Who knew he was back and why wasn't I told about this?!?!?!
I Have My Boundaries
Something happened to Edgar and me yesterday that has tested me about what my limits are when it comes to publishing certain details of my life--and by extension his life--on this blog. I won't go into details about what exactly happened, except to say that we were betrayed by someone very close to us, and that betrayal is now causing a not insignificant monthly financial burden on us and will continue to do so for the next two years. It also is going to negatively impact us if we want to buy a house in the next seven years. Of course, that may never happen anyways since in California a shoebox with a small yard, and by 'yard' I mean 'concrete,' costs MORE THAN MY RIGHT KIDNEY IS WORTH.
What I will write about this situation is that it makes me thankful that I am married to a man like Edgar, a man who is willing to be honest with me, even when the results are unpleasant. He could have very easily hidden this betrayal from me, just as the person who betrayed us in the first place hid it from him. But he didn't. I could tell when I walked in the door that something was wrong, and when I asked what it was, he said "I'm telling you right now that you're not going to like this and that it is going to upset you." And then he told me. I value that honesty, and I think it's the mark of a strong relationship that we were able to rationally talk about it like adults without getting mad or frustrated at one another. I tend to react to bad news by freaking the hell out about it and not letting it go; he tends to react by getting super pissed off and volatile. However, his openness and honesty in telling me what was going on helped me keep from freaking out. And yes, while I was extremely upset about it, we worked through it together.
But since one dose of bad news is never enough, we had another unpleasant surprise this morning. This one I can talk about. A long time ago (at least that's how long ago it feels, even though it was only a month and a half ago), Edgar and I were initially going to move into a different apartment. Same building, different apartment. The apartment that we were going to get was on the second floor of the building, and because of the proximity to the next building on the block, we wouldn't have been able to get DirecTV satellite access from the balcony. So we called the friendly cable company, Charter, to get our TV service through them. We decided a few days later to upgrade to a different apartment in the building, this one being perfectly fine for DirecTV. Edgar called Charter to cancel our order. It was an unpleasant experience. They called him seven times over the next three days to try to "save" him as a customer. Personally, I think that if you really want someone to come back to you as a customer, don't call them like that and PISS THEM THE HELL OFF. It's just not good business. Anyways, they finally stopped calling, we went on living, we got our DirecTV, and life was good. But, what is this? Lo and behold, when Edgar checked his bank account this morning to make sure he was paid, along with his paycheck there was a $54.97 charge from Charter for service. Charter? What is your problem? He called them to be like "Excuse me, what are you charging me for?" And they were all "We couldn't have charged you, you don't have an account with us, you aren't in our computers" and he was all "THIS IS WHY I AM CALLING YOU."
Oh, Charter. I swear, this move has been the most mind-numbing, teeth-grating experience I have ever had when moving when it comes to phone, internet, and TV and companies. People need access to basic human services without all of the hassle! Forget food, water, and electricity. I want my TV and my Internet service so that I can watch The Amazing Race and then sit on my couch blogging about it! Seriously, Lance, what's with arm thing? Your voice makes me want to gouge out my eardrums with an 80 year old woman's knitting needles that are covered in cat hair and the odor of Elizabeth Taylor perfume.
Is that really so much to ask?
FYI
Last night while we were watching TV (because that's all we do anymore as slaves to the new season of TV on the DVR), we heard a watery "bleeecggggh" sound come from downstairs.
Yes, Fiyero ate his dinner way too fast and puked it all up in the dining room.
No, we hadn't bought Resolve yet.
You do the math.
It's all part of my master plan
When I was a teenager, I was lucky in that I was never prone to huge breakouts of acne on my face. It would be pimple here, a pimple there, and often monstrous in size, but never in in the large surface area spattering to which a lot of kids that age were susceptible. Even so, I still wasn't pleased with the appearance and growth of a brand new Texas-sized pimple just as the last one would angrily fade back in to my skin.
Unfortunately, at the age of 25 I have still not grown out of my propensity for Pimples That Will Take Over The World. When I was younger I would sometimes get a few of these at the same time; one on the forehead, one on the chin, one on the side of the nose. My mother often felt the need to say things like "Do you know you have a huge pimple on your nose?" NO MOTHER, I DIDN'T, AND I NEVER WOULD HAVE KNOWN IF YOU HADN'T POINTED IT OUT TO ME IN FRONT OF SEVEN STRANGERS. It must be a mom thing. I can only hope that I will break that vicious cycle once I have children of my own. Over the last two years though, this occurrence has become more and more commonplace. I've often woken up, looked in the mirror, and muttered "Where the hell did you come from?" to a golf ball-sized* pimple on my chin.
*Size might be exaggerated due to traumatic stress.
I'm currently in the midst of waging war on THREE (count 'em, three) separate Pimples From Hell That Have Come To End The World. One on my jaw line, one on my chin, and one above my lip. And I fear that I am losing the battle to save humanity. The one on my jaw line seemed ripe for the popping yesterday; it had that little white head and all. And it looked like it was just one pore, ready to pop in that utterly satisfying and disgusting way. Unfortunately, it was not as ready as I thought it was. And after squeezing the hell out of it, nothing came out and I only succeeded in making the whole area red, more sore than it already was, and releasing a lot of blood on the inside so that it is now a half pimple/half scab monstrosity on my chin. The one on my chin has been an equal pain in my ass, starting out as a huge pimple that encompassed several different pores, so it had that huge green booger look. It semi-popped itself the other day, and now that the resultant red scabby part is healing, another brand new uber-pimple has come up RIGHT NEXT TO IT. That's awesome. The one above my lip was sent here from Satan. I hate pimples that come up right there. They hurt in a way totally different from a chin pimple or forehead pimple. This one started out kind of small on Sunday. When I woke up yesterday I begrudgingly noticed that it had gotten bigger. Thinking as I went to bed last night that it would be smaller this morning, I was rudely surprised when I got up today and found it larger and more painful than before. It's also one of those happy uber-pimples that looks like a big booger.
Edgar's solution to every pimple is the Just Pop It approach, but I can't buy into that. I only pop pimples that look like a sure thing, ones that you can tell will only require one simple pop to send them into oblivian. Otherwise, you end up with scars, and I don't want those on my face. I already have too many as it is; if you look closely at my chin you can see lots of faint bumps that are slightly darker than the rest of my skin. They're not super noticeable, and can be covered with makeup, but I still know that they're there. I'm not a fan of those, and I never would intentionally do something to give me more of those. But these pimples that I have right now, these pimples are a whole 'nuther animal. I swear, the one above my lip, when I glance down I can see it sticking out from my face. THAT'S WITHOUT A MIRROR, PEOPLE.
I feel like the whole situation is pretty unfair, because I take care of my skin. I wash my face every morning and night. I've tried all of the different cleansers. Cream cleansers, gel cleansers, microdermabrasion cleansers, Holy Water, everything. I lately have started a new skin care regimen, and I follow up the washing with a very good toner made specifically for people with oily skin, like me. I then attack the Pimples That Want To Kill You And Your Family with prescription strength Retin-A. This stuff doesn't really do anything for me though, except make the skin around the pimple really dry, while doing nothing to dry out said offending pimple. I also recently started using this new product by Lancome called Genifique, a "youth activiting serum" or some such nonesense. I don't know what exactly it's supposed to do, but it's made my skin really soft and smooth. It's even helped with the appearance of old scars on my chin. Except for the Evil Pimples. I know the products I'm using aren't causing these, because this was happening before I started using them. I rarely use foundation anymore because that's just like feeding fuel to Satan's fire, and I don't have a death wish.
I just want it to go away. I feel so sorry for my future children. Edgar, at the age of 33, will also occasionally get a pimple here or there, but never as large as the ones that I get. His are Wannabe Rulers Of The World. Mine are the Real Deal. Basically, our children are screwed and will have THE WORST SKIN OF ALL TIME. Future babies, I apologize profusely.
My face hurts.
Quotation of the Day
"When you get on the bed with your meowing chonies, what do you expect me to do?"
I'll tell you what to do with your Bill of Rights
So I'm going to go a little bit off topic here and dip my toe into the world of politics. My goal in keeping this blog is not to create something rife with political commentary. I have my reasons, the biggest one probably being that I've learned that no matter what I say or think, it's very unlikely to ever change the mind of anybody that is a staunch supporter of anything/anybody else. Some people make it a point to not listen to any arguments you make, regardless of the facts that you use to back up your claim. "Facts, who needs facts? This is what my pappy taught me and this here is what is right. 'Cuz God says so." You can't fight it, you can only sigh and move along.
But forgive me, I just can't resist.
Anytime some one refers to Barack Obama as Hussein, it makes me want to gouge sharp pieces of glass into my eyes while simultaneously ripping out my hair and screaming like the banshee that is called Adam Lambert's Voice. YES, ADAM LAMBERT, WE GET IT, YOU CAN SCREAM, JUST LIKE EVERY OTHER PERSON THAT WAS EVER BORN. EVER. People that refer to Barack Obama as Hussein are doing it because they are the type of people that think just because some one has Hussein as his middle name, which he did not pick, that he is a terrorist, and that by using the moniker of Hussein they can instill their own fear and hatred into the hearts of others. Sure, people called what's-his-face-with-the-stupid-goofy-grin-and-unintelligible-stutter "W," but when was the last time that the letter W did anything to you? This terrorist attack, brought to you by the Letter W. "W" does not bring about thoughts of fear (well, relatively) as does the name "Hussein."
I'm a firm believer in the First Amendment (how can you not be?), but stuff like this just makes me cringe, mainly because it's coming from the minds and mouths of people who think that the Bill of Rights should be torn to shreds with the only surviving piece being the Second Amendment.
I often like to read comments on news pieces about current events and politics and I was especially into this around the time of the election. I would always do this, even though about 30% of the comments would make me want to revert to self mutilation (see: gouging of eyes, screaming, etc). It was "Hussein this" and "Hussein that," usually followed by hate speech spewed by some one who thought John McCain was here to save the world and would do so with the help of his prophet, who all of her adorers so loving called "Sarah." Just Sarah. Not Sarah Palin, not Palin, just Sarah. Since when did we start calling political figures by his or her first names only? Quick: Barack, John, Howard, George, Edward, Dianne, Barbara. I bet you FIVE WHOLE DOLLARS there is only one name in that list where you know exactly which one I am talking about. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, personally it would be great if we all just relaxed a little bit and lost the formality and the collective Sticks Up the Asses of everybody in general.
