Garbage Delivery

When was the last time you used a phone book?

A real one. And not as a booster seat for your kid or nephew or to prop open the closet door while reorganizing.

I haven't used an actual paper phone book in years. They just don't make sense. They're too quickly outdated, they're unweildly, and they're wasteful.

They are, quite simply: Garbage.

Garbage that gets delivered right to my door twice a year.

When I got home from work tonight, there was yet again a little bundle of yellow joy on my door step and (following right on the heels of telling of a cell-phone yammering neighbor for STILL using Dibs) I simply have had enough.

So I searched the net (because lord knows you won't find the answer in the actual yellow pages) and there IS a drive to end home delivery of the yellow pages.

It's called the Paperless Petition.

I've signed it and I urge anyone else who's sick of this Delivered Garbage to do the same.

http://www.paperlesspetition.org/

Cheers!

The Great Un-Dibbing

I know I'm asking for trouble, but when I got back from the gym this morning I decided to un-Dib my street.

I picked up all the crap people had left in the street to save their parking spots and threw it in the parkway.

One of my neighbors across the street saw me and laughed (of course, HE has a dedicted handicapped space in front of his front door so dibs doesn't effect him)

I'll probably piss some people off, but I don't care. Enough is fucking enough!!!

Happy friday, all!!!

Holy Carp!

Holy carp! I can SEE!

I've been as blind as a baby rodent since the fifth grade. While I've always been careful to buy cute glasses, the lenses are pretty much like coke-bottles. (Though in recent years with cool new polymers they've been thinner and lighter)

And now, after a short little procedure and a few hours of discomfort - I can see almost perfectly. Things are a smidge cloudy still (not blurry) and I'm taking drops every couple hours that leave a horrible taste in the back of my mouth, but I can SEE.

The procedure itself was quick. One minute for each eye to do the cut and then one minute each to reshape the eye.

They gave me a stuffed puppy to hold on to. I felt like an eight year old being told there were no monsters under the bed, but I really needed something to do with my hands. Let me tell you, that puppy's lucky it still has its head. Despite my square breathing and counting backwards from 100, I was still wringing him up quite a bit.

And then I went home and tried to sleep. My eyes were watering so badly that I couldn't get the drops in for the first few hours, but that is apparently "normal" and after about six hours, I was able to open my eyes and see just fine.

No pain at all. Just raging anxiety.

My eyes are a smidge dry today, but that's to be expected. I'll be using drops for quite a while, and no water (or sweat) in my eyes for a week.

Garth - can you believe that _I_ am going to miss working out hard???? I'm still gonna work out, but light stuff that won't make me sweat too much.

Take care, all! I'll try to pop into the boards later.

BG: 1 EEE: 0

OK, so I actually have two cats.

Fluffy Kitty Butt is the "personality" and thus is easier to write about. My other cat, the Black Ghost, hates me.

OK, that's not fair. She doesn't hate me. But she is feral (honestly, feral) and as such I can't just pick her up and put her in her carrier when it's time to go to the vet. I can't pick her up PERIOD.

But it's vet time again and my vet no longer does house calls. So I've been working all weekend to trick BG into her carrier using meat-flavored baby food (FYI: cats LOVE meat baby food - they go nuts for it!)

Each day, I would stick the food in the back of the carrier and in she'd go. I'd let her eat it and then give her some more.

So this morning, I thought it would be a slam-dunk. But almost from the start BG seemed to KNOW something was up. Sort of like the way birds can sense earthquakes and the way my period can sense when I have a date)

I put the food in the carrier and BG looked at me, and then looked at it, and then looked at me again and then back at the food and finally stepped gingerly into the carrier. As soon she was mostly in and seemed complacent, I tried to shut the door. Tried.

Yeah. She got out. And ran away. I didn't see her again for ten minutes. By then it was time to leave. So I shoved Fluffy into his carrier and we left.

And BG calmly ate her baby food. Content in the knowledge that she had evaded capture yet again.

