I don't know why but I have been craving apple fritters like mad lately. Actually I do know why, but this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing my PMS. Anywho, the apple fritters. I can honestly say that I don't remember the last time I ate an apple fritter, but my body's been telling me, "You need to gorge on apple fritters and you need to do it now." I pretended I was one of those holistic hippies who listens to her body and headed out to the store to procure apple fritters for a good gorging. I bought two, one for the ride home and one for after dinner (shut up, like you don't do it too...).
While at the store I decided to make my trip a bit more productive and bought four bananas, a bag of salad, and a loaf of garlic bread in addition to my two apple fritters (priced at ninety-nine cents each). When I checked out, my total only came to $5.35. I literally said, "That's all?" to the cashier, but she assured me it was right. I just shrugged and figured my Fresh Values card must have gotten me a super-duper fresh value on one of my items and went on my merry way. Later, I checked my receipt and saw that the checker had only charged me fifty-nine cents (the price of a regular doughnut) instead of the $1.98 it should have been. If I had noticed the mistake while it was still handy for me to call attention to it, I would have. But my personal conviction is once I'm out of the store/restaurant, it's no longer my obligation to rectify the situation (for the record, I've been overcharged for stuff too, and have just let it slide on more than one occasion).
The weird thing is that stuff like this seems to be happening to me a lot lately. A couple of months ago I went to lunch with friends where the waitress only charged me for the drink and side salad and completely forgot to charge me for the entree. When I brought it to her attention, she shrugged and said, "Well, I'm sure not going to add it on now," like it was too much of a bother. A few weeks later I was taking a friend to lunch and the waitress only charged us for one drink instead of two. I told the little Thai woman at the register that there should be two drinks but she just kept pointing at the ticket and saying, "This says one." I finally shrugged and mumbled, "I tried to do the right thing..."
So I'm starting to wonder. Is all this undercharging the universe's way of paying me back for all the times I've held doors for people, let people merge in front of me, and smiled at ugly children? Or is it just idiocy on the cashiers' part? Because if it's just idiocy I'm going to stop being so nice to people all the time.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Marine biology
Me: Did they weigh you at the doctor's office today?
My sister: Yeah...
Me: Ugh, I wish they could just eyeball you and then assign a marine mammal that closest fits your physical description like, "Manatee."
[Later in the conversation...]
My sister: Doctors' scales always read so much higher than your scale at home.
Me: I know, you get on and it's like, "You weight one miiiillion pounds." And then you try to save face with, "I'm only 999,993 pounds on my home scale."
My sister: Yeah...
Me: Ugh, I wish they could just eyeball you and then assign a marine mammal that closest fits your physical description like, "Manatee."
[Later in the conversation...]
My sister: Doctors' scales always read so much higher than your scale at home.
Me: I know, you get on and it's like, "You weight one miiiillion pounds." And then you try to save face with, "I'm only 999,993 pounds on my home scale."
Egg Watch: 2010
Friday night I talked to my mom on the phone. Our conversation steered toward my birds (as so often it does), and I mentioned that Chauncy was hunkered down in the corner of the cage bottom, acting like it was a nest or something. "The dumb bird thinks he's going to lay an egg," I said. "Maybe he's sick?" Mom suggested. "Nah, he's not sitting like he's sick, he's sitting like he's brooding."
Even though the fine folks at the pet store assured me Chauncy was a male when I bought him, I have suspected for the past few months that he is actually a she. Ever since I brought Olive home, my kitchen has looked like the set of a bird porn video with Olive and Chauncy getting busy every chance they got. What was surprising was that Olive (who is supposed to be female and now I'm not so sure--jury's still out on that one) was the one attacking Chauncy (who is supposed to be male). Chauncy's sex was made undeniably clear Saturday morning, however when I came downstairs and discovered an egg--AN EGG--on the cage floor.
I panicked.
I went through the phases everyone must go through when faced with an unplanned and unwanted pregnancy (or "eggnancy" as one bird enthusiast dubbed it). First I was shocked and incredulous. Next all I could think was "Get rid of it! How can I get rid of it?!" Then I decided to get informed and spent a significant amount of time online and with my cockatiel books reading about nesting and chick-raising and so on and so forth. I guess you could call that step acceptance. Finally, the more I thought about it, I got kind of excited and started hoping Chauncy's little egg would hatch. I'm still in that final phase. Hatch, little egg! Hatch!
