http://iliketoquotemyself.blogspot.com/
I’ve relocated.
Pages
-
Categories
-
Archives
1) Migraine from hell. The intensity comes and goes. Right now, for instance, I’m getting ready to cook spaghetti. Two hours ago, I couldn’t turn my head half an inch without blinking back tears. I hate this shit.
2) Crazy roommate has been gone all weekend and will be gone all of next weekend. SCORE.
3) I went to a club the other night. A “country and western” club. This was obviously not of my own volition. After paying nearly $8 for a Jager bomb (which was twice as expensive and half the size of the one I get from my “regular” bar, if going every other month counts as regular), I apparently dropped my wallet somewhere. It was turned in to the staff, minus all of my money. Granted, I am lucky that I don’t have to fuck with the DMV and pay to get my license replaced, but I am still classifying the whole evening as an EPIC FAIL.
4) I am undertaking a blog-switching project. It’s not a quick and easy process because my old entries won’t effing upload to the new site, so I’m doing it manually. This is bringing up serious questions about why in the hell I’m putting so much time and effort into the project.
5) Still waiting, waiting, waiting on the job. I’m told that it *will* happen, but nobody knows *when* it will happen.
For some unknown reason, I am voluntarily watching an episode of Toddlers in Tiaras on TLC.
I find this show utterly appalling.
For one, the pageant moms are obsessed with the “eigh” ending to names. Kayleigh, Marleigh. And some more Kayleighs. And a Kayleigha. There is one named Story, which I would ordinarily think is a cute name, but the fact that she is the most ostentatiously-decorated child on the show makes me cringe.
For another, there is a SWIMSUIT SEGMENT. These are tiny children! If you want them to compete on the basis of cuteness, well, I don’t necessarily agree with that… But judging young girls (seriously, YOUNG GIRLS, ages 0-6) on who looks best in a swimsuit??!?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?!?!?!?!?
I just cannot fathom that this is real.
Oh dear heavens, I think I’ve outgrown my blog.
WordPress won’t let me use a custom layout unless I pay. I guess that’s what I get for using the browser-based lightweight version… but still.
I never noticed this before because I haven’t had the inclination to really play with my layout in years.
I don’t approve of this limitation at all. Something must be done, and by “something,” I do NOT mean “me paying money for something that should be free.”
I’m really struggling with something right now.
Actually, my family is struggling. My dad is now a car salesman. It certainly wasn’t where he wanted to be at the age of 50, but one thing led to another and so he is a car salesman right now. The economy sucks, as we all know, and sales of American cars have fallen drastically from where they were this time last year (and they weren’t that great last year). My mother is unable to work due to a disability, but because of a bunch of BS red tape, she’s not currently able to get disability benefits. As such, my father is supporting himself, my mother, and my 17-year-old sister on about a thousand dollars a month with no health insurance.
(I won’t discuss the parallels to my own life.)
Everything has just fallen apart for them. Both of their cars have been repossesed. The cable, internet, and home phone have been shut off. The cell phones have been disconnected. My dad is even out of minutes for the crappy Net10 phone I gave them a while back. They are living on Top Ramen, having been informed by DPS that my dad makes $100 a month too much to qualify for food stamps. This was based on an average of three months’ pay. One of those months was a really good month… so they used that money to catch up on rent in order to avoid being homeless. Their rent is pitifully low anyway — there are literally NO corners to be cut at this point.
The Latte Factor? Hah. I’m not even sure my mother could tell you what a latte IS.
This hurts me. It hurts me a thousand times more than any suffering I’ve ever personally done. What kills me is that normally, I would have stepped in months ago to help out. I’d be sending Wal-Mart gift cards for groceries and paying the phone bill and pitching in towards the car payment to keep them afloat. And I CAN’T. I am not in a position to help anyone in any way whatsoever. It’s driving me insane and I hate it.
The “really promising” job interview I wrote about a while ago is still a really promising opportunity. I’ve gotten nothing but positive feedback, and the unofficial word is “yes.” But it’s not official yet. I don’t have a start date. It could still quite easily fall apart, and knowing my luck, it will. And until such time as the stars align properly, I am powerless to do anything to help when the people I love are suffering.
I am in a terrible mood.
For one thing, I’ve been nursing the mother of all migraines all day.
For another, my recently-unemployed roommate managed to find a job that he LIKES less than a week after losing his old job. I mean, I’m glad for him, but I feel like a fucking loser.
For yet another, my once-pristine house is gross again.
