I just had three little trick-or-treaters at my door, two boys and a girl. They were jockeying for position to get their candy, i.e. "I go first!" "No, I'm first!" Well, I filled the little girl's pillowcase first and (I'm assuming) her brother said, "She goes first every time." "Ladies first," I said, semi-seriously, and the kid goes, in a serious, aggrieved tone,
...wait for it...wait for it...
"But she's not a lady! She's a little girl!"
I.die. I.am.DEAD.
Watch out for that kid! He's got a future in politics!
xoxo
Monday, October 31, 2011
more media ranting and other topics
On Saturday evening when I got home, 6:45-ish, it was just starting to change between rain and snow/sleet. I walked into the house, and D had channel 7 news on his TV, so I went to look at what the weather was saying. The douche on there (Pete Bouchard? I think)--who by the way, was the same douche who on the Sunday of the hurricane kept saying all morning and all afternoon, with a barely disguised glee under his veneer of concerned face, that NO MATTER HOW HOPEFUL IT LOOKED OUT THERE, don't be complacent, because a tree was still probably going to fall on your house, and here's why--was saying that this October storm was going to be as bad as the great ice storm of 2008 or Irene, and you, viewer, were going to probably lose your power, so this might well be the last TV weather report you'd be hearing, maybe for days. Seriously. And again, with this kind of barely-disguised sadistic glee, like wasn't this fun that you, viewer, were screwed, and he got to tell you about it. I can't even. I understand TV meteorologists being excited by big storms. Back in the good old days, Dicky Albert used to be like a five year old who got into the Halloween candy and followed it up with three Pepsis and maybe a Red Bull, but it was more, "Well, this model is telling us *this* and this model is telling us *that*, and OMFG, isn't it fascinating? let's see which way this baby goes!" Never, "Dudes, you're all probably gonna die, so start worrying now!" Sigh.
I pretty much gave up watching the local news in the early 90s because every morning when I was getting dressed for work, it was a never ending parade of stories about horrific abuse cases, rapes, kidnappings, grisly murders--basically the more sordid, disgusting, and soul-killing the crime, the more they gleefully covered it, and it made me start every day off in a bad, bad mood. Apparently, this journalistic bent now applies to the weather forecast as well. Sensationalize it as much as you can and never look at the upside. If I was more of a conspiracy theorist, I'd suggest they're in cahoots with BigPharma to sell more antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. But, really, the whole consumer culture we're living in is driven by various forms of anxiety, isn't it? People who are calm and content and at peace with themselves aren't the ones who can be convinced that they really need objects and services they don't really need.
And that's my smooth segue to asking all y'all how long a water heater usually lasts. Lulz. Just over the last week or so, my water isn't getting as hot and is running out sooner. Like, when I'm rinsing off dishes, usually if I have the hot water turned on all the way, it gets hot enough that it's difficult for me to keep my hands under it. Now, no. Or, if I try to take a bath, there isn't enough hot water to fill it up as deep as I want to the temperature I want, and that's never been a problem. So yesterday when I was down the basement cleaning and purging again, I took a look at the water heater, and while there was nothing visibly wrong with it, the sticker on it said it was installed in 1997. That's almost 15 years (yeah, I did the math for you--you're welcome). Do you think it's just reaching the end of its natural life and needs to be replaced? How much is that gonna run me? I don't remember how much it cost in 1997, yo. You'll be happy to know I'm conserving money by, as I resolved, not cracking and putting the heat on yet. It was 58 in the downstairs and 54 in the upstairs yesterday. Ha! (And, WTF, doesn't heat *rise*? Shouldn't the sun on the roof make the upstairs warmer, all other things considered?)
And finally, I did put out another metal chair with my trash this week, along with a couple plastic table thingies and an old lawn chair, but, alas, I slept too late this morning to see whether anyone collected any of it off my curb before the trash guys showed up.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
I pretty much gave up watching the local news in the early 90s because every morning when I was getting dressed for work, it was a never ending parade of stories about horrific abuse cases, rapes, kidnappings, grisly murders--basically the more sordid, disgusting, and soul-killing the crime, the more they gleefully covered it, and it made me start every day off in a bad, bad mood. Apparently, this journalistic bent now applies to the weather forecast as well. Sensationalize it as much as you can and never look at the upside. If I was more of a conspiracy theorist, I'd suggest they're in cahoots with BigPharma to sell more antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. But, really, the whole consumer culture we're living in is driven by various forms of anxiety, isn't it? People who are calm and content and at peace with themselves aren't the ones who can be convinced that they really need objects and services they don't really need.
And that's my smooth segue to asking all y'all how long a water heater usually lasts. Lulz. Just over the last week or so, my water isn't getting as hot and is running out sooner. Like, when I'm rinsing off dishes, usually if I have the hot water turned on all the way, it gets hot enough that it's difficult for me to keep my hands under it. Now, no. Or, if I try to take a bath, there isn't enough hot water to fill it up as deep as I want to the temperature I want, and that's never been a problem. So yesterday when I was down the basement cleaning and purging again, I took a look at the water heater, and while there was nothing visibly wrong with it, the sticker on it said it was installed in 1997. That's almost 15 years (yeah, I did the math for you--you're welcome). Do you think it's just reaching the end of its natural life and needs to be replaced? How much is that gonna run me? I don't remember how much it cost in 1997, yo. You'll be happy to know I'm conserving money by, as I resolved, not cracking and putting the heat on yet. It was 58 in the downstairs and 54 in the upstairs yesterday. Ha! (And, WTF, doesn't heat *rise*? Shouldn't the sun on the roof make the upstairs warmer, all other things considered?)
And finally, I did put out another metal chair with my trash this week, along with a couple plastic table thingies and an old lawn chair, but, alas, I slept too late this morning to see whether anyone collected any of it off my curb before the trash guys showed up.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
Saturday, October 29, 2011
son, i am disappoint
So not happy with the Texas Rangers. I mean, I know, they are not my real team, they are just the team I adopted for the playoffs, but nevertheless watching them blow a World Series that they were so close to winning was heartbreaking. And now baseball season is *really* over and I have a long winter of sports boredom ahead of me. Tragic.
You know what else is tragic? The weather forecast. I refuse to believe it's going to actually appreciably snow before Halloween. I will not accept it as a possibility until I look out my window and see white shit on the ground. It's ridiculous.
Also, the heat is not going on in my house until Thanksgiving. Till then, it's sweatshirts, UGG sweater boots, couch blankets, the space heater, and using the oven a lot to warm up the kitchen.
Can I tell you another sad online dating story? I guess I have to explain the background. So, on OKC, they have all these questions that you can answer. Not only do you answer your own answer, you answer what answers you'd accept from a prospective partner, and then you rank how important the question is to you. This all allows them to give you a fakeass compatibility score with other people and for them to suggest matches for you. Well, filling these out as honestly as I could, I may have left open the possibility that I am open to non-monogamy. Which I am. Of a very circumscribed type. OKC, however, has taken that to mean that I am up for banging married guys. (Hence, I suppose, the 60-something Boston lawyer who wanted me to commit adultery with him.) Well, no, that's not what I'm looking for, but thanks anyway. I see no way to edit my questions honestly yet rule out that assumption. Probably gonna have to come out and say something in the body of my profile for those horndogs who actually, y'know, read.
But anyway, to get to the point, this guy writes to me yesterday and says in a very smarmy tone (yes, sometimes there *is* tone in email), "I wonder why our compatibilty is 80%?" So I check out his profile. He's 40 years old, he's from Gloucestah, and he's in an "open" marriage. I wonder if his wife is too! (Oh, I kill myself.) So that's what the smarminess is about. He thinks I'm interested in banging married guys too. If it wouldn't cause me untold embarrassment, I'd show his profile to Townie Girl and see if she knows him and if he's as big a douchebag as it seems. I'm sure she knows him. She's 36-ish, so close enough in age to him, and she's very social--she knows everybody. But since no one in work can ever know I have an online dating profile, alas I cannot get the dirt. Son, I really am disappoint.
