A slow sunrise over the city.  Heading back to the airport with Michael Buble crooning over the speakers.  I don't want her to go.  But this is the way the world works.  Sisters get older.  Sometimes they move away.  But they never stop being a sister.  Or a friend.

 

I don't want her to go.

 

[Four days earlier]  It's the middle of the frickin' night and I am driving on rain-slicked back roads with Papa in the passenger seat thankfully not pointing out each and every time I hydroplane.  I'm anxious.  Skywalker is coming home for our birthday.  I have not seen her in a million years.  She has been living it up out in Colorado.  I am cursing the MIT nerds for still not perfecting teleportation and blabbing to Papa nonstop.  Repeating myself.  Saying stupid s**t.  It's at this exact moment I realize how much I missed her.  Faithful readers will know that we're twins.  No...that does not mean she is a doppelganger.  We do not share a brain.  I cannot feel her pain.  She's just my best friend.  That's enough for me.  That's all she ever has to be....

 

Get to stupid BWI and park, Papa reading off the quadrant we are in just in case I forget how to retrace my steps back to the car during the 20 minutes it takes to pick someone up.  <chuckle>  I poke fun at Papa, mostly because he is either completely oblivious to it or chooses to ignore me.  That's cool.  I appreciate his calmness in moments like these more than he knows.  All the coffee shops are closed which is totally ridiculous.  When could you better use a cup of steaming caffeine than in the middle of the night?  Haven't been to the airport in a while but not surprisingly they still have the Threat Level announcements broadcasting to everyone in predictable 15 minute intervals.  I don't even know what Orange means anymore.  I'm sure if it was bad...the announcement would be a little longer.  Something new that I haven't seen before was the radar with little plane icons blipping across the screen, showing you where impending arrivals are at that exact moment.  Her flight number blips up still outside of Baltimore.  Blip.  Blip.  This is like watching water boil.  Blip.  Blip. 

 

People are deplaning, so I stare because I'm bored and anxious.  Some of the freakiest weirdos deplaning here at BWI in the middle of the night, let me tell you.  My favorite was 'I'm With Stupid', huffing and puffing, sex indeterminate striding through the security gates with purposeful conviction until it saw the sign for Baggage Claim and then the inner struggle played out before my very eyes - take the escalator, take the elevator, escalator, elevator, escalator, elevator.  Stupid made a few false lunges toward the elevator and then opted for the escalator.  <shaking my head>  Ahhhh...if only that was the most difficult decision in my life right now.

 

Skywalker calls and despite the cursed time-lagging lying blipping icons, she actually has landed.  Awesome.  More awesome when I see her.  She looks happy.  And that is just frickin awesome.  I miraculously remembered where I parked the car and we head back to loverly Germantown.  Chit chat, end of a hockey game, baked ziti and off to bed because we're ancient and need as much sleep as possible.  Tomorrow is a big day.  I need to get my retarded license renewed at the retarded MVA because I'm totally retarded and totally forgot.  Great.  Also on the list of places I'd rather not hang out on my day off - the MVA.

 

They call it the 'Express' office which is just a blatant slap in the face.  Nothing works any faster, Express my ass.  MVA employees get paid bonuses the longer they take to do things.  More weirdos here to stare at.  And then just staring at the number board waiting for my number to come up.  I'm B110.  We're on B101.  B102.  G37.  What the hell?!?!  That's not even fair.  That's making up your own rules and then breaking them!  I hate this place.  Finally, it's me.  Vision test which is a total joke.  And then Speed Racer behind the counter asks if my address has changed.  Nope.  And then she goes, 5'1" and 135 pounds?  Hahahahaha...yeah sure honey.  That's hilarious.  First of all, anyone looking at this horrific picture will probably think the weight refers to the pumpkin noggin alone.  And second of all....<shaking my head>.....why in the world am I lying on my driver's license?  What kind of ridiculous denial is that?  I'm living in Fantasy Land where if the MVA stamps it into a hologram then it must be so.  Stupid...

 

Barbecue for dinner, catching up with the Parentals and then off to watch them ballroom dance.  We enjoy watching them because they have so much fun.  Not to mention they look absolutely fabulous doing it now.  Fred and Ginger.  I also enjoy the ballroom dancing scene because it is like stepping through the looking glass.  My mother asked us to be polite if anyone asked us to dance.  Uhhhhhhhhhhh...nobody told me that was a possibility.  This could end badly.  Then...just in case anyone in the entire studio missed the fact that we were there....they announce it.  With a microphone.  Fred and Ginger's kids are here.  And it's their birthday!  Oh sweet Jesus...if only I'd asked the MVA Speed Racer to put a 'graceful elegant 135' on the stupid license.  All in all a good day.  Skywalker got me a LiteBrite and a Darth Vader mug.  The Parentals got me a slicer/dicer/weapon against home intruders and some moolah for shopping (preferably for something that wasn't black).  And the Hubby announced we will be adding Cat #2 to the mix.

 

That's right ladies and gents, you heard it here first.  Pumpkin will be getting her very own sidekick to slap around.  The new addition will be Pecan.  I have decided that naming cats after pies isn't weird, it's funny.  I doubt the blood-sucking vet will agree with me...Back home after a shopping marathon and dinner again with the Parentals.  A slow Friday night, more hockey and more chatting and the Hubby decided we needed a fire.  This should be interesting considering we haven't had the chimney cleaned in several years.  I mention this and get the Man-huff that means 'do not question my judgment in matters that concern fire'.  It's never dull in our house people....at any moment the creosote coated chimney could catch fire and send flames of neglet shooting from the top of our house.  Never dull.

 

The house did not burn down and the Hubby definitely gave himself a point for correctly predicting this outcome. 

 

Saturday was more visits and more chatting and more driving to and fro and more stupid rain.  And then that slow creeping feeling that this was all almost over.  Watched some Top Chef together.  Decide that Michael is cuter than Brian even if he does seem to have anger issues.  Head off to bed early since we're ancient and need our sleep...did I mention that already?  Except I can't sleep.

 

Thanks to daylight savings magic, the drive starts out in total darkness.  Save the daylight.  The highway is empty in a way that is sort of eerie.  Not many people ever see a Sunday morning from this perspective.  The drive takes hardly a moment and we're there.  And she's heading off.  And I'm hugging her, saying take care of yourself and write to me.  Like it was just another day, except we're a little bit older and she's moved away.  And she heads back through the security gates, with a big smile.  It was the kind of smile that only truly happy people have.  It was the kind of smile you wish for everyone you love.  It was the kind of smile that was kind of contagious.  It's hard not to be happy around happy people.

 

Even when you're crying.

 

Take care of yourself.  And write to me.

 

Later gators,

Heather

 

 

 

 

It’s raining.  Crap.  I have never hated the rain more than I do tonight.  Tonight, you see, was supposed to be the most perfect Halloween night we have had in ages.  I mean….aaaaaaaaages.  A Saturday and not frigidly cold.  It’s dark before 6 o’ clock.  And I am prepared.  Very prepared for this, my most favoritest holidays of the year.  The house is decked out in especially creepy garb this year.  I have skeletons hanging from the light outside.  My ghosties are doing their dance around the creepy tree strung with orange lights and the windows…..ahhhh….did I mention the windows.  The windows have my normal silhouette masterpiece.  I have to say, it looks totally awesome.  I limited myself to one pumpkin this year so I could spend gobs and gobs of money on candy.  Because I expect to have hundreds of little costumed freaks banging on the door all night.  I am ready.  And then it started to frackin rain.

 

<sigh>  This is no good.  No good at all.  It’s not a heavy rain, but probably enough to make the especially small ghouls and goblins cold after only an hour.  And did I mention that my neighbors are totally lacking in the spirit of things?  Yeah.  Let’s talk about my loser neighbors.  The people who never leave and can’t park their car straight have no decorations.  The drug dealer has no decorations.  The international spy has less than no decorations.  I am extremely disappointed.  How in the holy hell are any kids going to be lured into the cul de sac if only one frackin house has any lights up.  I mean, how hard is it to carve a pumpkin?  Come ON!!!

 

Please see the pictures I have added to gain a better understanding of this disaster.

 

Actually, I need to digress for a moment and point out that it actually can be difficult to carve, well not a pumpkin, but a gourd.  Gourds, I assume include acorn squash.  But I like the word gourd better.  I think if we get another cat, I’ll call it Gourd.  That would be hi-larious.  Anyhoo…I saw a few pictures of some carved acorn squash in Martha Stewart’s magazine of deceit.  And of course thought, well that looks cool, let me try it.  Which I assume is what that sadistic woman envisions everyone doing when they see her scenes from Satan.  So I bought two gourds (aka, acorn squashes), one big and one little and thought this will be so original.  I also assume that you can gut a squash like you can gut a pumpkin…most likely because I have never cut up a squash before.  My mother cooks squash and cooks it well.  The Hubby would never eat something orange unless it was deep fat fried in beer batter so I don’t bother cooking it myself.  I lopped off the top of the gourds and much to my dismay….they are not hollow.  Do not laugh at me, gentle reader…seriously…how was I supposed to know this?  Here’s the more important question…how the frack did the Martha Stewart She-Devil get those pictures of what appear to be hollowed out gourds?  I have added them as well for your pondering.  My best guess is that she has sold her soul and can manipulate matter with her mystical powers from the netherworld.  That…or photoshop.

 

So, back to the night in question.  I have parked myself next to the front door in the delusion that some kids may still be coming by.  The door bell is broken so I hung a sign that explains the kids have to knock.  Kids of course have no idea how loud a knocker is on the inside of the house and so they will invariably be banging it with all the strength their twiggy little arms can muster.  My little waiting station is stocked.  I have my laptop hooked up with Shaun of the Dead playing.  A grown up drink ready to be slurped down, pigs in a blanket baking in the oven, a fan, a chair to put my feet up on, a camera (you never know when you’ll need photographic evidence a misdemeanor) and an extremely uncomfortable chair from the kitchen which is the only one I felt motivated enough to drag down the stairs.  The grown up drink is my own personal interpretation of a tequila sunrise and by interpretation, I mean of course I made it with rum because the Bacardi was on sale and let’s face it…these days….sales rule my life.  Point number 2, equally important though, good liquor will make any interpretation of any drink taste just fine.

 

The minutes are ticking by and the movie is playing and I am becoming increasingly more agitated and irritated and inebriated.  Where are all the bloody kids!  Damn it!  I have ten pounds of candy just sitting here, staring at me….goading me into eating it.  This is no good at all.  I get through a whole rum rise before the first kid starts banging on the door.  ‘Jesus Christ!’ from upstairs where the Hubby is trying to watch some college football… ‘They’re gonna break that thing down!’  I chuckle because he has never been that into this holiday and he mocks my efforts to overdose the neighborhood on sugar.  I am however, glad he has some sports to watch tonight so that he doesn’t have to wait on me.  The Pumpkin who has been stalking around my little station trying to convince me with her psychic mind tricks that she needs a pig in a blanket or she will starve to death, goes streaking up the stairs.  She does not enjoy visitors, especially ones that are lower to the ground than me. 

 

The kids are adorable of course, with their TRICK OR TREATs and their thank yous and their little costumes.  Lots of Michael Jacksons this year.  But they are coming very few and far between.  I cut off the normal-two-to-a-kid rule way earlier into the night than normal and I start telling the greedy little sugar monsters to take handfuls.  Alas, I am sitting here now at 9pm….which is the witching hour for the little ones….with bags of the diabetic coma inducing crap.  This is no good.  I even walk outside to see if I can scope any impending visits and banging on the door….and much to my dismay, the neighborhood has gone dark.  All my loser neighbors have turned their lights out.  What is THIS?!?!  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!  Now there is no chance any kids will be coming down here…

 

The pizza bagels are out.  It’s 9:08 and the door starts banging.  Time for the teenagers and their not really costume costumes.  Their handfuls are, thankfully, much bigger than the little ones.  So half the bowl goes in one visit.  Fabulous, there is still hope that I will not be forced to consume what is left of the chocolate.  The Hubby, who is a freak from outer space if I have never mentioned that before, doesn’t really like candy.  I know.  I think he must have been dropped on his head as a baby.  Time for another rum rise and the door bangs again…I’m almost sure I’ve seen one of these kids earlier in the night and I don’t even care.  Take as much as you want.  The Hubby is falling asleep watching the World Series be delayed.  I usually wait until 9:30 to stop handing out candy.  Maybe I should just put the rest of it out on the doorstep.  I’m sure somebody will take it….

 

Yeah, so I considered that for all of three seconds before a Reeses peanut butter cup (which was made by the devil) beckons me.  I have now eaten so much sugar I feel like vomiting all over the cat who is giving me her usual look of apathy.  All in all the night was a total disaster…too much candy left.  Not enough kiddies.  No tricking and not really treating.  The Hubby is snoring on the coach now…I guess baseball does that to some people.  So I figure I can watch Saw III on the dvr upstairs, with the rest of the pizza bagels….and a few more goobers….and lemonheads….and maybe a snickers.  Or two.

 

Happy Halloween gators,

Heather

Obviously I haven’t written in a while…thank you all for notifying me of this.  Some of us are not slaves to the Internet.  Although I must say, for full disclosure, Facebook has been somewhat running my life lately.  I poo pooed it for so long, thinking ‘pshaw……only teenagers get addicted to these stupid social networks.’  Oh no….not just teenagers….it’s like they friggin’ hypnotize you with all those ridiculous games you can play.  And yes, status updates are eerily similar to Tweets.  And yes, I’m a huge hypocrite.  Thank you all for pointing that out as well.

 

Jerks.

 

Anyway, I had other stuff to do this past week besides melting my brain trying to get the high score in Bejeweled.  Other stuff…like Life-Responsibility stuff.  First and foremost, we had another cake-baking adventure to endure this week, so I’ll tell you all about that.  The 2’s were having a birthday party, and not just any birthday party.  A 50^th birthday party.  Reaching the half-century mark is traumatic enough and so to soften the blow, the 2’s held a birthday extravaganza.  I was in charge of the cake.  The birthday gal is into horror movies, and her husband was buying her a cruise for the Big Gift.  So obviously I decided a ‘haunted cruise cake’ would be appropriate.  The cruise was a surprise, but the party wasn’t….so I went ahead with the idea, crossing my fingers that she wouldn’t ask any questions about why the cake was a cruise ship and what the hell that had to do with her birthday or with horror movies for that matter.  There were approximately 60 people attending the party, so the cake had to be about the size of a house to feed everyone.  This kind of endeavor should probably normally only be performed by people with engineering degrees and endless amounts of patience.  I, unfortunately, have neither.  My decade of auditing work is less than useless when it comes to cake baking and decorating.  But that has never stopped me before…..

 

The cake part was the boat.  But it had to be sturdy enough to hold all of the decorations I planned on making.  So an oven-sized sheet cake was in order.  When making a cake this size, there are several things one should really think about before getting started.  First of all, don’t mess up.  You’re using a grocery cart full of ingredients and if you mess up…you definitely won’t have enough eggs left in the house to make another one.  Second of all, have some place to put it when it comes out of the oven.  Someplace where it can sit undisturbed and un-accosted by your cat that has recently become possessed by the devil.  Lastly, don’t mess up.  No really.  Don’t mess up.  Good decorations don’t make up for bad cake.  And yes there is such a thing as bad cake.

 

After the cake was baked, it had to be carved into the shape of a cruise ship.  And here’s me, totally useless accounting degree in hand, artsy fartsy sister a million miles away, staring at this block of cake and trying to imagine what a cruise ship looks like.  I have been googling cruise ship photos for the last week, so I have lots of intricate and ridiculously complicated designs to choose from.  But once you start hacking up your cake, there’s really no going back.  [Please see prior paragraph where I encourage you not to mess it up.]  So with my lethal carving knife in hand I start slicing off parts and stacking other parts and in a sort of art deco modern way, the cake bits begin to resemble what could be mistaken for a cruise ship.  After slathering the whole thing in 8 pounds of icing, I go into a brief diabetic coma from ingesting too many taste tests.  When I come to, the cake is ready to be covered.

 

Hold on a second there, Heather.  You already covered the cake in icing.  What are you talking about?  I’m talking about fondant.  You’ve seen it before, but you probably never cared what it was called.  Fondant is like play dough.  Except it actually is supposed to be edible.  As opposed to real play dough that is only digestable because the Play Dough people knew kids would be eating it by the fistful…because hey….it’s called DOUGH.  <sigh>  So anyway, fondant is edible but I wouldn’t recommend making a meal out of it.  It’s kind of like eating the wax your cheese is covered in….which probably isn’t actually edible so this analogy makes no sense, but work with me here.  It’s no good.  It tastes kind of tasteless, which would be ironic if I knew what irony was….but, more importantly than all that, it makes the cake look gooooooooooood.  So here’s what you do with fondant.  You roll it out like a pie crust, lift it up, place it on top of your cake sculpture and then press it down to make sure it stays in place and is not wrinkled up.  Sound easy?  Right?  <shaking my head>  Right.  I can hear all of you out there shaking your heads no too.  It wasn’t.  I’ve used this crap before but in much smaller doses….covering a whole cake has never been in the game plan until now.  And until now, I assumed it would be no big deal.  Yeah….it was a big deal.  It kept sticking to the counter.  And then it would stick to the rolling pin.  And then it would stick to me.  And then I would pop some in my mouth before I remembered I hated the taste of it.  And then I would be annoyed.  And oh, by the way, if you don’t roll out enough and try putting it on your cake…..it’s a disaster.  Because then you have to take it off, but there is already icing all over it and then you’re thinking - beating someone with this marble rolling pin would feel really good right about now.  Don’t ask me how I know this.

 

Magically, the cake got covered in fondant.  I think I must have blacked out with rage at the previous attempts, because I can’t really recall how exactly it happened.  It just did.  So now it’s time for decorations.  The decorations have actually been in the works for most of the week.  Maybe the most of two weeks.  The decorations are horror movie characters.  I had them all – Freddy Krueger, Mike Meyers, Jason, Dracula, Jigsaw, Scream guy, Chucky, and Pinhead.  I made the little horror movie people out of the fondant too….and again, some artsiness would have come in real handy.  Instead, I have to use my tried and true approach of mess up after mess up after mess up until I stop really caring if it looks that much like the characters.  Now the characters have to be small enough to stand on the cake boat.  Or at least, that was the original intention…..didn’t really end up that way but we’ll get to that later.  The characters also had to have all limbs properly attached.  In an ideal world at least.  But this is not an ideal world.  This is Heather’s Cake-Baking Inferno of Hellish Retribution for Everything I’ve Ever Done Wrong in the World.  So first Dracula’s arms fell off….then Freddy’s hand fell off….then Chucky’s head fell off.  More than one horror movie character got crushed back into a blob of fondant in my decorating fury.  In order to glue parts together, you can use several things…a sugar syrup substance, a hard icing concoction or Krazy Glue (which was the Hubby’s suggestion after hearing me curse for the 900^th time in a row and hearing the ‘splat’ of fondant getting pounded back into the table).  So when you’re gluing stuff together, you have to kind of prop it up so it can dry right and then leave it alone….unless you own a cat that has recently been possessed by the devil. 

 

I don’t know what was wrong with the Pumpkin this week.  Maybe she is allergic to sugar and the sight of so much was offensive.  But after Attempt #1 of several of the characters, I left them out to dry on the dining room table.  Which she never gets on.  Ever.  In her life, she has never hopped up on the table….for all she knew, there was no table, it was a black bottomless abyss that sends too curious cats into the Kitty Limbo where they have flea goop applied too often and have to eat the cheap brand of cat food.  That was the extent of Pumpkin’s knowledge of what was on top of the dining room table, until this week.  I came home after work to look over the drying progress of Attempt #1, only to notice immediately that several of my characters had mysteriously disappeared.  After ruling out that they had walked themselves away or taken suicide leaps off the edge of the table, I started hunting around the rest of the house all the while becoming more and more angry.  Pumpkin, meanwhile, sat perched on the edge of the sofa leering at me with her devil eyes secretly giddy at my fruitless search.  I eventually found one mangled character next to her food dish.  I found the other one….bent and broken to hell, in the basement.  She had quite obviously jumped on the table, taken one look at the little freaks and bopped them right onto the floor with her claws of death.  Now, I have no idea when she actually performed this heinous act, so discipline would normally be out of the question (not that this cat is capable of being disciplined) but I was so irritated by her state of calm and her little beady eyes mocking me, that I flailed the carnage of Attempt #1 around in front of her face until she walked away.  Yes, she walked.  My flailing does not intimidate the cat anymore.  She sees it too often.