Let me tell you a few things I've learned about cockatiel eggs and babies over the past 48 hours. First, cockatiel books extensively cover what actions you should take when your breeding is planned: get a nest box, introduce the happy couple, they get busy, etc. But NOWHERE in these books is the chapter "So You've Ruined Your Life: Dealing with Unplanned Eggnancy." It's like the radical Right infiltrated all the cockatiel books and refused to even acknowledge that some eggs might not be a happy occasion. Thank heaven for the internet, where I learned that you should leave the eggs there, for heaven's sake, or your bird will just keep laying more and more until she dies of calcium deficiency.
I also learned that Chauncy will not lay just the one egg; she will lay one egg every other day until she reaches a full clutch of about four to six eggs. Baaaaaaallllllllsssss. Okay, okay. So, I would imagine this is like getting knocked up on your prom night and then finding out you're having quintuplets. While I was all for one egg hatching, now I'm not so sure. I mean, I would love for the little eggies to hatch and to have lots of ugly, awkward cockatiel babies, but what on earth am I supposed to do with them? It's not realistic to keep them, right? Especially when my cockatiel-sexing abilities are currently 1/2 (and soon to be 0/2 if Chauncy's eggs are viable). I thought I could separate the boys into one cage and the girls into another, but what if I'm wrong (again)? More eggs? More babies?! WHEN WILL IT END?!
I thought that I could give the babies away or sell them, but there's no way I can let somebody I don't know take them. I already love those little eggs (Chauncy laid her second egg this morning), and I'm sure it's going to be even worse if/when chicks come out of them. I would honestly rather spring for another cage or two and increase my bird food budget than let one of my animals go into a home where they might not be well taken care of. But I guess I have another three weeks or so before I even need to think about it. The eggs might not be fertilized, in which case all my worry will be for nothing.
But wouldn't it be exciting to have a bunch of ugly cockatiel babies?
Even though the fine folks at the pet store assured me Chauncy was a male when I bought him, I have suspected for the past few months that he is actually a she. Ever since I brought Olive home, my kitchen has looked like the set of a bird porn video with Olive and Chauncy getting busy every chance they got. What was surprising was that Olive (who is supposed to be female and now I'm not so sure--jury's still out on that one) was the one attacking Chauncy (who is supposed to be male). Chauncy's sex was made undeniably clear Saturday morning, however when I came downstairs and discovered an egg--AN EGG--on the cage floor.
I panicked.
I went through the phases everyone must go through when faced with an unplanned and unwanted pregnancy (or "eggnancy" as one bird enthusiast dubbed it). First I was shocked and incredulous. Next all I could think was "Get rid of it! How can I get rid of it?!" Then I decided to get informed and spent a significant amount of time online and with my cockatiel books reading about nesting and chick-raising and so on and so forth. I guess you could call that step acceptance. Finally, the more I thought about it, I got kind of excited and started hoping Chauncy's little egg would hatch. I'm still in that final phase. Hatch, little egg! Hatch!
Let me tell you a few things I've learned about cockatiel eggs and babies over the past 48 hours. First, cockatiel books extensively cover what actions you should take when your breeding is planned: get a nest box, introduce the happy couple, they get busy, etc. But NOWHERE in these books is the chapter "So You've Ruined Your Life: Dealing with Unplanned Eggnancy." It's like the radical Right infiltrated all the cockatiel books and refused to even acknowledge that some eggs might not be a happy occasion. Thank heaven for the internet, where I learned that you should leave the eggs there, for heaven's sake, or your bird will just keep laying more and more until she dies of calcium deficiency.