Stay warm!
xoxo
You know what else is tragic? The weather forecast. I refuse to believe it's going to actually appreciably snow before Halloween. I will not accept it as a possibility until I look out my window and see white shit on the ground. It's ridiculous.
Also, the heat is not going on in my house until Thanksgiving. Till then, it's sweatshirts, UGG sweater boots, couch blankets, the space heater, and using the oven a lot to warm up the kitchen.
Can I tell you another sad online dating story? I guess I have to explain the background. So, on OKC, they have all these questions that you can answer. Not only do you answer your own answer, you answer what answers you'd accept from a prospective partner, and then you rank how important the question is to you. This all allows them to give you a fakeass compatibility score with other people and for them to suggest matches for you. Well, filling these out as honestly as I could, I may have left open the possibility that I am open to non-monogamy. Which I am. Of a very circumscribed type. OKC, however, has taken that to mean that I am up for banging married guys. (Hence, I suppose, the 60-something Boston lawyer who wanted me to commit adultery with him.) Well, no, that's not what I'm looking for, but thanks anyway. I see no way to edit my questions honestly yet rule out that assumption. Probably gonna have to come out and say something in the body of my profile for those horndogs who actually, y'know, read.
But anyway, to get to the point, this guy writes to me yesterday and says in a very smarmy tone (yes, sometimes there *is* tone in email), "I wonder why our compatibilty is 80%?" So I check out his profile. He's 40 years old, he's from Gloucestah, and he's in an "open" marriage. I wonder if his wife is too! (Oh, I kill myself.) So that's what the smarminess is about. He thinks I'm interested in banging married guys too. If it wouldn't cause me untold embarrassment, I'd show his profile to Townie Girl and see if she knows him and if he's as big a douchebag as it seems. I'm sure she knows him. She's 36-ish, so close enough in age to him, and she's very social--she knows everybody. But since no one in work can ever know I have an online dating profile, alas I cannot get the dirt. Son, I really am disappoint.
Stay warm!
xoxo
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
guess what i did yesterday?
Squatted my body weight for 5 reps, bitches! Okay, I squatted 115 for 5 reps, and I'm 118-ish these days, but fuckin' close enough. When I was just getting under the bar to start my last set, the 115 set, one of the old guys at the gym that I know to say "hi" to, saw me, caught my eye, and nodded and smiled. Later when I was doing what are either SLDLs or Romanian DLs (there's some discrepancy about terminology, yo) and resting between sets, I saw him heading over to me, so I popped out an earbud to hear him. "I was gonna say you're a glutton for punishment today," he said. I laughed and said, "I squatted my body weight for the first time today. I feel like someone should buy me a cake!" You know, with Happy Squatting Achievement, Andrea! written on it. And he says, "Never mind a cake. Someone should buy you a case of beer!" Oh, the lulz. Lacking anyone to pony up either the cake or the beer, I bough myself a cookie dough brownie at Coven later. Mmmmmm, brownies.
Hope your athletic and fitness accomplishments are also continuing apace! (Rumor has it Uncle is hiking like whoa and Ms Crispix is still yoga teacher training. I don't know what the rest of you slackers are up to.) And remember, if only fuckin' Lackey's surgeon drinks a little too much the night before his Tommy John's, we could conceivably never have to watch him pitch again. Someone buy *that man* a case of beer!
xoxo
Hope your athletic and fitness accomplishments are also continuing apace! (Rumor has it Uncle is hiking like whoa and Ms Crispix is still yoga teacher training. I don't know what the rest of you slackers are up to.) And remember, if only fuckin' Lackey's surgeon drinks a little too much the night before his Tommy John's, we could conceivably never have to watch him pitch again. Someone buy *that man* a case of beer!
xoxo
Monday, October 24, 2011
and just because this keeps making me laugh
That cat looks exactly like Evil Kitty (RIP) and that is exactly the expression she would have had, if we had ever successfully gotten a little pirate hat on her head.
xoxo
hoarders! north of boston edition!
Still cleaning out the basement, all y'all, throwing things out little by little and testing the limits of what I think the trash guys will take. I have seen some of the around-the-corner neighbors put, like, recliners out on the curb and they're not still there in the evening, so either the city takes them or those people drag 'em back into the house in a very timely manner.
Anyway, last night besides my three trash barrels and one lone Hefty bag, I put out two chairs that were down the basement: one green molded plastic "outdoor" chair that no one uses and one decrepit metal framed kitchen chair with a ripped seat that obviously was left behind by the lady who owned the house before us. There's another similar one down there, but I wasn't pushing my luck by putting out three trash-worthy chairs in one week. This morning when I got up, I peeked out to see if the garbagemen had come yet. They had not. However, that metal chair was gone! Somebody liberated it from my trash. Why anyone would want a 25 year old kitchen chair with a ripped seat that doesn't even have a mate, I could not fathom.
However, then it came to me: someone, riding around my neighborhood in the dawn hours, is a freakin' hoarder. It's the only sensible explanation for why anyone would take that. Though why they didn't take the plastic chair that was in better condition, I don't know. Maybe that metal chair is some kind of valuable retro antique and I was too stupid to know it was worth hundreds of bucks. Next week I'll try putting out the other chair and see if it disappears too.
I have to say, throwing shit out is so liberating, I am getting close to hiring a dumpster. I think it would be cheaper than the 1-800-junk guys and at this point I think I'm past caring about the neighbors hating me. This requires some thought. Hmmm. I'd like to take a week off from work in order to throw shit out, but I just cashed in a week of earned time to help with my cash flow, so I'm hoarding (see what I did there?) time off at the moment.
Happy Monday. Stay out of your neighbor's garbage, unless you're absolutely sure they're tossing out antiques. Antiques that are certified bedbug-free.
xoxo
Anyway, last night besides my three trash barrels and one lone Hefty bag, I put out two chairs that were down the basement: one green molded plastic "outdoor" chair that no one uses and one decrepit metal framed kitchen chair with a ripped seat that obviously was left behind by the lady who owned the house before us. There's another similar one down there, but I wasn't pushing my luck by putting out three trash-worthy chairs in one week. This morning when I got up, I peeked out to see if the garbagemen had come yet. They had not. However, that metal chair was gone! Somebody liberated it from my trash. Why anyone would want a 25 year old kitchen chair with a ripped seat that doesn't even have a mate, I could not fathom.
However, then it came to me: someone, riding around my neighborhood in the dawn hours, is a freakin' hoarder. It's the only sensible explanation for why anyone would take that. Though why they didn't take the plastic chair that was in better condition, I don't know. Maybe that metal chair is some kind of valuable retro antique and I was too stupid to know it was worth hundreds of bucks. Next week I'll try putting out the other chair and see if it disappears too.
I have to say, throwing shit out is so liberating, I am getting close to hiring a dumpster. I think it would be cheaper than the 1-800-junk guys and at this point I think I'm past caring about the neighbors hating me. This requires some thought. Hmmm. I'd like to take a week off from work in order to throw shit out, but I just cashed in a week of earned time to help with my cash flow, so I'm hoarding (see what I did there?) time off at the moment.
