Group Birthday Cards

Birthday cards signed by a bunch of people--especially in a workplace setting--irritate me.  There are many reasons for this.

1) It's obvious that everyone who signed it felt compelled to, and not because they really liked the person whose birthday it's in honor of.  It was passed to them and they were told: "Sign this!" 

2) There's always some jackass who writes A LOT and in REALLY BIG handwriting right in the middle of the blank page so everyone else has to write tiny little things all around it, and try to use other colors of pens to differentiate the giganto-greeting from their own.

3) No one ever knows what to write.  You feel like a douche writing "Happy Birthday!", but you also feel like a douche writing "Hope your day is filled with special things" or "May this year be better than the last!"  There's just no good thing to write in a birthday card.

4) The card is always some idiotic picture with some idiotic message.  Each and every time you see a greeting card that is picked out for someone at the office, you feel super-depressed because there's some jerk out there who designed this card and actually got money for it.  And it sucks!  And it makes you feel bad about your life because if you were to churn out that uncreative, hideous piece of crap, you would probably get fired, or at the very least, be put on probation or something.  How come this guy who designed this piece of crap gets to keep his job?  How come he makes money for something so craptastic?

5) The person who receives the card inevitably glances at it for a couple seconds and throws it away.  They're like "Aw, how ni--" and it's in the garbage before the "ce" in "nice" can eek out.

Office birthday cards: They--like the space shuttle--should die a dignified death and be placed in the annals of human history as a quaint idea that was better in theory than in practice.

Sharpies

I love Sharpies.

I love the smell of Sharpies.  It's that smell that something new has, only it doesn't go away as the product gets older.  Its clean, chemmie smell wafts up from its felt tip whether it's just out of the package or you've been using it all day on a house-full of moving boxes.  It's probably not good for my brain cells to sniff it, so I try to avoid forcefully drawing the scent into my nostrils, but it makes for a very nice ambient smell when I'm scribbling away on porous and non-porous surfaces alike.

I love the sound Sharpies make when you're writing.  Most people probably hate this part-squeak, part-scratch sound, but I find it to be unique among sounds, and, like the smell, really contributes to the ambiance while you're using the Sharpie.

Sharpies come in all kinds of colors.  Sharpies come in all different thicknesses.  There are mini-Sharpies.  There are Sharpies that have a clicker on their butts like a regular old ball-point pen.  But click it open, and it's a SHARPIE!  How cool is that?!

Sharpies are permanent.  Sharpies are most often used when you're doing something organizational, like packing or redoing your closets or something.  They connote productivity.  An orderly life.  A life with purpose--purpose that can't be washed away with soap and water.  A non-bleeding, non-fading purpose.  That smells of chemicals and makes a screechy sound.  That's the kind of purpose we should all aspire to.

I want to be a Sharpie when I grow up.

POS stands for "Point of Sale" and also "Piece of Shit"

If there's a hell, surely it must be modeled after the experience of the modern-day grocery store checkout line.

 Look at this lady here.  Look how happy she is to be rung up for her groceries.  There's no way in hell that anyone who has ever visited my local Safeway has ever smiled anywhere near this pleasantly while in line waiting to pay for her groceries.  The Safeway in my town is the perfect storm of inefficiency and frustration, owing to the fact that our town is a town of, primarily, old people, and secondarily, college students.  So, I, the 30-something career person with, you know, shit to accomplish when I get home from the grocery store, am inevitably sandwiched at the checkout line between an old person with jack-shit to do when she gets home and a college student who, because it's the middle of summer, also has jack-shit to do when he gets home.