But really, the whole Trying to Play Obama Up As a Terrorist schtick is totally tiring. Get over it, your guy lost, no amount of trying to make someone's middle name a stereotypical reflection of who they are as a person or a politician is going to change that. You would think that almost a year later, things like that would have changed and people would have gotten over it with semi-quiet, if not begruding acceptance. Let's all grow up. Not to be a cliche, but we're all in this together.
This is why math is needed in the real world
Edgar: I got a voicemail from your cousin. He wants to know if we like clams.
Me: We don't.
Edgar: I like clams.
Me: But I don't. And a positive times a negative is a negative, so we don't like clams.
Edgar: But I like clams.
Me: You can, but we don't.
Our Brains are Rotting
When I woke up this morning, Edgar came in the bedroom, threw himself down on top of me with his head nestled in my neck, and said "Oh, babe, I couldn't sleep last night." When I asked him why, he told me that every time he tries to sleep he thinks about what happened to him on the plane.
That feeling of fear is invading every part of his life. Even though that situation turned out to be a false alarm, the fear was real and he now knows what it's like to face losing everything that you hold dear. I feel so bad because I can't make that pain go away. I want to be the nurturer, I want to take it all on me, but I can't. And I feel so powerless because I can't make him feel better. I can only assure him that he's safe and that he's here and he's alive, but it still doesn't change what he went through.
So we're trying to go along, business as usual. Yesterday we went to the grocery store. Three grocery stores, to be exact. They're luckily all in a really close vicinity to where we live, so it was actually only about an hour and a half trip. The bulk of that time was spent walking around Vons trying to find the hot & spicy buffalo wings that were on sale for $2.99 a pound. Hey, my husband's world may have almost ended, but today is still football Sunday and WE MUST BE PREPARED.
Outside of Superior, I experienced the most aggressive panhandler that I've ever seen in my life. We live in downtown Long Beach, so the homeless population is an ever-present part of life that you see on a daily basis. But this guy, THIS GUY, got so mad that these people who were loading up their SUV with every kind of expensive sugary soda and potato chips available (and at Superior, that shit is expensive; anything that doesn't come from Mexico costs an arm and a leg) wouldn't give him some money that he literally stood behind them and blocked their vehicle from pulling out of the parking spot. After they finally called his bluff and started to back up he moved over BEHIND OUR CAR and stood there yelling at them. Like that helps. Dude, they're not going to give you any money. Give it up. I undestand that you're homeless and that you need money, but that kind of behavior just angers everyone involved, not to mention making everyone more uncomfortable than words can express. I'm just sayin'.
The weekend also involved TWO different trips to the Rock Bottom Brewery that sits six blocks up the street from our apartment. We went Friday night after Edgar got home since neither of us had eaten, and that man clearly needed a beer. We also bought a growler of their Octoberfest and took it home with us. We each had one more glass of it Friday night after we walked home, and we decided yesterday that we would definitely need more than what we had on hand. So we walked down the street again and bought another growler to bring home. We're totally working towards getting our name on a little engraved plaque to be part of the Half Barrel Club. It's nice to have goals.
We then proceeded to spend the rest of the day on our asses in front of the TV. Edgar's business trip unfortunately coincided with the week that pretty much every single show of the TV season had their premieres. I might as well just admit it up front and say that Edgar and I are total TV addicts. Rather, we're TiVo addicts. Actually, scratch that, we're HD DVR addicts, because it's not a TiVo. Edgar is very specific about his electronics, and TiVo is it's own brand. Anyways, we like A LOT of TV shows. So there were many, many returning shows that we watch, and we tried out a bunch of new shows as well. If it looks remotely interesting, we watch it, get a feel for it, then wait for it to inevitably get cancelled once we're interested in it. So, off the top of my head, we had about 22 hours of TV to watch. Luckily, TV hours can be condensed, because if you can fast forward through the commercials (best invention EVER), an hour long show can be completed in less than 45 minutes and a half hour show can be completed in about 22 minutes. Yesterday, we started around 2 in the afternoon and were able to get through about 16 hours of TV by midnight. We even cooked dinner during that time too! Add in the multiple bathroom breaks that I required because THERE WAS JUST SO MUCH BEER, and I'd say that we are totally among the elite of TV watchers. Even with all of that work, we were only through Wednesday on the TV schedule. We still have Thursday and Friday to get through. And then the new week of shows, along with six more premieres, starts tonight. GOD BLESS YOU TIVO. I MEAN DIRECTV HD DVR. Some people might say it is a ridiculous waste of time, but it's a very inexpensive form of entertainment, and I really don't care what those people think. We know our TV watching days are limited since my biological clock insists that we have a baby soon, so we're stocking up on the indulgence.
Did I mention we're watching TV right now as I write this?
Reason # 1,346,582
Me: Babe, did you get the ranch dressing?
Edgar: Yes, dear.
Me: What about the napkins?
Edgar: Yes, dear.
Me: Well check you out!
Edgar: Yes, dear.
Oh, my little chiquitito
Edgar got up this morning and made chilaquiles for us. Once again, I'm reminded how good I have it being married to a Mexican. That boy can cook!
Heard in the Parking Lot of a Wal-Mart
Edgar: So, when you got the computer, did you watch TV and play with it at the same time?
Me: Of course I did.
Edgar: I don't get how you can do that. How do you take anything in?
Me: How do I take in what's on TV while I use the computer or how do I pay attention to the computer when there's stuff on TV?
Edgar: Both.
Me: (cupping my hands to the outside of my ears a la kindergarten) I use my special listening ears.
Terror on Flight 2459
My husband almost died yesterday. Not really, but he thought so, so.....
His flight coming home from Dallas turned into a terrifying mid-air experience. Prior to landing, the captain came over the intercom and said "Okay, folks, we're going to be landing in LA in about 22 minutes, and, not to frighten you, but we're having problems with the brake on the landing gear. The flight attendants will be around to give you instructions on how to prepare for a possible crash landing."
Um. CRASH LANDING?!?! Fuck you American Air and your crash landings! That's my husband you're trying to crash with!
Edgar said the plane got so silent that you could hear a pin drop. The flight attendants came around and were showing people how to 'assume the position,' and one of them even said to his row, "I've never experienced anything like this, but I think in this situation that if you pray you should start doing that." I'm totally not kidding. They gave gave them warnings that the cabin might fill with smoke and that if they see it to stay in their seats until they give the ok for them to open the emergency doors and slide down those huge inflatable slides that you think would be really fun to go down except when YOU'RE LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE.
Edgar hates flying. He's a nervous enough flier as it is, especially when he's by himself. It's safe to say that he was absolutely petrified at this point. He was so scared, to the point where he still can't fully describe what was happening to him. He told me that he started thinking about all of the things that he would regret, like not seeing me again and not having a child yet. At which point in his story-telling I promptly stripped down naked in baggage claim #3 to fulfill his wishes.
Luckily, there ended up being no problems. Turns out, there wasn't a problem with the brake. It was a problem with the light on their display panel for the brake. FUCK YOU AMERICAN AIR AND YOUR SORRY-ASS LIGHTS! My husband thought for 22 straight minutes that he was about to die.
It wasn't real. He wasn't in any danger. But the fear was real. He, along with every other person on that plane, thought that they were looking at mortality. They thought they would never see their families again, never see their loved ones again, never smile again, never cook dinner again, never fall asleep on the couch watching TV again....never BE again.
When he told me this story when I met him in baggage claim, my heart dropped into my stomach. To think that I was thisclose to never seeing him again, had that light been for real....I don't even know what my life would be like today.
So, my advice to you: hug your husband, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, mom, dad, whatever. Give them a kiss. Tell them you love them. Because no matter how many times that I say that to Edgar, or he says it to me, you never know when it will be the last time.
It's Coming For You
I think the airports of the world have set out to screw with me. I just got a call from Edgar, and he informed me that his flight has been delayed. Again. It was already delayed 45 minutes, and now it is being delayed another hour. EFF YOU AMERICAN AIR. They've totally messed up my countdown.
The cat is not pleased.
He woke me up at 7:00 this morning (my day off work, of course) screeching "Where's my dad?" at me for about 10 minutes straight. He was standing on the bed, his face all up in my business, just meowing his little kitty heart out FOR TEN MINUTES. No amount of "Shut up!" "Go away" and "SHUT UP!" could appease him. I know where I rank.
Today was also my first experience cleaning the apartment. Some might say, "Hey, excuse me, you moved in three whole weeks ago and you haven't cleaned yet? That's gross." And I would say that they are exactly right. It's not, however, like we've been living in filth all this time. We're clean people, we clean up after ourselves. But this was like the straight-up, I-mean-business kind of cleaning. The lugging the vacuum up the stairs, scrubbing the bathtub, shining the windows kind of cleaning. It was kind of a rude awakening. When we were living with Edgar's parents, his mom did all of the cleaning. She LOVED to clean. If there was a linoleum floor, she was mopping it. Why deny the woman something she loved? I cleaned our room, but that was about it. My main form of entertainment was watching his mother try to keep up with picking up all the cat hair that Fiyero left behind everywhere he went. Here's a clue: IT CAN'T BE DONE. I miss the whole not cleaning part of life. Being domestic again has been somewhat of a rude awakening. The one thing I did miss, though, was the chasing of the cat with the vacuum cleaner.
The cat is not pleased.
Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
To anyone that has read my blog before (I think there are two of you), your eyes will be stunned to see that I have changed my layout. The old one just wasn't doing it for me. It kind of felt like the attention on the page was supposed to be for the things that were not written, as opposed to the words. The words are the whole point. I like this design because it's straight to the point: Here's my writing, now read it.