 

So after Attempt #87, the stupid characters were done.  As well as they were gonna get done by that time.  Now for the last big hurdle of the cake-baking adventure – transportation.  Yes, I did briefly consider inviting all 60 people over to my house just to eat the stupid cake….but then realized that would entail cleaning up after the hurricane that must have hit the kitchen and living room areas while I wasn’t looking.  Sheesh….my house is always a disaster after a cake-baking adventure….not sure how the entire house gets dirty through this process….but it does.  And no, I did not have the energy to clean so now it’s time to figure out how to get everything over to the birthday house.  If I could do this by myself, it would have been less stressful.  If I could freeze time and teleport the cake there, it would have been less stressful.  When will the MIT nerds figure out teleportation!!!  Hellooooooooooooo….can we get on that please?  Since none of the easy options were available, I had to use the Hubby to help me.  The Hubby has huge bear paw hands and big fat man fingers and very little patience with me screaming at him to hold something more carefully when he already considers balancing the cake parts in one arm while he opens and closes doors to be careful enough.  If our marriage can survive transporting a cake, I think we’re good.  Honestly, there can’t be anything worse to endure than me having panic attacks the whole way there because he’s driving my car that he never drives, shifting my transmission that he’s not used to, taking turns at 12 miles an hour and not 2.  Did I mention the birthday house is only about an eighth of a mile away from ours?  Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh….it took us about ten minutes to get there.  I’m kind of surprised he didn’t stop the car and boot me out.  That’s true love people.

 

So once we’re at the house, and all the cake parts have made it into the house and I’ve walked by everyone including the birthday gal with the cruise ship cake, dodging questions about why it’s a ship like I just didn’t hear them….now it’s time to put everything together.  So all the little characters come out of the box I had them in and I start putting them on the cake….which is exactly when I realized I made the God***n things too big.  No they are not going to fit on the ship.  They are apparently water-walking horror movie characters.  And then to make matters worse, either because it was ridiculously humid out on Saturday or because I had too much bad karma on me from yelling so hysterically at the Hubby….arms started falling off of all the stupid characters.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to just throw the little limbs back in the box and explain to everyone that the Michael Meyers character must have hacked all their arms off.  I wanted to start mashing up all the characters in my frustration.  And instead, with rage-induced shakiness, I started…..pattttt<hisssssssssss>iently gluing all their God***n arms back on.  I propped all of them up, everybody took pictures and then it was mercilessly over.

 

The hubbub of a 2 party didn’t even bother me after that was all over.  The 60 people in my personal space bubble didn’t even bother me after that was all over.  The ear-splitting decibel level of the 2’s normal speaking voices didn’t even bother me after that was all over.  The rabid mosquitoes on the back porch didn’t even bother me after that was all over….west nile virus shmirus.  I ate enough pasta to offset the 8 pounds of sugar I had already consumed that week and drank enough wine to start speculating about what kind of accent the Pumpkin would have if she could ever learn to talk.  [The answer is Australian….which I came to after saying G’day mate in my head and then laughing at myself outloud].   

 

The birthday gal had an awesome time, made out like a bandit with the stack of gifts she got, and loved the cake.  Mission accomplished.  That was unfortunately not the end of our weekend or of my amazing adventures…..we had one more party to go to and house moving to contribute to, so by the time I rolled into work on this awesomely chilly morning, I am pretty much running solely on caffeine.  I am so over-caffeinated right now, I could probably be called a biohazard.  The pumpkin noggin keeps tilting dangerously to the side as I half fall asleep at my desk.  There are really real work reasons I’m here today, it’s not just to be a martyr even though girls are notoriously good at that.  If I pass out on my laptop and you find me drooling and snoring, please….just leave me alone.  I obviously need the sleep and whatever you need cannot possibly be as important as you think it is…..

 

Later gators,

ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzHeatherzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZ

 

p.s. Pictures will be forthcoming...please just hold yourselves together until I find the time to do it.

 

 

Jerks.

Are people driving much slower than normal or have I become severely retarded?  I know it’s been about a second and a half since I have complained about the driving habits of my fellow Germs or the Ballmer Balls…..but seriously?  If I don’t talk about this, there may be some serious derby car damage resulting in the very near future to the next person that decides to drive five miles an hour under the speed limit.  In front of me.  I have been stuck behind the Slowskies too many times in the last week to think it is just my bad karma catching up with me.  And then of course there was the rain….or more accurately…..the icy drops of death raining doom and destruction down on your car. So for God’s sake….for the sake of your children and all that you cherish and love….PLEASE….SLOW the F**K  DOWN.  Preferably to about 12 miles an hour which is clearly the only safe speed to drive in conditions such as these.  Retirement Plan #87 involves opening Heather’s School for Driving Like You’re Not on Meth.  I may need to do that sooner than later….in the meantime here are some quick pointers that I would like to share with you people, some wisdom I have gathered in the last decade of commuting approximately a million miles a day –

 

1.      Turn signals are really only worth a damn if you know how to work them.  Don’t signal left and then turn right.

2.      Of course, signaling at all would be nice…

3.      I know it says ‘Speed Limit’ and technically you would think that implies you can’t drive faster than that….but come oooooooooooooooooooon.

4.      Please show just a smidge of f**king urgency when the traffic lights are about to change.  Because I drive the same route to and from work every single day….I have it timed to perfection….and your exasperating lack of urgency to actually get through the light before it changes makes me want to beat my head into the steering wheel which never ends well for my pumpkin noggin.

5.      You do not need to look at the passenger seat to talk to that person.  Eyes on the road jackass.  That’s where the vehicular manslaughter will happen because of you not paying attention….not in the passenger seat.

6.      When the engine is running and the car is moving….that means you are now officially driving….so start acting like it.

7.      Green means go.

8.      Yellow does not mean slam on your mother-bleeping brakes.

9.      Do not ever honk at me.

10.  I appreciate that you appreciate the woofers in your car and want everyone on the entire planet to appreciate the woofers with you….but I do not want to hear the bass in your music.  Not even one little teeny tiny bit.  I do like to say the word woofer, though.  <giggle>

11.  You can see the next traffic light is red one block away….so why exactly are you tail-gating me?

12.  If you’re on the highway and you come to a gradual incline or a gentle bend in the road, this does not mean you need to slow down to half your original speed.  If you needed to slow down, the speed limit would change.  But you don’t.  Because it didn’t.  What you need to do is put your foot on the gas and grow a set of balls.

13.  Just get out of the way and let the cop pass.  They are required to take driving courses that actually teach you something.  They can drive a lot better than you and yes….since they get shot at, they get to speed.

14.  I don’t have any spidey-like depth perception…but that doesn’t mean I’m going to wait to pull out into traffic until there are absolutely zero cars in sight.  Please….if this is what you need to feel good about driving….go ahead and wait until after the zombie apocalypse is over….then you can drive again.

15.  Merging is not as hard as you clearly think it is.

16.  If you missed the exit/turn/driveway….you missed it.  It’s not my fault.  Just accept it.  God made cars that can u-turn because we are not perfect creatures. 

 

<sigh>  Ok…I feel a little better now.  Time for this week’s update from Audit-Land and the going out of business sale that is the State Government.  They are still paying us….but that probably won’t last much longer.  I get this gossip from the elevators and cafeteria where I clearly should not be listening to anything at all.  In my eavesdropping glory over the past several weeks, I have had occasion to witness a very unique specimen of Government Employee Types: the Absent-Minded Walker.  AMWs do not pay attention when they are walking.  They are clearly concentrating on some other aspect of their life…and not so much on getting from Point A to Point B.  AMWs are counting on you not to run into them or dump your coffee all over them.  They are counting on you to stop and step to the side as they fumble their way through the halls.  AMWs tend to travel in packs and are inevitably completely oblivious to the fact that they just ran you right off the sidewalk or into a filing cabinet.  Packs of AMWs are a hazard, plain and simple.  Nothing is safe.  Not your armful of files, your kid in the stroller or your seeing-eye dog.  AMWs are usually having a loud conversation that you will have to scream to be heard over and they usually have really annoying laughs.  They never seem to be going to the same place….which makes me think they wander the halls….aimlessly.  They may not even work in this building.  They may have accidentally wandered in during one of the eons when they were not paying attention.  And they tend to be magnetically drawn to whatever side of the hallway you are veering toward to avoid them.  Now, when an AMW knocks into you they are always real nice about it but that sorry never seems to help.  It never seems to matter at that point that he has a great smile or she looks like your best friend from college.  Too late for any forgiveness.  I know walking can be hard sometimes….but it’s still kind of necessary.  Let’s all try focusing on our walking for a day.  Focus on not running into me, knocking things out of my hands, or forcing me to pancake myself against a wall so I can stay out of your eebie geebie space bubble.  One day.  Let’s call it today.  Ballmer, the City that Walks.  T-shirts are for sale, $14.99.  Proceeds will benefit the Keep Heather Out of an Insane Asylum fund.

 

The Hubby offered to go grocery shopping for me last week.  After I came out of my shock-induced coma, I quickly came up with a short list that I thought he could handle pretty easily.  Item #4 on the list was conditioner.  He came home about two hours later, red in the face and sweating.  What the hell is wrong with people at that store! He screams as he throws both grocery bags onto the kitchen floor.  I smile my understanding tell-me-all-about-it smile, already knowing what he is about to say.  Who writes checks anymore?  And why are the breadcrumbs in the spice aisle, they’re not a spice?  And why do they only have two cashiers working at 5 o’clock on a Friday?  And what the hell is a bonus card?  We have like eight phone numbers, I didn’t know which one to use so I just started punching in random numbers and it worked…but what the hell is a bonus card?  And this was five for $10 so I went ahead and got five even though we use one a year.  And I can’t believe I spent $43 dollars on like seven things.  That’s ridiculous!!!!!!!!   !!!!!!  <smile>  He kept on with this monologue all the way into the family room, while he turned on the TV, while he sat on the couch.  He only stopped grumbling when PTI blipped on the DVR.  Then he was quiet.  I silently promised myself I would never let him go grocery shopping again…knowing full well he will never offer again.  I also didn’t find it necessary to point out that he picked up shampoo.  Not conditioner.  Sometimes it really is just the thought that counts.

 

Later gators,

Heather

Hello gentle reader.  I am writing to you today from loverly Baltimore City, crack cocaine capital of the world.  My current audit assignment has me working in one of the main government office buildings in downtown Ballmer.  The building itself is fine, a normal government office building.  Droves of drones (I mean government employees) lurching their way off the totally useless Ballmer subway across the street, shuffling past the newspaper guy hawking the same stories you read on the Internet for free while you’re pretending to work, and filing into this bleak grey poorly lit monstrosity that apparently passes for an OSHA approved work environment.  I mention poorly lit because every time I walk out of this building, I feel like Moley the Mole Person squinting at the bright yellow explosion in the sky that I have forgotten exists over the past 8 ½ hours under the pathetic fluorescents that work just about as hard as everything else here.  The guard at the front desk will sometimes ask to see your ID badge, but mostly won’t.  That’s ok, I don’t voluntarily look at this picture of the pumpkin noggin either.  The cafeteria on the first floor sells salad for approximately $98 a pound.  And the garbanzo beans and cucumbers are pretty mushy by the time I get there.  You must buy coffee across the street because that coffee shop has proven its respectability by providing hot sleeves for the cups instead of forcing you to pour your cup o’ joe into environment-murdering Styrofoam.  That is unless you are feeling particularly brave or have a drug deal to make and take the totally useless Ballmer subway to Lexington Market where they sell the best coffee I have ever had in my life.  Peanuts, hot dogs and coffee they sell at this place…I don’t know why it’s so good and I don’t want to know.  It just is…but I never go there.  I go across the street, with all the other lemmings.  Naturally working in a bustling hub of government activity has me all in a tizzy over the myriad government employee species I have managed to catalogue thus far, but that’s not what we’re talking about today.  Today we’re talking about elevator etiquette.  And why it is so important. 

 

I am going to give you a safe estimate and say that I spend about 78% of my time every day either waiting for an elevator or on an elevator.  This building has fifteen floors and I don’t think all of the elevators work….I am pretty sure there must be at least one of them that I’ve never been on in my decade of working in Audit-Land.  Here is etiquette rule number one – the first person to the Hall of Elevators must press the go***mn button.  Press a button.  I don’t care if you’re going up or down, just press the friggin button so I don’t think you’re Creepy McCreep-a-lot standing there waiting to see where I am going before you decide or hoping the doors will magically pop open cause you thought about it real hard.  I work on the twelfth floor of this building, so I am always on my way up.  I walked in the other day and there he was – Creepy McCreep-a-lot just standing there, staring up at the ceiling obviously concentrating really hard.  Of course I pressed the button after huffing my little self-righteous sigh in his general direction.  And of course he got on the up elevator that I got on.  Creepy.  Just standing there.  Like a creep.

 

Rule number two – wait exactly eight seconds for people to catch the elevator before you let the doors close.  No more.  And no less.  If you can hear me running…well running might be an exaggeration….but if you can hear me walking extra fast in my ankle breaking heels then hold the stupid f***ing elevator door you huge jerk.  HOLD IT.  Who knows when the next elevator will come?  It could be days I’m waiting down here, you don’t know.  But eight seconds, that’s it.  Don’t be holding the doors open for slightly longer than forever, pretending to be nice when we all know well and good that the only reason you are testing the maximum weight capacity of this lift is because you have no desire to get to your floor and actually work.  There is nothing worse than being sardined into an elevator with strange government employee types and then having to shoulder your way off when you get to your floor.  Nothing worse.  Luckily most everyone is off by the time we get to 12.  But come on.  Let’s not get crazy with the holding elevators nonsense.  Here’s a good rule of thumb – imagine how many people you could comfortably co-exist with in this five-five moving death trap assuming it gets stuck before it reaches your destination….once that many people are on the elevator, or the allowed eight seconds has elapsed, let it go.  Just let it go.

 

Rule number three – don’t keep pressing the same buttons over and over.  The elevator doesn’t move any faster if you keep pressing the same buttons.  It doesn’t go into warp drive.  It doesn’t pass through the space-time continuum to skip floors.  Press it once.  Then LEAVE IT ALONE!  You Button Pressers are probably the people who short out the circuit boards and cause us to get stuck.  You Button Pressers and your unbelievably annoying need to continuously press the same stupid button are obviously the people that crack the cover to the buttons or cause the buttons to not light up when you press them and then nobody knows where the stupid elevator is going to stop.  Jamming your thumbs on the buttons like you’re trying to gouge out someone’s eyes is probably a little overkill.  Doing it repeatedly makes me think you’re a psychopath.  Leave it alone.  We all don’t need to be reminded after every floor which floor you are going to.  We know.  Just leave it alone.  Also, please…..please stop pressing the Close button.  The Close button is a myth.  The sadistic elevator designers put it there because they know that control freaks like you need the illusion that you can actually close the doors.  After all….you can open the doors and that button clearly works.  So you should be able to close the doors.  But you can’t.  That button does not….I repeat does NOT make the doors close any faster than they normally would.  The sadistic elevator designer is mocking you control freak.  I’m sure there is a complicated sequence of buttons (probably hitting the close button 37 times in a row) that completely shuts down the elevator.  So cut it out.  We’ll get there.  Stop taking out your road/computer/work rage on the friggin buttons.  We’ll get there.

 

Rule number four – please pay attention to the normal civilized society proximity rules when standing in an elevator.  Don’t be all up in my grill.  The elevator is plenty big enough for the two of us….and if I stand to this side then you better get as far from me as is physically possible.  I mean it.  If there are three people on the elevator and one of them gets off….don’t continue to stand behind me.  It makes me paranoid and you’re a jerk.  Pay attention!  Get the hell to the other side of the elevator and stop being a jerk.  You make me self-conscious when you stand too close to me or behind me….for no good reason.  If you touch me in an elevator when we are not sardined in there, I don’t care if it was an accident, but if you touch me I will beat you senseless with my lethal Audit-Land coffee mug.  That’s oogey….normal human beings from the planet Earth need their space and we need our meditation time.  If I cannot ride peacefully on an elevator preparing myself for the next inevitable disaster or crisis Audit-Land throws at me because I have to keep my eye on you the whole time, I will be really really annoyed.  So back it up.  Just back it up.

 

Rule number five – unless you have a very obvious physical impediment, stop taking the elevator one floor.  Seriously.  We are the Land of the Lazy.  I know life’s got you down.  I know your job sucks and you feel worthless.  But stop taking the elevator one stupid floor.  It mucks everything up for the rest of us….you know you’ve looked at someone going one floor up and thought, lazy fat ass.  Yeah, me too, that’s what I think.  I’m not saying you need to be a marathon stair stepper, but anyone can walk up one flight of stairs without giving themselves a coronary.  Why don’t you give it a try?  And going down one floor?  I want to kick those people.  Just kick ‘em right in the shins…..you seriously can’t walk down one flight of stairs!?!?!  What is that about?  Gravity is helping you!  You could fall down one flight of stairs with no effort at all and probably still be ok.  Taking the elevator down one floor, sheeeeeeeeeeeesh….<shaking my head>…..start appreciating your legs a little more people.  Start appreciating the fact that they get you places, that they move at all.  Take care of your muscles and they will take care of you.  God gave you this body to love and exercise, like a dog….stop treating it like s**t.  One step, that’s it.  Take the friggin stairs.

 

Rule number six – please press the right button when you get on an elevator.  You only get one chance.  If you change your mind or realize you hit the wrong button, it’s TOO LATE.  You’re committed.  You’ve committed the rest of us to stopping at that floor, so by golly, you’re gonna stop at that floor now too and you’re going to get off the stupid elevator and deal with the consequences of your rushed hurried decision to hit the wrong friggin button.  I know which button you pressed, don't act like you didn't.  I was paying attention.  <hiss>  I will push you right off this elevator...I'm the person that leans forward and says "Five, this is five!" right in your face because I know you hit that button and now you're gonna get off here.  And keep your demon children away from the buttons.  Elevator buttons attract greasy messy kid fingers like bugs to a bug zapper.  Keep them away.  And press the right button.

 

Rule number seven – talk on an elevator like you would talk in church.  I don’t want to hear about the awesome sex you had last night, how late you are on your credit card payments or any other ridiculously personal piece of info you feel like sharing with complete and total strangers who still have to see you in this building every day.  If you’re talking on the phone while you’re in an elevator, please don’t forget you’re talking on a phone.  Even though you might feel like you’re having a private conversation, you’re not.  We can still hear you.  The imaginary invisible bubble that the cell phone company promised you is a sham.  We’re all involved now.  Go easy on us.  Don’t shout.  We are in a small confined space, and shouting makes me panic.  If you’re having a conversation with somebody else on the elevator, go easy on us.  No jokes about blowing up the building, no longwinded profane rants about how you can’t afford to retire and please….if your conversational buddy is not getting off on the same floor as you are, don’t ever hold the door so you can continue your conversation.  I will karate chop you in the elbow and let loose a roundhouse kick to the chest that you will not forget any time soon.  I know it feels like you’re in Me-World…but you’re not….you’re in Us-World and you need to be nice to all of Us.  Selfish jerks.  If you really want to be nice, just shut the heck up.  Silence on an elevator is fantastic.  I cannot stand trying to be social with people on an elevator…it’s like a pop quiz…QUICK think of something not stupid to say.  Not fair, you selfish jerks.  Just shut up.

 

Ok, let’s recap class.  1. Press a button.  2. Just let it go.  3. We’ll get there.  4. Just back it up.  5. Take the stairs.  6. Pay attention.  7. Just shut up.  Follow these simple rules, easy even for a blind, deaf and half-retarded dog to understand.  So you should be good and Audit-Land will be a happier place.  Because I’ll be happy.  Thanks for listening…you selfish jerks.

 

Later gators,

Heather

It’s summer and it has finally….finally stopped raining.  Now it’s time to endure the humidity that this loverly state washes over us.

 

 

I often wonder if my life would be easier if I didn’t speak or understand English and I always come to the same conclusion.  Yes.

 

 

My cat ran into the sliding glass door yesterday.  She was chasing a squirrel that was sitting on the deck.  Then she barfed on the floor.

 

 

Heather is a purple flower.  It would be nice to own a Heather plant, but every time I buy one it dies.  And I feel like a huge failure.