So my time at the checkout line on a typical Sunday afternoon looks like this:  There is a gray-haired woman in front of me, purchasing three cans of clam chowder (it's August, but, hey, whatever, a bowl [or six] of creamy, potato-y, clammy soup heated to 190 degrees sounds pretty good, right?), three bananas, frozen lemonade concentrate, two gallons of Butter Brickle ice cream, a half-gallon of grapefruit juice, and three trays of Nutter Butter cookies.  Eh, not a very balanced weekly shopping list,  but who am I to judge?  Perhaps when I'm old and my husband and cats have already passed away and I'm knocking on death's door myself, perhaps I will eat nothing but clam chowder and Butter Brickle ice cream and think "Kiss my ass, world!" as I'm purchasing and consuming said items (in fact, I think I can pretty much guarantee that this will be my exact grocery list in that circumstance). 

Anyway.  Gray-haired lady.  Fattening and/or sugary groceries.  That's what's in front of me.  Now behind me is a dude with (what else) a case of beer, guac fixins, chips with which to shovel the guac in, and three packages of hot dogs.  He can hardly be said to be wearing a shirt, so thrashed is his sleeveless muscle-tee.  Although, if I were in his position (being a 23-year-old college student with nothing to do but wake up late, work out, and watch pre-season football while drinking beer and nomming delicious guac with no consequences in the spare tire department), perhaps I'd be rocking a ripped half-shirt, too.  So I can no more judge Douchey McCollege for his choice of attire than I can judge Granny up there for her determination to subsist on the flaky perfection of Nutter Butters for the rest of her days.

But.  What I can judge them for is their checkout line behavior.  And I do...boy, do I!

Granny's not sure how to navigate the whole Club Card thing.  She has a Club Card, yes, but she's absolutely stymied by the cashier's prompting to either present her actual Club Card, type her phone number into the keypad in front of her, or dictate her phone number aloud to the cashier so the cashier may type the phone number in for her.  After some moments of befuddlement that involve squinting at the cashier, squinting down at her purse, and then squinting at me (which prompts me to become extremely interested in the sale price on Stride gum and the cover story of OK Magazine), she chooses Door Number Three and croaks out her phone number for the cashier to type into the register. 

Meanwhile, Bud Light Boy behind me is waxing poetic to whoever is on the receiving end of his cell phone call: "Dude, no, dude, no, that's not what happened at all!  Naw, man, she was going out for a smoke, dude, and her fucking purse, man, her fucking purse slipped off her shoulder and that made her tit slip out!  I swear to God, dude, I did not pull her shirt down, dude."  I breathe deeply and clack down one of those plastic lane dividers between our respective purchases on the conveyor belt to remind him that someone is within earshot of this display of his gallantry.

Back to Granny.  It took the cashier less than fifteen seconds to ring up all her purchases once the Club Card issue was resolved, and now it was time for some form of payment for these groceries. 

And this, this what happens next, this is why the grocery store checkout line is hell on earth: A. Personal. Check.

 It's 2010.  No one--not even Granny, who no doubt gets her Social Security checks directly deposited into her bank account--should ever write a personal check at the grocery store.  That little computer-looking thing in front of you, dear?  That's a magical portal wherein you can take advantage of your Safeway Club Card discounts and pay for your cheaper groceries in one fell swoop!  It's so easy!  Your bank gives you a debit card for free (no more paying for checks!), and you don't even have to memorize a PIN!  Just swipe it as credit!  Click "yes" to approve the amount!  I swear, it is way easier than writing a check! 

She wonders aloud about today's date.  She asks the cashier for the total amount again.  She squints at the screen that tabulated her purchases.  She scrawls out "Safeway Food and Drug" in cursive that she learned back in 1942.  She scrawls out the numerical amount.  She writes out the words "Thirty-four dollars and 86/100 ----------------------".  She signs it.  She puts away her pen.  She anchors the checkbook and slowly begins the process of ripping the perforated check out of her checkbook.  But wait!  First, before she hands it over, she must record the check number, the date, the amount, and, again, "Safeway Food and Drug" in the checkbook register!  The ripping of the check resumes.  The cashier, who has been very obviously daydreaming while this three-and-a-half-minute process occurs, takes the check, runs it through her register scanner, which eventually says "See Driver's License."  Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster in heaven above, WHY ME?!