I spent a lot of time today trying to find a design that worked for me. I tried a few different layouts that I found at different free blogger template sites, but I just couldn't get any of them to work for me. On some of them, the HTML code wasn't very well written and you couldn't change the title of their template to your own blog without destroying the uniqueness of a certain design. I'm perfectly willing to give credit where credit is due for a design that I use, but I would still like to have my own title, you know? So since I couldn't figure out work arounds (let's face it, I am in no way a web designer; my knowledge of manipulating HTML is minimal at best) it took me a while to find a design that I liked. This is it. I'll see how it sits with me.
While I was working on redesigning this blog today, it got me thinking about the blog community and readership. I registered with BlogCatalog a few weeks ago, but I haven't really done anything with is since then. Not for lack of interest, just lack of time. I logged in to my account with them today and joined a community of women writers, but I have to say, I was kind of appalled at some of the groups that I saw. And I'm not easy to shock.
There were tons, I'm talking TONS of groups that were "Click Me and I'll Click You" or "Follow Me and I'll Follow You" of some other equally mundane title. I know that for people that monetize their blogs, such as myself, getting a lot of traffic is important. But I think that way of building up a readership is kind of like....well, cheating, if I have to put a word to it. I don't think people should visit your blog only for the sole purpose of clicking on your adds with the assumption that you will click theirs in return. People should visit your blog because they want to read it, or found you in a community of similar writers, or followed a link from somewhere else, or found you in a search engine because of similar interests. Not because they're trying to supplement their own income. It seems that people who use this click me/click you strategy to increase their page views are using it as a cop-out to actually having to create and post quality content.
That may seem hypocritical since I have ads on my blog. But I'll be honest and tell you that in the little-over-a-month period that I've been publishing, I have made $0.04. Yes, you're reading that correctly. FOUR CENTS. I'm not here to get rich. I'm here to write, to express my opinions, and to become a better writer in the process. If people decide to start reading this and I get higher ad revenue, all the better for me. But I'd rather that people visit this blog, read it, and return to continue to read it because they like what I have to say or how I say it; or maybe they don't like what I have to say or how I say it, but they want to keep visiting just to see what the hell I might say next.
I'd like readers for this blog just as much as the next person, don't get me wrong. I've done the RSS feed, registered with some feed readers, even set up that Technorati-watchamadozit, which has told me that I have no authority and rank somewhere in the 3-4 million range. Technorati has obviously never been to my house, or else he would know that I am quite authoritative and that there is at least one man in this world that ranks me as his #1 (and he would do well to remember that). Trust me when I say I barely understand what some of these things do. I want to help people find this blog, because I think I can make it enjoyable. But I want readers, not clickers. I want people to tell me what they think and give me their opinions and tell me how my story reminds me of their story, not just another hit on the counter.
I hope I'm not asking too much.
The Voices
When I woke up this morning, I saw my new laptop sitting there, all nice and neat and clean and shiny on top of my dresser, and it made me smile. "Good morning, laptop!" I chirped with a smile.
And then I realized how much it sucks to wake up alone, because you really shouldn't be talking to a computer if the words coming out of your mouth are not "What the hell is wrong with you?" "Why aren't you working?" or "I swear to God if this page doesn't load I am going to throw you out the window!"
Countdown until Edgar is back: 32 hours.
It's Here!
My Chinese-American laptop-baby made it out of customs!!
When I was walking back to the apartment from the parking garage after work, I was stopped at the corner waiting for the light to change. I saw a couple knock on the door of the leasing office and one of the leasing consultants opened the door and let them in. I pretty much flat out ran through traffic to get to that door. "I have a package!" That probably sounded kind of bad.
Anyways, I lucked out that one of the leasing consultants was working later than normal and she was more than happy to turn over my new baby to me. IT'S BEAUTIFUL!! I immediately ran up to my apartment and ripped open the packaging and, oh, I'm just so happy! It's shiny and smooth and black and sleek and feels like a little piece of heaven under my fingers.
So I sit here now, writing this post, on a computer that is wireless! My old crappy firstborn laptop that I have promptly abandoned for my newly adopted foreign laptop-baby had a wireless card and all that, but the computer ran so slow that I didn't even bother hooking the wireless router up when we moved because I knew it would just run even slower. Plus the fact the battery life on the old computer only lasted about a half hour, so it wasn't even worth it to move away from the outlet. But now, NOW, I'm sitting here, not plugged in to an outlet or a modem or anything at all EXCEPT MY THOUGHTS. I actually feel like a real blogger now. As real as a blogger can feel when no one actually reads her blog. Hello? Is anybody there? I DON'T REALLY CARE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I HAVE MY NEW COMPUTER!
Two Cent Whore
Ok, there's two things.
1) What is up with the total disregard for personal space that seems to run rampant in teenagers and old people?? I went to Chipotle today for lunch, because who doesn't love a burrito as big as their head? If there is such a person, I surely do not know him. There was an old lady in line behind me that was standing far to close to me for a person that has never seen me naked. I kept trying to inch forward to get away from her, but every time I did she would inch along right after me. This even continued along the counter, in line for the salsa while by burrito as big as my head was being crafted. Get away from me! She was just like any number of unsupervised teenagers at Disneyland. Yes, I get it, you want to ride Space Mountain, and so do I, but that won't be possible for either of us if you are UP INSIDE MY ASS. This is my bubble. This is your bubble. GET OUT OF MY BUBBLE.
2) Women with thunder thigs and cellulite, no matter how tan they may be, should not wear cutoff shorts that stop just past their crotches. I can say because I am a woman that has thunder thighs and cellulite. Would I be caught dead wearing those shorts? NO.
I Remember Why I Got Married
Last night was an experience, to say the least. I never knew that Amanda Sleeping By Herself would be such a production. I'd like to consider it a dramedy.
Upon reaching my apartment and getting the whole pee fiasco as previously mentioned out of the way, my first order of business was dealing with the cat. He had something to say, and he was saying it in the way that I'm certain if it could be translated to human speak it would be "WOMAN! HEAR THIS! What the hell have you done with my Daddy?" There was about 10 solid minutes of him meowing at the top of his little kitty lungs at me, and considering the fact that kitty lungs are quite small (I know this to be true, we had to dissect a cat in Anatomy Class my junior year in high school), I have no idea how he managed to make that much sound. The sound, along with the constantly throwing his body to the floor in front of me with each step that I tried to take. It took a lot of convincing, but I finally got the idea through his thick kitty skull that his Daddy would not be coming home that night. At which point he decided firmly to ignore me and curled up, glaring daggers, on the dining room table for the rest of the evening.
When you're acutely aware that you are by yourself, when you have not lived by yourself in years, you become hyper-sensitive to noise that you hear. Noise that you would normally write off. Such as the front door of the neighbor's apartment slamming shut. All of a sudden you sit bolt upright with fear, "Was that my door? Did some one come in here? AM I ABOUT TO BE MURDERED WHILE I SIT HERE DRINKING CHARDONNAY AND EATING STARBURST?" The fact that we do not have a deadbolt or chain on our front door is now a constant worry on my mind, and will be until 6:00 pm on Friday. I kept creeping down the stairs from the loft to the front door and peering out the peephole to make sure some one was not trying to get in my front door when in reality the noise I heard was just a mouse walking by on the street outside of my code-needed-for-entry apartment building. That chardonnay probably wasn't helping the paranoia, either.
My brother-in-law called me around 8:00 to see how I was doing, which was greatly appreciated. Sure, it does nothing to combat the lonliness, but it was nice to know that someone cared. He even told me that if I needed anything at all to give him a call. Which is such a nice and generous and selfless thing to do, which made me realize that it's something I never would have thought to do for someone else. Ah, well, can't win 'em all.
On the plus side, my inability to sleep helped me watch 4 episodes of the backlog of classic Beverly Hills, 90210 episodes on the bedroom TiVo.
When it came time to sleep (which I feared would never come because, oh no! the back of the chairs from the dining room table aren't high enough to wedge under the front door handle!), the bed was looming large and scary. We have a long body pillow that I like to use when I'm sitting up in bed reading or watching TV, so I laid it length-wise on Edgar's side of the bed to simulate him actually being there. And the cat seemed to like that; he plopped himself down right in between my hip and the pillow like this was all totally normal and he had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see his Daddy again, at least not until 6:00 pm on Friday. Falling asleep was for me, of course, a lot harder. Body pillows do not snuggle or move or give off body heat or hold your hand or give you a kiss goodnight or save you from the scary monsters that are waiting for you to fall asleep so that they can bust through the flimsy ONE LOCK on your apartment door and murder you. I'm not sure what time I ultimately fell asleep, but I'm sure that it was not early because I felt like I could hardly hold my eyes open when the alarm clock went off this morning.
Luckily, my dear husband called me right after my alarm went off to tell me to get my ass out of bed. Does he know me, or does he know me? And apparently Fiyero hadn't quite forgotten about him, because he kept biting my elbow the whole time we were on the phone, and meowing "WOMAN! HEAR THIS! I want to talk to my Daddy, and I want to talk to him now!" He has priorities, and I am not one of them. I accept this.
Forty-five hours to go.
One and Two, Oh What Shall I Do?
About 10 seconds after I walked in the door upon returning from work today the phone began ringing. Suspecting that it was my husand, who I miss LIKE HE WAS MY LEFT FOOT THAT GOT CUT OFF, I immediately answered it, despite the fact that I had to pee like a Triple Crown Racehorse. I held out on the phone as long as could, until after 10 minutes I had to blurt out "Please call me back in two minutes, I have to pee RIGHT NOW!"
I can't pee in front of my husband. I can't even pee on the phone with him for the possibility that he will hear me peeing. I can pee on the phone with my sister, my mom, my friend Jessica....I just can't do it in front of him.
I wish I could understand the ability of some couples to pee in front of one another. I wish I could understand the ability of some couples to even be able to *gasp* poop in front of one another. I just can't do it. My parents can do it. They can just leave the bathroom door wide open, doing their business and carrying on a conversation. I just can't do it. There are some things that just can't be done, and this is one of those things.