And finally, my house smells like cat piss. This is because my older cat is a FUCKING ASSHOLE, as I believe I have documented here before. He has been pissing in the hallway. He does not have any health problems that cause him to do this. It’s because HE IS AN ASSHOLE. His litter box apparently did not meet his standards for cleanliness, so he made his opinion known by pissing on the carpet. Over and over and over again. He’s not normally a skittish cat, but when I call his name today, he runs and hides. AS HE FUCKING SHOULD.
Yes, I should keep the box cleaner. I should scoop regularly, or at least change the box out more often. But the thing is, it isn’t THAT bad. I’ve seen disgusting cat boxes before. And my little cat hasn’t revolted. It’s just this one asshole cat that apparently doesn’t realize that I DO NOT OWN A STEAM CLEANER.
Damn it all to hell.
Wow.
I finally got my old (crappy) computer set up, and have been digging through files. Nearly everything was deleted in a frenzy of frustration and rage last year, but I did keep the old Excel file that contained an electronic version of my check register.
I used to be okay, financially. Okay, so I had some hard times. I got paid late on many occasions and life seemed overwhelming. But I maintained my own place to live, my own vehicle, car insurance, renter’s insurance, a website or two, and a reasonably well-stocked pantry. I made my student loan payments. I bought gifts for people. I took my family out to dinner sometimes, and I donated money to the Red Cross in the aftermath of Katrina. I loaned money to a friend. I replaced worn-out clothing. I even saw movies and bought books occasionally! I kind of had my shit together.
WTF?!! I have no way of reconciling that person with the one I am today.
It’s driving me crazy! Transactions at Half.com, Old Navy, Overstock.com, Benefit Cosmetics and Pizza Hut? YANKEE CANDLE COMPANY? It seems impossible that I ever had the freedom to spend money on frivolous bullshit. $75 on clothes for my sister? These days I can’t even afford socks for mySELF. Girl Scout Cookies? Seriously? Blockbuster? My friend’s cell phone bill? A new charger for my Palm Pilot? $60 to 1-800-Flowers.com?!?!??! ARGH. Granted, these transactions are all spaced out over a period of time. I didn’t ever have the luxury of just going nuts and blowing hundreds of dollars at once, but I did occasionally get to spend money on things that mattered to me (however unnecessary they might have been).
I don’t even have a fucking bank account anymore!
I honestly feel like banging my head against a brick wall.
I’m glad that people are finally reconsidering the blue laws that prevent the sale of liquor on Sundays. I’ve always felt that the laws are ludicrous. This is largely because I am not religious, and even if I were, I wouldn’t appreciate the state mandating one day out of the week that I’m not allowed to buy booze.
Quite simply, it all boils down to the idea that I don’t like being told what to do. If I want a bottle of Captain Morgan on Sunday, and I’m not allowed to have one, there ought to be a damned good reason why. And there ISN’T.
I’m a whore for convenience and if I had it my way, all businesses would be open 24 hours a day. I like to shop in the middle of the night. I would like to get my hair cut at 5 am. We no longer live in 1954, when Dad worked 9-5 and Mom ran errands while he worked. These days, Mom and Dad both work (if there are two parents in the family, which is becoming more of an anomaly), and making it to the bank by 4 or the hair salon by 5 are virtual impossibilities. And personally, after I’ve worked a full day (which admittedly hasn’t happened in a while), I’m not interested in rushing to three different places as soon as I get off work, because I’m tired. It’s more likely that I want to go home, relax for a bit, have dinner, then worry about buying a new power supply for my subwoofer.
< / rant >
I guess I’m going to have to see Slumdog Millionaire now.
Also, I came here to write about something completely unrelated to everything mentioned in this post, but fuck all if I can remember what it was.
I just finished a new version of my resume. It highlights my writing skills, data analysis experience, and general geekdom. I’m submitting it for what I think will be the most promising interview I will have had since November 2007. I’m shaky and my stomach hurts a little because I’m nervous.
This could be the one that changes everything.
Or it could be nothing. (Hush now, Negative Nancy)
Now I’m going to expend some nervous energy attempting to clean set-in stains out of my carpet.
Egg-crusted pans in the sink. Spilled drinks that are left for me to find and clean up. Wet towels in the bathroom floor. Dirty clothes all over the place. Bedding that needs washing. A garage to unpack and re-organize. Garbage to take out. Endless amounts of crap to haul upstairs. I honestly have no idea how three grown adults, who were presumably NOT raised by wolves, can create such havoc.
I heard the term “glorified maid” the other day, and I chuckled. I’m not glorified in the least. I am just a maid. And unlike professional servants, who make at least a little money on top of room & board, I can’t afford a pack of cigarettes! Of course, they do a better job than I do… but they are also better-motivated. If I can’t have cigarettes, can I at least get some of this fucking GLORY people keep talking about?