At this point, I pick up the periodical that tells me how in the world Kim Kardashian keeps her ass is so fucking huge but manages to pull off a flat stomach and twiggy arms (short answer: she ain't a white girl).  I go to a totally different place while the digging through the purse and the shuffling of cards and IDs occurs in line in front of me.  Apparently Bud Light Boy also has the wisdom to mentally escape from this hell, too, and attempts to engage me in the subject matter of my temporary reading material.  "Heh, big ass," he declares.  I chuckle with him and smile at this shared moment, thankful that I'm so much closer to his end of the spectrum of annoying than I am to Granny's end of the spectrum of annoying.

Somewhere between the article on Kim Kardashian and the six pages of Sketchers ads in a row, Granny and the cashier successfully complete the purchase.  The scanner is bleeping and blooping once again, this time with my sensible hummus, plums, and whole grain spaghetti floating rapidly into my reusable bags.  My moment of hell is over.  And Kim Kardashian and her big ass secrets are coming home with my healthful groceries to remind me that life could be better, but it could also be much, much worse.

Hip, Hip, HOORAY for the Constitution!

The country is abuzz about yesterday's court ruling by Chief U.S. District Judge Vaughn Walker to overturn Proposition 8, California's law prohibiting gay marriage. 

Judge Walker said: "Moral disapproval alone is an impropoer basis on which to deny rights to gay men and lesbians.  The evidence shows conclusively that Proposition 8 enacts, without reason, a private moral view that same-sex copules are inferior to opposite-sex couples." 

Damn straight, Judge Walker.  Or damn gay!  Or damn who-cares-what-your-sexual-orientation-is!

You either believe in personal freedom, or you don't.  You either believe that everyone can decide for themselves how they want to live their life, or you don't.  You either believe in equal protection under the law, or you don't.  Don't rail on how they better not take away yer guns cuz it's yer right to do whut you want and then in the next breath say that homosexuals cannot marry one another.  You're a hypocrite if you say that.

This Newsweek article here sums up why conservatives should be on board with marriage being a full and legal right available to all citizens of the U.S.  I challenge any and all of my conservative readers to check it out, see if it doesn't make you think a little bit differently.

Back to the Blog!

Well, the word's gotten out now: I'm pregnant with my first BABY!  The hubby and I are so excited...can't wait til we meet our little person in February!

We waited to tell til we were 13 weeks along, so I've been keeping this secret for ever-so-long and haven't blogged because, well, I felt like I couldn't talk about the craziest, coolest thing that's ever happened to me! 

But now I can, so here it all is:  Being pregnant sucks.  Yes, it's still the coolest thing that's ever happened to me, but that's because I have the endgame in mind.  But, taking the pregnancy at face value is...well...it sucks!  I'm tired all. the. time.  I was totally grossed out by food for like 7 weeks straight.  I wanted to throw up every five seconds.  I have headaches (still--these don't go away in the Magical Second Trimester, apparently).  I'm sooo freaking tired.  I have weird intestinal things that I won't really go into out of respect for my husband who absolutely cringes at the fact that I even acknowledge my capacity for passing gas (you should see his face when I actually prove my capacity!).  My boobs hurt all the time, so the once-treasured time of the kitties making my torso their napping place isn't the enjoyable activity it used to be.  And I'm tired!  All the time!  Did I mention that?!

I used to ask my husband if he wished he was a girl and had the ability to bring life into the world.  He'd always snort and be quick to answer, "Uhhh....yeah, I'm totally 100% glad I'm NOT a girl."  And I'd wrinkle my nose and be like, "What's that supposed to mean?!"  But now I kinda know what he means.  It's lame to be a slave to the hormonal swings and the physical changes.  It's lame to know that I'll probably get stretch marks all over my stomach and my fantabulous boobies will never be the same after this ordeal.  It's lame to be tired all the time.  It really is!