I also learned that Chauncy will not lay just the one egg; she will lay one egg every other day until she reaches a full clutch of about four to six eggs. Baaaaaaallllllllsssss. Okay, okay. So, I would imagine this is like getting knocked up on your prom night and then finding out you're having quintuplets. While I was all for one egg hatching, now I'm not so sure. I mean, I would love for the little eggies to hatch and to have lots of ugly, awkward cockatiel babies, but what on earth am I supposed to do with them? It's not realistic to keep them, right? Especially when my cockatiel-sexing abilities are currently 1/2 (and soon to be 0/2 if Chauncy's eggs are viable). I thought I could separate the boys into one cage and the girls into another, but what if I'm wrong (again)? More eggs? More babies?! WHEN WILL IT END?!
I thought that I could give the babies away or sell them, but there's no way I can let somebody I don't know take them. I already love those little eggs (Chauncy laid her second egg this morning), and I'm sure it's going to be even worse if/when chicks come out of them. I would honestly rather spring for another cage or two and increase my bird food budget than let one of my animals go into a home where they might not be well taken care of. But I guess I have another three weeks or so before I even need to think about it. The eggs might not be fertilized, in which case all my worry will be for nothing.
But wouldn't it be exciting to have a bunch of ugly cockatiel babies?
Friday, January 22, 2010
EwHarmony: part deux
I just logged in to eHarmony to take out the trash so my mom wouldn't misguidedly try to match me with some jock whose favorite things were keggers, tailgate parties, and boobs. Ugh, there are so many losers scumming up the dating pool, I'm starting to lose my faith in mankind. I have nothing against people who love to camp and play sports; I don't like those things, but that doesn't make them bad people. I do, however, have a problem with somebody who wants me to know that he's "kick-ass." Just in general, he's kick-ass. Well, yeah, I am too, but I'm not going to write that on my online dating profile. I also came across a guy who just put down D as his name. My first thought when reading his profile was, "D... Is that short for D-bag?"
By far the most disturbing "match" proposed by eHarmony was some guy in Provo. He said he was 40, but according to his picture he was at least 60. At least. According to him, his pastimes were reading, television, and sex. Here's a newsflash, grandpa: it doesn't count as sex if it's with yourself.
By far the most disturbing "match" proposed by eHarmony was some guy in Provo. He said he was 40, but according to his picture he was at least 60. At least. According to him, his pastimes were reading, television, and sex. Here's a newsflash, grandpa: it doesn't count as sex if it's with yourself.
Motivation: Zero
Since work has slowed down I don't feel like working at all. And if I'm not working, I don't feel like doing much of anything else except watching TV or, if I'm feeling ambitious, playing video games. Wow, I'm a winner! Yesterday I made a batch of peanut butter fudge, got my house all cleaned up for book club, and even ran a few errands. It didn't help my motivation reserves, it depleted them. Today I'm like bleeeeeehhhh, as evidenced by the fact that it's 10:49, I'm unshowered (but dressed!), and have no plans to rectify that. Over the course of the week I've just been getting more and more tired, so I decided that today I would let myself sleep in and see if it helps any. I got up at 10:00 and I'm still groggy (it takes me at least three hours to wake up in the morning, I swear), so only time will tell if it did.
I had the weirdest freaking dream this morning right before I woke up. I dreamed I went to Italy on vacation with a bunch of my old coworkers, and while I was there I ran into Jorge Garcia (Hurley from LOST) and Duff Goldman (the Ace of Cakes). Jorge was very nice and signed autographs and posed for pictures, as I always suspected he would. But Duff Goldman was crazy (crazy awesome!) and insisted on hanging out with me and following me back to the house we were staying to take pictures and make out. Sadly, I woke up while we were still taking pictures. Figures. I can't even get lip action in my dreams. (And for the record, I would totally make out with Duff Goldman--helloooo, the man is hilarious and makes CAKES!)
But anyway, back to having no motivation. My sister suggested it might be my super awesome unmedicated depression rearing its ugly head, but I don't know. At least, I don't always want to blame everything on that, even though it would be really easy and much better than the alternative--that I really am this lazy. Or maybe I just need some new work projects. Fingers crossed I get more soon. Like, today.