Edgar doesn't have that modesty. He'll pee with the door open, just to make me go "Oh, Edgar, really? Please!" and then laugh as I turn my back and run away. He hasn't crossed the line of doing the #2 with the door open though. He knows that will be the end of everything. It's not that I can't handle the fact that, oh, gee, my husband pees and poops. I know he does. I'll be the first person to walk in the room after he does and ask "Jeez, what died in your ass?" We have conversations about how many times he pooped that day, because I have met no other person that poops as many times a day as he does. Seriously, it's like every morning, every evening, and after every meal. It's mind boggling. I tell him about my pooping, too. But I just can't do it in front of him. It's gross. I've come to accept that fact that when we have children that they will not be born potty-trained, as much as I wish they would be, and that I will have to deal with the consequences of that. But I relate the adult peeing/pooping in front of one another conundrum to the same thing as when you walk in to a public restroom and some ignorant shit (pun not intended) hasn't flushed the toilet before you. WHAT IS SO HARD ABOUT THIS? DO YOU LEAVE IT LIKE THAT IN YOUR OWN HOME? Seeing another grown person's poop in the toilet makes me want to yak. Even if I love that person with all my heart, I find it hard not to be repulsed by the sight of their poop just hanging out in the toilet like "Oh, hey, you're here now, want to join the party?"
IT'S WRONG.
Which leads me to another issue, which is that cat. Fiyero. Oh, Fiyero. While I was in the kitchen today making dinner, I had the perfect sightline to see him in the bathroom. His litter box sits between the toilet and the sink, and I could see his little head and shoulders coming out from the front of the box while he sat in there and did whatever it was he was doing. Once he was done, instead of just walking out of the litter box like a normal cat, he jumped sideways up on to the toilet seat. To avoid having to walk in his litter box; to avoid having to walk on the litter that leaves him susceptible to walking in his own pee or poop. He's a cat. Is he seriously going to be sniffing his paws going "Oh, wow, this smells bad, I don't want this on my feet?" Well, little buddy, MOMMY DOESN'T LIKE TO SMELL IT EITHER, BUT I DEAL WITH IT. But no, you have to be a princess and jump all crazy-like up on to the toilet and in the process scatter kitty litter EVERYWHERE. Do you know how unpleasant it is to walk into the bathroom and step on litter with your bare feet? Of course not, you're a cat, you have paws. PAWS THAT WERE MADE TO WALK ON LITTER.
Like father, like son. I can't escape the poop and pee. I'm forever doomed.
Donations Accepted for Ransom Money
My new laptop is being held hostage by my apartment complex!
Not really, but it feels like that.
FedEx delivered my brand new shiny laptop yesterday while I was at work. They signed for it in the leasing office (FedEx, by the way, did not bother to leave me a little note saying that they delivered a package and left it somewhere else--good thing I've been salivating for that computer and checked on the tracking number this morning). PROBLEM: the leasing office is open 8-5. I work from 7:30-5. Until Friday, which is my day off. I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL FRIDAY TO PICK UP MY CHINESE-AMERICAN LAPTOP-BABY!
I'm clearly very perplexed.
On a side note: I added up the damages from our trip to Solvang this weekend (The trip that was supposed to be a nice, inexpensive way to celebrate our anniversary? Yeah, that one) and the grand total came to $475. A hundred more dollars and I could have paid off the cost of that brand new Chinese-American laptop-baby.
Side note #2: My Chinese-American laptop-baby also got to go to France on it's way to the US. Thanks, laptop-baby, I've never been to Europe, and you go and spend your whole time there in a cardboard box. I'll be raising you better than that.
Petrified
Edgar left this morning on a business trip to Dallas. He'll be home on Friday at 6:00 pm. I cannot even begin to express how I felt this morning when I dropped him off at the airport.
Since Edgar and I got engaged in 2007, we have spent exactly three nights apart. Those three days were last July while I had to go to Indiana for my bridal shower and to finalize some things for our wedding. That's it. That's almost 2 1/2 years of never having an empty bed.
I am dreading going home tonight.
Sure, we've slept without each other before. "Without each other" in the way of "Oh, I'm tired, I'm going to go into bed right now" and then he comes in an hour later, puts his arms around me, kisses my neck, and falls asleep next to me. "Without each other" in the way of taking a nap on the couch on a random Saturday afternoon. But he's always there. I haven't gone to bed in 2 1/2 years without a good night kiss and the knowledge that my protector was either laying down next to me or in the next room.
Driving away from the departures gate at LAX this morning was like taking a bullet. Because as I watched him in my rear-view mirror go through the automatic doors to the check-in gate, I could see an endless expanse of 3 1/2 days stretched out in front of me without him. Forget the fact that every day of the work week he's at work and I'm at work and we don't see each other until we get home. He's still not here. He's not there to eat dinner with; he's not there to brush my teeth with in the morning. He's in Texas. The land of Cowboys fans and Confederate flags and gun racks and George Bush. It's not safe there! I want that security of knowing that my husband, that my partner in life, is coming home to me at the end of the day; that when I get home he'll be there to put his warm arms around me and give me hug and kiss me and fall asleep holding my hand. Some people might classify this as being wimpy or tell me to grow a pair and suck it up and it's only three nights and you know what? CALL ME A WIMP, I'M FINE WITH THAT.
Eighty one hours to go until he gets back.
An Open Letter, Volume 2
Dear Indianapolis Colts Defense,
Your job as a group is to not let the other team run you over like a bulldozer. Your job is not to jump at them with your scary arms and yell "Boogedy boogedy boo!" as though TO SCARE THEM INTO SUBMISSION.
I'm just sayin'.
Love,
A Very Annoyed Woman Who Has a Sore Throat From Yelling "Stop the Fucking Ball!" ALL FUCKING NIGHT
With Friends Like Her
This is an official shout out. The first shout out on my blog. I really wish there was something else to call it other than a shout out.
My official first shout out on my blog goes to the wonderful, the lovely, the ridiculously cute little blonde with good skin and an impeccable taste for shoes and bags, my wonderful friend Jessica. Who was also my maid of honor one year ago yesterday. Boo-yah.
Jessica receives the first official shout out on my blog because she was the first person to leave a comment. THIS IS WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR.
Jessica is my Bia. She is Bia J, specifically. Bia A would be me. I'm not really sure when we even started calling each other "Bia," but I'm pretty sure that it was like 10 years ago when there was this rap song called "Bia Bia" and it was HILARIOUS, especially for two white girls from the suburbs. And thus, the nickname stuck, and it's still awesome after all this time.
Jessica and I met during our freshman year in high school. She was new to school, and during second period choir the teacher sat her next to me. And, lo and behold, we had accelerated English together third period! A friendship was born. Bia, do you realize that that was 11 years ago???? The Disney Channel hadn't even heard of Miley Cyrus at that time, a time when the world was a much more peaceful place without her nasty, grating, fingernails-on-a-chalkboard voice. Dear Lord, we are getting so old.
Anyways, Jessica and I bonded over general boy craziness and the fact that we were just so much cooler than anybody else. Because we were. Say what you will. And we both loved the movie The Kid with Bruce Willis because of that fat kid when he says "Well, I came back for my plane, but then I saw the popcorn......". She also helped me roll my long hair into about 10-bazillion perm rollers on the Friday nights before our showchoir competitions so that I could have curly hair, because showchoir was ALL about the curly hair. Yes, we were in showchoir. Like I said, we were cooler than everybody else. She was also my partner in crime when I cut off all of said curly hair. And the conversations about sex and boys....I think that the entire last half of our junior year up through graduation was one endless slumber-party conversation.
After graduation, Jessica went off to Purdue and I ended up at Eastern Kentucky University. Yes, I intentionally went to Kentucky. But I realized the error of my ways and went back to Indianapolis to finish up my degree. And once we were in the real world post-college life I had to fuck it all up by moving away from all of my friends to California. What kind of a person am I?!
P.S: Jessica cried during Finding Nemo when Nemo's mom dies.
An Open Letter
Dear Fiyero,
When you climb on top of my legs while I'm sleeping, and I subsequently kick you off the bed because I don't appreciate being immobilized, it does not mean that you should climb back on top of me in the exact spot. Nor does it mean that you should jump on your daddy's chest, because he'll kick you off too, and he'll mumble things in his funny sleepy voice that I can't quite understand but usually involves the word "fuck." We do have jobs, you know. Life's not full of naptime and sitting on the windowsill and having crazy cat crack attacks and having someone else clean up your poop, you know.
I'm just sayin'.
Love,
Mommy
My Day
These things all happened one year ago today.
1) I married my best friend.
2) My mom wore very pink eye shadow.
3) It rained.
4) It poured.
5) Straight up fury came from the sky, but we said "Eff you, fury, we're getting married whether you like it or not!"
6) I rode in the back of a white limosuine with my new husband.
7) While I was getting my hair done, the stylist said "Ok, did you ever see Steel Magnolias? I'm going to go all Dolly Parton on Julia Roberts on your hair, but don't be scared."
8) My neice didn't get her afternoon nap and was not a very happy flower girl.
9) My neice probably also wasn't happy about the fact that she had to wear an ugly ass dress that my mom thought would be "Just sooooo sweet" for her to wear since I wore it as a flower girl when I was younger. Don't listen to your mom when you're planning your wedding.
10) During tincture, my grandfather shuffled forward, took his piece of bread, and promptly put it in his mouth without dipping it in the wine. When my grandma nudged him and hissed "You were supposed to dip that in the wine!" he then took it out of his mouth and unceremoniously dropped the chewed up piece of bread into the cup of wine. I might also mention that he was only about the 7th person through the line, so, here's my official sorry to all the rest of my wedding guests, since my grandfather's saliva was all up in the wine after that.
11) Edgar and I danced our first dance to Led Zeppelin's "Thank You."
12) My brother-in-law referred to me as a "trophy wife" during his best man's toast, not being aware that the term is actually an insult.
13) I married my best friend.
14) The DJ pissed me off.
15) I cried while I was walking down the aisle. ME. I cried. I NEVER cry. But I was just so freaking excited that all of a sudden I was a mess of excited tears.
16) My brother cried.
17) My dad cried.
18) You so know that my mom cried.
19) I ate lunch at Panera bread with my crazy bride hair and people looked at me funny.
20) Did I mention I married my best friend?
I love you.
I Gotta Goleta
Today is a happy day, because today is our one-year wedding anniversary. I love you, Edgar.