But meeting our sweet little person will make it all worth it!  That crying, pooping, overtired bundle of joy will just be SO WORTH IT!  (Right?!) 

In all seriousness, though, I can't wait.  I am going to mother the shit out of this baby, and I'm going to love every second of it.  There's a reason why the urge to reproduce is so strong...otherwise we wouldn't ever DO it because it's such a clusterfuck of pain and poop and problems.  But there's joy also, right?  Joy, and a rewarding feeling?  A feeling that you've accomplished something and you've grown in the process?  I totally have faith in the process.  Pregnancy might suck, labor and delivery might suck, infancy might suck, potty training might suck, but I just know there'll be good in there, too.  For me and my little person.  Can't wait to meet you, little one!  Mommy already loves you, you big, poopy galoot!

MSNBC.COM, Stop Treating Me Like A Child

Listen, msnbc.com.  I'm taking issue here with the new way you're displaying your "human interest"/celebrity gossip stories.

My husband was nice enough to recently let me choose what our shared-computer's browser's homepage was, and guess what!  I choose YOU, msnbc.com!  I know you're not a lot of people's first choices, but I like you. I like your layout, I like how you group things, I like your stories.  I like how you make it obvious whether the link I'm clicking on will take me to a video or a text page.  You've been good to me, msnbc.com.  You've always treated me like an adult, and I appreciate that.  While you may be a little more left-leaning than some other news outlets, I forgive your bias (because it's my bias, too).

So.  You've been our homepage for a couple weeks now.  And my dear husband hasn't insisted that we go back to the New York Times International Edition (we love him despite his pretension).  So, I'm thinkin' you're pretty much in like Flynn, here, msnbc.com.

But--I hate to say it--you might have fucked it all up.

This morning I woke up, fumbled around for my glasses, gave good-morning kisses to Big Ern and Tiny Twain, stumbled into the kitchen to see if dear husband was making me my damn coffee yet (luckily for him, he was), and then went to the computer, as is my custom. 

I fired up the firefox and there you were--greeting me with the headlines, gently welcoming me to May 24th, 2010.  What's this?  An update on the BP oil spill?  **Click**  Mmm, good article.  And how about this link over here?  Information on the ongoing struggle to fix Don't Ask Don't Tell?  **Click**

Mmmm, interesting, good reporting, msnbc.com, just what I like, just what I like.

 And look at this over here!  Britanny Murphy's widower has himself died?!  **Click**

Wait, wait, wait...have I been redirected to another website?  What is this font fit for a kindergartener?!  Is this the large-print version for the visually-impaired?  Why does this look all...fluffy and prissy?  Where's my sans-serif Arial font?  This can't possibly be my beloved msnbc.com, can it?  This is, like, fricking Garamond or something!

And why do I have a goddamn link to print this article?! What, for my fucking scrapbook?!

You've genuinely pissed me off, msnbc.com.  I am not a child, just because I occasionally want peek in on what's happenin' in Hollywood.  Are you trying to distance yourself from the story?  Make it look like it's not part of msnbc.com's normal format?  Are you trying to say, "Hey, we think this shit is super-childish!  We're not a part of that" and yet still BE a part of it by having the story written by your journalists and linked at the top of your homepage?

You should just own it, man.  You should just figure out that people who read your stories about BP and Afghanistan and tax credits fueling home sales also like to occasionally read about dead celebs or rehabbing celebs or divorcing celebs.  You shouldn't make us feel like infants for wanting to read those things by giving it to us in such a patronizing format.  I AM NOT A CHILD OR AN ELDERLY PERSON IN NEED OF DOUBLE SPACING AND FANCY FONT.

I really hate to say it, but I think I might change my homepage tonight, msnbc.com.  Maybe to The Economist's home page.  Or U.S. News & World Report.  Or maybe even back to the NYT-International home page.  (Don't make me do it, msnbc.com!  We can't let dear husband win!!!)