Happy Monday. Stay out of your neighbor's garbage, unless you're absolutely sure they're tossing out antiques. Antiques that are certified bedbug-free.
xoxo
Friday, October 21, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
yesterday, today, and tomorrow
Yesterday I stayed home all day and did some more fall cleaning. This involved removing some more crap out of the basement, spending *an hour* cleaning the microwave (I dunno what the hell D has been exploding in there, but damn), and stripping everything off my bed, including the bedskirt, washing it all, and remaking it with the winter linens, including stuffing the goddamned down comforter into the muthafuckin duvet, and then dusting and vacuuming and picking up some clutter in there. I had been doing so well keeping on top of the housecleaning for awhile, but I slipped this summer and I hadn't dusted the bedroom in way too long. This morning I woke up and I was 75% less stuffy than I usually am in the morning. Coincidence? Probably not!
Today one of our patients who had been away at college in Montreal and had what is probably going to turn out to be a psychotic break, poor kid, came in for testing. He saw a psychiatrist in the hospital in Canada who thought he may be having seizure activity and recommended he come home to MA, because there was no way the testing he needed could be done there without a nine month wait. I kinda wish M1 was around and not on vacay in Las Vegas so she could have gone on one of her tea partier socialized medicine rants. Ha!
Also today, I got email from a 60-something married Boston lawyer who wants to know if I am up for being the friend and lover of an older married man. Jesus wept. Ashley Madison--->that way. I mean, good god, even if he *wasn't* a lawyer. I'm torn between a.) ignoring it as I do all comeons from people I'm not interested in, b.) answering with a short, sweet "hell, no" or c.) asking what's in it for me. Option c.) might be amusing, but on the other hand, I'm really not mean. Only to you guys.
Tomorrow. I will write a really good blog post that isn't as boring as this one. Maybe. Stay tuned.
xoxo
Today one of our patients who had been away at college in Montreal and had what is probably going to turn out to be a psychotic break, poor kid, came in for testing. He saw a psychiatrist in the hospital in Canada who thought he may be having seizure activity and recommended he come home to MA, because there was no way the testing he needed could be done there without a nine month wait. I kinda wish M1 was around and not on vacay in Las Vegas so she could have gone on one of her tea partier socialized medicine rants. Ha!
Also today, I got email from a 60-something married Boston lawyer who wants to know if I am up for being the friend and lover of an older married man. Jesus wept. Ashley Madison--->that way. I mean, good god, even if he *wasn't* a lawyer. I'm torn between a.) ignoring it as I do all comeons from people I'm not interested in, b.) answering with a short, sweet "hell, no" or c.) asking what's in it for me. Option c.) might be amusing, but on the other hand, I'm really not mean. Only to you guys.
Tomorrow. I will write a really good blog post that isn't as boring as this one. Maybe. Stay tuned.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
my cat, Booney, and seasonal randomosity
When I was just in the kitchen getting coffee, a centipede ran across my floor. In the time it took me to a.) shriek and b.) get a paper towel to squish it with, it disappeared, probably beneath the refrigerator. And it made me think, I wish Booney were still alive.
Booney, besides being the best cat EVAH (more later), looked on centipedes as fancee people look on Beluga caviar and black truffles. The day or two a year when one made it into the house were like Christmas to him. Though he was not a cat with the propensity to hunt--no Evil Kitty, that's for sure--and never one to get too excited about trying to catch shit, he somehow had the instinct to pounce on those gross mofos and slurp them right up. It was disgusting, and yet useful. ('Cause, like, do you think squishing those things with a paper towel *isn't* also disgusting?)
The story of how we got Booney is thus: when I was twenty, my cousin A who was two years younger than I, lived at home, was a frequent guest at our apartment and thus very close to me and my future ex-husband, was moving and her parents said she could NOT take all 3 cats with her to their new apartment. S stopped by their house and, already charmed by the best kitten EVAH, brought him home, because there was no way that cat was going to the shelter on our watch. Booney, who had recently been bought by my cousin at a pet store (probably when she was high to be honest), was unfortunately flea infested and so soon was the wall-to-wall carpeting in our apartment. It was horrible. I remember calling my *other* uncle who was an exterminator in tears, asking him what kind of flea bomb to use. He talked me out of it. I don't remember how exactly he told me to get rid of the fleas without dangerous pesticides, but eventually we did. My point being, this cat was so friggin' lovable, even infesting my house with parasites did not lower our opinion of him. I can't explain exactly what it was about him, but even people who didn't particularly like cats loved him.
He was a spazzy little kitten, but unlike Evil Kitty, he was not destructive. He just ran around a lot. One day while I was at college, I got called out of class to take a phone call about a family emergency. (Remember the days before cell phones? Yeah.) Needless to say, I was freaking out, thinking someone had died. No. It was S. He was at the vet with Booney, who had a broken front leg. Supposedly from trying to jump up onto the top of the refrigerator, though I always had my doubts. (When my ex woke up from his coma and was having his brief moment of repentance for all the shit things he'd done in his life, I shoulda gotten the real story. Alas, I was a little too freaked out at the time to think of it.) The vet was giving him three options, which is why he needed me to tell him what to do. We could have a pin put in the cat's leg for, like, $600. We could have a cast put on for $200, but there was no guarantee he'd walk right after that. Or we could put him to sleep. For reference as to how much money this was in 1983 dollars, the rent on our apartment was $450 a month. (I have no idea why I remember what my rent was in 1983 when I can't remember wtf I did yesterday, but it's just one of those numbers that stick in my mind, like the fact that I weighed 118 at my first prenatal visit.) We picked the cast, as that was as much as we could afford, and even that was stretching it. The cat healed perfectly without the extra $400, by the way. This was my first clue that vets, much like dentists and auto mechanics, are thieving bastards who will happily try to fleece you out of your life savings by trying to convince you that unnecessary expensive procedures are absolutely crucial.
But while Booney had the cast on, he provided many hours of entertainment to visitors, even those who weren't high!, because he would run spastically around our apartment on his three legs, the casted leg out to the side, and get the cast stuck on door frames. Then his little legs would be moving a hundred miles an hour, but he wouldn't be going anywhere. Like a real life roadrunner cartoon. If only there were youtube in 1983, that cat would have been the fucking celeb he deserved to be. If only.
I could tell you many other stories about how awesome this cat was, but we'd be here all day. Let me just say, I had him from the age of 20 till the age of 37, he died on my lap on the way to the vet's [from a bad heart], and I still miss him. Especially when there are centipedes about, but y'know, otherwise too.
....................................................................................
And now the seasonal randomosity! You guys know what I do every freakin' October, right? I buy a Dunkin' Donuts pumpkin muffin, I eat it, it sucks, I bemoan the fact that I haven't learned from previous sad experience and the fact that I wasted 600 calories (really! look it up, it's crazy!) on something that sucked, and then I tell you people I'm not going to do it again. Well. Yesterday was that day.
And then today I got some mini pumpkins and put them on my centerpiece on the dining room table. (The weekend before last, I changed up my dining room table stuff and my foyer stuff for the season. After I'd had a little wine. I was telling someone about this in email after I did it, commenting that I thought it looked good, but I probably had to wait till the next day after I hadn't been drinking to be sure, and they said "rearranging furniture after you've been drinking:...wait for it...wait for it...Feng Sway." And you people think *I'm* the only one. Ha!)
But there it is, with added pumpkins. Festive, no?