 

 

Are you ever really thinking something when someone asks you what you’re thinking?  Me either.  I’m just waiting for that person to go away.

 

 

My drug dealing neighbor asked me last week if that was my car parked in his space.  Then he pulled all the weeds out of his front yard.

 

 

I watched Cemetery Man on demand because I haven’t seen it in a million years.  I couldn’t remember how it ended.  Good movie.

 

 

There is a map of this office on the cube wall where I am sitting.  It’s really out of date.  I think I’ll make a new map.  <smile>

 

 

I miss my sister.  She is the only person on this planet who knows what I mean when I’m not saying anything.  Colorado sounds nice.

 

 

The computer runs really slow when it’s updating.  Then it reboots.  Maybe I should start doing that too.  I’ll tell people I’m narcoleptic.

 

 

I was going to carve a watermelon like a pumpkin and make up a pretend holiday to celebrate the monsoons.  Then it stopped raining.

 

 

The invite to my 15 year high school reunion popped up in facebook.  I’m pretty sure the only people who go to the reunion are the ones who

 

 

Organize it.

 

 

I was wondering how long I could go having thoughts in 140 characters or less.  Maybe if I used the texting fake English or stopped putting

 

 

spaces in between my words I could fit more in there.  But I think that truncating, filtering, shortening, paraphrasing and hyphenating

 

 

one’s life is probably a good sign that the zombie apocalypse is not far off.  It will probably eventually start causing people to

 

 

communicate using grunts and pointing at things.  Our brains will be pureed into mush, we'll devolve into monosyllabic Neanderthals.

 

 

But that probably won’t happen until after Public Enemies comes out in theaters.  Johnny Depp is so hooooooooooooooooooooooootttttttttttttt.

 

 

 

Later gators,

Heather

It’s a gloomy, rainy day.  I can tell even before I open my eyes.  I don’t think it’s natural for human beings to be awake and alert before the sun rises.  The house is dark and spooky in these pre-dawn hours and the Pumpkin is trying desperately to trip me as I walk down the stairs to pour myself the first of eight thousand cups of coffee I plan to drink today.  You see….today is Staff Meeting Day in Audit-Land.  That’s right, gentle reader, the day you all look forward to every year with bated breath and palsy-like fidgets.  You look forward to it….I do not.  This year, Staff Meeting Day has been scheduled to take place in loverly Catonsville which is approximately a million miles away from Germantown.  And with the cost of gas inexplicably rising while all these car companies are going out of business….I will have to pay waaaaaaaaaay more than I think is appropriate to attend this shindig.  And it’s raining.  Did I mention that already?  Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh….I hate long commutes in the rain.  That’s not really precisely accurate.  I hate other people driving long commutes in the rain with me.  If I was on the road by myself, it might be kind of peaceful.  This will not be.  This will be a nightmare and that is the only thing prodding my eyelids open at this ungodly hour. 

 

I will not recap the road rage filled trek across the state for you people because it will only make me crazy delirious again.  So let’s skip ahead and say that I made it to the community college in Catonsville where the Staff will be Meeting.  I am, naturally, the first person there.  Awesome.  Some peace and quiet before the Coworkers arrive.  Thanks to the 16 cups of coffee I have already consumed, I decide finding a bathroom soon would probably be prudent.  So, I make my way inside out of the rain and the gloom and the doom into the humid mugginess that is some old dank college building.  Ok….so I am slightly exaggerating…..it was a nice building, don’t get me wrong.  I was just in a foul mood.  If I had been happy, the building would have seemed nicer.  The catering people are already in the room and I wait as patiently as possible for them to get the hell out of the way of the coffee urn before I start filling these little teeny elf cups full of some more joe.  Who in the world drinks coffee like this…out of little teeny tiny elf cups?  So anyway, the Coworkers start filing in and jabbering away and I am as social as my current caffeine level will allow.  I am very proud of myself for scoping out and claiming the best seat in the room….until someone (I forget who) announces this is not in fact the room where we will be Meeting.  This is the room where we will be Eating.  <pause>  What now?  So I’m the jerk that put all her stuff down on a chair for absolutely no reason.  Fabulous.

 

The Meeting Room is an auditorium.  The lights are not on because the community college people think we can see in the dark.  You know, cause most auditors have magical powers.  Mine is the ability to mesmerize people with my abnormally large pumpkin head.  When these people finally figure out where the light switch is, I see that there are plenty of ideal seat options in here and am slightly less enraged than I was about thirty seconds earlier….that lasted for oh……another 12 seconds…..before someone else (I forget who) announces that we are not allowed to eat or drink in this auditorium.  <pause>  What now?  What’s this?  What are you trying to tell me?  Um.  No coffee?  Are you serious?  What am I, 8 years old?  I think I can manage drinking some coffee without spewing it out all over the seats in front of me.  Come on with your ridiculous rules.  I hate this place.  Now I really hate this place.  Coffee haters.

 

So, as per usual, Staff Meeting Day is going to begin with about four hours of useless training.  Today we are learning how to manage our time.  Nice.  Just what I need…..someone to explain to me how easy it is to clone myself……or build a time machine…..or slow the rotation of the Earth so there are more hours in the day.  Maybe this moron will hypnotize us so we stop caring about our families and friends and personal hygiene and start shirking our responsibilities?  That will make it much easier to manage my time.  So, just as I am in the middle of a thought about going back in time to change professions before they sucked the soul out of me in business school, New Guy sits down in front of me.  Just plops himself down in the row in front of me….but he’s already looking at me with that expectant “I’m going to be talking to you in a minutes, get ready” look on his face.  <sigh>  Fine. 

 

New Guy:  Hi, I’m Kevin.

Me: Hi Kevin, I’m Heather.

 

I hope it doesn’t surprise you that I introduced myself, gentle reader.  I’m not a rude person.  I am merely disenchanted with the world and everybody in it.  I don’t really recall what this Kevin person was saying after he introduced himself because I’m not really capable of active listening while being so ridiculously decaffeinated.  He asked me how long I’d worked in Audit-Land…blah blah blah.  All the normal questions creepy Newbies usually have….but then somebody else walked over and handed Kevin an ear piece.

 

<pause>

 

Oh no.

 

 

 

Oh dear Lord….if you ever loved me just a little bit please please please don’t make this Kevin person the <shiver> Trainer.  I just assumed he worked in Audit-Land….why the hell else would he have been talking to me?  I’ll tell you why, because he’s an evil sadistic “Audience Participation” trainer.  He’s needy that way.  Now, the pleasant sort of nice smile I had on my face has turned into a pursed lip not quite mean looking scowl. 

 

Trickster: I’m teaching the class.

Heather:  Yeah.  I figured that out when they didn’t give me an ear piece too.

Trickster: Do you have a couple minutes to talk about your job?

[Uh no.]

Heather: What do you want to know?

Trickster: Tell me what some of the challenges you face…..blah blah blah……

 

I am absolutely furious at this point.  Everybody knows that one of the golden rules of Training Class is to stay as far away from the Trainer as possible.  They may as well have the plague.  You never look at them.  And you certainly don’t….<shiver>…..talk to them!  And look at me now.  Dancing with the devil.  This is going to end very very badly.  The evil interviewing dancing devil takes a break for a few seconds to check his mic at which point I decided I was going to need a lot more coffee before this thing got started….so I ran out of the auditorium.

 

Time to get this party started.  The Newbies are introduced, forced to stand and wave and act really uncomfortable with an auditorium full of judgmental auditors staring at them.  And now it’s time for the Time Lord to start the torture.  He informs us right off the bat that the purpose of time management is to eliminate problems and distractions that get in the way of success.

 

Distraction: Feel good about yourself.

Heather: [I already do.]

Distraction: Some things that are common sense are not common practice.

Heather: [Yeah, like not talking to the god***n trainer.]

Distraction: I am a recovering perfectionist.

Heather: [ugh]

Distraction: I often tell people to hit a bag with a stick.

Heather: [Thanks Doctor Phil.]

 

Hang on a second…he’s calling on people!  This is a nightmare.  But then, I already knew this was that kind of trainer.  The kind that calls on people randomly…except this won’t be totally random, will it?  On no.  I have already doomed myself to inevitable.

 

Satan: So Heather, what do you think is a reason…..blah blah blah.

Heather: [panicking that now the auditorium full of judgmental auditors is looking at me while my massive and somewhat disproportionately sized pumpkin head is turning bright bright red.] Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…..something that sounds like a sort of reasonable answer to me in my head while I was saying it but was more than likely total nonsense.

 

Oh no….he di-idn’t.  This is completely unacceptable.  I am quite obviously sitting in the Do Not Call On Me I Don’t Want To Participate row of the auditorium.  What planet is this guy from?  I need gallons of coffee to make it through this day and the stupid rules in this Chamber of Doom forbid it.  And then Satan says some really ridiculous things….

1.      You shouldn’t complain.

2.      Is the point to life to get everything done?

3.      Email can kill you.

4.      Slow down the speed of your mind.

 

Ok, let’s point out the faulty logic here.  Complaining is therapeutic.  If I don’t write this stuff down it would infect everything I do.  Yes, the point to life is to get everything done.  I would haunt this world for eternity if I did not finish my to-do list before I die.  But that may be the OCD talking.  Email can’t kill….but the stupid morons sending that email could definitely do some permanent damage.  Slow down the speed of my mind?  To what end?  I can keep up with it; how’s it  my fault if nothing else can.  <smile>

 

So, in between finding typos in his Powerpoint presentation (he wrote ‘your’ instead of you’re) and powering up the jedi mind tricks to keep him from calling on me again, I start falling asleep.  Then he suggests that we stop caring if people like us.  Check.  Delegate as much as possible.  Not a good idea.  I’d end up with t-shirts in the dishwasher if I did that at home.  Schedule a meeting with yourself.  Because now we’re all schizophrenic.  And then my favorite – eat the ugly frog.

 

Ok, this is some kind of meaningful advice about overcoming procrastination.  You eat the frog first thing.  You get it over with.  And if there is more than one….you eat the ugly one first.  This is the most inane totally irrelevant nonsense I have ever heard….I love it when people try to associate things like this with advice.  But I have to admit….I’m going to start saying it to people.  All the time.  Eat the ugly frog….and nod in a knowing way that makes them think they should know what I’m talking about but they have no idea what I’m talking about…..but they don’t want to ask and look stupid….so they just nod, yeah….eat the ugly frog.  Heeheehee.

 

Satan called on me one more time, because I apparently wasn’t in the room when he wanted to talk to me….and then he pointed at me later but didn’t call on me.  Awful, awful awfulness.  And then it’s time for lunch.

 

And that’s over way too quick.  The three people in this office that I can talk to without wincing were at least talking to me at this point….so no one else would.  Now it’s time for the barrel of laughs portion of the meeting.  The Update from Audit-Land.

 

Here’s how the Update went.  You’re not getting any more money next year, but rah rah we sure do appreciate all your hard work and you’re welcome for having a job.  I am so motivated right now I could just stab myself in the neck with this pen…………Seriously?  We probably could have used some ‘Motivational Speaking’ training.  Forget this time management nonsense.  So anyhoo…moving along.  Now all the divisional dictators get to remind us what happened during the last six months.  Here’s a quick play by play.  The Social Committee is recruiting everyone for Auditor Gone Wild behavior such as attending baseball games and cancer walks.  I think the Social Committee needs some kind of uniform.  And maybe pom poms.  The discussion forum that I am moderating for the Office….and by moderating I mean posting notes to myself…..is a total failure.  We will have to fill out some kind of employment satisfaction survey in the future and let everyone know how happy we are to have jobs.  At this point during the Update….the audience mumbling has become a distraction.  I’m not terribly sure people realize we are sitting in an auditorium with excellent acoustics…but whatever.  The three thousand other committees that the Office has deemed necessary are all doing very important things that I don’t feel like repeating.  We’ve done a lot of audits.  And the scary paranoid IT Director informed us that if we don’t turn in our non-encrypted flash drives so they can be burned into ash we will suffer dire consequences.  I totally believe him when he says this.  Of course there were a lot of other topics reviewed that I cannot expound on for you gentle reader because it is top secret Auditing Business.

 

But I do have to talk about one more thing.  We had a retirement party at the end of the meeting.  And by party I mean Grumblybert “roasted” the retiree.  This was slightly uncomfortable because no one in our Office really understands Grumblybert’s comedy genius.  I am fairly certain he is being funny 75% of the time…but no one really knows for sure.  The roasting made some people uncomfortable, which is awesome.  I love a train wreck just as much as the next person.  Or rather, in this case…more than anybody else in the audience.  Retireebert took it all in with a grain of salt, apparently appeased by the knowledge that he is almost outta here.  I’m not sure I will miss him…but I am sure I will have a lot less to complain about.  And complaining is the fire that gets me up in the morning so farewell Retireebert.  No “roasting” from me.  Enjoy your life outside of Audit-Land.  Cheers.  And all that.

 

Then it was over…almost before it began.  Now I am driving home from loverly Catonsville in the dreary gloomy rain, already forgetting pretty much all of the names of the Newbies who got introduced at the beginning of the day.  But let me be quite clear Newbies.  I will not be speaking to any of you.  Ever.  On the off chance you’re actually an evil audience participation Trainer, I will not be a party to your reindeer games. M’kay?

 

Later gators,

Heather

I am working in Rockville now, gentle reader.  Disconnected from the world.  I have no internet access here, and it is driving me maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.  I would like to say that it has been a relief to be unavailable to the world.  I would like to say that I enjoy going back to a simpler time when we had dial-up and getting on the internet was such a drag.  I would like to say that I have more important things to do….like appreciate nature or read a book…..than be on the internet.  This is sadly not the case.  Apparently, when I don’t answer my mother’s e-mails promptly (within 24 hours) she assumes that I am dead.  That’s a fun conversation to have with one of your parents –

 

Mom: Why don’t you answer my e-mails?

Me: Because I don’t have internet access on my job anymore.

Mom: Why don’t you answer my e-mails when you get home?

Me: Because I have other stuff to do.

Mom: I thought something had happened to you.  You worry me.

Me: Wait a minute mom, I think my experiment worked.

Mom: What are you talking about?

Me:  Hang on mom, I have to check something.

Mom: <sigh>

Me: I was trying to prove that I would I die if I didn’t e-mail my mother constantly.  And it worked.  I’m dead.  You’re speaking to a dead person.  You can save the guilt and passive aggression because it is ineffective on dead people.

Mom: Stop being a smart ass.  You’re just like your father.

 

I am currently auditing a courthouse in Rockville.  I don’t think I said that before and I’m too lazy to read what I just wrote.  Working in a courthouse is like being on the pirate ship in the fish tank and watching all the crazy guppies swim by.  You get all types in a courthouse.  ALL types.  Lots of men in uniform.  Which hasn’t been that bad….I saw a Sheriff’s car get towed the other day.  And for some reason that bothered me.  Listen, I know some of you out there think cops shouldn’t get away with speeding and free parking and all that….but seriously?  They get shot at.  And yes, I think that warrants some free parking.  Save your quarters, copper. 

 

I was rather dismayed to learn that I would need yet another ID badge to enter the courthouse every day and bypass the x-ray machine, etc.  I think I would rather turn on my laptop and my cell phone and empty my purse and twirl around three times every day for courthouse security if it would mean that I don’t have to look at this ridiculous picture of myself on this ridiculous badge.  I don’t know if the guy taking the picture had a wide-angle lens because I don’t remember him being this close to my face but my pumpkin-sized head fills the entire picture window on the badge.  And it is a perfect circle.  I look like a character out of South Park.  It amazes me that I can stand up in the morning with this bowling ball on my shoulders….it amazes me that I don’t just fall over backwards. 

 

Here’s a travel tip for those of you who don’t normally drive through loverly Rockville on a regular basis.  If you need to park in this city expect to pay an arm and a leg.  It costs more to park here than it does in Ballmer.  Of course, you’re not dodging crack heads here like you would be in Ballmer….so maybe you pay a premium for that.  One of the pathetic joys in my life right now has been chronicling the trials and tribulations of the Parking Booth Man.  I have decided to park in a street lot behind the courthouse and because my OCD habits will not allow me to deviate from a routine once it has been established, this is where I park every day.  And every day, Parking Booth Man is having some kind of problem.  I imagine that the Parking Lot Company does not pay him nearly enough for all the stress and agony this job apparently causes him.  One day, I drove in and the ticket spitter was broken and Parking Booth Man was attempting to fix it by kicking it repeatedly….and I full well on intended to just sit in my car and watch this fiasco unfold, but I must have made him self-conscious because he turned and looked at my car idling in the turn-in for the lot and started flailing his arms around like an epileptic air traffic controller.  I interpreted his somewhat aggressive arm gestures to mean that I was to drive through without taking a ticket.  This does not concern me, because I stay all day and so I would have to pay the full rate regardless but I sooooooooooo wanted to watch the meltdown.  The kicking must have worked, by the way, because the ticket spitter was back to spitting out tickets the next morning.

 

Last week the Parking Booth Man was having issues making change for people.  I have deduced from my extremely amazing observation skills, that this is probably because he sits in a claustrophobically small stifling hot poorly constructed ticket booth all day sucking in exhaust fumes.  The seat in the booth is too tall and the window is too low, so you can’t really see Parking Booth Man in his booth….you can just hear him mumbling and cursing in his make believe parking lot language.  In Parking Lot Land, I assume that a twenty dollar bill looks exactly the same as a tenner.  I assume this, because on this particular day last week, I handed Parking Booth Man a brand new crisp clean twenty dollar bill spit freshly out of the outrageously priced ATM in the courthouse (because I don’t carry cash normally) and after I got a receipt and no change and sat there for about thirty seconds….I realized he must have thought he gave me change.  So I asked for change.  This was not some kind of confrontation….don’t worry.  And even if it had been a confrontation, I am fairly certain I could annihilate Parking Booth Man with a swift head butt from the pumpkin noggin.  No…there was none of that.  There was just Parking Booth Man….confused and turning this way and that on his too tall swivel stool in the booth, making confused grunts and noises and getting increasingly agitated about something until he was wildly flailing his arms around again.  At this point…..I am trying………….really really hard…………not to laugh.  I am nervous that my laughter at this point, because it would be uncontrollable, would cause the Parking Booth Man to spontaneously combust.  It’s been known to happen, people.  And then who would entertain me everyday….really.  So I suppress the urge to start the jiggledy giggledies.  And wait.  And wait.   And wait….for Parking Booth Man to pull it together.  After his loud and angry monologue, none of which I got because again he was speaking in that parking booth language that I don’t understand….and he’s like sitting three feet above the car window, after that he takes a deep breath, hands me my change and says in the sweetest voice I have ever heard, have a good day.

 

Oh.  I already have Parking Booth Man.  I already have.  Thanks.

 

I have recently become addicted to orange flavored lifesaver mints.  I eat them all the time now.  They must put heroin in these things because I cannot stop munching them….and yes, I am one of those people that eats mints.  There is nothing worse than listening to someone sucking on a mint….except maybe someone walking behind you, or listening to people eating or drinking, or people doing something else that is annoying.  Nothing worse.  I eat the mints….which is probably why I go through so many a day.  You know, I figured the coffee and cigs weren’t rotting the teeth out of my head fast enough and so I figured….what would your dentist suggest?  Besides no more nicotine or caffeine…..<shaking my head>……he would suggest no sugar.  And because I concluded long ago that my dentist is the devil incarnate, I will do the opposite and coat my rotting teeth in lifesaver fake sugar all day.  That’s the ticket.  I should have a new set of bionic teeth implanted into my gums by the time I turn 50.

 

I was stunned and relieved to learn that there is still reality TV on over the summer….besides Big Brother which I can’t really watch because it’s on like every 18 hours or something….and I always miss an episode because there is no rhyme nor reason to the stupid schedule.  There was a new show on this week called….I’m not lying….. “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.”  AAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  There was very little entertainment involved in this show….mainly because I don’t watch the Hills and had no idea who this Spencer person is…..the Hubby informed me that all the kids watch that show.  <sigh>  Ok.  There was Stephen Baldwin, Lou Diamond Phillips, a female wrestler, some comedians, Janet Dickenson, Blajogedvich’s (no I’m sure that’s not the way you spell that name) wife and Sanjaya.  That’s all I can remember.  It was a train wreck.  Lots of Hollywood religion, catfights, defending impeached husbands and melodrama.  They force the celebrities to live out in the middle of nowhere, to eat bugs and touch snakes, etc.  Very Survivor-esque.  Except with people that very clearly do not want to be there….I don’t think I will continue to watch this show….but if you’re suffering from reality withdrawal, this should get you by.