I had the weirdest freaking dream this morning right before I woke up. I dreamed I went to Italy on vacation with a bunch of my old coworkers, and while I was there I ran into Jorge Garcia (Hurley from LOST) and Duff Goldman (the Ace of Cakes). Jorge was very nice and signed autographs and posed for pictures, as I always suspected he would. But Duff Goldman was crazy (crazy awesome!) and insisted on hanging out with me and following me back to the house we were staying to take pictures and make out. Sadly, I woke up while we were still taking pictures. Figures. I can't even get lip action in my dreams. (And for the record, I would totally make out with Duff Goldman--helloooo, the man is hilarious and makes CAKES!)
But anyway, back to having no motivation. My sister suggested it might be my super awesome unmedicated depression rearing its ugly head, but I don't know. At least, I don't always want to blame everything on that, even though it would be really easy and much better than the alternative--that I really am this lazy. Or maybe I just need some new work projects. Fingers crossed I get more soon. Like, today.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Stupidity, cubed
This morning was a slow starter. I lay in bed for about fifteen minutes after the alarm went off thinking about how much I didn't want to get out of bed and how much I didn't want to work today (even though I've basically had the last two days off--not to mention the weekend). What finally got me out of bed was my promise to myself that if I would get up, get ready, and work on that huge project I've been putting off, then I could go to McDonald's for breakfast. McDonald's! Breakfast! I love McDonald's breakfast! Especially when you throw in a 32 oz. Diet Coke!
So I managed to get out of bed and carry out my morning routine, a little later than usual, but better late than never, or so I'm told. I giddily jumped into the car and drove to my local McDonald's, the promise of a sweet, sweet sausage egg biscuit sitting on the tip of my brain. I got into the left turn lane to turn into the parking lot. A middle-aged woman driving a green Malibu got to the entrance before me and was turning right into the parking lot so I let her go first. That was my first mistake. I waited. And waited. Aaaand waited. Finally the driver managed to get the car into the lot and began maneuvering with all the deftness of a retarded snail nursing an old war wound. She traversed the parking lot going barely faster than idle speed and trudged her car into the drive-thru and up to the first speaker. I waited. She ordered. I waited. She talked some more into the speaker. I waited. Finally the person in front of her pulled forward and she did the same. She pulled up to the second speaker and began to order again. By now I was almost tearing my hair out and stuffing down the urge to yell, "YOU ONLY HAVE TO ORDER AT ONE SPEAKER! PULL YOUR FREAKING CAR UP TO THE WINDOW!" I saw her order on the screen so I know she ordered two sausage biscuit meals. Easy. Two sausage buiscuit meals, why was this so hard for her? It takes me approximately six seconds to order, and that's on a slow day. "Hey, I'd like a number ___ with a large Diet Coke." "Will that complete your order?" "Sure will." "Pull forward to the window." Done and done. But not Malibu lady. No. Already she had taken a good four minutes of time, and counting.
I guess whoever was on speaker two told her she didn't need to order again because she finally pulled from the second speaker up to the window where the currency actually changes hands. Once there, she then proceeded to spend a good three minutes talking to the girl at the register. I have no idea what she was talking about, but if it was a problem with her order then she had to be a total moron because how difficult is it to order two sausage egg biscuit meals? This is where I pulled out my Sunday school training and started reminding myself that this woman was a child of God and that God loves everybody, even if they are too freaking stupid to have a driver's license and go through the drive-thru. I had to remind myself of this fact several times, up to, and including, when the woman got out cash to pay for her order and then dropped a coin of her change on the ground. Just leave it there, leave it there, leave it-- Of course she didn't just leave it there, she actually took off her seat belt, opened her car door, and leaned down to pick up what couldn't have been more than a quarter, tops. This is where I stopped thinking that she was a child of God and started contemplating the theory of evolution and wondering if it were my duty as a member to society to ram the back of her car and take her stupid genes out of the breeding pool. But since she was at least sixty I concluded she'd already done her reproductive damage and the risks (assault charges, jail time, and no McDonald's breakfast) far outweighed the rewards (the death of an obvious cretin, supreme satisfaction). Seriously, what was this lady's problem? She can't drive, can't figure out how to order from a drive-thru window, and can't even handle something as simple as handling her change. I could only think of one solution: she must be a renegade Amish woman who decided to leave her community and integrate (unsuccessfully) into average society. I finally pulled up to the first window and was greeted with an emphatic "I'm so, so sorry" from the girl at the register. I handed over my debit card and was at the second window within fifteen seconds. The stupid Malibu woman had gotten her food and chosen this as the time to drive like a bat out of hell toward the street. Who knows, maybe her orthopedic shoes got stuck on the pedal or something.