And if it's time to decorate with mini pumpkins and eat crappy calorie-bomb pumpkin muffins, you know what time it also is, right? Time to peruse my amazon wishlist and figure out what you're getting me for my birthday which is T minus 30 days. Don't wait till you have to pay for expedited shipping, is all I'm sayin'. You're welcome! No, no, no, your friendship and lurve is all the present I could ever want. (Believe that like I believe that cat really fell off the refrigerator, bitches. Kiss kiss.)
xoxo
Booney, besides being the best cat EVAH (more later), looked on centipedes as fancee people look on Beluga caviar and black truffles. The day or two a year when one made it into the house were like Christmas to him. Though he was not a cat with the propensity to hunt--no Evil Kitty, that's for sure--and never one to get too excited about trying to catch shit, he somehow had the instinct to pounce on those gross mofos and slurp them right up. It was disgusting, and yet useful. ('Cause, like, do you think squishing those things with a paper towel *isn't* also disgusting?)
The story of how we got Booney is thus: when I was twenty, my cousin A who was two years younger than I, lived at home, was a frequent guest at our apartment and thus very close to me and my future ex-husband, was moving and her parents said she could NOT take all 3 cats with her to their new apartment. S stopped by their house and, already charmed by the best kitten EVAH, brought him home, because there was no way that cat was going to the shelter on our watch. Booney, who had recently been bought by my cousin at a pet store (probably when she was high to be honest), was unfortunately flea infested and so soon was the wall-to-wall carpeting in our apartment. It was horrible. I remember calling my *other* uncle who was an exterminator in tears, asking him what kind of flea bomb to use. He talked me out of it. I don't remember how exactly he told me to get rid of the fleas without dangerous pesticides, but eventually we did. My point being, this cat was so friggin' lovable, even infesting my house with parasites did not lower our opinion of him. I can't explain exactly what it was about him, but even people who didn't particularly like cats loved him.
He was a spazzy little kitten, but unlike Evil Kitty, he was not destructive. He just ran around a lot. One day while I was at college, I got called out of class to take a phone call about a family emergency. (Remember the days before cell phones? Yeah.) Needless to say, I was freaking out, thinking someone had died. No. It was S. He was at the vet with Booney, who had a broken front leg. Supposedly from trying to jump up onto the top of the refrigerator, though I always had my doubts. (When my ex woke up from his coma and was having his brief moment of repentance for all the shit things he'd done in his life, I shoulda gotten the real story. Alas, I was a little too freaked out at the time to think of it.) The vet was giving him three options, which is why he needed me to tell him what to do. We could have a pin put in the cat's leg for, like, $600. We could have a cast put on for $200, but there was no guarantee he'd walk right after that. Or we could put him to sleep. For reference as to how much money this was in 1983 dollars, the rent on our apartment was $450 a month. (I have no idea why I remember what my rent was in 1983 when I can't remember wtf I did yesterday, but it's just one of those numbers that stick in my mind, like the fact that I weighed 118 at my first prenatal visit.) We picked the cast, as that was as much as we could afford, and even that was stretching it. The cat healed perfectly without the extra $400, by the way. This was my first clue that vets, much like dentists and auto mechanics, are thieving bastards who will happily try to fleece you out of your life savings by trying to convince you that unnecessary expensive procedures are absolutely crucial.
But while Booney had the cast on, he provided many hours of entertainment to visitors, even those who weren't high!, because he would run spastically around our apartment on his three legs, the casted leg out to the side, and get the cast stuck on door frames. Then his little legs would be moving a hundred miles an hour, but he wouldn't be going anywhere. Like a real life roadrunner cartoon. If only there were youtube in 1983, that cat would have been the fucking celeb he deserved to be. If only.
I could tell you many other stories about how awesome this cat was, but we'd be here all day. Let me just say, I had him from the age of 20 till the age of 37, he died on my lap on the way to the vet's [from a bad heart], and I still miss him. Especially when there are centipedes about, but y'know, otherwise too.
....................................................................................
And now the seasonal randomosity! You guys know what I do every freakin' October, right? I buy a Dunkin' Donuts pumpkin muffin, I eat it, it sucks, I bemoan the fact that I haven't learned from previous sad experience and the fact that I wasted 600 calories (really! look it up, it's crazy!) on something that sucked, and then I tell you people I'm not going to do it again. Well. Yesterday was that day.
And then today I got some mini pumpkins and put them on my centerpiece on the dining room table. (The weekend before last, I changed up my dining room table stuff and my foyer stuff for the season. After I'd had a little wine. I was telling someone about this in email after I did it, commenting that I thought it looked good, but I probably had to wait till the next day after I hadn't been drinking to be sure, and they said "rearranging furniture after you've been drinking:...wait for it...wait for it...Feng Sway." And you people think *I'm* the only one. Ha!)
But there it is, with added pumpkins. Festive, no?
And if it's time to decorate with mini pumpkins and eat crappy calorie-bomb pumpkin muffins, you know what time it also is, right? Time to peruse my amazon wishlist and figure out what you're getting me for my birthday which is T minus 30 days. Don't wait till you have to pay for expedited shipping, is all I'm sayin'. You're welcome! No, no, no, your friendship and lurve is all the present I could ever want. (Believe that like I believe that cat really fell off the refrigerator, bitches. Kiss kiss.)
xoxo
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
yur govmint at work
No, no, no. I'm not gonna talk politics. I'm just going to let you know that I got an automated phone call from the city the other day informing me that we on the lower North Shore have been designated a Federal disaster area for the October 4th flash flood. This means that had my flooded basement actually caused me any damage that my insurance company did not pay for***, I would have been eligible for a low interest loan to fix that shit up. Go, Mr Obama's minions! There's an office set up to process this at the Salem city hall annex. Not that I needed to know this, but I did listen to the whole recording.
My city government, in totally unrelated news, is rolling out these new test recycling bins that are bigger than my actual trash barrels. You could fit hella stuff in them. Unfortunately, only a few streets got them. Including the one around the corner from me, but not mine. I am stuck with two little tubs the size of a milk crate. So every recycling day, I walk past the neighbors' giant bins with seething envy, cursing their good fortune. I would *love* to recycle everything possible, but sometimes my bins are full before pickup day and I have to throw plastic in the trash, like a very, very bad girl.
And finally, my mayor (and former blog subject) is bitching because apparently the UN has been resettling refugees here and the school department is stuck trying to educate kids who come from tribes with no written language and/or who have never set foot in an actual school before. This costs, as you may imagine, lots and lots o' money, and our mayor thinks the UN ought to be ponying up some cash or else stop sending people here. It is kind of bizarre that the UN would single us out as some place to resettle people who heretofore were herding cows or some such. Wouldn't some place a.) warmer and b.) less,um, aggressively urban be less of an adjustment? Arizona! They should send them to Arizona! They like immigrants there!
Oh, I kill myself.
xoxo
I forgot the motherfucking footnote again. This isn't even funny.
***I don't think I told you, but the day I was bailing out my basement, the insurance guy finally called me back noon-ish and I told him I had it under control and wasn't going to need to hire anyone, so Ididn't need his help. And then I hung up without finding out whether it *would* have been covered. So I still don't know. D'oh.
My city government, in totally unrelated news, is rolling out these new test recycling bins that are bigger than my actual trash barrels. You could fit hella stuff in them. Unfortunately, only a few streets got them. Including the one around the corner from me, but not mine. I am stuck with two little tubs the size of a milk crate. So every recycling day, I walk past the neighbors' giant bins with seething envy, cursing their good fortune. I would *love* to recycle everything possible, but sometimes my bins are full before pickup day and I have to throw plastic in the trash, like a very, very bad girl.
And finally, my mayor (and former blog subject) is bitching because apparently the UN has been resettling refugees here and the school department is stuck trying to educate kids who come from tribes with no written language and/or who have never set foot in an actual school before. This costs, as you may imagine, lots and lots o' money, and our mayor thinks the UN ought to be ponying up some cash or else stop sending people here. It is kind of bizarre that the UN would single us out as some place to resettle people who heretofore were herding cows or some such. Wouldn't some place a.) warmer and b.) less,um, aggressively urban be less of an adjustment? Arizona! They should send them to Arizona! They like immigrants there!