 

Also watched the MTV movie awards last weekend….uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..when did MTV become such a potty mouth?  Seriously….they said “dick” about eight hundred times during the show.  Maybe it’s because of all the trash they show on that channel now….and not nearly enough singing…..Eminem was good and if you honestly think he wasn’t in on that Borat entrance, you’re nuts.  Eminem was on Crank Yankers for crying out loud.  He knows how to handle a joke.  And poor Zack Epinephrine on the stage trying to figure out what the hell was going on….priceless.  Don’t worry if you missed it, they’ll show it again every day for the next three months.  The Ben Stiller award thing was weird and unfunny and uncomfortable….Kiefer needs to stick with Jack Bauer….please.  All in all, MTV managed to confirm that all the little girls and boys who actually have the time to vote for this nonsense want to grow up to be vampires.  Although, the Twilight girl who won and then dropped the award onstage….I don’t know if she meant to do that, but it was hi-larious.  One of the only funny parts of the show…

 

I am attempting to grow vegetables on the deck outside.  This is interesting and I’m sharing this with all of you because at this point in time, all of my vegetables are still in the house on the window sill.  I do not trust the rabid squirrels in our neighborhood not to eat my plants before I do so I have decided to let them grow for the time being in the house.  The Pumpkin apparently does not agree with this plan one little bit, because she has to date kicked at least two of the plants onto the floor.  The idea to grow vegetables came out of some delusion that growing my own vegetables would be cheaper and greener than buying them at the grocery store…so I bought like eight packets of seeds and a bag of top soil and filled up about 42 plastic cups with dirt and water and plant pods, like I was doing some kind of elementary school science experiment.  I feel like I should be subjecting the plastic cups to music or weird light or something.  So maybe with a little bit of magic pixie dust and a few well-worded prayers I will be eating rabbit food I grew myself in a few months.  That, or the vegetables will have been poisoned by the hatred that I am quickly developing for the dirty little plastic cup bombs that the Pumpkin continues to throw all over my house.

 

So that’s it.  The update from Audit-Land.  You’re welcome.  Stay tuned next week for the recap of Staff Meeting Day 2009.

 

Later gators,

Heather

Hello everybody and happy New Year.  I know it’s been a million years since I’ve written anything on this stupid website…but I took a real vacation this year.  Well, not a real vacation.  I didn’t go anywhere…but when is going somewhere ever really a vacation?  No, I stayed home and relaxed.  Doing nothing is surprisingly relaxing.  Staying away from the computer for a good solid two weeks was relaxing as well.  Of course, the two weeks I was taking my fake vacation happened to coincide with Christmas and New Year’s and this time of year is never completely void of stress….but I handle it pretty well, I think.  The 2’s decided to do a ‘secret Santa’ gift exchange this year…which did not end up being secret for very long, which wasn’t very surprising considering the 2’s.  So, I had significantly fewer presents to buy this year…which was good because of the money….but not good for me because I like to shop especially for other people.  But whatever.  I had other ways to be festive, like baking ten million cookies and decorating the house.

 

Cookie baking is something we do every year, Skywalker and my Mum.  It’s something we invariably start with great fervor and motivation.  But that never lasts.  We’re not particularly ‘bakey’ people….so being in the kitchen that long makes us cranky and grumpy by the end of the day.  We usually try to make waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too many cookies…which means we’ve eaten about 8 pounds of raw cookie dough by the end of the whole fiasco…….so it is entirely conceivable that the crankiness is actually due to how nauseous we feel.  This year we toned it down – molasses snaps, pumpkin bars, chocolate peanut butter bark and chocolate dipped pretzels.  This did not seem overwhelming.  But of course the cookie baking plan never seems overwhelming before we start.  The recipes were thanks to Martha Stewart.  I hate Martha Stewart, by the way….just in case I forget to mention that later.  The molasses snaps were not very snappy…which was probably our fault….but I am not ready to accept total blame for this debacle yet.  If any of you bake, you may have had this problem before.  The recipe called for brown sugar, which I had….but because I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen I hardly ever use….so the brown sugar has hardened to the consistency of a concrete block.  Skywalker was in charge of measuring out the stupid half cup we needed.  So after banging the entire block of solidified sugar on the counter for about 7 seconds before mum gave her the “keep that up and I’ll flatten you with this frying pan” stare, she decided to try Something Else.  Something Else meant putting water on the sugar and then microwaving it.  Which does achieve the desired effect of softening the sugar….but now we have completely lost all ingredient integrity.  Mum, thankfully, let’s us muddle along without saying anything.  So I slop the sloppy brown sugar together in what is supposed to be a snap cookie dough.  The dough gets refrigerated for an hour before it’s rolled out, but I can tell before I even put it in the frig….that this dough is not going to chill.  It’s the consistency of those fake powdered mash potatoes.  You know the ones I’m talking about…the ones that taste like ground up cardboard.  And of course the dough has molasses in it….so it’s sticking to everything, particularly me.  According to Ms. Martha Stewart, we are supposed to be rolling this dough into balls before we bake it.  Hahahahahahahahaha.  There is no chance that’s happening.  I stick my hands in the science experiment dough we have managed to ruin before we even bake and think this could all end very very badly.  Skywalker decided that the quicker we threw the dough onto the baking sheet, the less chance it would have to be gross and stick to us.  So she’s shellacking the dough down into little plops.  Mum is standing to the side, shaking her head…..probably wondering how she managed to raise such retarded offspring.  I am completely disgusted by this brown goop that I will most definitely never get out from under my nails.  I can’t get it off my hands onto the stupid baking sheet.  Martha Stewart can kiss my ass.  Seventeen minutes later, the brown goop came out of the oven.  Thirty seconds after that we tried to eat one….and sweet baby Jesus, a Christmas miracle!  They were actually good despite our concerted efforts to ruin them.

 

My other Christmas treat to myself this year was decorating the house.  I love decorating the house.  Decorating for Christmas is slightly behind decorating for Halloween, but still very high on the List of Stuff I Would Rather Be Doing.  The inside of the house never takes very long, because we don’t have a very big house.  But I do string lights up inside the house everywhere….much to the Hubby’s chagrin.  He despises this holiday and grumbles about the lights every year.  Aren’t the lights outside enough? he asks me.  <chuckle>  Come on….you can never have too many Christmas lights, right?  Well….apparently you can.  Let me explain, gentle reader.  The neighbor in our cul-de-sac (the drug dealer, not the international spy) makes up for his complete lack of interest in Halloween with a Christmas extravaganza display in his little tiny front yard.  We have townhouses here….soooooo not a whole lot of space in the yard……but my stupid drug dealing neighbor has managed to cover every single square inch of that limited space with some kind of lighted Christmas magic.  His whole house seems to glow…..you can probably see it from space.  And for some reason this really annoys me.  My Christmas lights…..are done with some taste and a smidge of restraint.  Well…..really only restrained by the fact that I don’t own a ladder tall enough to string lights all over the roof and my bowling ball shape doesn’t result in a very impressive or powerful vertical jump.….and the Hubby vehemently refuses to buy a taller ladder for this sole purpose.  But seriously.  What’s this drug dealer gangster trying to say with his multi-colored explosion?  You know what he’s trying to say, don’t you?  Any of you who live in the Burbs know exactly what’s going on here.  It’s a Christmas lighting street war….he’s winning…..and he thinks he’s better than me.  And that makes me soooooooooooooooooooooooooooo angry.

 

You don’t really notice the politics of Christmas lights until you’re in your 30’s.  Before then, it doesn’t really matter.  But when you turn 30, probably because you have less of a life, you tend to fixate more on this sort of thing.  Or, because you are older and wiser and more observant, you can interpret the pettiness of your drug dealing gangster neighbors with greater clarity and precision.  Yeah….I like that better than having less of a life.  Being in your 30’s does have its advantages….you know, to offset the fact that I can now apparently hurt myself if I sleep the wrong way.  So anyway, Tony Montana in the house next door is not pulling one over on me.  I deliberate briefly sabotaging his ridiculous display.  This would probably not turn out well, as I’m sure he would assume it was me, and earning the vengeance of a drug dealer gangster (even if he is my neighbor) is not high on my list of Stuff I Would Rather Be Doing.  As I continue to plot and scheme, I am now naturally noticing all of the Christmas lighting statements around the neighborhood.  It is very interesting what your Christmas lights say about you, you know?  Think about it.  There are the people who put up the bare bones minimum.  You can tell they could care less that it’s a holiday but don’t want to be accused of hating children, so they put out the tiniest effort possible.  One strand of lights attached to the gutter.  Come on.  That’s pathetic.  These people are saying to you, “ok fine, it’s December, we’ll play your stupid reindeer games but if I shovel out my parking space don’t think for a second that you can park there when I leave.”  Then there are the white lights people.  The White Lighters, obviously, only put white lights in their yards.  It is pretty….in a good old fashioned ice-storm-we’ve-lost-power kind of way.  But still….not very festive.  People who only put up white lights have a problem with chaos.  They are control freaks and probably suffer from severe OCD.  I dare you to count the number of lights they put up.  I guarantee it’s a round number, and I guarantee none of their lights will ever burn out.  The White Lighters are saying to you, “One, two, three, touch.  I NEED YOU TO STAY OFF MY LAWN YOU”RE DISTURBING THE SNOW.  <eek!>  One, two, three, touch.”  Crazy people.  Stay away from the White Lighters.    They probably bludgeon trespassers with their snow shovels and bury them in the backyard.  But it does make you wonder how they got that light-up Rudolph in the middle of their lawn without leaving footprints.  Then there are the flashing lights people.  Flashers are anarchists.  They are hording stockpiles of guns and ammunition in their compounds.  I highly suggest reporting these people to the authorities.  I realize that’s profiling…but come on.  Those stupid flashing lights are going to give me epileptic seizures.  After they give me migraines.  And ok….yes…..if I didn’t stare at them for so long….none of that would probably ever happen….but they…..are…..so…….mesmerizing.  It’s hard to look away.  And then before you know it, you’re seeing spots for hours.  Flashing lights need to be banned, or poo pooed by pro-planet people like aerosol and Hummers.  Flashers are telling you, “I am so high on psychotropic drugs right now, I feel like Alice fallen down the rabbit hole.”  You know….I’d stay away from them too.  Then there are the inflatable lawn ornaments people.  You know what I’m talking about right, the snow globes and blow-up reindeer and snowmen.  This is the cheesiest of cheese.  And even better….is seeing these What-a-Waste-of-Money Mart decorations during the day….you know, when they’re deflated.  Or dead.  Look kids!  Santa has melted into a puddle in the middle of the lawn!  It’s because you didn’t believe.  And now he’s dead.  Sorry, no presents for you losers this year.  Just wait for the witching hour though, when the power kicks on and all the inflatable lawn people come to life.  It is kind of unnerving….like waking a den of vampires.  The Inflatables are saying to you, “It’s true.  I do whatever my five-year-old tells me to do.”  Lastly of course are people like my Sopranos neighbor.  People who buy every single light they find and then find a way to hang every single light they bought in a space too small to park a car.  A big car, not one of those teeny cars.  It’s gaudy.  It’s says, I’m better than you.  Look at all my lights.  These people, these Germantown Germs, think very highly of themselves.  They provoke my envy.  Who wouldn’t want to be King of the Burbs right…..after all, it’s good to be king.  <smile> 

 

I ran into my drug dealing gangster neighbor not long after Christmas.  Well, it’s not entirely accurate to say, “I ran into him” like it was an accidental coincidence.  I’m sure he planned it….I’m sure he ran out into his yard after spying me pull up into the parking lot so he could nonchalantly start talking about how friggin long it was going to take him to pull down the myriad lights he managed to squeeze into his drug dealing gangster yard.  I smile….my not-really-smiling smile.  The one Mum taught me.  I wait patiently until the King of the Burbs stops feeling the need to feel good about himself and slink into my poorly lit inferior house.  The only thing that makes me feel good is knowing that I am one of those people who is in no hurry to take down my lights.  They’ll probably be up till February…and oh yeah, I’ll turn them on every night.  I’m sure the HOA can’t say anything about it.  The One Stranders never take down their strand ‘o lights.  They leave it up indefinitely and just turn it off after the New Year.  The White Lighters have their lights off and packed up by 12:01 a.m. December 26.  The Flashers wait for the New Year, after they get released from jail for being drunk and naked dancing through their front yards…..<psst, those lights make it easier for the cops to catch you hippies>.  The Inflatables throw their decorations in the trash, after all, they have now effectively crushed the imagination and dreams of their children so what use do they have for any of it now?  The King of the Burbs usually waits until about a week after New Year’s….which is about as long as any decent suburbian can wait without looking like white trash.  And this makes me smile.  I am better than him in one small way…..I have no shame in my own laziness.  I love this holiday and yes, I’ll drag it out until waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay past its shelf life.  Who cares?  No one really….it gives the neighbors something else to say about me and it makes the King smile that not-really-smiling smile.  <big smile>  I love it.

 

Later gators,

Heather

 

 

So it's already that time of year again.  The time of year for dressing up and pretending to get along with all of my coworkers.  "Get along" may be an overstatement....let's say I'm pretending not to hate them.  Have you guessed yet, gentle reader?  That's right, it's Staff Meeting Day in Audit-Land.  Staff Meeting Day is kind of like assembly/pep rally day in school....actually, it's remarkably similar to that.  You remember how you were never really that excited about the pep rallies because you were never into sports and screaming for the football team wasn't high on your list because you could have really cared less if they won and the cheerleaders made you want to gag because of their Stepford Wives smiles they had plastered all over their faces but you were happy not to be in class or more accurately not to be in gym class because this semester is the volleyball semester which is life's way of getting back at short people.  You remember that?  I feel the same way about Staff Meeting Day.  Still not too keen about the sports.  The Stepford Wives smiles still make me gag.  And the idea of being forced to jump up and attempt to spike a ball, with inevitably horrific results, still gives me anxiety attacks.  But plenty of people seem to enjoy these little get-togethers in Audit-Land.  I have a feeling these are people who put whiskey in their coffee.  But still.....it's the holiday season and People, in general, are being much nicer to each other than normal.  So I'll make an effort to pretend not to hate everybody. 

 

So.....some moron decided that it would be a great idea to host this year's Staff Meeting Day in Essex, otherwise known as the far side of the moon from loverly Germantown.  To be perfectly exact, it is 63 miles away from Germantown.  One way.  If gas still cost $6.63/gallon, there is a less than zero chance I would have bothered to go to this meeting.  And by the way, whoever came up with that idea, I'm not even going to pretend.  I hate you.  So I get up too early, as usual, because I have no idea how long it will take to drive to the far side of the moon....since no person in their right mind would do this on a regular basis.  It's raining and windy, blustery and miserable out.....like the gods are trying to tell me I should just stay home.  But I forge ahead.  I am slightly interested in attending this particular meeting.  Partly because I missed the last meeting, and I'm afraid if I miss too many, I will no longer recognize any of my coworkers.  And also partly because I have been nominated for an award.  Let me tell you about the award -

 

The award is for best Supreme Ruler of the Universe.  In order to be nominated for this award, you must have successfully brainwashed a few people into thinking you're awesome enough to deserve a personalized pen set....which is all being the best Supreme Ruler of the Universe merits apparently.  I am slightly surprised by my nomination, since I prefer to fly a bit more under the radar with the coworkers....of course I cannot always predict the behavior of my minions....even more interesting than being nominated for this award is the fact that there were four nominations.  And only three people can win the award.  <pause>  Ok, first of all....how do you have THREE best supreme rulers of the universe?  That's physically impossible.  Unless you're going to have some kind of cage match to decide the final best ultimate Supreme Ruler of the Universe.  Second of all....it has become glaringly obvious to me that winning this award will mean far less than....losing this award.  Seriously.  Consider, if I am one of four people nominated....and the other three win.....but not me.  How gloriously awful would that be....just another excuse to dislike the coworkers even more.

 

So anyway...I slide my way into the parking lot at this extremely posh community college and wander aimlessly around the campus until I find building J....or maybe it was building B....whichever building it was, I found it.  And then I realized I did not pick up any newspapers for my required crossword puzzle distraction.  This is kind of an emergency situation.  I really cannot be expected to pay attention during this entire meeting....I mean, the only reason I survived any of those pep rallies in school was because I was in the corner with the other AV nerds debating on which highly inappropriate song to blast out when the assembly was over and people began filing out of the gym.  And since I no longer have that option available to me....I really need some crossword puzzles.  The bookstore and cafeteria seem like the most likely place to find a newspaper....but of course it is still too early for normal people to be functioning....or for businesses to be open.....the only thing I find at the cafeteria/bookstore is a bunch of guys trying to put up one of those politically correct Christm-......I mean Holiday trees.  You know the ones with all the Christm-....I mean holiday ornaments and tinsel and lights and stars, and all that holiday stuff not affiliated with any particular religion.  Yeah so, there were like 8 guys trying to do this....which seemed slightly ridiculous to me....but whatever.  None of them knew where I could get a newspaper.

 

So having been defeated in my quest (apparently nothing newsworthy happens in Essex which is not really that surprising), I head back to the auditorium where this fiasco is going to be taking place.  I smile my big Stepford Wife smile at all the other early birds who found building J....or building B, or whichever it was....and scope out my seat in the back on the aisle.  Take a deep breath, relax.  This will be over before you know it.  I take a big swig of my coffee....and then realize that I have spilled it all over myself.  The cap of my travel mug was apparently not screwed on very tight and the coffee has dribbled out all over my sweater and skirt.  This would not normally be a very big deal....because normally my work uniform is completely black, with my binkie, aka black cardigan sweater wrapped around me.  But no...not today.  To perpetuate the charade that I am actually happy to be here, I have dressed myself up in a ridiculous costume of off-white and navy blue.  So naturally, my karma is here to bite me in the ass.  Now my off-white top has a big coffee stain on it.  Hallelujah.  This pretty much guarantees that I will be required to walk down in front of the coworkers at some point during this torture-fest so that everybody can stare at my coffee stain and wonder how a college educated woman has survived so long when she can't drink something without spitting it out all over herself.  Greeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. 

 

So after what feels like an eternity avoiding the coworkers' nonsense questions and small talk and stupid Redskins jokes.....the meeting gets started.  At the beginning of the meeting, the Emperor of Audit-Land handed out the toll free number for the suicide hotline to everybody after explaining how terrible the economy is and how we're all pretty much doomed.  Things won't be getting better any time soon.  Furloughs are inevitable.  We probably won't lose any positions (which is government-speak for, we might not have to fire anyone).  We won't be getting raises or cost of living adjustments.  Which is funny to me....since clearly most of us have already adjusted our cost of living.  Then of course the Emperor said Everybody appreciates our hard work (just so we'd know he was lying) and keep it up and be happy you still have a job.  Now that I am about as motivated as roadkill, the Emperor defers to his Number 2.  More good news from 2.  We don't suck as bad as we used to apparently, because we've met a few more performanc measures this year....I'm not terribly sure that measuring performance was very high on anyone's list after hearing that the government is close to collapse, the State is bankrupt and Kaybee Toys is going out of business.  But whatever.  The planet won't be exploding as soon as we first expected, since no one is buying cars in the U.S. right now....so measuring the performance of auditors will be a good distraction until that eventually happens.

 

Next up was Funnybert trying desperately to make Audit-Land understand humor....which has always been a losing battle.  Funnybert....it's the definition of insanity....but I appreciate you continuing to try.  We received a lecture on acronyms and how to make them more interesting.  I had a few suggestions myself....but managed to control my desire to contribute anything constructive.  Funnybert also announced that I had volunteered to host some kind of web log/discussion group for the coworkers.  'Volunteered' was an interesting choice of words....considering I have not 'volunteered' to do anything for the Office in the ten years I have worked here.  I supposed I volunteered to do this....my only concern is that in this forum, the blogging will be highly censored.  I have a feeling that the humor will be the first casualty of the censorship....but we'll see.  I may be acting needlessly pessimistic about the Emperor and 2's desire to laugh....or I may be acting with logic and reason based on the history of interaction I have had with the dark side.  We'll see.  Funnybert took too long being funny....I know this because I get highly irritable when I am not properly caffeinated.  When he was finally done being funny, we had a break....with more small talk and fake smiles and even more fake interest in the coworkers.