My experience with this woman led me to three conclusions: 1) the Amish need to stay Amish; 2) cash is passé--use your freaking debit card. If you insist on cash and drop your change like a moron, just leave it there. You obviously don't deserve to keep it; 3) just because someone's a child of God doesn't mean I can't hate her.
So I managed to get out of bed and carry out my morning routine, a little later than usual, but better late than never, or so I'm told. I giddily jumped into the car and drove to my local McDonald's, the promise of a sweet, sweet sausage egg biscuit sitting on the tip of my brain. I got into the left turn lane to turn into the parking lot. A middle-aged woman driving a green Malibu got to the entrance before me and was turning right into the parking lot so I let her go first. That was my first mistake. I waited. And waited. Aaaand waited. Finally the driver managed to get the car into the lot and began maneuvering with all the deftness of a retarded snail nursing an old war wound. She traversed the parking lot going barely faster than idle speed and trudged her car into the drive-thru and up to the first speaker. I waited. She ordered. I waited. She talked some more into the speaker. I waited. Finally the person in front of her pulled forward and she did the same. She pulled up to the second speaker and began to order again. By now I was almost tearing my hair out and stuffing down the urge to yell, "YOU ONLY HAVE TO ORDER AT ONE SPEAKER! PULL YOUR FREAKING CAR UP TO THE WINDOW!" I saw her order on the screen so I know she ordered two sausage biscuit meals. Easy. Two sausage buiscuit meals, why was this so hard for her? It takes me approximately six seconds to order, and that's on a slow day. "Hey, I'd like a number ___ with a large Diet Coke." "Will that complete your order?" "Sure will." "Pull forward to the window." Done and done. But not Malibu lady. No. Already she had taken a good four minutes of time, and counting.
I guess whoever was on speaker two told her she didn't need to order again because she finally pulled from the second speaker up to the window where the currency actually changes hands. Once there, she then proceeded to spend a good three minutes talking to the girl at the register. I have no idea what she was talking about, but if it was a problem with her order then she had to be a total moron because how difficult is it to order two sausage egg biscuit meals? This is where I pulled out my Sunday school training and started reminding myself that this woman was a child of God and that God loves everybody, even if they are too freaking stupid to have a driver's license and go through the drive-thru. I had to remind myself of this fact several times, up to, and including, when the woman got out cash to pay for her order and then dropped a coin of her change on the ground. Just leave it there, leave it there, leave it-- Of course she didn't just leave it there, she actually took off her seat belt, opened her car door, and leaned down to pick up what couldn't have been more than a quarter, tops. This is where I stopped thinking that she was a child of God and started contemplating the theory of evolution and wondering if it were my duty as a member to society to ram the back of her car and take her stupid genes out of the breeding pool. But since she was at least sixty I concluded she'd already done her reproductive damage and the risks (assault charges, jail time, and no McDonald's breakfast) far outweighed the rewards (the death of an obvious cretin, supreme satisfaction). Seriously, what was this lady's problem? She can't drive, can't figure out how to order from a drive-thru window, and can't even handle something as simple as handling her change. I could only think of one solution: she must be a renegade Amish woman who decided to leave her community and integrate (unsuccessfully) into average society. I finally pulled up to the first window and was greeted with an emphatic "I'm so, so sorry" from the girl at the register. I handed over my debit card and was at the second window within fifteen seconds. The stupid Malibu woman had gotten her food and chosen this as the time to drive like a bat out of hell toward the street. Who knows, maybe her orthopedic shoes got stuck on the pedal or something.
My experience with this woman led me to three conclusions: 1) the Amish need to stay Amish; 2) cash is passé--use your freaking debit card. If you insist on cash and drop your change like a moron, just leave it there. You obviously don't deserve to keep it; 3) just because someone's a child of God doesn't mean I can't hate her.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
EwHarmony
I recently signed up for eHarmony in a fit of desperate curiosity. For those of you lucky enough to not know how eHarmony works, I'll tell you. You spend about five hours answering a crapton of personal questions, eHarmony compiles a personality profile on you, then emails you a bunch of possible matches based on that profile. Science and romance, a match made in hell.