Oh, I kill myself.
xoxo
I forgot the motherfucking footnote again. This isn't even funny.
***I don't think I told you, but the day I was bailing out my basement, the insurance guy finally called me back noon-ish and I told him I had it under control and wasn't going to need to hire anyone, so Ididn't need his help. And then I hung up without finding out whether it *would* have been covered. So I still don't know. D'oh.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
varied things, now a trilogy!
Seriously, guys, I wish I had something substantive to write about that would take up a whole post. Then I could stop just spewing the random contents of my brain at you. However, until that day comes, this is what you get.
1.) You can't expect me to be intelligent or clever today anyhow, because I had like three hours of sleep. Why did you have three hours of sleep, Andrea? Because I could hear it raining hard outside and I was afraid/paranoid/flipping out my basement was flooding again. I went down to look at 1 am and all was fine. I was wide awake at 6 am and all was still fine. None of that helped me to sleep. Sigh.
2.) Monday on the holiday I was out walking all over the city of Boston, drinking and eating crap, and incidentally getting my feet chewed up by my sandals. Tuesday I had a big weird blister on the bottom of my right foot. I put a blister bandaid on it and hobbled all day. Yesterday, however, not being in work, I wore my UGG sweater boots--without socks--and walked about in fleecy comfort. Four miles in fleecy comfort, to be exact. Today my bad foot is all better. Coincidence? I think not. Still trying to justify that expense? Shut up.
3.) If this offends anyone reading this, apologies in advance. Every time I write a post saying I disapprove of or mocking something, I find out my blog readers all run up the stairs at Porter Square station or some such shit, and I've just insulted them. It's not personal, I swear to god. If I make fun of something and you do it or like it, you are the only exception to the rule. Remember that, por favor.
Okay! Here goes.
3.) I have never approved of people naming their kids after themselves. You know, like John Smith, Jr. I, first of all, have a visceral reaction to it, like, "Give the kid his own name, don't make him share yours. Damn." That doesn't necessarily make any logical sense; it's just a visceral reaction. But secondly, it leads to the kinda thing where a friend of mine calls her (26 year old, for god's sake) grandson "Little Ronny." This is to distinguish him from his father, Ronny, and his grandfather, Ron. The lack of dignity grows all down the line. The chance of having a grownup name kinda depends on the forebears kicking off. Do you want to be referring to your child as "little So n So" or calling him Junior when he's a Supreme Court justice? C'mon now. (Though, I must say, I do know a [Dominican] kid or two whose legal name is Junior, the mom just liking the sound of it and it not necessarily having the same connotations to her if her native language isn't English. I suppose this is better than naming your child Apple or Blanket, especially if you don't have a fortune for them to inherit.)
But it just occurred to me the other day that there is another pitfall to naming your child the same first name as his father, from the mother's point of view. If your husband's name is Harry and your son's name is also Harry, does it not make it impossible to then gasp out, "Oh, Harry, fuck me harder!" at the appropriate moment? Wouldn't doing so kill the mood, like, irreparably? So, yeah, you'd have to train yourself to only call your spouse by a special nickname in those, uh, intimate moments or you'd be back to only ever thinking of, or referring to, your child as Junior or whatever. Am I off base here? Is it just me? (Bonus points for figuring out what brings this up, ahahaha.)
4.) I was watching ESPN news yesterday morning and they were talking to Nomar, who does a lot of work for them, about the story in the Globe alleging all that stuff about Tito being ineffective because of his marital separation and/or pain pill usage, and the starting pitchers drinking beer and eating takeout fried chicken in the clubhouse while their teammates were out there sucking, and all the rest. So Nomar says, "Well, first of all, I haven't read it, because I don't read tabloids." Ooooo, burn. I guess Nomar is still a wee bit bitter, huh?
5.) OMG, I'm so excited, you guys. Beauty and the Beast, the TV series from the 80s with Linda Hamilton, is on Netflix instant view now! I watched a couple episodes last night while I was having my insomnia. The 80s really really were a bad fashion decade. But I like Linda Hamilton, even without her metaphorical and literal guns. She should get some acting jobs again, now that she isn't married to whatshisface anymore. She'd probably need to get a little work done, though.
55 year old women aren't allowed to look like 55 year old women in Hollywood.
I think that's it for now. Kiss kiss.
xoxo
1.) You can't expect me to be intelligent or clever today anyhow, because I had like three hours of sleep. Why did you have three hours of sleep, Andrea? Because I could hear it raining hard outside and I was afraid/paranoid/flipping out my basement was flooding again. I went down to look at 1 am and all was fine. I was wide awake at 6 am and all was still fine. None of that helped me to sleep. Sigh.
2.) Monday on the holiday I was out walking all over the city of Boston, drinking and eating crap, and incidentally getting my feet chewed up by my sandals. Tuesday I had a big weird blister on the bottom of my right foot. I put a blister bandaid on it and hobbled all day. Yesterday, however, not being in work, I wore my UGG sweater boots--without socks--and walked about in fleecy comfort. Four miles in fleecy comfort, to be exact. Today my bad foot is all better. Coincidence? I think not. Still trying to justify that expense? Shut up.
3.) If this offends anyone reading this, apologies in advance. Every time I write a post saying I disapprove of or mocking something, I find out my blog readers all run up the stairs at Porter Square station or some such shit, and I've just insulted them. It's not personal, I swear to god. If I make fun of something and you do it or like it, you are the only exception to the rule. Remember that, por favor.
Okay! Here goes.
3.) I have never approved of people naming their kids after themselves. You know, like John Smith, Jr. I, first of all, have a visceral reaction to it, like, "Give the kid his own name, don't make him share yours. Damn." That doesn't necessarily make any logical sense; it's just a visceral reaction. But secondly, it leads to the kinda thing where a friend of mine calls her (26 year old, for god's sake) grandson "Little Ronny." This is to distinguish him from his father, Ronny, and his grandfather, Ron. The lack of dignity grows all down the line. The chance of having a grownup name kinda depends on the forebears kicking off. Do you want to be referring to your child as "little So n So" or calling him Junior when he's a Supreme Court justice? C'mon now. (Though, I must say, I do know a [Dominican] kid or two whose legal name is Junior, the mom just liking the sound of it and it not necessarily having the same connotations to her if her native language isn't English. I suppose this is better than naming your child Apple or Blanket, especially if you don't have a fortune for them to inherit.)
But it just occurred to me the other day that there is another pitfall to naming your child the same first name as his father, from the mother's point of view. If your husband's name is Harry and your son's name is also Harry, does it not make it impossible to then gasp out, "Oh, Harry, fuck me harder!" at the appropriate moment? Wouldn't doing so kill the mood, like, irreparably? So, yeah, you'd have to train yourself to only call your spouse by a special nickname in those, uh, intimate moments or you'd be back to only ever thinking of, or referring to, your child as Junior or whatever. Am I off base here? Is it just me? (Bonus points for figuring out what brings this up, ahahaha.)
4.) I was watching ESPN news yesterday morning and they were talking to Nomar, who does a lot of work for them, about the story in the Globe alleging all that stuff about Tito being ineffective because of his marital separation and/or pain pill usage, and the starting pitchers drinking beer and eating takeout fried chicken in the clubhouse while their teammates were out there sucking, and all the rest. So Nomar says, "Well, first of all, I haven't read it, because I don't read tabloids." Ooooo, burn. I guess Nomar is still a wee bit bitter, huh?
