Fighting Kindergartners

14

I really expected to do better than that. What's your number?

Happy Birthday to Me

We're off to the big city to eat Indian food and make a Costco run and just generally muck about. Yes, we do know how to celebrate in high style.

And that's all I have to say about that.


ETA:
Ok, I lied. I have more to say because I have to show you the kick-ass shoes I got at the Rack for $23.

You can see them from all angles at Zappos. And you know you want to. I also got a dress and two lovely screened tees, all for $70. God bless the Rack.

I Blame the Y. And W/W.

Warning: Mild scatological references. Brace yo'self.

And X & Z for that matter. See, I skipped Pilates this morning for two reasons. Firstly, because I had a sudden onset of the tummy rumbles and had to rush home to the restroom. And secondly, because I had a sudden onset of the tummy rumbles and had to rush home to the restroom. I'll explain.

Reason #1: I take Pilates at the Y. There are no private restrooms at the Y. Nobody wants to have embarrassing bodily functions in a giant open room where people are showering and changing clothes and putting on makeup and drying their hair and so on. And the people who are showering and changing clothes and putting on makeup and drying their hair and so on certainly don't want anyone to have embarrassing bodily functions in that room. So I came home.

Reason #2: Today is weigh-in day. I was not best pleased. I didn't gain, but I didn't lose anything either. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Goose egg. So, when the tummy rumbles came on, I couldn't help thinking about the fact that I had not yet consumed any food or beverage today and maybe after the, erm, evacuation I would have a better weigh-in result. Is this pathetic? Undoubtedly. Is it cheating? Probably. Do I care? Not a whit. So I came home.

So, you see, I think I'm perfectly justified in blaming the end letters of the alphabet. After all, it couldn't be my fault.

Songs I Like Better My Way, Vol. I

"I Love a Margarita"
Apologies to Eddie Rabbitt

I love a margarita,
I love a margarita,
I love to taste the tartness,
Feel the sweetness,
As it slides down my throat.
Ya know it makes me feel good.

Tequila washes my cares away,
I wake up to a sunny day.
Yeah, I love a margarita, oo, oo...

"Milo"
Apologies to Smokey Robinson and The Temptations

I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.

I guess you'd say,
What can make me feel this way?
Milo. (Milo. Milo.)
Talkin' 'bout Milo. Milo.

"Tami"
Apologies to Kander and Ebb ("Roxie" from Chicago)

The name on everybody's lips
Is gonna be Tami!
The lady raking in the chips
Is gonna be Tami!

I'm gonna be a celebrity.
That means somebody everyone knows.
They're gonna recognize my eyes,
My hair, my teeth, my boobs, my nose.

(spoken)
Mmmm, I'm a star!
And the audience loves me!
And I love them.
And they love me for loving them,
And I love them for loving me.
And we love each other,
And that's because none of us
Got enough love in our childhoods.
And that's showbiz,
Kid.

And a poem to close out with.

"I Sing of White Tea and Ginger"
Apologies to Walt Whitman

I sing of white tea and ginger,
The suds of Bath & Body Works engirth me and I engirth them.

Ok, so I gave up quickly on that one. But I think I got my point across, no?

Classics Shmassics

I am a voracious reader. I love to read. I will read as the world crumbles around my ears. That being said, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I simply do not care for most classic literature. I never finished Pilgrim's Progress. I struggled through Anna Karenina and immediately forgot most of it. I hated the vast majority of what I was forced to read in British and American literature classes. I adore Jane Austen, but I can take or leave the Brontë girls. I very much like Jane Eyre, but not so much Wuthering Heights. (Sorry, Anne, I never read you.) Right now, I'm halfway through The Satanic Verses with not much hope of ever finishing it. I think TSV is not technically classic literature, but it sure reads that way to me. I keep taking breaks from it and reading other books--this is a bad sign. I guess I just find the classical style, well, a little dull.

I so want to like these books. I feel like I should. I really enjoyed Mr. Rushdie's cameo in the Bridget Jones movie. But I am not enjoying Chamcha and Saladin. My apologies. But here's the thing--I read for pleasure. And this is not pleasurable. So I need to stop feeling guilty and inadequate and suck it up and return this book to the library. It doesn't mean I've failed as a reader. It just means I don't like the book.

At least I did better than I did with The Aeneid. I only got through one page of that. Sorry, Virgil. (By the way, why do we call him Virgil when his name was Publius Vergilius Maro? But that's another post.)

Self-congratulations, Part Deux

Today I received the best compliment of my acting career, such as it is. I went to an audition and the director, who is a professional actor of many years and who has recently purchased a home in the area (psst, this guy), told me that he really enjoyed my performance in Sylvia and that he liked my energy and he said several other nice things that I can't exactly recall because I was REELING and thrilled and excited and internally screaming "Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!" and running around in my head waving my arms and jumping up and down.

Now the reason I feel like this is the best compliment evah is because, while my friends have always been generous with their praise, they are, after all, my friends. They're not going to say, "Eh, you were okay." Or "Ya know, you really sucked." Today's comments came from an unbiased source who has made a career in this field and I am ecstatic and honored and giddy as all get-out.

Now, excuse me while I go run around the living room waving my arms and jumping up and down.

Self-congratulations

Excuse me while I toot my own horn for a mo'.