Yesterday eHarmony matched me with somebody who, by all accounts, was perfect. The right age, funny, successful, not bad looking, a gentleman who is very nice, in the immediate area, has the same personal and moral values as me, oh, and he has a great family. Yes, that's right, a great family. I know because HE IS MY COUSIN! EHarmony matched me with MY COUSIN. Call me crazy, but I think it's creepy to date a person who shares a set of grandparents with you. Talk about a fawkward family reunion.
I went through a barrage of emotions when I clicked the link and saw my cousin's face smiling back at me. It started off with confusion, quickly followed by sheer horror, which was eventually replaced with hysterical laughing. I hurriedly closed the match and looked for a reason that best seemed to fit the situation. Sadly, eHarmony doesn't offer "This person is a blood relative," so I looked a little harder. "Our family backgrounds seem too different" certainly didn't fit the bill, so I settled on "I'm not ready to take the next step." Lord, that was the truth. I sent my cousin a text saying he was one of my matches and asking when he was going to take me out. We had a good laugh and, I like to think, silently agreed never to speak of it again.
Later that night I gave my mom my login information and told her to have a good time trying to find me a date. I just can't deal with it anymore.
Yesterday eHarmony matched me with somebody who, by all accounts, was perfect. The right age, funny, successful, not bad looking, a gentleman who is very nice, in the immediate area, has the same personal and moral values as me, oh, and he has a great family. Yes, that's right, a great family. I know because HE IS MY COUSIN! EHarmony matched me with MY COUSIN. Call me crazy, but I think it's creepy to date a person who shares a set of grandparents with you. Talk about a fawkward family reunion.
I went through a barrage of emotions when I clicked the link and saw my cousin's face smiling back at me. It started off with confusion, quickly followed by sheer horror, which was eventually replaced with hysterical laughing. I hurriedly closed the match and looked for a reason that best seemed to fit the situation. Sadly, eHarmony doesn't offer "This person is a blood relative," so I looked a little harder. "Our family backgrounds seem too different" certainly didn't fit the bill, so I settled on "I'm not ready to take the next step." Lord, that was the truth. I sent my cousin a text saying he was one of my matches and asking when he was going to take me out. We had a good laugh and, I like to think, silently agreed never to speak of it again.
Later that night I gave my mom my login information and told her to have a good time trying to find me a date. I just can't deal with it anymore.
Friday, January 15, 2010
A long, drawn-out way to get "free" pens
If you find yourself in need of a pen and have some time to spare, might I suggest selling your house and buying a new one? In the process of buying and selling a house just over two years ago, I procured approximately six to eight brand new pens for myself. Everybody wants to give you a pen: your real estate agent, your mortgage broker, your title company... Anybody who's dealing with you on your real estate transaction is going to force a pen, or pens, on you. For your examination, exhibit A:
Three pens from Backman Title. I very much enjoyed working with this company, particularly the person in charge of my file. I don't remember his name anymore, but he was a very nice, middle-aged man who loved shaking hands and handing out pens. "TOWR, hello! Good to see you again! *shake hands* Here, have a pen!" Then you would sit down to sign paperwork, where they would give you yet another pen for all your signature-ing, and force you take that pen as well. "But I've already got a pen." "That's okay, take this one anyway!" In all, I got four pens from Backman Title (one is in another room and not convenient for photographing). But considering they probably made hundreds, if not thousands, off transferring my titles, I'd say I'm probably the one who came out on the short end of that exchange.
Three pens from Backman Title. I very much enjoyed working with this company, particularly the person in charge of my file. I don't remember his name anymore, but he was a very nice, middle-aged man who loved shaking hands and handing out pens. "TOWR, hello! Good to see you again! *shake hands* Here, have a pen!" Then you would sit down to sign paperwork, where they would give you yet another pen for all your signature-ing, and force you take that pen as well. "But I've already got a pen." "That's okay, take this one anyway!" In all, I got four pens from Backman Title (one is in another room and not convenient for photographing). But considering they probably made hundreds, if not thousands, off transferring my titles, I'd say I'm probably the one who came out on the short end of that exchange.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
"That's what she said" Thursday: Yuletide edition
Christmas Eve I was over at my parents' house dropping off pies and other miscellanea for Christmas dinner. My mom was decorating the dinner table while my dad got the turkey ready for the oven. These little gems are courtesy of my mother (as usual).