On Thursday, Edgar emailed me at work with "What do you think about Solvang for the weekend?" to which I responded with a resounding "Hell yes." Solvang is a small town north of Santa Barbara in the Santa Ynez Valley that's a great spot to go for wine tasting. If you saw the movie Sideways, you'll know what it looks like. So on Saturday morning we hopped in the car around 10:00 and began the 2 1/2 hour trek north. Incidentally, there is a town that you pass on the way up called Goleta, which to me sounds like it should be either a verb or an STD. Jack and Jill are about to have sex for the first time. Jack sits Jill down and says "Jill, I need to tell you something before we do this. My last girlfriend gave me herpes and goleta."
When we got to Solvang, we realized that we came during Danish Days, meaning that the place was packed with lots of people wearing funny clothes. We went to several different tastings before ending up at Mandolina, a perennial favorite for our trips to Solvang. And, after not having lunch, or dinner, for that matter, we spent over four hours in their tasting room. Sonja, the Mandolina employee that was helping us....well, bless her heart. We did the standard tasting, but she also gave us samples of other wines that weren't on the list. I even took a picture with her and told her that I would put her on my blog, however I look absolutely TERRIBLE in the picture, so that is a promise that will just have to be broken. Edgar (who shall now be known as Drunk Ass) even convinced me that there would be no better idea of all the ideas that will ever be in this world that we should sign up for their wine club, meaning that by the time we left we were lugging 5 bottles of wine and will now get shipments every two months, along with a nice $50 charge on my credit card. But our tastings will always be free, so there's that.
We met a lot of cool and interesting people during our residence at Mandolina as well, such as a Charger fan wearing a viking hat who we talked a lot of football with, a nice older couple from Woodland Hills who had a long haired miniature dachschund named Moose that was the most chill and relaxed dog I have ever met (who, incidentally, weighed LESS THAN OUR CAT), and Mary and Debbie from Fontana and Ontario, who we bonded with over the fact that we, too, used to live in San Bernardino County.
Everything in Solvang closes pretty early, so we went back to the hotel after that, where Edgar certainly DID NOT puke his guts out. I repeat, he DID NOT puke his guts out. And, since I can't see puke without puking, I certainly DID NOT puke either. Again, I DID NOT do that.
We got home around noon today (anniversary or not, Drunk Ass can't miss his Steelers game). Mercifully, Fiyero did not punish us by crapping on the floor or hacking up a hairball while we were gone, as he normally does when we are so insolent as to leave him by himself overnight. Thanks, kitty, I owe you one.
Some of These Things are Not Like the Others
Happiness is:
1) Finding out that my new laptop shipped today. From China. My laptop is Chinese-American.
2) Only hitting two red lights on PCH on my way home from work on a Friday.
3) Getting home and finding a Happy One Year Anniversary card from my parents with a $75 check inside and orders to go out and have a nice dinner.
Happiness is NOT:
1) Stupid drivers in the parking garage by my apartment that I have to use, that also services a Wal-Mart, if that tells you anything, who will sit for five minutes blocking the one way aisle while they wait for other people to unload their stuffed-to-the-brim shopping carts into their trunks and get in their cars and drive away, when they could have just driven around to the next aisle over and this is why America is obese. Would walking 30 extra feet before you get in your motorized shopping cart that you don't actually need really kill you?!
2) Having to flick a bug off my left leg as I sit here writing this post because now I feel bugs everywhere.
Well, if I have more happy things than bad things, I think that makes it a pretty good day!
I've Got the Fever
It's official. I have baby fever.
My biological clock has stopped ticking. It has started blaring incessantly like an alarm clock with a broken snooze button. SNOOZE, DAMMIT!
Edgar and I have been talking about having a baby since, oh, pretty much the day after we got engaged. And now that we're two married people that actually both have jobs and income at the same time and our own apartment, that blaring alarm clock keeps getting louder and louder and louder and louder and please, I want to sleep, be ever so kind and rip it out of the wall!
We originally wanted to try to get pregnant right after we got married, but since he was out of work at that time, we decided to wait until January, because surely he would have a new job then and I would be able to find a new job by then since I had an impending layoff. But January came around and he was still jobless and I was almost jobless, and so the baby got put off again. And again. And again. And Amanda, for God's sake, just get a job so we can have a baby. I finally started working again at the end of July. However we still can't have a baby, because even though I'm working for this company full time, I'm technically a temp because I was hired through an employment agency and I haven't been put on my company's payroll as a permanent employee. I will be permanent, I'm just not yet. Probably because the Operations Manager is ON MATERNITY LEAVE. She has a baby. I WANT A BABY. Come back and give me my baby!
Our original decision was that October 27th, 2009, over 1 year after the time that we wanted to get pregnant, would be the time that we started trying. It will be 3 months to the day of my first day at this job. It will be 2 months to the day after Edgar switched jobs and the day when our brand spanking new health insurance that we haven't had in over a year finally kicks in. Please, oh please, oh please let me be a permanent employee with maternity leave by that time!
I seriously want to steal other people's babies when I see them. Only the cute ones though. I'm not a bad person. I'm even starting to do that sickly annoying combination of "Ooooooh" and "Awwwww" every time I see those cute little chubby pink cheeks and little thighs with fat rolls. I can't walk by the baby section in target without picking up onesies and deciding which Baby Bjorn I want to buy. For my child that I don't have.
Every one has babies but me!
Edgar is clearly freaking out. He's 33 and has decided that we have to have this baby, like, NOW because he is just so old and we'll never be able to get pregnant ever ever ever if we wait any longer. My level headed thoughts to reassure him that it's not him getting older that we need to worry about when it comes time to knock me up don't seem to do any good. I don't know how much longer I can reassure my husband that, yes, you have fantastic sperm that are quietly biding their time and will soon illustrate their impressive super hero abilities to make me pregnant.
Babies. Babies babies babies babies BABIES!!
Cavemen All Say "Uhhn"
In the course of my day at my job, I deal with a lot of college students. Specifically college boys. And I say college boys, because college MEN don't say "Yeh" or "Uhhn" in answer to everything you say. In a monotone voice. With no indication that they understand anything you said and basically making you feel like you could be speaking Swahili, if speaking Swahili is a skill you so possess, for all the good that it would do.
WAKE UP, COLLEGE BOYS. You are unimpressive and lame. Be a man. Use the vocabulary skills that the good Lord and your mama gave ya. Be engaged in what is happening around you. Wipe the beer drool dribble off your chin, pull your pants up to your waist, NOT THE MIDDLE OF YOUR ASS, and prove that the thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars that you and/or your parents are spending on your education are being well spent, because if they're not, you could have certainly saved us all the trouble and mailed me that check, and then I would have designer shoes.
And we would all be happy.
Stupid
I hate when people have unnecessary letters in their names.
I have a new account at work and my main contact's name is Gregg. Why the double G, when one G will clearly suffice?
Garlicky Red Beans and Loads of Time
I love my husband for the fact that he doesn't hate me on a daily basis. The epic depth of his reserve of Not Hating Me is extraordinary, because sometimes I just do stupid things, and I'm all "Wow, I would hate me if I knew me."
Case in Point:
My husband likes to eat. He loves to eat. His body is very specific about eating, and if 7:00 hits and he doesn't get dinner, his stomach starts to do weird things, like jumping out of his body and trying to digest the cat. His wife, on the other hand, doesn't hold well to time tables. And she doesn't read directions. Because if she did read directions, she would have seen that the Garlicky Red Beans and Pork that she was trying out from her barely used Weight Watchers cookbook takes 50-60 minutes to cook on top of the time it takes to cook the pork by itself and then the onions by themselves. So at 7:15, he wanders into the kitchen with that Hungry Tummy look in his eyes, and 7:15 was about the exact time that I got to that part in the recipe where it plainly states to let it all simmer for 50-60 minutes. I was already stressed: I had failed to notice the part in the recipe that said you should soak the red beans overnight, and I was frantically thinking in my head "What happens if the red beans didn't soak overnight? Will my red beans be inferior red beans and will this whole thing fall badly, badly apart?! WHAT HAPPENS NOW??" His tummy was visibly disappointed.
Thank God that dinner was good when it was finally ready, otherwise The Tummy may very well have filed divorce papers this morning. And, incidentally, my red beans were just fine.
Thinking
It's easy to share your thoughts with complete strangers that you'll never see.
Not so easy with the people you know.
Suck It
My husband, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, is Mexican. My Latin Lova. My Little Jalapeno. He is one handy man to have around when we go to Superior Grocers (our low cost shopping extravaganza!). Because instead of me asking for things at the meat counter, the bakery, the deli, or to the random employee by the milk to find out where the bread crumbs are, and getting a blank stare in return, my husband uses his powerful and handy skill of speaking fluent Spanish to get our shit done.
And as I giggled to myself as we walked away from meat counter with our two red snapper fillets and a pound of pork chops, thinking to myself "Gosh, that's really quite convenient," my wonderful husband says, "You know, I guess it's a good thing you married me; I'm pretty convenient to have around when we go grocery shopping." Well, of course, silly!
I love my husband for more than the fact that he speaks Spanish. What kind of wife do you think I am?
But with a husband that speaks fluent Spanish, there also come the pitfalls. Such as telling me to ask his mother what the word "culo" means. "Ay, Edgar, don't teach her those words!!!" (subtitles in English courtesy of me). I don't speak Spanish very well. I understand it much better, and my comprehension, if not my language skills, increased a lot during the 9 month period that we lived with his parents. Of course Edgar's new favorite trick is giving me a completely innocent word and telling me to ask his mom what it means, and watching me flat-out refuse to do it because I'm certain by that evil glint in his Mexican eyes that it's surely something horrible and foul and will cause his mother to have a heart attack the moment it passes my lips.
So to do my part to make sure this dying language, that no one every speaks anymore, especially not in Southern California, never goes away, I try to add Spanish words into my daily vocabulary.
- I play around with the cat's name, alternately calling him "gato," "gato magnifico," "cagon" *translates to shitter*, "cagoncito" *little shitter*, "menso" *dummy*, "chango" *monkey* and "Chupacabra" *no translation necessary*
- I call my milk "leche" (which Edgar promptly follows up with "de pecho" to bastardize my cow milk for my cereal into breast milk)
- "I can't find my telefono"
- "I need to go to the bano" (Sorry, I don't know how to add tildes)
- "Baby! A donde vas?"