All Around

Hooray!!!!!

Little Miss Thing had a gymnastics meet today. Four events: Floor, Beam, Vault, & Bars.

She won FIRST PLACE in the All Around competition for her age group (7yo)!!!!

Third in Bars (her least favorite)
First in Beam
First in Floor
First in Vault

!!!!!

How is this kid related to me???? I can't even walk across the lobby of my building w/o falling down! (My knee is OK, it has a deep bruise. It doesn't hurt unless I put my weight on it so, no girl-pushups for me this week)

Jo has always been fairly athletic. She played on the boys' soccor team when she was little b/c there was no girls' team in our district - and she was one of the star players.

I'm fairly certain I can still do a cartwheel - but it wouldn't be pretty...

Congrats, Little Miss Thing!!!! I love you!!!

Mill-jacking

I don't talk to other people at my gym. I'm not a "social" exercizer. Unless I'm there with Sharon, I pretty much don't speak two words the whole time I'm working out.

Today, though, the woman on the treadmill next to mine tapped my arm after I'd finished my first running interval (I hate running - so why the hell am I doing it twice a week now???)

I'm huffing and puffing and not in the mood to carry on a conversation with a complete (and sweaty) stranger while I was equally sweaty. But I was raised to be polite.

EEE: Yes?
Complete Stranger: Your heartrate monitor is taking over my machine.
EEE: Huh?
Complete Stranger: (pointing to display on HER treadmill) See.

Sure enough, the heartrate displayed on her treadmill was my own 167 (and dropping) which would have made no sense at all for a woman walking a gentle 3.3 mph unless she was completely out of shape. And she didn't look completely out of shape.

I'd never seen that happen before.

EEE: I'm sorry! (This is not an apology, of course, since I've done nothing to apologize for - it's an expression of sympathy)
Complete Stranger: (laughing) No worries! Yours must just have a stronger signal than mine.
EEE: Well... You can have the heartrate, but keep your hands off my calorie-count!

Oh the Drama

We women do stupid things where men are concerned. We stay in bad relationships because we think it is easier than finding a new relationship or (horrors!) being alone.

It’s a remarkable talent. Sort of like the Force, only less useful when you’ve got a Y-wing fighter that needs lifting out of swampy bog.

I have it. My friends have it. My sister has it.

Boy howdy does my sister have it.

Her baby-daddy aside (I’m fairly certain that Lump of Nothing is out of her life now except where the kids are concerned) she’s been with this other guy for the past several years off and on.

And recently, they’ve been technically “off”

He had a new girlfriend, which Jo knew about. That didn’t stop her from sleeping with Lump of Nothing II whenever he’d come around, though.

Yeah. That was gonna end well.

It all came to a head last night. She called me just as I was eating dinner, in a complete emotional meltdown. Long story short: LoN2 is an asshole. (OK, so he’s not an asshole, he’s just a human being who did something really shitty)

Apparently, he told her over the weekend that he’d broken up with the gf and that Jo was the one he REALLY loved and he could now date her openly.

Um… goody?

And then (wow, this feels like a really lame version of “The Young and the Stoopid”) one of LoN2’s friends calls Jo and, (for whatever reason) tells her that LoN2 has been lying to her (I know, Shocker!) that he had told the gf (not ex, as it turns out – again: Shocker!) that Jo was “A psychotic bitch. I’ve told her to leave me alone but she won’t!”

This, more than anything, hurt her deeply. She could take him cheating on her or even dumping her, but telling such a hurtful lie about her…? That was just too much.

But it was very difficult for me to be sympathetic. I hurt because I knew she was hurting, but it was all I could do not to yell: “Why are you so stoopid?! You knew he was lying to the gf when he was stepping out with you! Why on earth wouldn’t he lie to you too?”

But I didn’t say that. At least, not in quite so harsh a way. I waited until she was a bit calmer, and tried to explain that some people will say or do whatever they have to say to get what they want. And clearly he felt that’s what he had to say to his gf when she caught him out about Jo.