[helping my mom twist bead ropes that were going to be placed down the middle of the table]
Mom: Here, I'll hold and you twist.
Me: That's what she said!
[Dad and mom arguing over how to prep the turkey for the oven]
Mom: For crying out loud, Jack, just grease it up and stick it in!
Me: That's what she said!
All: [laugh hysterically]
This has been your "That's what she said" Thursday.
[helping my mom twist bead ropes that were going to be placed down the middle of the table]
Mom: Here, I'll hold and you twist.
Me: That's what she said!
[Dad and mom arguing over how to prep the turkey for the oven]
Mom: For crying out loud, Jack, just grease it up and stick it in!
Me: That's what she said!
All: [laugh hysterically]
This has been your "That's what she said" Thursday.
Monday, January 11, 2010
A grammarphile's guide to online sex chats
I would never engage online sex chats, but if I did, I know for a fact this is what it would look like (except I would capitalize the first words in my sentences, and I would also spell the word sentence correctly. This person is a bit of a hypocrite).
Obviously brought to you by Fail Blog.
Obviously brought to you by Fail Blog.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Dying alone
Okay, so that post title makes it sound like I'm going to start talking about how I'm a spinster and boo-hoo I'm going to die all sad, lonely, and alone, the shell of a once-vibrant woman who had the life sucked out of her bit by bit with each passing day she spent not cradled in the arms of a man who loved her. I mean, yeah, that probably is what's going to happen, but that's not what I'm actually going to talk about. Today I'd like to talk about the dangers of living alone*.
If you've never lived alone, you've probably never given any thought to how carefully you exit the slippery bathtub or whether that noise downstairs is a home intruder who's been waiting on the street corner for you to turn the lights out so he could come in and ravage your body to death before he makes a fedora and matching wing-tips out of your skin, the stylish devil. But these are the things that plague my thoughts, my friends, and they are very valid concerns.
The common American house is a death trap for a single person, especially my house. The only tub in my house is super wide and deep, requiring you to lift your foot good and high in order to get your leg over the side. I swear, mounting a horse would be less awkward. I usually avoid the tub, but sometimes you just want a good soak, and when the desire strikes me, I usually find myself gripping the towel rack for dear life as I both enter and exit the tub. One of my friends has a two-inch scar above her right right eyebrow from when she threw caution by the wayside a few years ago and began exiting her tub with thoughtless abandon. She soon found herself in a big, wet, naked heap in the bottom of her tub, covered with blood from the giant gash in her forehead. This, to me, seems to be the most insulting of any injury that you could incur in the home, particularly if you found yourself incapacitated and in need of help from another individual. It's one thing to fall and get helped up fully clothed, but I imagine dignity is in short supply when you're all naked and slimy from shower residue and tears of pain and embarrassment.
The next potentially dangerous item in my house is the clock above my kitchen sink. Twice a year I find myself teetering precariously on the three-inch lip of granite in front of my sink while I make the clock leap forward or fall back an hour, depending on the time of year. The sink-teetering is only part of the dare-devilry involved with the time-change. Since I am approximately as tall as the average seventh grader, I have to drag a kitchen chair next to the counter, step onto it, and from there step onto the sink. To keep my balance I support myself using the lip of my cupboard door. Each time I shimmy onto the counter to change the clock I tell myself this could be the time the cupboard gives out and I topple backward to my death. I make peace with myself, perform a short ritual of repentance, and start my ascent. So far, I have lived to tell the tale.