I started following the Weight Watchers plan 1/29, a little over a month after my breast reduction. (To read a lengthy, slightly incoherent, and heavily drug-induced account of the surgery, see my old MySpace blog.) They removed roughly 4 pounds of tissue during the redux, but I somehow lost a total of 6.4 pounds between surgery date weight and 1/29. My bust measurement decreased by 4 inches! Since that date, I have lost 15.8 pounds and 2 inches from my bust, 2 inches from my waist, and 2 inches from my hips. Commence happy dance.

So results from surgery + W/W results = 22.2 pounds lost and 6 (!) inches from my bust.

Happy dance continues. Besides, it burns calories.

______________________________________
P.S. Jason is also on the program and is doing great. You'll have to ask him exactly how great because I won't let him tell me his numbers. You see, intellectually, I know that men lose faster than women without working as hard, blahdy blah blah. But, emotionally, living with the actual results is difficult. And so to save Jason (who is after all innocent of any wrongdoing) from physical harm, I respectfully request, erm, demand that he keep the facts to himself. I really don't want to have to yank his head off of his neck and dropkick it over the deck.

Chapter 3, In Which Local Commercial Enterprises Unite to Drive Me Insane

Sweet lord 'n butter, WHAT is going on around here? As if the antics of Safeway and Fred Meyer weren't enough, U.S. Bank has decided to get in on the fun.

A little background info, if you don't mind. (Even if you do,tough toodles. You no make-a the blog, you no make-a the rules. First rule, btw, was any grammar I like is fine regardless of its technical correctness. But I digress.) When we first started up our own business four years ago, we were told that we would be able to link our personal and business accounts online so that we could easily make transfers and, ya know, pay ourselves. This never happened. And when we'd mention this to bank employees, they would scratch their heads and appear sympathetically confused for a moment and then go right back to picking their noses and conducting important bank business. Still, it was not that big a deal when we lived in the city. There were a couple of branches nearby and one happened to be right smack in the middle of the shopping district we frequented. No problem.

But then we moved to the coast. The nearest branch is six miles from our house. That got old but quick. So, we talked to the local branch and they suggested that we call in the transfers. I was not so fond of that for two reasons: firstly, it would involve communication with actual people, which I frown upon; and secondly, we'd have no written record and I just can't shake those twelve years of accountancy and consequently, I must have documentation for each and every transaction that occurs. So we settled on fax transfers. Mildly annoying. But workable.

Today, however, today was when all that stopped. Big problem. Hugely annoying. We faxed over a transfer request and a short time later received a phone call informing us that they can no longer make fax and/or phone transfers and all such requests must be made inside the bank in person. I must confess, I lost my shit. I was infuriated that at a time of record gas prices, I am being forced to make a twelve-mile round trip so that I can move money from one account that belongs to me into another account that belongs to me--all because the bank never got our online access correctly linked. Can you say ridiculous? I bet you can. Anyway, I won't go into any further gory details here because I'm bored with this story, but suffice it to say that our online access will be righted by Monday. And our transfer was made over the phone. Funny what a little hissy fit can accomplish every now and then.

And let this be a lesson to any other local establishments who are thinking about tryin' sumpin' crazy wit' me. Hunh.

It's Not Nice to Taunt, Freddy

So I'm in Fred Meyer this morning, browsing for shirts because all of a sudden mine are all too BIG. Ain't it grand? : D Anyway, an announcement comes over the loudspeaker, "Attention all employees. Today is Norma Whosit's* birthday. Please be sure and wish Norma a happy birthday when you see her. Also, there is cake available in the breakroom if any employees want some."

Que? Did I just hear you correctly? Did you just taunt me with cake? Did you just announce to your customers that there is free cake in the store and that they are not allowed to have any? Let me see if I can translate this into a language we can all understand. That would be, "Nyah, nyah, we have cake and you can't have any!" I was so gobsmacked by this that I didn't even think to stomp my feet and burst into tears, which is the only rational reaction one could expect to have to that message.

Fredje**, darling, it's not nice to taunt.


*Name changed so as not to tax my memory.
**Belgian diminutive, means Freddy. You learned something today, now didn't you?

Say My Name

Yeah, you, Safeway. I'm talking to you. Let's face it. None of the employees in any of your stores knows my name, nor have they ever known my name, nor will they ever know it. And if they did know it, they wouldn't be able to pronounce it. Hell, I went through 13 years of public school with people who failed to learn how to pronounce it. But never once in all of those 13 years, did any of my classmates hold my receipt hostage until I gave them the correct pronunciation. And then forget it again by the next time I saw them.

What is the point of this anyway? Why do you need to call me by my name? I just came in here for some red potatoes and a shallot. I don't need to feel like we connected on some deep personal basis. Just give me my damned receipt and let me go.

I might add that the fact that you DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW MY NAME detracts from this careful image of a personal encounter that you have so painstakingly created. The fact that you have to look at the receipt every freaking time so that you can then mangle my name and render it unrecognizable to me (except that you now have a death grip on that little slip of paper and are staring at me with that quizzical, expectant look on your face) gives me just the teensiest hint that maybe this show of being my local, friendly neighborhood grocer is just that--a show.

So please, Safeway, I'm begging you. Learn my name or don't bother saying it at all. I'm on to you.