- And some word that I don't know how to spell but sounds like it might be "juacatelas" which means "gross". Doesn't juacatelas sound so much more fun than just saying gross? Add some exclamation points in there and it is a simply awesome word.
And then yesterday, the day that will live in infamy, came the ultimate of all of my all-time-new-favorite-spanish-words (title formerly held by juacatelas). Chupon. Chupon. I love it! It means "pacifier." I don't even know how the word got brought up, but Edgar said it and I was all "WHOA, WAIT, what does that word mean?"
I think I was magically drawn to it because I was a pacifier freak as a child. I had my "doogie" (I don't know why I called it a doogie, I just did) until I was two years old, when my parents decided to traumatize me by making me put it in the trash. And they proceeded to be heartless, horrible, child-abusing Mommy and Daddy by listening to me cry all night and wail "Dooooooooogieeeeeee! Dooooooogieeeeeeee!" because I couldn't sleep without it. There is not a picture of me under the age of two without my pacifier either in my mouth or somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Surprisingly enough, I never needed braces.
BUT, the point of my story is that I love the word chupon so much that I've already nicknamed it into chupie for the use of my as-yet to be born (or conceived, for that matter) children. Can you hear it now? "Chuuuuuuuupieeeeeee! Chuuuuuupieeeee!!!"
This Isn't Helping
Last night marked the premiere of the new season of The Biggest Loser. I love that show. I just started watching it last season. Not because it inspires me, I don't think. I think probably because it just makes me feel better about myself that I'm not that far gone.
I drank two beers (mmmm Modelo Especial) and ate 3 chocolate wafer cookies while I watched it. Jillian, please don't club me over the head with a medicine ball.
I'm In Love
Can I just say how much I am loving the Dave Matthews Band's new CD? Well, maybe not 'new,' since it came out early in the summer. Latest CD, happy now? Whatever it is, I've been really into it lately.
Much better than the mostly sub-par material off of the last two albums before that.
"Do you know what it is
to feel the light of love inside you,
where all the darkness falls away?
If you feel the way I feel
then I believe we have the answer
that I've been searching for tonight"
Can't stop listening. It's been on constant play in my car for the last several weeks.
The Heart is a Vengeful Burner
Oh, MOTHER, do I have some nasty heartburn right now! I'm racking my brain trying to come up with what part of my whole wheat bread, mozarella cheese, turkey, and spinach sandwich that I had for lunch could have possibly caused this aching in my chest, but I'm coming up empty and rather acidic.
It's that nasty kind of heartburn that makes you feel like you have a lump sitting on top of your stomach and jamming your esophagus. Deep breaths are impossible, and I have to keep running off to the bathroom to burp (I work in a small room with 3 other people, I don't want to be unpleasant). Every time I swallow I feel like I have a lump in my throat. Unpleasant.
I've had trouble with heartburn over the last few years. Heartburn that has been so debilitating that it's caused me to have to pull over and throw up out the side of my car, and I'm just hoping that it doesn't progress that far.
The first debilitating incident of heartburn happened one evening after my husband and I had gorged ourselves on food from the Hawaiian restaurant down the street. I got a little stomach ache, and then this pain spread through my entire back, screaming out of my nerve endings and lighting me up like a wildfire. I didn't realize it at the time that it was heartburn; I thought it was the Hawaiian food, and to my husband's dismay told him that I would never eat at that dammed restaurant again. Turns out it wasn't the food that was causing it, it was just me, and for his infinite happiness I did not boycott the restaurant. He loved that Hawaiian place and was very said when we moved away from it.
The second debilitating incident happened a few weeks after the first. It was football Sunday, and Edgar and I were having people over to the apartment that day to watch the Steelers game (yes, I married a Steelers fan). I had gone out to go to the grocery store to buy some beer. About a mile down the street, I got that stomach ache again. About a mile after that, the intense pain in my back started, so intense that I couldn't sit still. I was writhing all over the place in my seat, trying to keep the car on the road. I wasn't even able to turn around and go home. I pulled into the entrance to another apartment complex and threw up. I called Edgar to come get me. I love that man. The apartment complex was gated, so we couldn't leave the car there. He drove my car down the street to another parking lot then ran all the way back to drive me home. After the pain still hadn't gone away after a half hour, he insisted on taking me to the emergency room, even though it meant he would possibly miss the start of his football game. After waiting two hours at the emergency room, we learned that I had a weak spot in the lining along the back of my stomach, right next to the nerve that runs up your body and controls all the nerve endings in your back. Hence, when it gets irritated, inconceivable pain and discomfort.
The heartburn only happened a couple of times after that, but Edgar's mother gave me a handful of her Prilosec OTC, and popping those would take care of any heartburn.
Then came last July. The day was the day that I was flying to Indiana for a three-day trip for my bridal shower and to see my family. My flight didn't leave until later in the day, but about mid-morning the pain started again. I hadn't even eaten anything that day. The pain was so intense, unlike anything I had ever felt before. My back was on fire. I even got in the shower and ran cold water over myself, but nothing worked. There was also puke involved. I ended up becoming a crying, sobbing mess on the hall floor, begging my poor husband to make it stop, which he of course could not do. Of course, then I started thinking it was a sign that I shouldn't fly that day, so I was a complete basket case the entire flight. And on the flight back, especially when my return flight was delayed by mechanical problems for two and a half hours. I sat in the terminal whispering to myself "God didn't want me to fly out here, because now I'm going to die on the way back." Very traumatic. Apparentlly it wasn't that I was going to die on the way back, but rather that I was going to get stuck sitting next to two extremely drunk and chatty girls on the way back, one of whom spilled her vodka all over me and my library book. In the mouth, please, not on the book.
Which leads us to today. And this horrific feeling. Which has actually kind of subsided (kind of, but not all the way--i still hurt) during the time that it has taken me to write this post. So forget everything I just said.
I've Been a Bad, Bad Girl
Yesterday at the gym......not so good :(
I only ran 12 minutes at a 5.2. The plan was 18 minutes at a 5.2. But, alas, even the best laid plans go awry. I had full intentions of going the whole time that I wanted when I started, but my calves were killing me and it was all I could do to get to 12 minutes. My body just isn't conditioned for this running every day thing, but I thought I would be good to go on Monday since I took Sunday off. Apparently not so. Or apparently I need to stop wearing high heels the entire day before I run. Which would make me oh so sad, because I love my high heels. But I'm wearing a respectable pair of flats today, Calves, so chill the eff out.
I also had every intention of getting up early today to run before I got ready for work. Also a non-starter. I have a hard time getting up in the morning as it is. Shouldn't have had those four glasses of wine last night. That made it damn near impossible to get up in the first place, turning me into a big ball under crumpled covers mumbling "Please, babe, just 10 more minutes" as my husband tried to roll me out of bed; there was no way in hell that I would be getting up even earlier to make it down to the gym.
I just need to stop drinking. Altogther. I have a drinking problem. Not a drinking problem in an alcoholic way; I don't drink every day, I don't drink alone (often), and I don't need a drink to get through the day or anything. I just have bad judgement. The day after, it's always "Oh, shouldn't have had that last glass of wine" or "Oh, shouldn't have had that last Jack and Coke Zero" or "Oh, shouldn't have had those last seven margaritas." I know that having that last one (or seven) is a bad idea. I know that it will make me feel like crap the next day. But I just don't seem to care at the time. All logic goes out the window, AND I MUST HAVE THE ALCOHOL oh please, pretty please, just one more. And then I become a blathering idiot.
I didn't used to be like this. I used to be able to hold my liquor, and hold it well. I could drink guys under the table, without the hangover or the waking up going "How did I get into bed last night? I don't remember going to sleep. Or anything for about an hour before that......" Now, my thing is to get into "serious" conversations when I've had one too many, and promptly forget everything we talked about by the time I wake up. I'll ask Edgar a questions and he'll say "Don't you remember? We talked about this last night?" And I won't and then I'll be sad and embarassed. I feel bad for my husband, my poor husband that has to put up with this. He always has to be the responsible one. But hey, he's eight years older than me, so he gets to be the grown up. When he was going through this phase I was 17 and had barely even started to drink at that point.
I've been getting better though. When we're out with other people, I pace myself, I drink more water, I keep my cool. But when you're at home in the comfort of your own pajamas and on your own couch, tossing back one more doesn't seem like a big deal. Especially if you're not actually tossing them back, but rather sipping them. Like with the wine. We were having a nice evening, what was another glass?
But I digress. This was not the point of this post. The point of this post was to tell you what a failure I am with this working out thing. I use the term failure loosely, since it's not like I've quit working out or even trying. I'm just sad that my body yesterday was not having any part of trying to reach my daily goal. But I am disappointed in myself for not going to the gym this morning, since I won't be able to go this evening. We have to go to the grocery store, and by grocery store I mean three different grocery stores (we're sale shoppers). So by the time we get home it will be almost eight o'clock, and seeing as we'll still need to actually eat dinner and go to bed at a respectable hour, there is no gym time this evening. Thus the wanting to get up early. And being a failure.
Quit It
Kanye West. You must stop. NOW. We all hate you. You aren't cool. You're a douche. I hate using that word. Don't make me say it again.
You are not God's gift to our ears. Your stupid sunglasses are not God's gift to our eyes. Spouting your mouth off with no concern for others, especially a 19 year old girl who I don't even like but am forced to take her side at this moment, makes you a total TOOL.
Move Your Buss Ass
Why is it that I always get stuck behind the damn Metro busses in the right lane on Pacific Coast Highway?!?
Randoms
Oh, yes, a few more things. Because I never shut up. NEVER.
1) I'm super-duper proud of myself (yes, super-duper, I went there) because yesterday I ran 1.5 miles. THAT'S ONE AND A HALF WHOLE MILES. I'm giving my calves and my knees a rest today, but my goal tomorrow is to run 18 minutes at a 5.2. The mile and a half yesterday was 18 minutes at a 5.0. Edgar told me that he thinks there is a 5k in Pasadena sometime in October, so my goal is to get myself in shape and trained for that 5k.