5.) OMG, I'm so excited, you guys. Beauty and the Beast, the TV series from the 80s with Linda Hamilton, is on Netflix instant view now! I watched a couple episodes last night while I was having my insomnia. The 80s really really were a bad fashion decade. But I like Linda Hamilton, even without her metaphorical and literal guns. She should get some acting jobs again, now that she isn't married to whatshisface anymore. She'd probably need to get a little work done, though.
55 year old women aren't allowed to look like 55 year old women in Hollywood.
I think that's it for now. Kiss kiss.
xoxo
Sunday, October 9, 2011
varied things, the motherfn' sequel
1.) I forgot this one yesterday. Yesterday morning I was about to miss my bus to work, as it was coming and I was on the corner waiting to cross the street, when the bus driver saw me, gestured questioningly to me, and then stopped and waited for me to get across. I bet *she* never holds up the line at CVS either. Thank you, nice bus driver.
2.) So, then at work yesterday, I had this woman come in with her almost 8 yo, and she asked if she could speak to me privately before we did anything. It seems that she had told the kid that the reason he was having a test was that his soccer coach wanted all the players to be checked for concussions, and she wanted me to go along with this. Um, okay, fine. It's not for me to tell you that you shouldn't lie to your children in an attempt to not freak them out about something, but c'mon. The kid was about to turn 8, not 5. Don't you think at some point he's going to talk to his teammates and find out that they indeed did NOT go have their brains checked too? Then, after we were done and all went swimmingly (despite the woman's fears that this perfectly cooperative little boy wasn't gonna do well), the mom who obviously had an anxiety disorder to the power of 11 herself, asked me anxiously if the fact that I wrote in my little book meant something REALLY BAD. Um, no, it meant I was logging him in. God knows, I have uber sympathy for people with the crazee--especially the crazee that resembles my own--because I know what it feels like. But it occurred to me that I *would never* verbalize my irrational anxieties to a stranger like that, because I know when they are probably irrational. I just tell you people about them. That's good, right?
3.) In the Georgian language, "zeg" means the day after tomorrow. Why is there no word for that in English? I am going to adopt zeg in this blog. Try to keep up.
4.) There was this story on CNN this morning about some little sixth grade girl in (Kansas? Texas? some place like that, lulz) who was forbidden from wearing a rosary-style necklace to school because it's against the dress code. It's against the dress code because some gang members also wear rosaries as a gang sign. Naturally the parents, the archdiocese, etc are all outraged! outraged, I say! about this, and have the little girl on TV saying how she really wants to wear the necklace to help her think about Jesus dying for her sins (though she phrased it clumsily, like trying to remember something someone told her to say). I dunno, I know 12 year old girls and I was a 12 year old girl, and I think her initial reason for wanting to wear this piece of jewelry was probably more like, oooo! pretty! And also? The whole flipping out about how her religious freedom was being infringed upon? Do the parents not see that this is not some kind of evil discrimination but a safety measure? When D was in high school there was a whole litany of things that were against the dress code because they were possible gang signifiers. (How many times to I have to tell you, I live in a klassy area. God.) I don't think he or any of his fellow students objected too much to this--and you know teenagers object to fucking everything--because, y'know, you do not WANT to accidentally wear something that suggests you have a gang affiliation that you do not in fact have. It could be dangerous to your fucking health, noimsayin? The mother in the piece was all, "well, obviously, we're not gang people." No, you stupid cow, you are not, but do you really want to open the possibility of someone who *is* starting shit with your little girl at school over a fucking necklace, when there are a whole bunch of other crosses, etc, she could wear to express her faith, if that's what she's really expressing?
There's more, but I should get dressed, yo. Happy Sunday!
xoxo
2.) So, then at work yesterday, I had this woman come in with her almost 8 yo, and she asked if she could speak to me privately before we did anything. It seems that she had told the kid that the reason he was having a test was that his soccer coach wanted all the players to be checked for concussions, and she wanted me to go along with this. Um, okay, fine. It's not for me to tell you that you shouldn't lie to your children in an attempt to not freak them out about something, but c'mon. The kid was about to turn 8, not 5. Don't you think at some point he's going to talk to his teammates and find out that they indeed did NOT go have their brains checked too? Then, after we were done and all went swimmingly (despite the woman's fears that this perfectly cooperative little boy wasn't gonna do well), the mom who obviously had an anxiety disorder to the power of 11 herself, asked me anxiously if the fact that I wrote in my little book meant something REALLY BAD. Um, no, it meant I was logging him in. God knows, I have uber sympathy for people with the crazee--especially the crazee that resembles my own--because I know what it feels like. But it occurred to me that I *would never* verbalize my irrational anxieties to a stranger like that, because I know when they are probably irrational. I just tell you people about them. That's good, right?
3.) In the Georgian language, "zeg" means the day after tomorrow. Why is there no word for that in English? I am going to adopt zeg in this blog. Try to keep up.
4.) There was this story on CNN this morning about some little sixth grade girl in (Kansas? Texas? some place like that, lulz) who was forbidden from wearing a rosary-style necklace to school because it's against the dress code. It's against the dress code because some gang members also wear rosaries as a gang sign. Naturally the parents, the archdiocese, etc are all outraged! outraged, I say! about this, and have the little girl on TV saying how she really wants to wear the necklace to help her think about Jesus dying for her sins (though she phrased it clumsily, like trying to remember something someone told her to say). I dunno, I know 12 year old girls and I was a 12 year old girl, and I think her initial reason for wanting to wear this piece of jewelry was probably more like, oooo! pretty! And also? The whole flipping out about how her religious freedom was being infringed upon? Do the parents not see that this is not some kind of evil discrimination but a safety measure? When D was in high school there was a whole litany of things that were against the dress code because they were possible gang signifiers. (How many times to I have to tell you, I live in a klassy area. God.) I don't think he or any of his fellow students objected too much to this--and you know teenagers object to fucking everything--because, y'know, you do not WANT to accidentally wear something that suggests you have a gang affiliation that you do not in fact have. It could be dangerous to your fucking health, noimsayin? The mother in the piece was all, "well, obviously, we're not gang people." No, you stupid cow, you are not, but do you really want to open the possibility of someone who *is* starting shit with your little girl at school over a fucking necklace, when there are a whole bunch of other crosses, etc, she could wear to express her faith, if that's what she's really expressing?
There's more, but I should get dressed, yo. Happy Sunday!
xoxo
Saturday, October 8, 2011
varied things
1.) I realized yesterday that there's a simple test to tell what kind of person you are. If you are in line at a store and the cashier hands you back your change or credit card and/or receipt and/or coupons and you need to sort these things out and put them in your wallet or bag, do you step to the side to do so in order for the person behind you to be taken care of, or do you stand where you are, clogging up the wheels of progress for the next minute and a half? It's along the lines of, do you say please and thank you to your waiter and tip decently for adequate service? or if you are driving and not in a terrible hurry because you are late for an appointment or some such, do you at least occasionally stop and let someone pull out in front of you? or do you offer your seat on the T to the elderly person, the obviously pregnant woman, or the parent trying to balance a 2 year old on their hip? You know, the How Rude and Self-Centered Are You? quiz. More people fail these tests than you, my polite and generous readers, may imagine.
2.) Also, yesterday. I got a check in the mail for 11 dollars and change for something I wrote in 1996. Oh, the lulz. Do you remember me telling you that I realized a few months ago that an anthology I was in years ago was on the kindle? I think this is my royalties for that. Though there was no accompanying letter or any indication on the check, so I'm just assuming. See? I'm still a real writer, goddamnit.
3.) An email that I received and read yesterday is mysteriously not in my old mail, my recently deleted mail, or my saved mail. It's just...gone. Huh.