 

Back from the break and now it's time for the best Supreme Ruler of the Universe award.  <evil grin>  I think it would be awesome to not win this award....considering the coffee stain and the large amount of whining I could indulge in here......but of course I do, I mean come on....it's ME.  Of course I won.  My jedi mind tricks have successfully brainwashed all the coworkers into thinking I care....when really I am just measuring their performance against my own personal scale.  Like - on a scale of 1 to 10, how successful was Coworker #1 in not annoying me on a daily basis.  Or, on a scale of 1 to 10, how successful was Coworker #2 in being silent during my lunch break, not forwarding me stupid e-mail jokes, and bribing me with cash or stolen office supplies.  So anyway, despite the fact that this award was inevitable....I am kind of dreading walking down in front of the Office to accept my certificate.  First of all....because the coffee stain is clearly distracting people.  And second of all, this auditorium has about 3 billion stairs to walk down, which translates into 3 billion chances for me to fall and break my legs and embarrass myself in front of the coworkers.  This may sound a little hypocritical to you, gentle reader.  Since I don't care a whole lot about the coworkers to begin with....why would I care about looking like a total idiot in front of them?  That's easy.  Because nobody wants to look like an idiot....especially when you're being presented with a Supreme Ruler of the Universe award, regardless of who they're in front of.....anxiety about this makes me write sentences that end in prepositions.  It's very serious.  But if I don't win....I could sit in my seat and stew for the remainder of the meeting and plan diabolical schemes to thwart the success of the Office in the future or draw pictures of my Death Star....because I am an extremely vindictive vengeful person.  But it wasn't me.  I wasn't the loser.  It was one of the IT guys....because nobody pays attention to them....until our e-mail doesn't work.  I have a feeling we won't know when he gets his revenge, until it's waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too late.

 

After concentrating very hard on putting one foot in front of the other, I managed to get down the stairs without any huge disasters.  I grabbed my highly coveted certificate, shook hands with the dark side and ran back up the stairs to collapse in my seat sighing with relief.  "Ran" may be an overstatement.  It wasn't until I got back to my seat that I realized nobody gave me a personalized pen set....that's unfortunate.  That was going right on ebay as soon as I got home.  Then I suddenly realized how muggy it is in this auditorium.  I am concerned that the dark side is trying to make the coworkers fall asleep so they can tie our shoelaces together and write acronyms on our foreheads with big green markers....because it so f*****g hot in here!!!  And don't worry, my paranoia level is relatively normal.....I know it may seem higher than usual.....but what do you expect.  I got an award.  You would be paranoid too.  I got another certificate later on for enduring the Office for a decade.  We give awards like that because not many people stay here that long.  It's why we applaud the new people.  But, if you think about it, it's like getting gifts for your anniversary.  I'm not talking about gifts from your spouse.  Because they owe you.  I'm talking about gifts from other people.  It's just weird.  Congratulations.  You managed to stay married for another year.  Here's your consolation prize for not figuring out how to get rid of him yet.  Congratulations....you beat the odds!  Congratulations, none of us thought you guys would last this long.  That's what this certificate feels like.

 

Just as I am trying to remember which circle of hell was reserved for the torturers....assuming that must be where I am, considering the temperature in this auditorium, the Emperor announces that we can leave.  The rest of the coworkers file out for some $26 pasta at the Office Holiday Party.  And no, I will not be attending one of these again.  I figure one a decade is all they can really expect from me....I find my way back to the rainy dreary Baltimore beltway and start the 60-mile trek back home....relieved that I did not fall on my face or spontaneously combust in the heat.  I am also extremely happy that this is over so I can stop pretending to be so nice.  It's exhausting.

 

Later gators,

Obnoxious Little Auditor

 

 

This past weekend the Hubby and I went to Florida.  That may sound, at face value, like it was a vacation.  You know, fun in the sun, tanning and surf, blah blah blah.  Well, it wasn't.  It wasn't any of those things and I'll be happy to tell you all why, in excruciating detail.  We went to Florida because some so-called friends of ours were getting married there.  They're from Maryland too, like we are.  Their parents are from Maryland.  As a matter of fact, their entire friggin family is from Maryland...and yet here I am packing for a 24 hour jaunt down to Florida.  <shaking my head>  I don't really get destination weddings.  Don't the happy couple know that weddings have absolutely nothing to do with their happiness?  Weddings are all about making your family, particularly the women in your family, happy.  They have nothing to do with you.  And yet here I am, wondering if this mini-hairspray bottle is bigger than 3 ounces before I stow it away in my carry-on luggage.  We are flying to Orlando International Airport, so that we can drive to Cape Canaveral, stay at some ridiculous Florida hotel for a night, get on a cruise ship the next day, not take a cruise, and then come home.  I am not looking forward to the flying part.  Specifically, the airplane part of the flying, although I concede, that part is a necessary evil.  I guess I could handle the airplane part of it if the airplane didn't have any other people on it.  And therefore no germs.  When I conquer the planet, I will have my own plane.  That's a given.  And yet here I am....double checking departure times to ensure we arrive at the airport with enough time to suck down some numbing alcohol before I force myself to share oxygen with icky yucky people and their gross eebie geebie germs.

 

I did manage to have a drink before we got on the plane.  And yes, the Hubby and I were sitting together, which at first seemed like a great idea.  And yes, it's only a flight to Orlando, which is like two hours long, so I shouldn't be complaining.  But screw you all.  I hate to fly.  This is like a never-ending nightmare and it hasn't even started yet.  We flew out of BWI, which is nice because I know where all the bars are in that airport.  We flew on AirTran.  The Hubby has apparently never heard of this airline, and immediately decided that they must be investing in toy planes that are fueled with kool-aid and hamsters running around a big giant wheel provide the force that actually propels the jet.  He informed me immediately he was preeeeeeeetty sure the plane was going to crash and lucky us, we had ring-side seats to the wing of the plane which would more than likely be ablaze approximately 15 minutes into the flight.  Now.  I'm sure he thought he was being funny.  I'm sure he thought these little comments would relax me.  I'm sure of this because he was laughing at himself, like he was HI-larious.  Me, on the other.....I'm having a good old-fashioned panic attack.  I see little kids, like three-years, sitting all around us....and I would have literally sold my soul to Satan on the spot for about four valium.  A cheap price, I think, for being oblivious to my impending doom on this plane.

 

Two hours pasted one painstakingly long second at a time and we arrived at Orlando International Airport, the hub of all things Disney.  Ahhhhhh....Florida.  I used to live in Florida, kiddies, a million years ago.  I bet you didn't know that about me.  Not too far away from Orlando, actually.  A little place called Volusia County....known for being close to Daytona Beach.  Of course my Florida had armadillos and diamondback snakes and not so many oranges as you would probably think.  So coming back here isn't a real treat for me.  I'm not a big fan of beaches....you know....because of all the sand.  And the wildlife in the ocean totally sucks.  Florida beaches aren't pretty like Hawaii or Bermuda.  They're gross and you can't see any of the sea creatures or sharks lurking around in the water beneath you.  My total lack of coordination makes surfing a laughable affair...not like you could actually surf in Florida anyway.  The old people outlawed waves.  So we're here and now we have to get from the terminal to the shuttle pick-up and wouldn't you know it, but apparently Floridians, because they're super sadistic people, designed this God forsaken airport to be the most confusing place ever to get around.  You have to take a shuttle from the terminal to the front part of the airport to actually get out of the place.  Totally insane.  Being crammed into yet another compartment like sardines after having just gotten off a compartment where I was crammed in with all the other sardines.  I need some fresh air.  The Hubby has been muttering to himself nonstop since we got off the plane, and now all we both really need is another drink.

 

The shuttle is late...but I wasn't really expecting any better.  Reservation schmeservation.  It's about an hour from the airport to the hotel in Cape Canaveral.  The hotel was nice....I mean for the few hours we were actually in it, it was nice.  It had a sleep number bed, which was kind of cool after the Hubby almost broke the remote to the thing trying to get it to work....buuuuuuuut I'm getting ahead of myself.  The wedding party had a party for all the travellers (which was everybody, remember we're all from Maryland) and the feast was fantastic.  Excep for the crab.  Florida crab kind of sucks.  I wouldn't recommend it.  That didn't ruin the feast, but it was close.  After the eating, we went outside to the tiki bar area to get caught up with some friends and the groom.  We all went to high school together and the last time we saw each other was at a funeral...so this was much better.  One friend had a camera and wanted to get a picture of the gang.  This sounded like a good idea when she first said it.  Then she started looking around for someone that looked competent enough to take a picture without totally screwing it up.  Aha!  We spot some guy sitting behind us holding what appears to be a professional camera.  There are other parties in the hotel, and so we assume he is with one of them.  Our friend, who had the idea in the first place, decided to ask the professional photog to take our picture with her camera and because she's cute enough, he of course agreed.  So we all pose in front of a palm tree (I mean, come on, it IS Florida) and wait patiently for the professional to do his thing.  We're waiting for the flash, and we see it......except ......it's not aimed at us.  The flash was in the photog's face.....apparently because he was holding the camera up backwards.

 

<long pause>

 

Take a minute to let that soak in.  Total stranger.  Looks like a professional photographer.  Just took a picture of his own face, with the flash on....like three millimeters away from his eyeballs.  So, just like a woman pretending she didn't just trip over her own feet, this guy turns the camera around and tells us to smile which isn't really a problem at this point since we're all laughing hysterically at this total idiot.  He takes the picture, our cute friends thank him and ask him if his eyes are alright in between giggles.  He points out that if he zooms in and poses us differently, we could get a better shot, but the cuter friend declines that offer in a way that was really rude but because she's so <bleepin> cute it sounded nice.  Our other cute friend grabbed her camera back and pushed the playback button so we could see the shot.  She bit her lip, squeeked out how cute the picture was and turned the camera around to show us.  Not only was this moron holding the camera backwards.....it was upside down.  And then we totally lost it.  The only thing saving this guy was that he was so sloshy drunk, I'm pretty sure he won't remember us laughing derisvely at him.  We tried to be discreet....no.  That's a lie.  We didn't even try.  It was just too funny.  I mean....she purposefully picked this guy to take our picture.....what luck.

 

Three hours later we had to get up to get another shuttle to take us to the ship where we had to wait another few hours before they let us on board and then we had to wait another few hours before the wedding.  The ship was cool.  It was huge.  But if you've been on a cruise or two, like the Hubby and I, it was just cool.  That's it.  The wedding was beautiful of course, because all weddings are, especially when they involve close friends.  And seeing them smile and cry made me forgive them for about 7 seconds for making us fly down.  Then we got kicked off the boat and headed home.  It was not until the afternoon, when I realized Florida is full of old slow people.  I never noticed this before, when we lived in this state, probably because I was too young to care, but Florida is like some dystopian post-apocalyptic nightmare with all the old zombie looking people wandering around and driving ten miles an hour under the speed limit.  And yes, driving back to the airport was the first time I realized I'm an agist on top of being a sexist.  Well....maybe not a total agist.  Old people are kind of like kids.  They're cool.....if they're yours.  Or if they're not yours, they're still cool if they don't whine and complain too much.  Otherwise....they kind of suck.

 

So about ten hours after we left this ridiculous airport, we're back.  I am getting trampled on by hordes of Disney World visitors.  I know they went to Disney World because they all wear those asinine ears.  And they're mean.  Nothing like visiting the happiest place on earth to turn you into a rude pushy snipey trampler.  I make a vow to myself to grab any ears I see on the plane and rip them to shreds with my teeth.  But there are no ears on the plane, just lots of quiet people.  I got the window seat, because I apparently have racked up way too much bad karma for being mean to old people.  And now not only can I see the wing of the plane, I can see the engine turbine....Glorious Day!!  I tried to study the safety manual but those pictures of people escaping the plane they have don't make any sense to me....I mean, I tried to follow what they were doing....but I don't think human beings bend that way.  All I want to do is go home.  Home.  Home.

 

And then we were there....well, not really.  We were in Baltimore.  But there's nothing like flying to Florida to make me appreciate BWI.  There's nothing like driving behind old people to make me appreciate 95.  There's nothing like getting trampled on by Disney freaks to make me appreciate the cruel honest rudeness of DC.  I'm home.  My weekend is shot.  I didn't get a tan.  I didn't even get in a pool.  I didn't drink nearly enough for it to count as a vacation.  I didn't even buy stupid souvenier trinkets.  But I'm home. 

 

I like it here.  I think I'll stay awhile.

 

Later gators,

Heather

So after an excruciating Friday afternoon commute home behind the slowest people on the planet, the Hubby called me on my cell phone.  Hang on...we need to talk about the commute.  People...<sigh>....you need to learn what the gas pedal does in your car.  Instead of choosing civility, you need to be choosing urgency....to mirror the urgency I have for getting home to some nice relaxing me-time.  I got none of that on Friday....first because of all the slow-as-molasses drivers out there.  People were driving in a fog, through glue, with their eyes shut, hoping they would magically make it home.  If I've never mentioned this before...I don't like people very much and I especially don't like people driving very much.  Now, once I got home, the Hubby called and reminded me of our plans for the evening.  Plans I had apparently blocked from memory because they sounded too ridiculous and too boring to focus much energy on.  So he told me like a week ago that we had been invited by some friends to a high school football game.  Not just any high school football game....a high school football game at my alma mater - Damascus High.

 

These so-called friends of ours have children who go to Seneca High in Germantown.  Their daughter is a cheerleader, so naturally they go to all of these events and pretend to care about football.  I care about football too...real football, not pretend football.  You know, because everything you did in high school was pretend.  But the Hubby made some ridiculous Man-Bet about shaving his legs if Damascus lost so he had a pretty vested interest in the outcome.  Going to a high school football game...especially a game at my old high school....was about the last thing I wanted to do after a long week in Audit-Land.  You see, there are two types of people out there - people who had a good high school experience, and people who would rather pretend to be dead than go to their reunion.  I'm the latter.  High school was ok....I mean nothing traumatic happened.  It just wasn't that cool....or I guess, to be more accurate, I wasn't that cool.  I had a twin sister, which apparently made me some kind of oddity.  I was the stage manager of all the high school plays, shushing loud and obnoxious pretend-actors.  I wrote disturbing teenager death poetry for the school's literary magazine.  I coasted through math class until I got to calculus and was pretty convinced calculus was code for some kind of made-up torture my sadistic teacher used to give his life meaning.  Science was gross and boring.  I didn't need to know anything about molecules or frog brains.  And everything I need to know about physics I learned from being the most uncoordinated person on the planet.  Gym class was by far and away my own personal inferno.  Volleyball and badminton and lifting weights and hating my round pumpkin sized body which matches my round pumpkin sized head.  I'm not sure who exactly taught me I should hate myself in high school....probably the same girl who bought stock in Aquanet.

 

Anyway, that was high school.  I went to a few football games in high school.......and although I am trying to think really hard about this now....I can't really remember why I went to those games.  Probably to pretend I was cool, or give myself another opportunity to hate myself.  I went to more lacrosse games and volleyball games than football games.  The Hubby played volleyball and football in high school.  And yes, I did go to a few of his games even though I hated him then.  I'm sure it wasn't to see him...I'm sure it was for some other reason.  High school football in Damascus is a very serious affair.  This little cow town on the outskirts of Montgomery County is very VERY serious about its high school football.  The town basically shuts down on Fridays.  Everybody and their brother and uncle and great great grandmother is at the game.  Oh....and all the eight thousand kids that apparently go to that high school now go too.  Of course, when you're a teenager and you're at a high school football game, pretty much the last thing you're doing is watching the game.  That's what your parents are doing...not you, you're too cool.

 

So now that I'm old enough to go to a high school football game and actually watch some football, I could seriously care less.  The Seneca team are Eagles...which is kind of a cool mascot.  Magestic, symbolic, cool.  The Damascus team are hornets.  <pause>  Yeah....we're bugs.  I never thought that was a very cool mascot and I still don't.  Who is seriously intimidated by a hornet?  You just squash them if you see them.  They may sting you first, but then you're definitely killing them.  <shaking my head>  We drive in to Cow Town, USA and I am starting to experience post-traumatic stress symptoms like the urge to turn the car around and immediately drive home.  The Hubby pointed out that this was not an option since the hairiness of his legs is threatened.  After we find a parking spot in some outlying community and trudge the fourteen miles back to the high school, where I have to remind the Hubby you are no longer allowed to smoke on school property, I realize I have way too many clothes and jackets on for the 55 degree weather we are experiencing.  You know, it's practically November so naturally I assumed it would be freezing out...but no, it's not and now I have to carry my winter jacket and a stadium blanket around all night.  This is about the time I start trying to put myself back into the trance-like state that allowed me to survive high school in the first place....but it's too late, we're here.

 

The first thing I notice, that I hadn't noticed previously, is that teenagers never pay attention to anything.  I am not an overly imposing silhouette....I am often overlooked, so people running into me occasionaly is not very surprising.  But I am not normally getting run smack into, like you were walking into a clear sliding glass door.  People don't normally try to walk through me like I am a figment of their imagination or on me like a door mat.  People wouldn't do that because people are observant, unlike teenagers whose eyeballs apparently are not functioning properly yet.  And there is nothing that sounds more like your parents than some short round woman carrying a huge pile of blankets shouting 'EXCUSE ME!'  <sigh>  Of course I was mumbling under my breath R-rated profanities about the little f*****s.  And come on....let's please not pretend like your angel-children don't use that word....step back into the dimension called Reality for a moment and don't be offended by that.  After getting flattened and run into about four thousand times, we reached the bleachers where all the Damascus Folk and parents are sitting only to realize they are no seats left because this is Damascus and unless you got here three hours ago....you're out of luck.  I did find out that Damascus chose to play this particular game for their Homecoming which would also probably explain why it was so stupidly crowded.

 

So we walk to the other side of the bleachers.  Where we can watch the game.  Or rather, he can watch the game and I can pretend I am in hell watching my own face slowly melt off....which would have been more enjoyable than this night is turning out to be....the Hubby is screaming at the tiny little football midgets.  Seriously, they were tiny.  Not that I'm one to talk....I stopped growing upwards in the fourth grade.  But after being indoctrinated into the NFL-Sunday football religion....these little tiny people seem extremely.....well, tiny.  The hornets are getting squashed and the Hubby is starting to panic....remember, leg shaving is at stake here.  So in order to dull the anxiety of the impending razor burn, he decides this would be a great opportunity to break into our old high school and run amok.  This is exactly what he was like in high school....totally ignoring the rules.  <shaking my head>  Well, of course I hated him.....I mean, <sigh> rules are there for a reason people.  But when the Hubby decides he wants to do something, no amount of passive wife-complaining or annoyed looks can dissuade him.  He casually lifts up the bright yellow "DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE" rope plastered around the bleachers and tells me to look like I belong there.  Oh dear Jesus....why in the world do I want to be back in this building?  Oh that's right.....I don't.

 

So after we walk into some door on the side of the building that was wide open (so much for security), we start wandering around the hallways.  Some of it looks disturbingly familiar, but most of it doesn't.  The lockers look ridiculously tiny, but they're a different color than I remember.  And the library looks laughably small with little chairs and little tables.  They've added so much to this building, that a lot of it wasn't here when I was here....which I think makes this whole reminiscing process a little less painful.  So I start to pretend like high school wasn't that bad.  We walked by all the custodians, who could have cared less that we were in there.  We walked up and down stairs that I must have walked up and down a million times.  Even the steps seemed small.  The gym was on the opposite side of the building when I was there, and we did not walk down to the auditorium where all the drama club memories would have probably made me smirk a little.  But it wasn't as awful as I would have expected.  We heard some yelling outside, and figured we should probably check on the game, just in case a miracle happened and the Eagles were abducted by aliens leaving the squashed Hornets victorious by default. 

 

That did not happen.  The yelling was for a first down....which kind of proves how bad the game was.  We walked over to the visiting team's side of the field to say hello to our so-called friends and congratulate their daughter on being cool.  And really before I knew it, it was the fourth quarter.  Apparently they use tiny minutes to go with the tiny players, and the game just flew by.  In the fourth quarter, the Hornets staged a comeback.  With a few minutes left, they had a chance to win the game.  And the air was suddenly.....electric.  Maybe it had been the whole time...or maybe I just noticed.  But it really was quite something, looking at the faces of all the Damascus Folk and the parents and the cheerleaders and the coaches and the announcers and the cops keeping everything in order.  You looked at their faces, and they all looked the same.  Concern.  Excitement.  Hope.  These kids could win....their homecoming game, a few days after a tragic car accident, with a second-string quarterback because their starter broke his collar bone a few weeks earlier....these underdogs....these high school kids.....could win.  And I suddenly found myself pretending to care....