2) We're getting a new computer! The laptop that I currently have is about 3 1/2 years old. It's not really that great. It runs extreeeeeeemely slow. Any methods to make it run faster are just stop gap measures; they don't stem the tide for very long. My dad works for HP, so I just spoke with him and we ordered a new laptop with lots of great stuff on it. I'm not really that knowledgeable on features of computers; I can't tell my megahertz from your gigabytes from so and so's processor. It's all Greek to me. But according to my dad, it's a really good model. Plus I get it with my dad's 30% employee discount plus a $100 instant rebate, so after tax and shipping and whatnot (yes, I said whatnot), it comes out to a respectable $572 and change. EXCITING.
3) Rafael Nadal lost his semifinal match at the US Open! We're Roger Federer fans in this house, and assuming that he beats Novak Djokovic in his semifinal match that he's playing as I type this, he'll have a much easier final match.
4) And Serena Williams......you are crazy. And very scary.
GO COTES!
Today was a special day. Why, you ask? Because today was opening day of the NFL season. YAY!
And so begins 16 weeks (more if my team goes to the playoffs) of near heart attack-inducing 3 hour spans of my life.
I'm an Indianapolis Colts fan. Life is sometimes tough for me. I have the best quarterback in the league (eff you Tom Brady), I have some of the best receivers in the league, I have one of the two best safeties in the league (when he's healthy), but for some reason, we just can't seem to get it done. Lack of a running game and lack of the ability to stop the run are holding us down.
The Colts' first two possssions looked really good, of course until the respective interception and lost fumble came about. And thus began the spouting of what are sure to be oft repeated phrases: "Come on, morons!" "Catch the fucking ball!" "Run you bastard, RUN!!" They just make me nervous. They're good, then they're not good, then they're good again, and we just keep going round and round and round on this never ending cycle of pleasure and pain.
And not in the good way.
I love my Colts. I suffer like this only for them.
I'm a Simple Gal with Simple Needs
I've mentioned in a previous post how excited I am that the cooking of dinner is back in Edgar's and my hands after relinquishing control to his mother and father for the last 9 months. Tonight was Hamburger Helper. I love Hamburger Helper Beef Pasta. I don't care what you say or how trashy that makes me. It's inexpensive. It's a quick fix. It's magically delicious, and I haven't had it in nine whole months. I MISSED IT. DON'T JUDGE ME.
Me (as I stir the noodles into the beef/water/milk/powder sauce mix): "I'm so excited to eat Hamburger Helper again."
Edgar: "Hmmm."
Me: "What, you're not excited? We haven't had Hamburger Helper in forever!"
Edgar: "Yes, I'm excited too."
Me: "Good. I love that we're going to be eating this."
Edgar: "You're so cute."
Two Things
Two totally awesome things happened today:
1) My surrogate big brother Patrick's third son was born today. I call him my surrogate older brother because he lived two houses down from my family for several years in our youth, and he and my brother were best friends. As cliched as it was, Patrick always knew when we would be having dinner and would show up about five minutes before hand, so it became the joke that he was my parent's second son. Therefore my surrogate older brother. Congratulations on your new baby boy!!
2) I ran for 15 whole minutes at a 5.2 mph pace. YAY ME. I totally rock at running. Even though I'm miserable the whole time. Tomorrow I plan to do 18 minutes at 5.0. Small steps, small steps.
Ooh, extra bonus awesome thing that I just remembered:
When I stopped by the leasing office for our apartment today to drop off our move-in inspection (yes, I know, we moved in last Saturday, but I'm a little behind on the times), I found out during a conversation with one of the leasing consultants that the TV show Dexter sometimes does location shooting right down the street from our building, and might even be shooting this weekend. At least, some TV show is shooting, but it might also be CSI: Miami, 'cuz apparently they like to rock it Long Beach style as well. But I hope it's Dexter. I LOVE DEXTER!
I Feel a Connection
I'm writing this to you from my own computer. My own computer. THAT'S RIGHT, I FINALLY HAVE THE INTERNET AT HOME. After a week of screaming at Verizon, my internet finally works.
It was all a stupid, simple, asinine problem. They were exceedingly incompetent at being able to do their jobs, and never disconnected the service for the people that lived in this apartment before us. So they were trying to connect two phone lines and two internet services on one phone line. That can't be done, so my line and the old tenant's line were cancelling each other out. Which is totally awesome, since when I ordered the internet and phone service, this screen even popped up saying "There's already service at this address; what do you want us to do?" And I clicked the box that said "Disconnect the old service when my new service starts." WAY TO SUCK AT YOUR JOB AND LIFE, VERIZON.
It's Just Melting Off
I have to say that I'm very proud of me. I actually ran a mile yesterday. One day after nearly dying after a 5 minute trot I was able to suck it up and do it. I feel lighter already.
It wasn't easy. When I get to 6 minutes I felt like stopping, so I had to play mind games with myself. "Ok, Amanda, you made it to six. Just do one more minute." And when that minute had passed, "Ok, Amanda, you've got seven down, just do one more." Eventually until I got through 12 minutes and my mile.
According to my husband Edgar, this is supposed to actually be a good thing. I consider a 12 minute mile to be particularly slow, but he used to be an athlete when he was younger and he is a (former) runner, so I'll take his word for it.
I'm going to see today if I can get myself to a mile and a quarter. No guarantees though.
*Wheeze*
WOW I am out of shape!
Yesterday marked my first day of going to the gym in....well....a while. Let's just say a while. I have to be honest and admit that I've kind of let myself go over the last few months. Finding the motiviation has been very hard.
When Edgar and I were living with his parents, eating healthy and exercising just wasn't in the cards. First, I never cooked there. Edgar's mother cooked every night, and typically cooked whatever it was that his father wanted to eat. Which meant a lot of meat. Meat in everything. No chicken, very little fish, but a lot of meat. Beans? Put chorizo in them. Pasta? It needs ground beef. Eggs? Needs sausage. And if there's no sausage, hot dogs. All the time. I hated the kitchen in that apartment. It was small, it was cramped, and every shelf was overflowing with dishes. There was no room to cook, and it was a waste of money to prepare two different meals every night. So nutrition wise, I was stuck in a hole.
The gym at the apartment was abysmal. Two treadmills, one of which was missing a side rail. Two bikes, neither of which had a working computer interface on it so there was no way to add any resistance. One stairmaster. A few random weight machines, two of which were broken, and for the remaining machines there were only two weight pins that had to be shared among them all. Also, the room didn't have working air conditioning or even windows that opened. It's hard to exercise in the absence of fresh air.
I'm currently about 25 pounds heavier than I was at this time last year. Of course, at this time last year I was less than two weeks away from my wedding and I had been losing weight purposefully leading up to it and Edgar and I lived in our own place where we could cook healthy meals and we had a much better gym.
I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm just laying out how I got here in the first place. My own laziness is as much to blame as anything else. And my love of all things Taco Bell. Mmmmm #9 combo, plus a burrito supreme and a Meximelt make my day. Seriously, I can put away massive amounts of Taco Bell. It's unreal. The same amount of food anywhere else would be two meals for me, but with Taco Bell......it's insane.
And I'm the sort of person that's all "Oh, well, I could spend a few minutes cutting up some veggies to snack on. Or I could just eat chips." Bad decision.
So, bottom line: I need to lose weight. Edgar and I want to start trying to have a baby later this year, and I absolutely must lose weight before that happens. All of these studies are out now that say if a mother is overweight while she's pregnant that her child will have a higher risk of being overweight as well. My family and Edgar's family have enough health problems as it is--I'm not going to give our children added disadvantages. I usually do well when I have a specific reason to lose weight, like with the wedding last year. I can't think of any better reason than the health of my children.
I just have to avoid the pitfalls. Football season is coming up, which means BEER. Edgar and I are huge football lovers, and that means that there's at least one case of beer in the refrigerator each Sunday. As much as I hate it, I'll have to limit my intake, or at least try to switch us to lower-calorie options. I tend to hate the "Light" beers as a whole group. For most of them, you might as well be buying water. Except Sam Adams Light and Heineken Light. Those are good.
It also means not wimping out on going to the gym. Even after a long day at work or bad traffic. That used to be a common stumbling block for me. "Oh, I'm tired, it was a long day, I'll go tomorrow." I've definitely got to stop that. Same goes for cooking dinner. Some evenings Edgar and I get home and don't feel like cooking, so we'll just go out and grab fast food. That's got to stop as well.
I was already about 25 pounds overweight at that time last year, so I've got an uphill battle ahead of me (damn you hills!). And I know that. It's my own doing that I'm here.
Anyways, OUT OF SHAPE. I started running on the treadmill at 5 mph last night, and I only could make it about 5 minutes. Pathetic! I've never really been a runner, even when I've been healthy and a normal weight. I don't really like it at all, but running is a great workout; it burns lots of calories and gives you a major cardio workout. I used to be able to run a mile at 6 mph, so my goal is to get myself back to that in a couple of weeks.
I really like the gym at our new apartment. All of the cardio equipment is brand new. They even have TV monitors on them! Yay! The weight machines are all functioning as well, so that's a definite plus. So, problematic gym issue is no longer standing in my way.
As far as food goes, Edgar and I went grocery shopping on Sunday and stocked up for the week. I have the goods to make myself healthy lunches and snacks for the entire week. Dinners are a little bit tougher. Neither of us are big vegetable eaters, so it's hard to come up with really healthy side dishes that we'll actually eat and enjoy and not waste. Luckily, there's a grocery store near us that has pretty inexpensive produce.
So this is my mission: lose 50 pounds by the end of the year. That's 113 days. Roughly 3 pounds a week. I dont' know if it's doable. I'm pretty sure that it's not. Especially if it's one of those "Hmph, I can't seem to lose the last ten pounds!" situations that you always hear about. I actually don't know how I'll even track it since we don't even have a scale right now. And therein lies the challenge!
Working on the Book List
Quick status update: I finished To Kill a Mockingbird on Friday (loved it!) and have moved on to Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.
I was so excited unpacking all of my boxes of books on Sunday. I luckily have about 15 books on my list that I currently have on my bookshelf, so I'm stocked with reading material for the time being.