I hold little hope, though, that this is the last we will hear of LoN2. Time heals all wounds and erases all common sense. Especially when orgasms are involved.

And I can’t even talk. I’ve been guilty of staying in relationships long past their Sell-By dates because I liked the IDEA of the relationship too much to let it go. But I try to be smarter (and harder) now.

It’s just so hard to watch someone you care about make the wrong choices and know that she’ll get hurt again and again. And she will. Jo doesn’t like to be alone, much though I’ve tried to convince her it’s the best thing for her.

Sigh. What can you do?

Oh well. May the Force be with You. The good Force, I mean, the one that lifts rocks and connects all living things….

OK, now I’m rambling. Have a great day!

My Kingdom for an Ice Pack

Mother Monkey!!!

I was on my way back from a meeting a bit ago when I slipped and fell in the lobby of my building.

Now, this had nothing at all to do with the carpy weather and everything to do with my innate klutziness. I only ever seem to slip and fall on flat, dry surfaces.

There was a contributing factor this time, though. My adorable little shoes. And the fact that I was walking too fast.

So, I slipped, I went down hard on my right knee, I said a nasty word really loudly, and I blushed furiously and told the people around me that I was perfectly fine except for my extremely bruised and battered pride. And then I went back to my desk.

I was able to walk just fine, but it was definitely throbbing when I got back to my desk. So I took a couple Advil and pulled up my pant leg. Sure enough: goose-egg.

So I decided to go get an ice-pack from the company nurse. Boy howdy is there a lot of paperwork to fill out. They seemed very concerned that this had happened while I was "on duty".

EEE: Dude, I'm not going to sue the company. I just want an ice pack.
Clerk: Procedure

So I fill out my paperwork and am sent into the Nurse's office. I don't remember ever going to the Nurse's office while in school, but I imagine it was similar except that I always thought there'd be a couch or something to lie down on.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Dr. Doogie came in. I swear this kid was 12 years old - complete with little blond face-pubes.

Doogie: So you fell?
EEE: Yep. I think I just need an ice pack.
Doogie: Was the floor wet?
EEE: Nope. Just a klutz.
Doogie: And you hurt your...?
EEE: Knee. (I pulled up my pant-leg to show off my goose-egg) I took a couple Advil already. I just want an ice pack.
Doogie: So were you able to walk back to your desk?
EEE: Yeah...
Doogie: OK, I have to take your blood pressure.
EEE: I hurt my knee.
Doogie: Procedure.
EEE: OK.
Doogie: (after my blood pressure comes back at a slightly elevated 132/84 - I was in pain, dammit!) That's all right. Your knee doesn't look too bad.
EEE: No. But it hurts.
Doogie: Do you want some aspirin?
EEE: No. I told you, I already took some Advil.
Doogie: Oh. Then why are you here?
EEE: Ice pack. I. Want. An. Ice. Pack.
Doogie: Oh. OK. (goes to the freezer and gets one) Here you go.

Grrr!

Gulp!

I’m going in today to be evaluated for Lasik surgery.

I’ve been evaluated before and they found that I was a good candidate – I have nice thick corneas and my general eye health. The scars on my corneas from years of wearing hard contacts in my teens are supposedly not an obstacle. Apparently Lasik was originally used to treat corneal scarring. So: bonus.

It’s still scary. I work in a very visual field. It’s hard to draw lines and curves and calculate angles and bearings if you can’t see what you’re doing. Not to mention the purely aesthetic component of my work. No one likes an ugly map. Though, I will sometimes use ugly colors if I feel that the project is stoopid or a waste of my time – but I’m not here to discuss my own passive-aggressive tendencies.

I’m here to talk about my eyes.

I like my eyes. (Yes, ex-fer, I do have two of them) They’re a neat color and they come in useful when doing things that require seeing.