4.) I got my new netbook yesterday. Did I tell you? I ordered one for myself that's just like the one I got D for his birthday last spring. Except his is brown and mine is orange. For less than $300, you really cannot go wrong. Now my computing is mobile again. Prepare yourself for the resumption of posts written from my bed, bitches. I still kinda want an Amazon Fire thingy when they come out, though. Although, I've heard a lot of people saying they're gonna wait for the second generation because it will probably have 3G. Not that I really understand what 3G is or how it works or why I would really need it.
5.) I have SO MUCH trash to put out after the whole basement trauma and, because Monday is a holiday, I can't even do it till Tuesday. It's all in my garage, getting stinky in there. :sad face: I'm toying with the idea of having the 1-800-gotjunk guys come out again, because I still have stuff in the basement that I can't otherwise get rid of, like two old mattresses and a broken recliner. It's muy expensive, though. :sad face again:
6.) I don't know what I did squatting yesterday, but the left side of my butt really hurts. And I thought I would share.
7.) I wanted the Phillies to win. Sigh. All my other teams won though. I want a Brewers-Rangers World Series. Let's see how that pans out.
Happy Columbus Day weekend, all y'all.
xoxo
2.) Also, yesterday. I got a check in the mail for 11 dollars and change for something I wrote in 1996. Oh, the lulz. Do you remember me telling you that I realized a few months ago that an anthology I was in years ago was on the kindle? I think this is my royalties for that. Though there was no accompanying letter or any indication on the check, so I'm just assuming. See? I'm still a real writer, goddamnit.
3.) An email that I received and read yesterday is mysteriously not in my old mail, my recently deleted mail, or my saved mail. It's just...gone. Huh.
4.) I got my new netbook yesterday. Did I tell you? I ordered one for myself that's just like the one I got D for his birthday last spring. Except his is brown and mine is orange. For less than $300, you really cannot go wrong. Now my computing is mobile again. Prepare yourself for the resumption of posts written from my bed, bitches. I still kinda want an Amazon Fire thingy when they come out, though. Although, I've heard a lot of people saying they're gonna wait for the second generation because it will probably have 3G. Not that I really understand what 3G is or how it works or why I would really need it.
5.) I have SO MUCH trash to put out after the whole basement trauma and, because Monday is a holiday, I can't even do it till Tuesday. It's all in my garage, getting stinky in there. :sad face: I'm toying with the idea of having the 1-800-gotjunk guys come out again, because I still have stuff in the basement that I can't otherwise get rid of, like two old mattresses and a broken recliner. It's muy expensive, though. :sad face again:
6.) I don't know what I did squatting yesterday, but the left side of my butt really hurts. And I thought I would share.
7.) I wanted the Phillies to win. Sigh. All my other teams won though. I want a Brewers-Rangers World Series. Let's see how that pans out.
Happy Columbus Day weekend, all y'all.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
noah's ark, day 2
Since i know how you all care so very very much about my problems and you probably tossed and turned all night worrying about chez andrea, here's the update. The water removal company never called me back. Not last night, not so far today and it is almost 11 am. Meanwhile, though those bastards at my insurance company have been at work for three hours now, they have not returned my call either. If I had a question about buying more insurance, do you think I'd have gotten a timely response? Yeah, me too.
Nevertheless, the point is moot, because between the bailing D and I did last night, and the water removing itself, I woke up this morning to a basement that no longer had an inch of water covering the entire floor. Instead I had a few remaining large puddles and a thin layer of dirt covering the rest of the floor. I've been shopvacing for probably 2 1/2-3 hours with breaks, and I have more than 50% of it cleaned up. I've got the dehumidifier back down there and cranking. I might go out and buy a second one and/or a big fan, because the internet tells me those are good for drying out basements too. Then I have to get everything out of there that's gotten wet. Luckily, since D and I have been cleaning down there, there are far less wet cardboard boxes to mildew than there would have been otherwise. We did put down an area rug that we found rolled up down there (shit my mom bought at Building 19, part two billion) when we were cleaning on a part of the floor that *never* gets wet, and it got wet, so that'll have to be trashed. Other than that, all the cleaning we've done helped, not hurt.
So I think, other than the backbreaking labor involved, this is gonna turn out fine and not cost me a shit ton of money. OTOH, I still will need to get the sump looked at, 'cause when it's working, we've never gotten this level of water down there.
Oh, and my only other question is whether it would be good to keep the sliders open to the basement to air it out. I've been going in and out that way to emptying my shopvac into the raised part of the flower beds. I don't expect you people to tell me, because did you have words of wisdom for me last night? No. No you did not. What the hell you people think, having "lives" n' shit, rather than sitting about, waiting to listen to and solve my fucking problems, I don't know. God.
So I shall soldier on, unadvised. I do want credit for how calm I am being, however. I do great when something bad actually happens. I only fall apart worrying in advance about something possibly bad happening. I know. It makes no fucking sense. Believe me, if I could swap this brain out for one that works better, I would.
xoxo
Nevertheless, the point is moot, because between the bailing D and I did last night, and the water removing itself, I woke up this morning to a basement that no longer had an inch of water covering the entire floor. Instead I had a few remaining large puddles and a thin layer of dirt covering the rest of the floor. I've been shopvacing for probably 2 1/2-3 hours with breaks, and I have more than 50% of it cleaned up. I've got the dehumidifier back down there and cranking. I might go out and buy a second one and/or a big fan, because the internet tells me those are good for drying out basements too. Then I have to get everything out of there that's gotten wet. Luckily, since D and I have been cleaning down there, there are far less wet cardboard boxes to mildew than there would have been otherwise. We did put down an area rug that we found rolled up down there (shit my mom bought at Building 19, part two billion) when we were cleaning on a part of the floor that *never* gets wet, and it got wet, so that'll have to be trashed. Other than that, all the cleaning we've done helped, not hurt.
So I think, other than the backbreaking labor involved, this is gonna turn out fine and not cost me a shit ton of money. OTOH, I still will need to get the sump looked at, 'cause when it's working, we've never gotten this level of water down there.
Oh, and my only other question is whether it would be good to keep the sliders open to the basement to air it out. I've been going in and out that way to emptying my shopvac into the raised part of the flower beds. I don't expect you people to tell me, because did you have words of wisdom for me last night? No. No you did not. What the hell you people think, having "lives" n' shit, rather than sitting about, waiting to listen to and solve my fucking problems, I don't know. God.
So I shall soldier on, unadvised. I do want credit for how calm I am being, however. I do great when something bad actually happens. I only fall apart worrying in advance about something possibly bad happening. I know. It makes no fucking sense. Believe me, if I could swap this brain out for one that works better, I would.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
well
My basement is too flooded for me to deal with by myself.
I called one of those water removal companies and they're gonna call me back, because they don't know when they could get here. They're kinda busy today. Go figure. The girl on the phone said I should call my insurance company and see if I am covered. I kinda thought I probably am not, because don't they always say shit on TV about how flooding is not covered by homeowners insurance?
So I called and, of course, my agent closes at 4:30 and I called at 4:31. Left a message. I'm looking at my policy effective 9/06/11 and I have "description of additional coverages: limited fungi, wet or dry rot, or bacteria coverage, section I limit of liability $10,000, section II limit of liability $50,000" I don't know what the fuck any of that means. I suppose someone who has their shit together would know, but you are all well aware I do not have my shit together. Oh! And I believe the reason I have 2 inches of water in my basement is that my sump failed. It hasn't come on at all. When I was down there, it made an anemic little noise a couple times and that was it.
If anyone has anything intelligent to say about any of this, hit me up. I could use some words of wisdom.
xoxo
I called one of those water removal companies and they're gonna call me back, because they don't know when they could get here. They're kinda busy today. Go figure. The girl on the phone said I should call my insurance company and see if I am covered. I kinda thought I probably am not, because don't they always say shit on TV about how flooding is not covered by homeowners insurance?