 

Fourth down, it was a pass play.  And this kid, this back-up quarterback with the world on his shoulders, threw an interception.  I kind of felt bad for the kid...but I didn't have much of a chance to be empathetic because the Hubby was howling and moaning about the now certain leg-shaving he would have to endure due to the lost Man-Bet.  So after about thirty more seconds of pretend-football, the pretend-game was over.  The announcer garbled out something that we couldn't hear over the screaming green Eagles fans, as we started trudging the twenty eight miles back to where the car was parked.  Some people would go back to high school if they had a chance, they'd do it all over.  For some people high school was the highlight of their lives.  For me?  Not so much.  But after going to this game, I was reminded, without much warning, of my own high school musical.  The last musical our little drama club performed my senior year.

 

What good is sitting alone in your room?  Come here the music play.  Life is a cabaret, old chum.  Only a cabaret, old chum.  And I love a cabaret.

 

<smile>  I do, you know.  I love a cabaret.  And probably more important than hating myself (which we women don't really need any special help with) high school taught me to love the cabaret.

 

And to never ever go back.

 

Later gators,

Heather

Coffee tastes different at night.  It tastes like college.  This has been on my mind for a long time, Audit-Land inspires many thoughts to ramble around in this pumpkin-sized head of mine.  This particular thought has come itching and scratching out of my fingers as I sit here pecking away at the laptop in the middle of the night….when I should be sleeping….or burning up my synapses watching the TV…..or doing anything other than this really.  But here goes.  It’s a small thought….some people might think it’s not even worth the time I am taking to type it into the Internet ether, but since it is my thought and somewhat fragile and somewhat righteous, I think it deserves the contemplation that some wee hours of the night can provide and some college java.  I wonder when exactly I learned how to make coffee properly? 

 

People work for myriad reasons.  They work to put food on the table.  They work out of boredom.  They work because that’s what everyone expects them to do.  They work because they have a passion for whatever they are doing.  They work because they believe in something, because they are fighting, because they care, because they want to leave a legacy, because they want things to change, because they want things to stay the same.  People work for a lot of different reasons.  Although, more and more I find….people don’t really work at all.  People coast through the day, surfing and texting and daydreaming about anything other than their jobs or what they are being paid for.  Think about it.  How much actual work did you do yesterday?  Actual work-related work.  15 minutes?  Maybe 30?  Possibly an hour if you had to sit in a meeting, and only then if someone forced you to talk.  People don’t really work anymore.  They feel entitled to not work because they worked so hard to get where they’re at now.  They worked hard to get in this country or to pass an exam or to graduate, and now all that’s behind them and it’s Easy Street here on out.  People don’t really work anymore.

 

Sleepwalking is what it feels like to be dead.  Some people like being dead.  They like not having to feel anything or care or cry or get mad or get even….they like it because living takes so much…damn....energy.  And some people just sleepwalk through their jobs, just the first part of the day, or at least that’s what they tell themselves…but really, it’s like cursing.  If you curse with your friends, soon you’ll do it in front of you parents or your pastor, and then before you know it, you’ll be doing it at work.  It’s a habit, and the problem with habits….they’re so habitual.  The same goes for sleepwalking.  Before you know it, you’ll be doing it all day, and then you’ll blink and the world will have changed and you’ll be 70 and you won’t remember any of the good times probably because there weren’t any.  I have an idea though.  Start caring about your job again.  Not all at once, that might be too much.  Care just a little bit…for example, care whether you spell the word conscience correctly, or if you use to or too in the right context.  Or care if you answer the phone politely.  Or care if you show up on time.  Care just a little and see what it feels like.  Remember what it feels like. 

 

Some people work to live on the weekends.  Some people work to support their hobbies or other endeavors.  I can understand that, I can empathize.  I do not have any great ambitions as an auditor.  And I’m pretty sure my mechanic is not trying to take over the world either.  I’m pretty sure my dentist does not think he will be solely responsible for ending world hunger or poverty or disease.  That’s ok.  We do not need to break molds or make waves to live.  We can be ourselves, and Ourselves can be quiet and stoic and introverted and that’s ok.  Everyone has a place in this world and a role and not everybody’s role is to save the planet.  You don’t need eight people to change one light bulb, or solar panel.  That’s a joke for a reason.  If your mind and your heart and your soul tell you that taking pictures of bridges or painting butterflies or singing is what your purpose is, then do that too.  But there is no reason not to perform the rest of your life with a smidge of pride.  Pride is not a sin, despite what you may have heard.

 

Eight hours a day for five days a week for the majority of your adult life is a long time to spend doing something that you don’t take any pride in.  Where does that leave you at the end of it all, when you retire?  You can’t really call avoidance a career….but they’ll throw a party for you anyway.  Because you endured.  Congratulations.  You survived long enough according to the rules.  You did not fail or succeed, you endured and this is your reward…..now you must endure some more until the very very end.  People won’t miss you when you go.  In a year, maybe less, people will forget you were ever there.  It will be harder to picture your face.  You will not be invited to anymore holiday parties…or you will just stop coming because nobody knows who you are anymore.  If you sleepwalk through like a zombie, that’s how people will treat you.  With a shiver and a shrug and all of a sudden people will say, what was that guy’s name again? when they are referring to you.  But that’s ok because you won’t care.

 

Eight hours a day for five days a week for the majority of your adult life is a long time for not making any memories or friends or commitments or promises or inspirations or failures.  It’s a long time to be dead.  You have plenty of memories of your wedding or your children or your first car or that vacation where you almost broke your leg.  But what about the majority of your life spent working?  Any memories of that?  Did you fail fantastically and miserably at something?  Did you make a promise that was broken in desperation?  Were things ever dramatic enough to make you angry?  I mean, really really angry?  Failure can be fabulous by the way…it motivates more people than success.  And nobody ever forgets it.  You should really try to fail at something, at least once in your life.  But in order to fail, you first have to really truly try.  Nobody remembers complacency.

 

Let us be honest with Ourselves.  We are lazy.  We care very little about not caring.  We are selfish.  People who are not our People matter even less.  We do not waste much effort on these People.  We do not try very hard to communicate with them effectively.  After all….our People would have understood all this without me having to explain….unfortunately though, this whole planet is made up of People who are not our People.  It’s hard to get away from that fact.  And the majority of those People have to work, just like you and me.  Their reasons are probably different from yours, and they may or may not care, who knows.  Here is what I do know.  Talking to People is easy.  People can teach you a lot.  They can teach you how to be accepting and open-minded and patient.  They may even teach you how to love your job….or at least be proud of it.  I feel like feeling like this makes me old.  And I must be, because being old is not quite as scary as it used to be.  That may be the pride talking….

 

Focus on Now.  Now will be gone before you know it.  Now slips through our fingers before we realize what is happening…especially if we’re sleepwalking.  Focus.  Sit down and think about what it is you really want and what is actually important to you.  What do you want out of this life, this time.  Figure that out and go after it.  Focus.  Figure that out and make yourself better.  Do something more than just endure.  Enjoy it.  Revel in it.  Make something beautiful.  Make something ugly.  Focus.  Hard work is not so bad.  It doesn’t make you a pussy.  Or a pushover.  It also doesn’t mean you’re better than me.  Working hard just means you care.  And that’s enough.  Just care.

 

Coffee tastes different at night.  It tastes like college.  I’m going to wake up and read this and it won’t make any sense and I’ll wonder what I was rambling on about…but I’ll let you read it anyway.  I know it’s fragile.  I know it’s self righteous.  But so are a lot of things.

 

 

 

 

Later gators,

Heather

 

 

 

p.s. This is not about you.  Stop being paranoid.

I should be working right now….but the network is down.  It’s a very uncomfortable feeling…having the network down.  It feels like anarchy is imminent.  No network….no social order.  So I have decided to write this blog to prevent the nagging feeling of impending doom.  Last weekend was the party extravaganza of the year.  Princess Alyssa turned one year old.  Her zombie walk had improved slightly over the previous week and she was teetering around the house like she owned the place.  But before we start describing the everlasting brilliance of my exceedingly beautiful and intelligent niece, I think it would be important to set the stage for the day.

 

I made a cake.  I baked a cake and I decorated it especially for this party.  It was a fantastic cake.  A castle with a dragon and a pumpkin carriage and a princess.  The cake decorating is always something of a fiasco because I can always picture how the cake should turn out….but it hardly ever looks like the picture in my head.  And because the world hates me like it does, instead of accepting the fact that my cakes will not look like the masterpiece in my head, I get ridiculously frustrated by the whole affair.  The dragon part was made out of a kind of edible play-doh called fondant and let me tell you…I am no sculptor.  First the dragon looked like a pig….then it looked like a dinosaur out of Jurassic Park…..the clay stuff was bright blue and so naturally my hands turned blue during the three hours I spent trying to make the stupid dragon look like a dragon.  The Pumpkin was absolutely no help during this process.  You see, I prepare my cakes at the dining room table.  There’s lots of space to spread out and make a mess.  The Pumpkin insists on being involved and will continue to nag me if I am ever seated at this table until I pull up another chair right next to my chair so she can hop up, collapse dramatically and scowl at me.  So, while I am struggling with the candy play-doh, the Pumpkin started leaning her fuzzy little face over the edge of the table with her little nose sniffing away at a thousand miles a minute.  Who the hell does this cat think she is!?!?!  After getting thumped on the sniffer, she collapsed on the chair again and really gave me the evil eye.  But the Pumpkin is the least of my worries….this stupid blue dragon is going to make me crazy.  The Hubby, always very helpful, informed me that my dragon looked like a smurf had hit the windshield….at which point I shut my eyes, counted to ten, and restrained myself from plopping the rest of the blue play-doh on his head.  The princess part of the cake was a separate smaller cake made just especially for the Princess of the Party.  You know, cause kids like to stick their hands in cake and icing and no one really wants to eat cake that has been manhandled by a slobbering child, no matter how cute she is….so she gets her own cake.  It’s a dome-like cake with a Barbie-doll like torso sticking out the top of the cake.  Skywalker affectionately referred to this prop as the bisected Barbie.  <shaking my head>  Now, I am starting to worry that I may be traumatizing this kid for life…I mean, smashed Smurfs and bisected Barbies?  What kind of terrible aunt am I?  I added pictures of the nightmare cake, along with some other disasters people pretended to like.  Enjoy.

 

So, anyway let’s talk about the party.  The Party had to be held on neutral ground because the 2’s are divorced and it wasn’t like one of those weird semi-amicable separations where the persons in question can still have a civil conversation.  No, this was one of those normal hatred-inspiring break-ups.  Never mind that it’s been like 15 years….completely irrelevant.  But this is one of those tests for the 2’s that we subject them to occasionally.  The first was my marriage to the Hubby.  Then Sister 2’s marriage to her husband.  Then the birth of the Princess.  And now her first birthday.  The 2’s must get along for these festivities or risk being banned from all future functions.  They have successfully passed the tests so far, but we always hold our collective breath, kind of waiting for the figurative dam to break.  So all the 2’s will be in one house together.  Dad #2’s new wife will not be there because she has to work….which is good for the Hubby’s sanity, but not for the entertainment factor of the Party.  The Party is being held in Sister #2’s husband’s sister’s house.  I think she was his sister, but maybe not.  Honestly, I didn’t spend too much time with the lady of the house because she was acting like she was on meth….quite disturbing the way she was flitting around the house ordering people to eat and be merry.  So anyway, Sister 2’s husband’s family is basically hosting the Party and decided it would be a good idea to have the party on the same Sunday as the opening day of football season.  Not really the opening day, since the Skins lost on the real opening day which was a Thursday….but come on….who has a party and invites men to it and expects them to NOT watch football.  That was Mistake #1.  So the men are grumbling and annoyed and to make matters worse the drink options were: some weird watered down lemonade thing, ice tea, and sangria.  No beer.  Mistake #2.  And now for the other interesting little bit of party etiquette – the invite said the party was from 2pm to 4pm.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  It takes the 2’s that long to say hello and goodbye.  There is a less than zero chance this party is going to be over in two hours, I can pretty much guarantee that.  Sister 2’s in-laws are in for a rude awakening if they think they’re going to get us out of this house in two hours….heehee.  Mistake #3.

 

So we arrive after a harrowing trip in the car with me gripping the cake and the Hubby remembering that the clutch in my car is easier than the clutch in his truck and jerking us around between first gear and second gear as much as was probably humanly possible.  This cake weighs like a hundred pounds and so my arms hurt by the time we get to Urbana.  And no, Urbana is not very urban…which you may have assumed by the incredibly inappropriate name of this Podunk town out in the middle of Nowhere, Cowville.  The house is beautiful.  It’s big and airy and the weather is gorgeous.  The Princess is perched on her throne eating little bits of apple or some other kind of fruit she can stuff in her mouth.  Everyone is ooing and gooing over her.  We say hello to everyone and re-introduce ourselves to Sister 2’s in-laws who seem to conveniently forget our names after every function we see them at.  Princess Alyssa discovered the house dog pretty quickly.  Her loyal steed.  She pounded on the poor dog’s back for about twenty minutes and tried to hug him a lot while she was falling down.  This child is fearless.  Next came the presents.  The little munchkin was of course more interested in the tissue paper and the boxes than she was in the actual presents….but whatever.  Next came cake, which was a huge success in the end.  Everyone at least said they thought it looked cool…which is really the only thing that matters to me.  If you can at least lie well enough to convince me that you may actually, deep down, think this cake could be edible….then that’s great.  This Princess got her princess cake.  We sang Happy Birthday while she stared at us from her throne.  Then Sister #2 informed her that she could eat the cake and she just looked at it for about two minutes….which I’m sure to everyone else seemed like no time at all….but to me, it was an eternity.  Oh dear Lord, what if this kid doesn’t like cake?!?!?  I don’t think I can relate to people who don’t like cake?!?!?!  This will be a serious setback in our relationship if this kid doesn’t start stuffing that cake in her mouth real soon.  So while everyone is staring at the little ewok….I start using my Jedi mind tricks to make her eat the stupid cake.  She wrinkles up her little angelic face and slowly lifts her hand.  It’s like waiting for the space shuttle to lift off…we’re all kind of holding our breath and pretending to still care.  Except for me.  I have a vested interest in seeing if this ship makes it to space.  And then, with as much pomp and circumstance as a one-year old can summon, the Princess sticks her little finger right into the cake and then licks the icing off her hand.  Her loyal subjects cheer at this amazing accomplishment and I let out a big sigh of relief.  We watched her eat the cake, one finger at a time, for another ten minutes before someone suggested that everyone else get some cake….the Princess has clearly been perfecting her hypnosis powers which little kids are actually born with, in case you didn’t know.  So no one spit out the cake, which is another good sign and now it’s 4pm.  Nan announces to anyone within earshot that someone will have to drag her out if they want her to leave.  <smile>  Hmmmmmm, someone’s been sampling the sangria…….

 

It only took about one more hour for the In-laws to get the 2’s out of the house.  The Party I think was a huge success.  Sister 2 and the Hubby got through despite their elevated levels of anxiety thanks to the divorcees.  The Princess discovered that she likes tissue paper, dogs and icing.  All good things.  And no one vomited after eating the cake.  All in all a good day.  We could have used some more drama to make it interesting….but drama has its place and this may not have been it.  Back to the present day now, and I am still disconnected.  I came to expect this at home thanks to the evil cable company….but not at work.  At work I could always pretend to be working just because I was connected…..  And now I don’t even have the option of not working….<sigh>……kind of begs the question, doesn’t it?  Is being disconnected….a good thing?

 

Maybe…..maybe not.

 

Later gators,

Heather

Soooooooooooooo....this last weekend was fun.  Labor Day.  Three days off.  Sun and relaxation.  Well, to be more accurate, sleep and relaxation.  At least that was the plan.  How often do my plans actually get carried out the way I intend?  Not very often.  Which is why, unfortunately, I continue to have to be just a teensy tiny bit educated about presidential nominees since I....alas.....do not rule the universe yet.  Things go awry for a number of reasons, not the least of which being the fact that the Hubby rarely remembers to tell me important bits of information about the schedule.....like when parties start.  But, before I get too riled up about this past weekend, let me first explain what was going on.

 

On Saturday, we were invited to an engagement party.  Another engagement party for the same couple who had the last engagement party....or I guess this was really a "Pre-Wedding Party for Everyone Who Doesn't Want to Fly/Drive/Walk to Florida for a Wedding" party.  And because the Hubby is the Best Man, we were of course obligated to attend.  I didn't mind going because Future-Hubby has been a friend of ours forever and Future-Wife is really nice even though her ridiculously young friends have gravity-defying boobs that make me want to lash out in rages of violent envy.  No.  I didn't mind going.  I'd know a few people there and it's on a Saturday and parties don't make me totally crazy.....not totally crazy.  Some parties make me crazy because the Hubby is the only one who knows anyone....and that means I'm sitting around talking to all the other wives and girlfriends that don't know anybody either.  And let me tell you something that I'm sure you already know by now - it's really difficult talking to most women because we're such nasty people.  That's right boys....it's not just you being incompetent boring losers....women really are that hard to talk to.  Of course, I don't try really hard....I mean why make an effort with people who are catty and passive with a hint of subtle cynicism.  There is the alternative, which is me pretending to care about one of a billion stories being told by one of those irreverent happy smiling freaks.  You know the type....I'm sure you do.  They're at all the parties.  They smile all the time and they have lots of energy and why wouldn't they be bouncing off the walls after shot-gunning three red bulls and sucking all the energy out of you using the tentacle their alien leaders gave them to quietly take over the planet by lulling you into a coma with their stupid stupid stupid stories.  <sigh>  I think I'd rather chat with the Nastiness than pretend to care about the Sickeningly Happy.

 

But like I said, I knew people at this party, so no big deal.  This is gonna be fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun.  Except of course for the one glaringly obviously important little factoid that the Hubby failed to mention - this party was outside.  Whattttttttttttttt?  In......<pause>.....Nature?!?!?!  Are you serious?  Ok, I know I've been over and over how much I hate Nature...but let's talk a little about how much I hate that blasted Maryland humidity and the evil evil Sun.  I really hate them.  So, we show up at this "party", walk up one of those driveways that are 18 miles long on an incline....so I'm pretty much sweating buckets and ready to collapse from heat exhaustion by the time we get to the house....except.....what's this?  Everyone is standing around...........out...............side.  This is so not cool.  It's about 2 in the afternoon, so that the Sun is blasting its evil death rays onto my huge pumpkin head.  And no, I am not wearing any sunscreen because nobody (translate: the Hubby) told me this thing would be outside.  So my head is radiating, I'm sweating, I'm miserable and that's when the gnats come.  It was just perfect weather for the little oogey boogey bugs.  And now I feel like running, screaming at the top of my lungs, all the way down the mountainside these ridiculous people chose to live on to my beautiful car that has blessed air conditioning...and no bugs.  Yup, you see that woman careening down the canyon sides you call a front yard?  She is not friends with Nature.  I mean, seriously, who in their right mind would spend so much time in sticky buggy Nature....on purpose?  Seriously?

 

So we were there pretty much all day.  He's the Best Man, remember?  It's not like we can drop in, say hello and then get the hell out of there.  Nope....we're in for the duration.  I have so many bug bodies mashed into my skin and hair, my head is now glowing like a nuclear reactor, parts of me are sweating that have never sweated before.....I am so grossed out by myself that I just want to go home and spend the next three days in a decontamination chamber.  Not to mention the fact that I'm exhausted.....completely utterly exhausted.  Smiling does that to me.  I don't use my face muscles very often for...you know....expressions and such....so when I force myself to look somewhat pleasant and in tune with those around me for a good solid eight hours, I'm pretty much spent.  But I survived the whole fiasco....barely.....and hey, don't get me wrong.  The party was great!  The happy couple filched tons of presents and money out of their family and friends....it was a total success.  And a good party.  I was just totally miserable.  That's all.