Jeez, Catholics, get it together, guys!

I'm sure you've all heard this story.  A nun was recently ex-communicated from the Catholic Church for allowing the abortion of a 27-year-old's fetus because her life was in danger. 

My husband's comment last night was "They ex-communicate a nun on the spot for this, yet they allow pedophile priests to remain in their positions for years."

I don't really think there's anything else to say on the matter.  Well said, dear.

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mom's Day!  In honor of this wonderful holiday, I am posting some pictures of my "kids"...

This is Ernie, my oldest...he's 3 and is a bit shy around company.  He's a soft-spoken meower, but has a deep, manly purr.  He has such a regal presence that his nickname is King Henry VIII.

This is Twain, our little dude who screeches like a pterodactyl.  He'll be two in June.  He meows at eh-HEV-rything, day or night.  There's no telling what goes on in that little empty head of his!  He's super-cuddly and just a wee bit overweight (by three pounds, actually).  He snores in his sleep...it's rather cute. 

And here they are together...two glorious tabby cats!  Were there ever such spoiled brats in the history of the world?!  I think not.  I am a very proud mom...

National Day of Prayer & Christmas

Okay, so whether we all agree with the following statement or not, it's been deemed so by U.S. District Court Judge Barbara Crabb :  The law that mandates a proclamation by the President of a National Day of Prayer is unconstitutional.  (See link to story here)

This is not to say that the President can't make a proclamation of his own volition, or that praying is now outlawed, or any of the other nonsense that religious Americans are claiming will be the result if Judge Crabb's ruling is upheld in higher courts.  Religious folks have a lot of latitude in the U.S. and do not face "persecution", as they claim, just because secular government remains secular.

Speaking of secular government (or, at least, non-sectarian government), what the fuck is up with Christmas being a national holiday? 

All of our other national holidays are secular/nationalistic in nature: Veteran's Day, Memorial Day, Labor Day, Presidents' Day, Independence Day, etc.  Thanksgiving, I suppose, could be considered a religious holiday--a day set aside for giving thanks to God--but it's non-sectarian.  It doesn't celebrate the birth of one particular religion's savior.  People of all religions can give thanks to their own particular god(s) and people who are non-religious can give thanks to the people in their lives. 

If Christmas were to no longer be a national holiday--because, let's face it, it seems pretty damn unconstitutional in light of the recent ruling on the National Day of Prayer--it would not mean that it would be illegal to celebrate Christmas.  It wouldn't mean that there couldn't be private businesses closed on Christmas.  It wouldn't mean anything except that our secular government's agencies would be open that day.  Because it's illegal to favor one religion over another--there can be no "establishment of religion".  Which, if you think about it, is basically what's happening when the government shuts down entirely for the express purpose of observing a Christian holiday.

You say it would suck if Christmas were not a national holiday and your place of employment didn't automatically close, do you?  You say that would be lame if you had to work on Christmas?  Well, I'm sure that Jews think it's lame to work on Yom Kippur.  I'm sure that Muslims would like the month of Ramadan off.  Pagans would want the equinoxes and solstices off.  I mean, this is America.  Everybody is equal.  We either all get our holy days off, or nobody gets their holy days off.  If Christmas should be allowed to be a national holiday, we should recognize every religious holiday held by any American so as to not appear to be endorsing one religion over another and to not hinder the free exercise of any religion.

Come to think of it, our weekends (days when governmental agencies of all levels are not open) are based on certain religions as well...Saturday and Sunday just happen to be the weekly days of worship for Christians and Jews.  But what if my holy weekday is Thursday because I worship Thor?  (I do not actually worship Thor.)  Shouldn't I get that day off, too?  Or how about those whose god is the moon?  Shouldn't they get Monday off? 

I really think the Freedom From Religion Foundation should take up the cause of abolishing December 25th as being a national holiday.  Or each religion should lobby congress to pass a bill respecting their particular religious holiday of choice.  Either way, equality for all.  It's an American value.