So I called and, of course, my agent closes at 4:30 and I called at 4:31. Left a message. I'm looking at my policy effective 9/06/11 and I have "description of additional coverages: limited fungi, wet or dry rot, or bacteria coverage, section I limit of liability $10,000, section II limit of liability $50,000" I don't know what the fuck any of that means. I suppose someone who has their shit together would know, but you are all well aware I do not have my shit together. Oh! And I believe the reason I have 2 inches of water in my basement is that my sump failed. It hasn't come on at all. When I was down there, it made an anemic little noise a couple times and that was it.
If anyone has anything intelligent to say about any of this, hit me up. I could use some words of wisdom.
xoxo
weather people, what are they good for, part whatever
Oh hai again, kids!
I left my house this morning at 7:04 and got to work at 8:28. That's one hour and twenty four minutes to go three miles, if you are counting. I could possibly have walked quicker except it would have required those fishing boots that come up to your crotch. My basement is under water and I can't wait to get home and start shopvaccing. Hopefully I can dry it out with the shopvaccing. My boss got here 2 1/2 hours after he left the house. Our other doc just got stuck in a puddle right near the hospital, stalled, and had to be pushed out onto dry ground by some good Samaritans. AAA said they'll probably be able to come and get his car started in, oh, 3-4 hours. Our nurse practitioner who lives ten minutes away, in the opposite direction than I do, called to say she'd left her house an hour before and was nowhere even close to getting here. Meanwhile Receptionist Without Colorful Nickname called to say she'd made it into town, but could not find a way to get to the hospital that wasn't underwater from where she is, so she'll get here when she can get here.
My point being, this is all way way worse flooding here than that frigging hurricane that they whipped us up into frenzy about, all from two hours of severe thunderstorms this morning. Did anyone whip us all up into a even minor frenzy over the possibility of this? NO. Which means I didn't worry about it and the fact that I was an hour late for work and my basement is flooded is not stressing me out. It's all just, eh, whatcha gonna do?
Hope y'all are warm and dry and that if you are stuck in traffic reading this on your iPhone or whatever, you don't have to go the bathroom really really badly.
xoxo
I left my house this morning at 7:04 and got to work at 8:28. That's one hour and twenty four minutes to go three miles, if you are counting. I could possibly have walked quicker except it would have required those fishing boots that come up to your crotch. My basement is under water and I can't wait to get home and start shopvaccing. Hopefully I can dry it out with the shopvaccing. My boss got here 2 1/2 hours after he left the house. Our other doc just got stuck in a puddle right near the hospital, stalled, and had to be pushed out onto dry ground by some good Samaritans. AAA said they'll probably be able to come and get his car started in, oh, 3-4 hours. Our nurse practitioner who lives ten minutes away, in the opposite direction than I do, called to say she'd left her house an hour before and was nowhere even close to getting here. Meanwhile Receptionist Without Colorful Nickname called to say she'd made it into town, but could not find a way to get to the hospital that wasn't underwater from where she is, so she'll get here when she can get here.
My point being, this is all way way worse flooding here than that frigging hurricane that they whipped us up into frenzy about, all from two hours of severe thunderstorms this morning. Did anyone whip us all up into a even minor frenzy over the possibility of this? NO. Which means I didn't worry about it and the fact that I was an hour late for work and my basement is flooded is not stressing me out. It's all just, eh, whatcha gonna do?
Hope y'all are warm and dry and that if you are stuck in traffic reading this on your iPhone or whatever, you don't have to go the bathroom really really badly.
xoxo
Monday, October 3, 2011
poser
Oh hai, kids. Happy October. Want to talk about a book I'm reading? Too bad.
It's called Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses by Claire Dederer. Yes, it's a yoga memoir, much like that book I hated. Apparently after Eat, Pray, Love made a gazillion dollars, this has become a genre, marketed to 30- to 50-something, middle class, liberal women like myself. Unlike that book I hated, Poser does not suck, mainly because the author is apparently an intelligent woman with some degree of self-awareness and the ability to reflect on her own actions and choices and explain them to an audience. One of the things she learns about herself in the course of the book is that because she had an unconventional childhood--her hippie mom left her dad for a younger man, but stayed married to him, and all three of them (her mom, her mom's boyfriend, and her dad) came to the same events even though her parents were legally still together--she as an adult is highly invested in creating a "perfect" nuclear family and thus denies the elephants in the living room, like her husband's severe depression or the fact that she is boiling over with resentment about how her parents and in-laws are always popping in and out of her house.
I find it kind of interesting that she was apparently so scarred by her parents' unconventional relationship. It's funny, because my good high school friend LL, who's been referenced here before, had a very similar situation in her life, though it occurred at a much older age than Ms Dederer's. Sometime when we were either towards the end of high school or the beginning of college (I can't remember, yo) LL's mother Diane, who was still married to and living with LL's dad, got herself a boyfriend, and they all apparently got along fine. I clearly remember attending LL's college graduation party with all three of them there. We, LL's friends, kinda thought, eh, that's a bit weird, but Diane's cool, we all love Diane, and just accepted it. If LL was embarrassed in any way, she never seemed it. She vaguely suggested that the reason her parents stayed legally married and living together was all financial, and that was that.
I guess my point in all this is, as a parent, you never know what you're going to do that'll screw your kids up. Or not screw your kids up. It's all a big mystery. I mean, I myself would think that your parents not legally divorcing even though they're living separate lives, and continuing to get along together wouldn't mess a person up, but apparently I'd be wrong in at least one case, right?
Eh. We gotta keep the therapists of the world employed. So there is that.
xoxo
It's called Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses by Claire Dederer. Yes, it's a yoga memoir, much like that book I hated. Apparently after Eat, Pray, Love made a gazillion dollars, this has become a genre, marketed to 30- to 50-something, middle class, liberal women like myself. Unlike that book I hated, Poser does not suck, mainly because the author is apparently an intelligent woman with some degree of self-awareness and the ability to reflect on her own actions and choices and explain them to an audience. One of the things she learns about herself in the course of the book is that because she had an unconventional childhood--her hippie mom left her dad for a younger man, but stayed married to him, and all three of them (her mom, her mom's boyfriend, and her dad) came to the same events even though her parents were legally still together--she as an adult is highly invested in creating a "perfect" nuclear family and thus denies the elephants in the living room, like her husband's severe depression or the fact that she is boiling over with resentment about how her parents and in-laws are always popping in and out of her house.
I find it kind of interesting that she was apparently so scarred by her parents' unconventional relationship. It's funny, because my good high school friend LL, who's been referenced here before, had a very similar situation in her life, though it occurred at a much older age than Ms Dederer's. Sometime when we were either towards the end of high school or the beginning of college (I can't remember, yo) LL's mother Diane, who was still married to and living with LL's dad, got herself a boyfriend, and they all apparently got along fine. I clearly remember attending LL's college graduation party with all three of them there. We, LL's friends, kinda thought, eh, that's a bit weird, but Diane's cool, we all love Diane, and just accepted it. If LL was embarrassed in any way, she never seemed it. She vaguely suggested that the reason her parents stayed legally married and living together was all financial, and that was that.
I guess my point in all this is, as a parent, you never know what you're going to do that'll screw your kids up. Or not screw your kids up. It's all a big mystery. I mean, I myself would think that your parents not legally divorcing even though they're living separate lives, and continuing to get along together wouldn't mess a person up, but apparently I'd be wrong in at least one case, right?
Eh. We gotta keep the therapists of the world employed. So there is that.
xoxo
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