 

And then I blinked and it was Sunday.  Time for the first of the birthday parties with the #2's.  This week we are celebrating Aunt #2 and Uncle #2 because their birthdays are kind of close together and this is what we normally do.  For those of you keeping track <ahem, stalkers, that means you> Princess Alyssa was born around this time last year.  So anyway, Auntie 2 and Uncle 2 are on their way over to Mom 2's house for the shindig.  All 2's will be there including Sister 2's husband who never comes to anything....so I guess we're all supposed to feel good and happy about that.  There was a lot of talk about politics.....which, if this party was any indicator, is a bad sign for the rest of the birthday season because I am not at all on the same page as the 2's when it comes to politics and that makes for some very serious lip-biting moments.  There was of course lots of food and plenty of it because God forbid the ten of us are ever hungry......ever.  Mom 2 was fretting because she could not find the dessert mints she bought and she kept........on................asking everybody if they knew where the mints were?  You know, just in case one of us had broken into the house earlier and hid them....just to be funny.  I cannot stand questions like that.  I usually just chuckle, assuming that it's rhetorical....and you know.....you're not supposed to answer rhetorical questions, even though some people do.....not answering them is what makes them rhetorical....kind of.....but some people answer anyway and some people ask questions that sound like they're rhetorical but that's not how they were meant.  The 2's ask rhetorical questions that are not actually rhetorical all the time.  I am also forced to answer nicely, without the usually sarcasm dripping down my chin, because I have tricked the 2's for the last 12 years or so into thinking I'm an agreeable person and good for their son....and I'll be damned if I'm giving up that facade any time soon.

 

Anyway, so after agreeing to some completely ridiculous definition of 'conservative'. and swearing on all that is holy that I still do not know where the mints are, opening presents.....sorry blowing out candles, posing for the camera like we just blew out candles and then opening presents, and pretending to care about some very lop-sided college football game on TV, we can now focus our attention on the highlight of the party which of course was and will continue to be for some time - the Baby.

 

Princess Alyssa is walking and is quite possibly the most brilliant thing I have ever seen in all my decades on this planet.  She has not been walking for long and so this is still something of a new sensation, and possibly she learned this differently than other babies, and possibly I just never noticed before because I'm not a big fan of babies in general....but she looked exactly like a zombie walking around the party on Sunday.  She had her little arms out in front of her to make grabbing whatever happened to be within arm's reach of grabbing much easier.  And she kind of swayed back and forth a little....you know that whole balance problem.  Stupid gravity.  And the walk was a little herky jerky, but I think she may have been exaggerating that a bit on her own just to emphasize the zombie similarity because at some points she would dart across the room like she was on a mission and at other times she would just kind of lollygag around, walking kind of herky jerky.  Every once in a while when the balance problem became an impending balance disaster, she would flail her little arms about in little circles like a cartoon Baby or one of those 12-year olds on the balance beam a few weeks ago....then she'd regain her balance and continue to wander around the room grabbing for cups of gingerale and every single cracker those little elves could throw out of the tree....she may have eaten an elf by accident.  She has not mastered the sophisticated art of Turning or Pivoting and attempting to look over one's shoulder while not being able to Turn effectively is basically a fiasco in the making, and again, added to the whole zombie-dead-not-in-control-of-my-dead-corpse-limbs similarity.  Now despite how spot-on this impression was from Princess Alyssa, I refrained from pointing it out to Sister #2.  She's been giving me these weird sideways glances ever since she caught me kneeling in front of the Princess going <chhhhhhhhh, CHHHHHHHH> Alyssa, I am you Auuuuuuuuunt, with my hands covering my mouth.  The Baby, because babies are great this way, was completely mesmerized....obviously a future Star Wars fan in the making.  The Sister.....not so much.

 

The Baby, because babies are great this way too, has also become quite remarkable at sounding the alarm signifying the end of the party.  And by 'sounding the alarm', I of course mean screaming like a banshee.  A hungry, sleepy, cranky banshee.  If she wasn't related to us and the most perfect baby in the whole wide world, it would probably be a very annoying and disturbing sound.  The silver lining, we have discovered, is that once the alarm has been sounded everyone starts to leave the party automatically.  It has a domino effect which meant we got to go home much earlier than anticipated on Sunday and I was very grateful for that considering I needed to have my fifth shower of the day to continue to scrub bug guts out of my hair.  <grossed out shiver>.

 

I don't remember Monday at all.  It was a haze of recovery.  I was either hung over with sun poisoning or I have contracted West Nile virus or the baby ate my brain.  Next weekend is the Party of the Century.  Princess Alyssa turns one and ALL the relatives will be at this Ball.  I am making a castle cake and I can't wait to tell you all about it..................

 

Later gators,

Heather 

I honestly hope none of you expected me to write anything while the Olympics has been sucking the life force out of me for the past two weeks….I have never been more sleep deprived in my life.  Of course the best Olympics ever has to be aired primarily in the middle of the night…of course, because the world hates me like that.  I love the Olympics….it’s not that I’m an especially patriotic person, and certainly not because I’m especially athletic <chuckle>….I’m not totally sure what it is that keeps me taping my eyelids open at 1 am to make sure I catch the end of beach volleyball.  I mean…ok….here’s a good example - I’ve been watching basketball for crying out loud…and I never watch basketball.  Right?  So, before I completely lose my grip on reality, let’s talk about the last two weeks.  There have been some completely ridiculous performances. 

 

·         Lezak in the pool defying the laws of physics.  That was made all the better because of those asinine announcers totally writing him off halfway through the last lap….and then here he comes back…..and the announcers are equally as shocked as the rest of us and of course the incredibly beautiful body of Mr. Michael Phelps flexing in glorious exultation.  Seriously….if you weren’t standing on your couch screaming at the top of your lungs – SWIM SWIM YOU MOTHERF*******!!! then you’re probably an alien robot about to switch on and attempt to conquer the planet.  Just an FYI.

·         Phelps basically willing his body to grow an extra inch to eke out that win in the 100m butterfly.  Did you think he won?  Did you really?  Did you think…even for a moment….oh s**t, they’ve fixed it.  They’ve fixed it so he’ll win.  I know all about the Omega time-keeping technology in the pool….they went over that before this race even happened.  But it looked like ….<shaking my head>……and then because NBC knows we’re all true sports fans….they must have shown it eight hundred times.  In super slo-mo.  And a hundredth of a second really does look that close.  And how brilliant was it…how earth-shatteringly brilliant was it when you realized for the first time….and whispered out….. 'oh my God.  I think he really won.’

·         Shawn ‘Minnie Mouse’ Johnson with that adorable smile actually sounding somewhat sincere when she said she was happy for Nastia.  How old is this kid?  Like 12?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  Seriously, if I had even half the aplomb at this age that this little tiny gymnast has….I may have actually fulfilled my plans for world-wide domination by now.  I know they’re friends and all….but come on….if everyone had been calling you the favorite for forever….and your “friend” ended up beating you, you’d hate her.  Plain and simple.  That is the normal, human reaction to losing.  Hate.  But not this little Pippy Longstocking angel.  Not this girl.  And karma likes sincerity Shawn.  You got your gold in the end.  You just had to be patient.

·         The unbeatable Kerri Walsh and Misty May-Treanor.  They didn’t lose one set, did they?  Not one.  And how cool is it ladies to see two women who actually look like real women being ogled.  Nice.  That was reassuring.  If fat ass America can start looking up to these ladies, if our little teeny boppers can start emulating them….we may be ok. 

·         And speaking of volleyball, I hope you all watched the men’s team bring home the gold last night.  It was close.  Spain is a very good team.  But they had to win….they just had to win.  That poor coach…his father-in-law stabbed to death….I cannot even imagine.  They would have never been in China if it weren’t for the coach.  But he got a moment, one good moment that brought happy tears to his eyes and gave me shivers.  That was a great game.

 

I’m completely addicted, completely totally hopelessly addicted.  I got to see the Americans wallop the competition in fencing.  And you knew I was watching that, right? I mean….swords?  No, not just swords….sabers.  Like light sabers.  Heeheeheeheehee.  And the American shot-putter….shot-putter? Is that even a word….anyway, the American shot-putter, after an upset win, saying all she wants to do is meet Mary Lou Retton….<smile>.  Small moments and big moments….pushing and bending and breaking the human body in ways that seem so freakishly un-American.  This fast food nation….despite our morbidly obese epidemic, we have a weirdly passionate spirit for competition.  And me?  Despite the very obvious fact that it will never be me diving effortlessly from 10 meters up making a little tiny splash, or spiking the ball in someone’s face, or leaping over hurdles…..I get so caught up in these moments.  Small moments and big moments…..moments that make you think, sleep schmeep…..glad I stayed up for that one.

 

Of course, thanks to the three or four hours of REM a night, I have been having some weird dreams.  Well…nightmares.  I usually only have nightmares when I’m sick or Skywalker forces me to watch some especially gruesome horror movie.  But neither was the case this week….it was an entirely unprovoked nightmare.  About a bad guy.  A bogeyman.  Scary monster.  Blah blah blah.  I don’t really remember the nightmare, that wasn’t the actual point of this conversation…the nightmare actually just made me think of Villains.  Well, the nightmare and the four thousands promos they’ve been showing during the Olympics for the best show ever – Heroes.  Yes, yes…this season is called Villains.  How awesome is that?  Villains are always the coolest characters, aren’t they?  They’re always more interesting, more screwed up, more bent than anybody else.  Which is probably part of the definition of ‘villain’…but because of all that, they’re more entertaining. 

 

Now, maybe not all of us here in Audit-Land consider ourselves to be villains….but trust me, every single person we audit thinks we are.  So…here is what I propose.  Embrace it, people.  If you’re the “bad guy”…be the bad guy.  I can hear you through the computer screen saying….but Heather….everyone roots for the hero, not the villain.  The hero always wins.  The hero gets the girl.  And the marketing deal.  Ok, ok, ok…..let’s weigh the options through my highly objective and scientific process called – “listing reasons why I’m right.”  Heroes have guilt.  Villains have none.  Heroes have responsibility.  Villains have none.  Heroes have to help everyone else first.  Villains can worry about themselves.  Huh?  Starting to come around?  Ok, how about this….villains are evil geniuses.  Heroes always need the nerdy comedy-relief side kick to handle all the thinking.  Now….you don’t want to be stupid, do you boys and girls?  Naaaaaaaaaah….I didn’t think so.

 

Now consider your role models – Lex Luthor, Lord Voldemort, The Joker, Mr. Blonde, The Wicked Witch of the West, and of course Darth Vader.  Now please don’t think I am equating villains to psychopathic killers.  No Michael Myers, Hannibal Lector, Patrick Batemen.  None of that.  Slaughtering people gives me the eebie geebies and blood makes me nauseous so evil psycho-killers are clearly not what I am referring to….more evil genius/mad scientist types.  Not so much blood-soaked limb-chopping serial killer.  A little gratuitous violence is of course ok….just don’t be gross.  Be cool. 

 

Villains also get the best lines and the best clothes.  The have the coolest soundtracks, the coolest names and die in the most glorious ways.  Think about it….why are people attracted to the bad ones?  The bad girls and the bad boys always get waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more lusty looks than the good guys.  Why is that?  Cause they’re cooler.  Because people will always consider me to be somewhat evil…without even having met me….because of what I do, I have decided to embrace it.  My ridiculously large bowling ball head and matching body, the way my voice makes me sound like I’m five years old when I leave a message on someone’s phone, my freakishly bad coordination, my inability to drive really well…..never mind all that.  Skywalker used to tell people I worked for the IRS because she couldn’t remember where I actually worked….and people feared me.  It was awesome.

 

So the last two weeks have taught me I basically have two choices for My Future –

 

1.      Become an Olympic Champion

2.      Become an Evil Villain

 

Now, just based on the levels of effort involved in both of those choices, my aversion to sweat and Nature and because my vote is the only one that counts….we’re going with #2.  I already have the wardrobe for this but I probably should make a few other adjustments.  I should probably get myself a bad scar and some dramatic eyeliner….I’ll shave the Pumpkin bald and give her an eyepatch…..I will leer at people and develop a tic……yeah, I think I could be really good at this.  <evil grin>

 

Later gators,

Darth Heather            

 

“One may smile, and smile, and be a villain!”

-Hamlet, Shakespeare

 

The unthinkable has happened, gentle reader.  We have no cable.  That’s right.  The cable has been out for days.  Long, boring, dreary, endless days.  Probably my karmic retribution from the Reality TV gods for mocking them a few weeks ago.  I had not realized until this point in time exactly how much TV I watch on a regular basis…..because now my afternoons and nights are filled with………..well.... not TV.  Which is just bizarre.  I don’t really know how to explain going through such a drastically sudden lifestyle change like this….but you know me, I have to try. 

 

Let me attempt to put things into perspective first.  Because it’s incredibly convenient, all of our communication with the outside world has been provided by one company.  One evil sadistic company….which I probably can’t mention without getting sued, but it rhymes with Comcast.  <smile>  The cables and wires coming into the house and weaving through it and snaking their way out have been providing us with television, dvr, movies on-demand, internet and telephone service since we moved into the neighborhood.  And because they are evil, of course they made it sound like such a super deal when they put it all into one “bundled” package (which means you get one bill) and charge us $8,000 a month.  That’s apparently the newest promo for people who live in the black holes of Montgomery County where cable service is still only provided by……..one evil company.  That is of course, not entirely true….I could get the snail e-mail from plenty of other companies and satellite dishes drilled into the roof…..but that’s not what we want.  We like cable.  We’re cable people.  Maybe because we’ve always been cable people and we refuse to change….but alas….that is sadly a very common theme in this world of ours these days, hmmmmmmmm. 

 

Now, I have not always been such a TV addict.  I blame my parents for this newly evolved character flaw.  You see, growing up, I watched very little TV.  Hardly any, as a matter of fact.  One or two hours a week, tops.  The majority of my time was spent doing chores (yes kiddies, ch-or-es….your elders used to be forced into slave labor at very early ages) or with my nose shoved into a book.  Any old book would do….and some I read over and over again.  Books can be a lot like movies, they play themselves out behind your eyelids at night and as you’re whispering the print out loud, you can see the players walking across that invisible stage.  The characters become friends, and you miss them when the story is over.  Not to mention that reading is of course the best and easiest way to learn the English language, spelling and grammar.  I’m not terribly sure if my devious parents had this in mind when they hypnotized Skywalker and me into believing they were doing us a favor by buying us any book we wanted….but it clearly resulted in much of my snotty nerdy behavior later in Life.  And honestly, I have to blame my parents for something….otherwise they may feel like they didn’t totally succeed as parents.  So, as I was saying, the current TV addiction is their fault.  Having not been eased gently in the mindless and lazy entertainment of the boob tube, when I finally realized exactly how much TV my friends were really watching….I was amazed and overwhelmed.  Seriously?  TV every single night?  While you’re <gasp> eating dinner?  Noooooooooooooooo.  I just could not fathom anyone’s parents actually allowing such behavior to occur….but then it dawned on me that my parents were attempting to build character in their children.  ‘Building character’ is a common theme of our childhood….most every unpleasant thing we had to do was character-building.  How lucky it worked out that way……huh?   And come on, if you had to pick a character for your child to emulate, would it be from shows like Friends and 90210 (look it up you toddlers) or from stories like Tess of the d’Ubervilles or A Thousand Acres.  <chuckle>  Just kidding.  What about stories like Macbeth or Frankenstein?  Hmmmmmm….ok, how about Dante’s Inferno or Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man.  <sigh>  Well, s**t.  Nevermind.  Clearly you would want your offspring to turn out like Joey or Rachel over any of those options, dumb but beautiful enough to have their own sitcom.  So our character was a little more………complex………..nothing wrong with that.  <evil grin>

 

Once the TV watching started though, more so in college when you do everything you could never do before (no, mom and dad, no more details will be forthcoming), it only got worse.  Probably because I never had the luxury of watching TV until I fell asleep, now I was watching TV all the time.  It became background noise.  Background noise.  Noise.  When did I start liking noise?  When did noise become more comforting than silence?  I can tell you when….when Life suddenly becomes ridiculously real after that college ceremony and the rent is due.  Noise is nice then.  Nice and distracting.  So anyway, the TV watching has been running rampant ever since.  It has been a big part of my life.  Not replacing the books….but pushing them a bit out of the way.  Which is unfortunate.  And this realization came shoving its way to the forefront this week as I sat in front of a blank television screen practically bursting the blood vessels in my huge pumpkinhead trying to will the evil evil cable company into fixing our cable before the Olympics is over with my Jedi mind tricks.  After I got tired of calling the evil cable company over and over (on my cell phone) and asking impudently when they planned on getting their collective asses in gear and visiting our cheery cul-de-sac with some repair equipment….I started letting my eyes drift around the room…..with that dreamy, blank stare that lost people get…..or people with amnesia.  My eyes came to rest on the bookshelves.  Huh.  Books. 

 

We have lots of bookshelves in our house.  Probably a Dutch thing…I say that because my parents’ entire house is lined in bookshelves and also since I don’t know any other Dutch people it’s an easy conclusion to make.  Thousands of books.  Tens of thousands of books.  They could probably open a library.  So books are not scarce, in our house or my parents’ house.  And as my eyes scan the shelves and the titles start to come into focus, I think to myself…..ahhhh…..my old friends, where have you been all this time?  It’s like running into that ugly girl who was your best friend in elementary school, you know the one you ignored in high school because she wasn’t cool enough and you were a total bitch….yeah, it’s like running into her in the grocery store when you turn 30 and you realize you always liked her and you’ve missed her.  That’s what this is like.  These books are like my friend.  My ugly nerdy friend.  I don’t know what I would have done without them this week….probably would have gone slowly insane…..insaner……probably would have been forced to……..go outside…………ewwwww.  Books and reading and tired eyes and crinked necks are one thing.  But Nature, sticky buggy grimy dirty Nature is something else entirely.

 

So unbeknownst to them, the Evil Cable Company has reintroduced me to the world of print, and it has lovingly embraced me.  I’m reading a particularly good one now….full of drama and action and darkness and characters you love to love and love to hate.  And who knows?  Maybe I will watch less TV from now on?  <pause>  What do you think?  I find myself….even as engrossed as I am in this story….glancing up every so often, like I’ve heard someone tapping on the front door perhaps?  Someone……….who said they would be here at any time between 10 am and 5pm on a Wednesday………….<wink>.  I don't know when this Book Girl changed into one of the Cable People....but here I am.....not really willing to change again, knowing full well that reading keeps my brain from turning into mush and it makes me sound much smarter than I actually am.  Which is awesome.  I hope I get to see Big Brother tonight.

 

Later gators,

Heather

 

p.s. – If any of you value your lives, you will refrain from sending me spoilers for my shows this week.  I have ways….plenty of ways…..of getting caught up once the stupid cable is back on.

 

 

In my never-ending quest to be thinner than I am by magically wishing it so, I visited the grocery store recently to restock my kitchen with truck loads of diet food.  While I was there getting the usual laundry list of green vegetables and bland flavorless cardboard on the diet menu, I noticed something very unusual.  Fat free half & half.  Just think about that for a moment.  Fat free…..half & half.  So……….um….….what’s the other half?  And wow….should I really be putting that half into my body?  Because it clearly has no place in Nature….it’s probably some kind of sci-fi formaldehyde that will preserve me indefinitely in this ridiculous bowling ball shape….some kind of diet industry conspiracy.  Right?  Eureka!  I have finally discovered the reason behind my stubborn reluctance to change….has nothing to do with the fact that I don’t sweat nearly enough to be thin.  It’s the fat free half & half.

 

Moving on.  As many of you know, I am completely obsessed with reality TV.  I watch as much of it as I can, I watch it all the time.  And there are so many choices these days, so many you probably didn’t even know about.  Some good and some not so good.  My all-time favorites – Survivor and American Idol.  And of course the original – Real World.  Right now we’re watching The Mole and a local show called Hopkins.  And there’s the food shows – Top Chef and Hell’s Kitchen and another local show Ace of Cakes.  There are the dancing shows – So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing With the Stars, Step It Up and Dance, America’s Best Dance Crew and of course Dance War: Bruno vs. Carrie Ann.  There’s Top Model, Big Brother, The Bachelor, The Apprentice, The Amazing Race, Project Runway, Shear Genius, Road Rules, Temptation Island, America’s Got Talent, For Love Or Money, Average Joe, Farmer Wants a Wife, Flavor of Love, I Love New York and Rock of Love. 

