthma attack so I look like the kind of person who respects the decorum of the court even though I spend most of time imagining what the judge looks like in a string bikini. Or wondering if I have something in my teeth.
On that note, NOTHING irritates me more than a so-called friend who neglects to inform you that you have something stuck in your teeth. My teeth seem to cage every scrap of food imaginable, most of it green. A favorite trap is the area between my front teeth and my teeth next to the front teeth (whatever they're called). I can't tell you how many fucking times I've had to go to this fancy business lunch or something and no one had the kindness to maybe hint that I had something stuck. Hey! Spinach is good for me and I need to eat it. If you don't tell me that there's something in my teeth, it's giving me a reason not to eat it. Then I'll get malnutrition and die and it will all be your fault.
Anyway, since no one's very helpful on this score and retreating to the bathroom is not always an option, my new method is talking with my upper lip curled around my upper teeth. This makes articulation somewhat difficult, but I usually don't have much to say at these things anyway since a novice lawyer is sort of like those kids in puritan times that were supposed to be seen and not heard, except that I don't even want to be seen since my teeth might have some anemones parked in them or something.
Ok, so there are a few friends who have proven their worth by letting me know - probably because I'm always the first friend to point out that their fly is down. Not that I'm a crotch starer or anything. But telling someone their fly is down is much harder than the teeth thing because you have to admit that some part of you is attracted to the vision of an open zipper and you have to tell yourself it's just that and not the fact that you may/may not be attracted to your best girl friend and will always remember the delicious afternoon you made your Barbie dolls do things that wooden puppets were not nearly nimble enough to do.
For crying out loud, teeth clearing hopefully does not give people the feeling that they are repressing homosexual tendencies (although maybe it should). But for those helpful folk, please make sure when you tell me which crevice the offending object is stuck in, you do it as my mirror image. Meaning if the spinach is stuck left, show me right. Don't do the opposite and get all exasperated when I keep digging in the other side and then baring my teeth at your questioningly. Remember, helping a friend clear her dentals sometimes involves being an aerobics instructor. It may feel weird having to do it the other way, but it's for everyone's benefit.
Misnomer
I know I'm probably setting myself up for yet more jeering from those of you who like handicapped people, but I am actually attending an event this Friday with the unfortunate title "Dancing for Dystrophy."
Unfortunate because those fuckers rejected the pretty sweet suggestion of calling the event "Rubbing it In." I just feel like that has a much more positive feel.
My only fear is that real handicapped people might actually be there clogging up the dance floor with their wheelchairs and shit so I can't bust out my hot ambulatory moves. But there's a free bar, so that should kill the pain. As long as there's not a handicapped space in front of the bar, 'cause then things are gonna get nasty.
Unfortunate because those fuckers rejected the pretty sweet suggestion of calling the event "Rubbing it In." I just feel like that has a much more positive feel.
My only fear is that real handicapped people might actually be there clogging up the dance floor with their wheelchairs and shit so I can't bust out my hot ambulatory moves. But there's a free bar, so that should kill the pain. As long as there's not a handicapped space in front of the bar, 'cause then things are gonna get nasty.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Handicapped
There is nothing that steams me up more when I am in a hurry in a crowded parking lot then to have to see three pristine handicapped parking spaces with no one using them. And then, after finally finding a spot somewhere down the street to see people with handicapped stickers parked right up front in a non-handicapped space.
This is entirely unfair, and I for one am not going to take it anymore.
The ratio of handicapped accessible things to the number of actual handicapped people is absolutely abominable. Do my tax dollars really need to pay for you to make it up that ramp to pick up your prescriptions from Walgreen's? I don't think so. Why don't you send that nurse of yours or something? I'm sure she'd be happy to get away from your handicapped ass for a few minutes because it probably makes her feel all guilty that she can walk and everything. I know being around handicapped people makes me feel that way and that is why I avoid it.
Also, if people are really unable to walk from a parking lot to a store, should they really be driving? I call bullshit on this baloney handicapped business. They get ramps and elevators and those chairs that go up the stairs. And let's not forget those awesome grocery carts. Enough is enough. Soon they'll actually be wanting me to move out of their way so they can get down the hospital corrider.
If handicapped people park in MY non-handicapped space, they should get a ticket.
How's that for fair treatment?
This is entirely unfair, and I for one am not going to take it anymore.
The ratio of handicapped accessible things to the number of actual handicapped people is absolutely abominable. Do my tax dollars really need to pay for you to make it up that ramp to pick up your prescriptions from Walgreen's? I don't think so. Why don't you send that nurse of yours or something? I'm sure she'd be happy to get away from your handicapped ass for a few minutes because it probably makes her feel all guilty that she can walk and everything. I know being around handicapped people makes me feel that way and that is why I avoid it.
Also, if people are really unable to walk from a parking lot to a store, should they really be driving? I call bullshit on this baloney handicapped business. They get ramps and elevators and those chairs that go up the stairs. And let's not forget those awesome grocery carts. Enough is enough. Soon they'll actually be wanting me to move out of their way so they can get down the hospital corrider.
If handicapped people park in MY non-handicapped space, they should get a ticket.
How's that for fair treatment?
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