Of course, this is assuming that I ever have time to read. Since we're living in a place that has a gym, I'm going to start working out again, so that will take up some time in the evening. Plus the new TV season is about to start, and as much as I hate to admit it, Edgar and I are addicted to TV. Super addicted. We have a schedule and everything to make sure that we get everything added on the DVR.
Plus there's the fact that Edgar cannot amuse himself for very long on his own. He's very ADD that way. If I'm by myself in another room reading, every so often he will wander into the room. "Whatcha doin?" "Reading." "Ok." And then he's off. And then he'll be back a half hour later. "Baby?" "What?" "Nothin', just seeing what you're doing." And so on, and so forth.
It's good practice for when we have kids.
Moving 2.0
After the more than ample amount of practice the weekend before last, the for-real for-real move of this past weekend was relatively easy and pain-free. "Pain-free" as in no major problems that could not be averted, not as in "free of physical pain." Or "free of mental anguish from the cost of moving." I'm still working on that.
We were able to pick the U-Haul up at 8:30, which was good. I didn't want to have to wait until after 10:30 as we did when we helped Edgar's parents move. At that point it's just already too late. So, anyways, the U-Haul. We drove it over to the storage unit and got everything loaded up. There was a frightening moment at the end because we had it completely filled up, and we still had to make a stop at our in-laws house to pick up our bed, TV, nightstand, and some boxes. It all worked out in the end, but not without a lot of frustration and rearranging.
First speed bump: crazy thieving storage unit. We paid for a full month for the storage unit on September 2nd. Our account was on automatic withdrawal, so we went ahead and let it go through because we assumed (apparently ridiculously incorrectly) that we would then be refunded for the remainder of the month once we vacated the storage unit, as is standard business practice. Apparently NOT for stupid QUALITY SELF STORAGE IN WEST COVINA. SO NOT QUALITY. DO NOT USE THEM. THEY ARE MEAN AND THEY STEAL YOUR MONEY AND WON'T GIVE YOU A REFUND AND THEN TALK TO YOU LIKE A CHILD WHEN YOU ASK THEM WHY NOT. Bitches. According to them it's all our fault because we needed to tell them 2 weeks in advance of the payment coming out that we would be leaving the storage unit this month. Um, ok, so I get that they needed time to remove us from their auto-payments. But why the eff can they not issue us a refund for the three and a half weeks that we're not using the unit? THIEVES!!!! I hate them.
I had to make a concious effort to calm myself down after that. I could tell that Edgar was getting annoyed that I was being pissy, and so to save us all the trouble I forced myself to chill out in the car on the way to his parent's house.
At his parents I had to suffer through the indignity of being a bad pet owner; for the sake of not letting Fiyero escape I had to once again lock him in the bathroom. Every time I would walk by the bathroom door or speak, I would hear this sad, patheitc, "merow!" come from inside the bathroom. And with it's high ceiling and tile, it would echo. I was in hell. He decided to make me suffer too, causing the car ride to Long Beach to be very uncomfortable. Fiyero far outgrew his kitty-carrier a long time ago; he's just ridiculously long. Sometimes when he stretches all the way out, it looks like he's as big as a dog. Anyways. Kitty-carrier-free cat is a roving cat. He started out the trip so well; he sat on the passenger seat and stared at me. As long as I kept petting him with my right hand and driving with my left, he was fine. But about 10 miles in to the trip he decided it was time to sit on my lap. Even that was ok, if not a little uncomfortable. But then he decided that the best place for him was not my lap, but he wasn't sure where to go. So he climbed up on my shoulder. Hind legs on my shoulder, front paws on the seat back, ass in my ear. After standing there for a minute, he tried to walk across the back of my shoulders. But instead of then climbing down on to the seat, he decided to lay down. THE CAT WAS LAYING DOWN ON THE BACK OF MY SHOULDERS WHILE I WAS TRYING TO DRIVE ON THE 605 FREEWAY. Not good. So not good. I was hunched over that steering wheel like an 80 year old Asian lady. We finally hit some traffic where I had to completely stop, so I was able to use both hands to get him off me. I put him back in the passenger seat, but he kept trying to walk onto my lap and get down by my feet with the pedals. Which of course is ridiculously dangerous, so I had to keep throwing him off my lap into the passenger seat. I think he was doing it just to annoy me, because once we were off the freeway he settled down again and was all, "Look at me, I'm so cute sitting here in the passenger seat with my tail curled around me and rubbing my paws. Don't you love me?" Oh, Fiyero.
Speed bump number two: unfortunately when we got to the apartment, the leasing office was closed. They have one person working on Saturday and she was out to lunch. So after loitering outside the building for 45 minutes, we were finally able to get in, sign our lease, and get our keys. The actual moving in was pretty easy. We had a big appliance dolly from UHaul for the big furniture and another smaller dolly that I borrowed from work to move boxes. I think it took around four hours for us to move everything in to the apartment. It probably could have taken less time but at the end we were all being lazy and not really lifting anything without the help of one of the dollies. Oh well, we were still done much faster than we were last week.
Speed bump number three: parking ticket! Oopsy. All of the street parking around our building is metered. The meter on my mother-in-law's car was empty for about 15 minutes, and she got a ticket. We hadn't seen a meter reader the entire day. We had someone downstairs with the UHaul and the cars and a roll of quarters at all times. But for the last 15 minutes before she left, while she was upstairs saying goodbye, the reader magically appeared and gave her a ticket. Figures.
We returned the UHaul after that, not without some drama. Edgar just may have clipped a stopped bus that he was going around on Long Beach Boulevard. Maaaaaaybe. He doesn't know, I couldn't tell, the bus driver didn't run out yelling at him, so it's probably ok. Proooooooobably.
Dinner was quite the adventure. Since we didn't have any food yet, we stopped at a Carl's Jr. to eat. Oh my, Carl's Jr. I was heading to the restroom to wash my hands before we ate, when I was abruptly stopped by a meter on the door, needing to insert a quarter in order to open the door. According to Edgar, this was not a good sign. Apparently the pay locks are on the door to keep homeless junkies from coming in and shooting up in the bathroom (this was all very comforting on my first evening in a new city in a restaurant a few blocks from my new place, as you can imagine). Anyways, I already wasted all of my quarters on the aforementioned parking meters, so the whole hand-washing thing ended up being a non-starter.
We were able to get a lot of our packing done on the first night after we got back from dinner. This is where I sustained by most egregious injury of the weekend. I had climbed up on top of the kitchen counter to put some vases on top of a cabinet, and when I was trying to get back down I slipped and jammed the top of my knee against one of the knobs on the lower cabinets. Within the hour I had a gold-ball sized lump and a huge purple bruise in the same spot. Luckily by now the swelling has gone down and the bruise is getting that yellowish look, so I think I'll get to keep the leg. No permanent damage done. It still hurts though :(
Good news: the cat didn't freak out. He actually didn't even close himself up like a basket case as he did last week while we were unpacking. He was out playing with things, running up and down the stairs to the loft, and generally just having a good time. It was kind of amazing how quickly he adapted. I think he recognized all of our old furniture and realized "Ok, this is home, I'm safe here." Thank goodness.
Sunday was an interesting day. We got up at 7 am. The only reason we got up that early was because out DirecTV installation appointment was scheduled in the 8am-12pm window. We wanted to be able to eat breakfast and shower before he got there. Which turned out to be totally unnecessary since he didn't show up until 12:30. Thanks, DirecTV subcontractor. I could have slept in. (On another note, I was able to walk to a Denny's down the street to get us pancakes for breakfast, which was kind of awesome).
DirecTV guy was there for FIVE HOURS. Normally, installation takes about two hours at the most. They were having problems activating the new receiver that we ordered from them. It took 4 people on the phone and 3 hours to figure out that it was because the NFL Sunday Ticket package on the account was expired, so they couldn't activate anything new. Which is awesome, since we have already told DirecTV about four times since we ordered our service that we wanted the package on our account to be renewed. THANKS FOR WASTING THREE HOURS OF MY LIFE. Then came the lovely fact that the receiver they were trying to activate was broken, and we had to wait for the installer's coworker to bring us a good one. Stellar.
After that fiasco came the Verizon fiasco. I was trying to set up our internet service but the installation wouldn't complete. I called Verizon and they told me after running some tests that there was a problem with the line and they would have to have their central office run some tests and if that didn't work they would have to send a technician out. Which royally pissed me off. Don't send me an e-mail on 9/4/09 saying "Congratulations! Your internet service is ready!" if it is NOT READY. And certainly do not tell me that if you have to send a technician out that you can't tell me today what day it will be and that you can't come after 6pm when I'm home from work. YOU are the ones that fucked up and I will not be taking unpaid time off from work in order for you to fix the problem. I eventually got to speak with a supervisor who told me after I had to do a lot of yelling that they could have some one come out after 6 pm, but I would have to call the next day to reschedule the appointment that he was going to give me to the 6 pm hour. Um, excuse me? You want to schedule me your stupid four hour window appointment for a time that you know I can't do and make me call back to reschedule it for after 6 o'clock? If you can reschedule an appointment to 6 o'clock, you can schedule an appointment for 6 o'clock. And this guy was a supervisor. Whatever. Eventually this culminated in me screaming at the guy to cancel my service. Which he of course stated that he could not do because I would have to speak with the cancellation department and they were closed. FUCK YOU VERIZON.
I don't like being mean. I used to do customer service and I hated it when people would scream and yell at me about something that I could not change. But these people were just screwing with me. If you're a supervisor, you have the power to do things that regular reps can't. Don't tell me that you can't do something. Give me a resolution. I know the tricks that you have up your sleeve and I'm not going to sit there and be walked over.
I ended up hanging up on the guy. I called back today to cancel the service, and I was told that they've escalated the issue and will have a resolution by tomorrow. I still wanted to cancel, but unfortunately, my phone battery died in the middle of the converstaion. Of course. Stellar, once again. I just can't seem to get it together with Verizon! I'm giving them one more chance when I call back this evening. If they have an answer for me, and can send a technician out this Friday when I am off from work, I won't cancel it. Anything else, bye-bye Verizon. I hate them. They make me miserable. I just want the internet at home!! I hate only having access to it from my office! Ugh.