I got WEEEEEEDS, man!

Aaaaahhh!  I freaking love working in the garden!  Particularly PULLING UP WEEDS!  It's like picking out an ingrown hair, or popping a zit that's ready to go!  Deeply satisfying!  I spent like an hour and a half outside today with the weed roots in my garden and I even got a sunburn on my lower back between the spot where my shirt ended and my pants began!

Pulling out those weed roots was magical...made me feel happy and connected with nature.  If you're ever in a bad mood, just go pull some weeds somewhere!  I guarantee you'll feel better about life.

Oh, U.S. Army, When Will You Learn?

Listen, guys.  You're the Army.  You're part of the government.  You don't get to promote any religious view over another, okay?  That whole government-can't-establish-any-religion thing?  So what the fuck were you thinking here? 

Your lieutenant colonel is trying to say that this Evans Army Community Hospital (Fort Carson, CO) emblem does not depict a cross?  That it's a middle-ages symbol of mercy?  C'mon.  Nobody is that stupid. 

Mikey Weinstein of the Military Religious Freedom Foundation is calling a spade a spade, though, by saying that it's reminiscent of the Crusades (arguably the most bloody series of religious events in the history of the world).  He says: "This continues to add more fodder to the argument that we are Crusaders. It's exactly what fundamentalist Muslims want."  Mikey, tip of the cap to you, my friend.

 

Listen, Lt. Col Steve Wollman, it's truly tacky when you pretend that this hospital emblem is not putting a certain religion smack-dab in the middle of an entirely federally-funded hospital.  In fact, your trying to make it into something that it isn't--trying to pretend it's not religious--just solidifies the fact that you know it's wrong.  If it wasn't wrong, you wouldn't have to spin it.

I thought you'd learned this after the whole bible-verses-on-rifle-sights debacle.

Cottage Cheese

I love cottage cheese.

It's just really amazing. It's salty, it's creamy, it's slippery...so many good things about it. Packed with protein. Inviting appearance. Comforting texture.

I must admit that sometimes, though, I'm totally repulsed by the very things that I love about it. Sometimes the texture makes me think of brains. Sometimes the creaminess makes me think of...well, something that is both creamy and disgusting. Sometimes the curds aren't firm enough for me. Sometimes they're too firm and they squeak on my teeth. Sometimes it's less curd and more watery/milky sauce. Gross. And yet, it's a uniquely wonderful food. The subtleties about it are what make it amazing or a colossal failure.  It's one of the only things that I really and truly crave.  I do not put anything in my cottage cheese. No pineapple, no peaches, no whatever-else people ruin their cottage cheese with. No chive cottage cheese for this girl. Give me my curdled milk straight up.

I was preparing my little cup of CC this morning to put in my lunch and I asked my husband if he likes cottage cheese as much as I do.  He said, to my shock, "I don't think I've ever had cottage cheese."  How can you not have ever had cottage cheese?!  Is that even a thing?!  I need to introduce him to my beloved.  Although I don't want to induct him into the glorious land of CC until I have the perfect tub to offer him.  This particular tub of CC in my fridge right now--an off-brand tub that has the markings of a black and white Holstein cow--is sub-par.  I need the lavender and white tub of fat-free, firm goodness to spoon-feed into his CC-virgin mouth. 

Mmm, cottage cheese, you are amazing and I love you.  Thank you for your awesomeness.

It's Ernie's Birthday Today!

Here's my little guy when he was just little!  So cute!

And here's a more recent one of my sweetie-pie who is THREE YEARS OLD TODAY!

We're actually not sure when his real birthday is...we do know he was born somewhere in the Moses Lake vicinity and we think he was approximately 4 months old when we adopted him.  His older brother (FSM rest his soul) was born on March 27th, so we just picked 1 month later.  

Happy birthday, buddy!  We love you!  Tuna for dinner tonight!  xoxox