I’ve read that the satisfaction rate for Lasik is between 92% and 98% and long term it’s around 95%. That’s pretty promising. Of course, if this were my sister getting surgery, she would definitely be in the minority. Especially if you tell her the odds. (Her arm swelled up the size of a baby pig after her doctor told her that 1 in 20,000 patients react badly to the Tetanus shot)

So, I’m not too worried. Though I have developed a certain amount of White Coat Syndrome in recent years. I get anxiety about visiting the doctor. I get anxiety about routine procedures like cavity-filling and mammogram (I still need to schedule that but that scares the snot out of me!) I’ve been trying to use Dr. Angelique’s square breathing technique when needed, but I may tell my eye doctor that I’ll need a little valium or similar before the procedure.

Anyway, I hope everyone has a great weekend.

And Angela, I hope you get good news tomorrow.

Pillow Fights

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of pillow fights.

And no, it’s not what all you men are thinking. I’m not flouncing around my bedroom in my undies with three other half-nekkid chicks, practicing French kissing while feathers drift around us in an artful, slow-motion flurry. Pervs.

This is literally a fight over a pillow. My pillow.

And my fight isn’t even with some hot hunk of a guy (or some cute little slut of a girl) – It’s with Fluffy Kitty Butt.

This cat loves me. Seriously. He loooooooves me. He runs to the door when I get home, tail up, eyes bright, all excited. And various pet-sitters have told me about the “Oh… it’s only YOU” face he makes when they stop by to feed him.

He generally sleeps through the night now that he’s gotten older – no more “Fluffy’s Fabulous Four AM Fun Hour” – Thank daylight!

But he’s developed a really annoying habit over the past few weeks and it’s driving me fucking nuts.

He begins by sleeping on the pillow next to mine (I sleep on the right side of the bed – I don’t know why) and purring REALLY loudly. And then he starts inching closer, and closer, and closer, until he’s making paddy-paws in my hair.

I inch away, scooting down further in the bed. He follows, claws still tangling in my hair. I inch further away. He follows.

By morning I am lying flat on the mattress with no pillow at all and he is curled up, snug as a fucking bug, on my pillow as if it were a cushion I’d set there just for him.

It’s a war. And he’s winning.

These Boots Weren't Made for Walking and I Don't Care!

I'm short.

I was never going to be tall. My mom is 5'0" and shrinking. My dad is 5'6".

And until recently I was kind of fat. I've lost 20 pounds in the past 10 months. Nowhere near the collossally fast weight loss on Biggest Loser or shows of that ilk but it's been slow and steady and I hope that means it's more likely to be PERMANENT.

Anyway, today is a bit of a milestone.

I haven't been able to wear knee-high boots for several years. I know people who are heavier than me who don't have this problem. Some carry their weight differently - in the middle or in their boobs rather than evenly dispersed like me. But mostly they're TALLER than me.

Most boots WOULD fit me OK if the widest part of the shaft were lower to compensate for my shortness. But they don't.

But I've lost 20 pounds (Yea!) and probably more since I've gained so much lean muscle. I haven't measured my inches in a while, but this morning I was able to zip up a pair of cute leather knee-high boots quite comfortably.

So I'm wearing boots! Yea!

I'm also wearing a cute plaid skirt and black opaque tights.

And I have to pee.

Dammit.

Two Rights Make a Wrong

Ugh!

I have a glove problem.

I lose gloves. It's pathological. No matter how careful I am, I always ALWAYS lose my gloves.

Two weeks before Xmas, I lost one somewhere between Old Navy State Street and my office.

The following week I lost one somewhere between Target and Best Buy.

To combat this pathology, I always buy the same, or similar gloves so that they can be pretty much inter-changeable. Black leather, women's size Medium.

This is a great plan. That way if I lose half of one pair and half of another pair, I can pair off the leftovers.

Right?

Yeah. Right. In fact, TWO Rights.

For some bizarre reason, I only ever lose the LEFT glove - which leaves me with two mis-matched right-hand gloves.

Every time. It's a rare talent.