 

Yeah….we’re not even close to being done with the list.  There’s celebrity reality shows with the Osbournes, the Hogans, Nick and Jessica, the Simple Life, the Anna Nicole Show, the Surreal Life, Gene Simmons Family Jewels, Run’s House, the Two Coreys, Growing Up Gotti and the surprisingly short-lived Tommy Lee Goes to College <shaking my head>.  There’s the Biggest Loser, Celebrity Fit Club, Queer Eye, the Swan, Extreme Makeover, What Not to Wear, the Bad Girls Club, Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School, Supernanny and Made. 

 

Still not even close.  American Inventor, Miami Ink, American Choppers, Deadliest Catch, Ice Road Truckers, Black Gold, Dog the Bounty Hunter, Parking Wars, SWAT, Cops, Inked, Airline, and Speeders.  We have the Search for Elle Woods, Grease: You’re the One That I Want, A Shot At Love, and My Super Sweet 16.  And finally, there’s Beauty and the Geek, The Great American Dog, the Search for the Next Pussycat Doll, Making the Band, Project Greenlight, Last Comic Standing, Big Break, The Contender, Ultimate Fighter, The Restaurant, Laguna Beach, Real HouseWives, Flipping Out, Work Out, Kathy Griffin My Life on the D-List, Make Me A Supermodel, Millionaire Matchmaker, Blind Date, Room Raiders, Parental Control, Elimidate, Wife Swap, Pimp My Ride, Trading Space, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and While You Were Out…..which should probably just be called……..While You Were Watching All the Other TV on Right Now.

 

It’s awesome that there are so many trashy choices.  But after reading off this exhaustive list….you may be thinking to yourself……….so why’s it called “reality” TV?  It’s not exactly….reality….is it?  I mean, come on, reality? Not quite.  There is nothing real about any of it.  It’s all scripted and staged and melodramatic and overdone….which is exactly why it’s so much fun to watch.  I mean, seriously, who would want to watch reality?  Probably the same people who watch the news….<sheesh> what a waste of time.  Unless you have a crush on Brian Williams, here’s my suggestion, tape Dateline tonight and play it back every night.  It doesn’t change, or hasn’t changed for oh…the last six months or so.  Here’s what we learn every night on the news – another foreign country that the majority of Americans can’t point to on a map is self-destructing in civil war while innocent children and women are being abused and tortured, and if they’re not dying in civil war then they are dying from AIDS, the stock market went down, the price of gas went up, some other kind of food has been tainted and can kill you, fat people are at a greater risk of [insert disease of your choice], the Earth is melting, natural disasters are happening much more frequently, but that’s ok because all of those people who are left homeless from flooding and tornadoes couldn’t afford their houses anymore anyway.  Nevermind about the economy collapsing, because the planet is going to implode first.  It makes me anxious when I watch the news.  It stresses me out.  It’s too…………..real.

 

But reality TV is nothing like this.  The kinds of problems that are faced in Reality TV Land are refreshingly simple and superficial.  The cast of characters are embarrassingly stupid or bitchy or ignorant.  The judging is ridiculously unfair and so obviously directed by the producers.  But there is always that remote possibility that some lucky sap could win an unbelievable sum of money for hanging in there longer and suffering through more crap than anybody else.  And isn’t that all we’re hoping for at this point?  A cash prize for hanging in there and suffering through.  Isn’t that the dream?

 

It would be cool if Audit-Land was made into a reality TV show.  It would be ridiculously cool if I actually got cash money for auditing people.  I can just imagine what the competitions would be like - who's first to annoy the people they are auditing [ME!], who can balance a balance sheet the fastest [ME!], who can weird out normal people with entirely inappropriate and unfunny jokes [...], who can make a meeting feel like an eternity with their incessant mumbling [...], and who is the best at telling you what you're doing wrong while being as vague as possible about how to fix it?  That last one's not me.  I am usually quite clear on what people need to do to fix themselves.  Of course the Glamorous Government Auditing Handbook says we're not supposed to do that...but whatever.  I'm a rebel. 

 

Some people have asked me why I revel so much in other people’s misery and humiliation on these shows.  Hey, that’s easy.  Because it’s not me.  Plain and simple.  If I was suckered into being on one of these shows, I would be the biggest dumbest ass you’ve ever seen.  I have no patience with people, I am incapable of pretending to be happy when I’m not, I’m highly uncoordinated and I can’t remember anything about other players….including their names.  But it’s not me.  It’s some other schmuck.  Some other loser who thinks they have a chance.  I like rooting for the losers.  That’s the best part.  You make fun of them, and then you hope they win.  Because that means you could’ve won, if it had been you.  And for the record, I don’t revel in other people’s misery.  I celebrate their complete and total lack of dignity.  I applaud their abundant willingness to embrace the immortal shame that will come with being recorded into TV history.  I don’t think I’ll call them courageous….because that’s pushing it a bit.  I think I’ll call them…..oblivious.  And with the increasing number of people sharing this irritating characteristic, it’s such a relief to see somebody rewarded for it.

 

So if you’ve always poo pooed the reality TV….if you think it’s smut and degrading, if you think it belittles our country, if you think it makes people hate America more, if you think you’re better than everybody else, well.  I have some news for you.  You’re not.  You have to be able to laugh at these people….because let’s face it gentle reader.  They are Us.  And you gotta be able to laugh at yourself….because these days, there’s not much else to laugh at.

 

Later gators,

Heather

Ok, so it's been a million years since I've written something amazing or interesting.  Thanks for reminding me by the way.  This past Monday was Office Staff Meeting Day in Audit-Land.  Not terribly sure why we didn't just have this festive occasion on Friday 13th....cause I think that would have been waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more appropriate.  Unfortunately I could not attend this day of recaps and introductions and techie awards.  I missed an announcement about new uniforms...which I am relatively sure did not include my standby black cardigan sweater which I have been wearing since the third grade.  I am also relatively sure the uniform announcement included nothing about hairstyles, or any reference to my Lillith Crane-librarian look....which I have also had since the third grade.  So regrettably, gators, I cannot provide any more details about all the inappropriate lunch chat, extremely useful ethics training, or extremely inconvenient locations of this meeting.  So, I guess I'll talk about why I wasn't at the meeting.

 

The Hubby was infected by some alien disease this weekend.  He went from feeling rotten on Saturday afternoon to delirious with a scary high fever on Sunday.  There was a lot of gross things going on I won't expound on....but fever and puke and no sleeping or eating did not make for a very happy Hubby.  He was miserable and in his usual whiny-man-can't-handle-illness-state.  And I immediately turned into the smothering caretaker.  And just to be my normal sexist self...I think women have this natural tendency to take care of sick people.  The whole nurturing, mother instinct.  Yes, I can be nurturing.  Try not to choke on your mocha lattes.  Unfortunately, no matter what I did on Sunday, the stupid fever would not break.  No....I am not a doctor.  I'm an auditor.  And they don't train us for medical triage during business ethics class....no matter what you may have heard.  So, bright and early Monday we decided to head on out to Germantown's own emergency clinic.

 

It wasn't really bright yet when we left the house.  As a matter of fact, it was ridiculously early.  But we thought, hell, we haven't gotten any sleep in the past 36 hours anyway....might as well drive.  If you are ever critically injured, I suggest visiting the emergency clinic in Germantown at approximately 6 am on a Monday.  We were the only people there.  I was concerned for about 15 seconds thinking maybe they're closed....but that would be like closing a 24-hour 7-11.....or a Walmart.  Just silly.  So we walk in and the security guard asks if we're there for medical help.  I just barely resisted the urge to say something inordinately sarcastic to this man who had obviously been on duty for waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long, instead walked over to the left side of the counter where the Way Too Young Med Intern was sitting and obviously doing nothing productive.  She asked if we'd been there before....which made me think of the frequent buyer coffee card I got from the DD.  Can you imagine a Frequent Emergency card issued by a hospital....you know for especially accident prone people.....like moi.  Nine emergencies and the tenth one's free!  She asked if he was allergic to anything, which he is (stupid people) and then printed out his little hospital ID bracelets.  And then she told us to sit down in the waiting room.

 

The waiting room?  There's nobody here?  What the hell are we waiting for?  I have brought with us, because I am always ridiculously prepared, the Fruit Bowl/Barf Bowl I have put together at the house.  The Fruit Bowl was the appropriate size and shape for this task and filled with one of the three billion plastic bags I've been collecting from the grocery stores for the past 11 years, seemed sufficient to do the job.  The Hubby is clutching the Fruity Barf Bowl and kind of moaning, waiting for the alien to come popping out of his chest.  He managed to walk through the shower before we came and now he is shivering uncontrollably.  I am getting highly irritated that we are waiting in an empty waiting room and am about 7 seconds away from verbally abusing the Way Too Young Med Intern behind the desk, security guard be damned....when the those big double doors swing open and a nice looking nurse says "Mr. Hubby"?  Again....repressing the overwhelming urge to point out we are the only people in the waiting room, I help him up hoping he's not going to hurl on my shoes and we trudge into the back room.  When I say she was a nice looking nurse, I mean she looked nice...not mean.  And she was....but her only job was taking his temperature and his blood pressure, both scary high.  She asked if he was hypertensive, and of course he's not....but he apparently didn't think it was important to point out he hadn't been to a doctor in about 7 years.  Men have Doctor Years, like Dog Years....they go every decade, if you're lucky.  Of course the Hubby is in his 30's now...and will obviously have to go more often.  So after taking his vital signs, she shows us to a room, gives him his hospital gown and leaves us alone. 

 

You know when you're with someone who is sick....time seems to slow down.  I feel like we're waiting forever and then Larry walks in.  Larry is a Happy Nurse, except he's not because he's been on duty for three straight shifts and for some odd reason felt like telling us this before he sticks an IV needle into the Hubby's arm.  Now, because the Hubby is delirious and just wants to be rehydrated, he ignores the happy chattering of Larry the Overworked Underpaid Nurse.  Larry thinks he's hysterically funny (I know because he was laughing at himself) and keeps stopping what he's doing so he can put the proper emphasis on whatever stupid story he's telling by gesturing around wildly.  I feel like screaming at Larry to FOCUS!  I have no doubt that Larry is one of those people who types out text messages while they're driving.  Luckily, the Hubby has tree-trunk sized forearms with all kinds of veins bulging out so the Red Cross loves him...and apparently so does Larry.  While he's poking needles into the Hubby like a voodoo doll, he decides to mention just as nonchalantly as he mentioned his sleep deprivation, that the clinic might have to close because they had no water.  Or the water they did have was contaminated.  Or something like that.

 

This was as specific as Larry could be.....and again I am resisting the urge to question why this was the first time we were hearing about this?  What if I had a drink out of the water fountain?  <shaking my head>  If the clinic closes, we have to go the hospital in Gaithersburg.  Which is way more crowded and all but guarantees we'll be there for another 20 hours at least.  So now, I'm getting annoyed.  Water main breaks?  In June?  This is Montgomery County for crying out loud.  Obviously Nature and the Laws of Physics have no idea how much I pay in taxes to have them not affect us here....We have already had to go days without air conditioning and I don't think I can handle not having the modern day convenience of tap water now.  Yes, the air conditioning fiasco could probably fill a whole different blog.  But instead, I'll sum it up for you.  Our AC was broken.  Had nothing to do with the power outtages that have also plagued this county recently.  It was broken.  Dad #2, who is one of those HVAC magicians could not fix it.  So we waited.  Coincidentally, this all happened on that weekend with the record-breaking heat wave...you remember that?  Heat index over 100?  Yeah, that weekend.  So I have already suffered through Hell this summer and am completely not interested in this new omen of the impending apocalypse.  Larry has mumbled his way out of the room, obviously becoming aware of the fact that I hadn't been listening to anything he said after the water main story.  Now, I guess we're waiting for a doctor.

 

So while we're waiting, all I can hear in the hallway is the nurses yelling at each other about what to do with the water.  Wash your hands in it, don't wash your hands in it (!!), don't drink it, but you can flush....the story changed depending on who was talking and now I am starting to get concerned.  Even if they don't close the clinic....I'm not sure we need to deal with this.  But the Hubby looks like the IV voodoo treatment might be working, so I decide to bite my tongue for a bit.  And then Suzie, the Mean Nurse comes in to the room.  Suzie is a no- nonsense woman.  She immediately asked what the problem was, and my non-medical auditor diagnosis of "High Fever" was completely inadequate for Miss Suzie Important Pants.  She responded to me in a very condescending way that a fever is not an illness, it is a symptom.  Again....repressing the urge to point out to Suzie that if I knew what was wrong with my husband I wouldn't be at this &^%*^$%ed clinic in the first place, I decided to add - he's puking a lot too.  She's much nicer to the Hubby when he repeats everything I've just said, and I realize he's the sick one and you should be nice to him....but why the hell not be nice to me too!!!  So Suzie sticks the Hubby with more needles and takes quarts of blood out of him....and I'm thinking, might as well bring out the leeches at this point.  Apparently, the quarts of blood were to do tests on....I guess.  Sadistic freaks. 

 

So finally the doctor walks in, very soft spoken and sheepish.  In fact, if he hadn't been wearing a doctor smok, I would have assumed he was an auditor.  We repeat all the "symptoms" we've already told the three other people who've talked to us thusfar and now I'm wondering why the hell we were talking to them since they clearly don't write any of this stuff down.  Dr. Mumbly mumbles something about it being a virus...which is convenient doctor-speak for "we have no idea what is wrong with you and we can't fix it, so let's call it an incurable virus."  After the Hubby has been thoroughly rehydrated, which takes most of the day, we know nothing new about how much we don't know.  Doctor Mumbly sends us on our way with a prescription for anti-nausea meds and a referral for some other smarter doctor who can interpret the lab results from the sadistic freaky tests they ran on the Hubby's blood.  The Nurse in the Check-out Lane asked me what the co-pay was for emergency visits under my insurance plan....and I'm thinking to myself.....isn't this something you should know?  But apparently she doesn't, and has assumed that I quickly memorized the 5,000 page insurance manual before driving to the clinic this morning.  I don't know what the co-pay is and so now I'm fairly convinced we will be billed about a million dollars for this visit to the clinic.  Greaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. 

 

I take the Hubby back home, get him into bed cocooned in blankets with a straw in the water bottle and the TV on the right station and head back out for the drugs.  This is when I become overwhelmingly aware of the chaos that has encompassed Germantown.  People are literally wandering around the streets with vacant expressions on their faces.  Oh right...no water.  So I have to go to like three different pharmacies to find one actually stocking the drugs we need and every store I go in to is packed with people buying water.  Because of the Boil Water Advisory in effect.  Another sign of the impending apocalypse.  We have to boil water so we won't die when we drink it.  So now I'm wondering when we turned into such pansies.  I'm sure people didn't always boil water before drinking it....I'm sure people were tough enough at some point to be able to drink water without melting into the floor....I'm sure of this because something tells me Human People wouldn't have lasted this long if water could kill us.  But this is really priceless....the panic this Boil Water Advisory has set upon the small city-state of Germantown is unbelievable.  Restaurants are closed.  The County Government is closed.  Some buildings have warnings posted that say their sprinkler systems don't work so if there's a fire, you need to run out of the building.  Because apparently, the lack of water is going to make us stupid too.  I'm annoyed about having to wait this long for the drugs I need and now I'm getting annoyed at my shamelessly stupid Germantown Germs acting like a mindless horde.  I finally get the drugs, and decide to get some chicken soup for the Hubby.  The cashier felt it necessary to remind me that I needed to boil the water for that soup................<long long pause>.....................again repressing the urge to inform her we eat soup hot, preferably boiling hot, here on the planet Earth.  After lots of sighing and shaking me head, I'm on my way home.

 

The Hubby is feeling better, and surprisingly, our little family has miraculously survived the Great Water Main Break of 2008 so far.  As a result, I have now decided that when I get sentenced with community service after attempting to put Retirement Plan #57 into effect, I will suggest to the judge that I set up a booth outside the grocery store......and teach people how to boil water.  That's of course assuming the world doesn't end first.  <evil grin>

 

Later gators,

Heather

He left without saying goodbye this morning.  And I feel like he should have said at least that.  At least goodbye.  Maybe a wink and a smile.  And goodbye.  The very least he could after all this time.  I feel like I should be crying.  Like that’s what normal people do…but I can’t.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe my knee-jerk instinctual reaction was to just ignore it.  Some people do that too you know.  It’s a self-preservation mechanism that some people have…probably to keep them from going totally crazy.  And maybe that is what has happened to me.  Maybe I’m numb because I ignore too much.  But everything seems so clear; everything makes sense.  I can remember this morning and yesterday and people who are numb usually can’t do things like that.  Remember.  So maybe it’s something else altogether.  Maybe I’m a freak.  Or maybe it’s just because I’m a woman.  Or maybe I act like this because it's been Forever.  He would have smiled at this monologue, said I was definitely a freak and shrugged it all off.  Being dismissive can sometimes be the best and most healthy reaction a person can have to some things….because why hold on to some thoughts, why hold on to them until they poison everything?  Makes no sense.  Leaving without saying goodbye makes no sense either.  I mean….who does that?  People who don’t cry, that’s who. 

 

They met a thousand years ago.  His friends were friends with her friends.  But they were nothing alike.  Not even a little bit.  They fought and argued and bickered about anything and everything.  Some people said they shouldn’t be left in the same room together because they could rip each others’ eyes out like wild dogs.  Other people said it was foreplay.  But he and she thought those other people were lunatics.  No chance they would ever have a civil conversation.  But Time has a funny way of sorting all that out.  Doesn’t it?  Arguments became less ferocious.  Small gestures were made.  And eventually…ever so slowly….a tiny bit of loyalty was born.  Loyalty is the precursor to Friendship.  You can be loyal to someone and not be their friend.  But it doesn’t work the other way around. 

 

Some people are Friends immediately.  They know right away that they can get along and they make each other smile and they possess enough patience to share space with this other human being, when human beings can be so overwhelmingly irritating at times.  Some people have that ‘sense’ about their cohabitants on this planet.  But for others…Time makes a friendship.  And bonds that are forged over an eternity are so often much more difficult to break.  But here’s the funny thing about Forever.  It never seems to last as long as you want it to.

 

I think back now, and remember, what it was like a thousand years ago when we first.  When we first.  I was naïve and he had bravado.  And people wondered why it worked.  Opposites attract because they fit.  Two pieces to a puzzle.  And the important stuff was all the same.  That underlying sensitive stuff like religion and politics and intelligence, the stuff you don’t talk about when you first.  We weren’t antonyms.  We were compliments.  And that’s what makes the world go round, that’s what keeps everything from crumbling into anarchy.  Not a billion replicas of the same person.  But compliments.  People have a hard time understanding this for some reason.  It’s difficult to imagine how you can tolerate someone with different interests and a different personality….but seriously, if I wanted to live with myself I would.  It would be cheaper and there would be less crying….I think.  There would also never be goodbyes or loyalty or forever.  And cats probably don’t like me nearly as much as I assume they do.

 

He used to ask me why.  Why would you ever.  I think back now, and remember so easily, the million and one reasons.

Because I know his faults as well as his magic.  Because I know he is weak but at the same time strong.  Because I know he tries to be someone else, because he can only be who he is.  Because he smiles when he doesn’t want to.  Because he stomps up the stairs like it’s their fault he has to.  Because he makes music and it’s not always pretty.  Because he sees things in me I never knew were there.  Because he wants to run away.  Because he stays.  Because he’s afraid to let people know him.  Because he talks all the time.  Because he’s a friend and I still don’t like him sometimes.  Because he knows the little things matter.  Because he never seems to notice.  Because I always wonder what he’s thinking and because I know he wonders the same thing about me.  For all these reasons….I said yes.

 

So why would he go without saying goodbye on this morning in particular?  I have just a bit of unsolicited advice for you gentle reader, if you ever catch yourself asking yourself things like this.  Don’t ever let your heart hurt.  Don’t ever stop caring or wondering.  Forever will go by way too fast.

 

Sometimes you don’t realize what you’ve got until you lose it.  So if you’ve got someone great, think about them now.  Don't wait until you lose them.  Don't take them for granted.  Parts of this I wrote for the Hubby the first year we were married (you know the ‘paper’ gift and those anniversary years that boys never really pay attention to unless you’ve been together 25 or 50 years) Yeah, that was nine years ago.  We’re still best friends.  We’re still very different.  It still feels weird to spend a lot of time apart.  We’re still supportive and argumentative and fiercely loyal.  And we’ve never stopped complimenting each other. 

 

You are my heart.  Forever.

Happy Anniversary.