Bathtubs and kitchen clocks are quite dangerous, but I don't think they're going to be what kills me in the end. No, the basement stairs are going to have that honor. Steep, dark, and uncarpeted, my stairs are the perfect storm for a trip-and-fall accident. When you consider that I pile crap next to the basement door at the top of the stairs and throw empty boxes down to the bottom, it's pretty much a done deal that I will eventually, one day, eat it to the nth degree, topple down the stairs, and be dead by the time I land arse-up on a used Amazon shipping box. Not a great way to go, but at least I won't be dripping wet and naked.
My great-grandmother actually died from a slip-and-fall accident. There's not much to tell, she slipped, broke something, and then lay on the floor for two days until somebody found her and got her to the hospital. But by then it was too late and I think she died from the shock of it all. Of course, times are different now, and I carry my cell phone on me at all times just to be on the safe side. So if you call and I don't answer, I've probably fallen and am now lying dead or unconscious on the floor. Please come and make sure I'm fully clothed before you call an ambulance. I don't want the cute EMT to see me naked in case I'm only unconscious. A girl always wants to look her best.
*If you are a rapist or murderer, I do NOT live alone. I live with my UFC champion, body-builder husband and our, two pit bulls, three German shepherds, and one doberman pinscher.
If you've never lived alone, you've probably never given any thought to how carefully you exit the slippery bathtub or whether that noise downstairs is a home intruder who's been waiting on the street corner for you to turn the lights out so he could come in and ravage your body to death before he makes a fedora and matching wing-tips out of your skin, the stylish devil. But these are the things that plague my thoughts, my friends, and they are very valid concerns.
The common American house is a death trap for a single person, especially my house. The only tub in my house is super wide and deep, requiring you to lift your foot good and high in order to get your leg over the side. I swear, mounting a horse would be less awkward. I usually avoid the tub, but sometimes you just want a good soak, and when the desire strikes me, I usually find myself gripping the towel rack for dear life as I both enter and exit the tub. One of my friends has a two-inch scar above her right right eyebrow from when she threw caution by the wayside a few years ago and began exiting her tub with thoughtless abandon. She soon found herself in a big, wet, naked heap in the bottom of her tub, covered with blood from the giant gash in her forehead. This, to me, seems to be the most insulting of any injury that you could incur in the home, particularly if you found yourself incapacitated and in need of help from another individual. It's one thing to fall and get helped up fully clothed, but I imagine dignity is in short supply when you're all naked and slimy from shower residue and tears of pain and embarrassment.
The next potentially dangerous item in my house is the clock above my kitchen sink. Twice a year I find myself teetering precariously on the three-inch lip of granite in front of my sink while I make the clock leap forward or fall back an hour, depending on the time of year. The sink-teetering is only part of the dare-devilry involved with the time-change. Since I am approximately as tall as the average seventh grader, I have to drag a kitchen chair next to the counter, step onto it, and from there step onto the sink. To keep my balance I support myself using the lip of my cupboard door. Each time I shimmy onto the counter to change the clock I tell myself this could be the time the cupboard gives out and I topple backward to my death. I make peace with myself, perform a short ritual of repentance, and start my ascent. So far, I have lived to tell the tale.
Bathtubs and kitchen clocks are quite dangerous, but I don't think they're going to be what kills me in the end. No, the basement stairs are going to have that honor. Steep, dark, and uncarpeted, my stairs are the perfect storm for a trip-and-fall accident. When you consider that I pile crap next to the basement door at the top of the stairs and throw empty boxes down to the bottom, it's pretty much a done deal that I will eventually, one day, eat it to the nth degree, topple down the stairs, and be dead by the time I land arse-up on a used Amazon shipping box. Not a great way to go, but at least I won't be dripping wet and naked.
My great-grandmother actually died from a slip-and-fall accident. There's not much to tell, she slipped, broke something, and then lay on the floor for two days until somebody found her and got her to the hospital. But by then it was too late and I think she died from the shock of it all. Of course, times are different now, and I carry my cell phone on me at all times just to be on the safe side. So if you call and I don't answer, I've probably fallen and am now lying dead or unconscious on the floor. Please come and make sure I'm fully clothed before you call an ambulance. I don't want the cute EMT to see me naked in case I'm only unconscious. A girl always wants to look her best.
*If you are a rapist or murderer, I do NOT live alone. I live with my UFC champion, body-builder husband and our, two pit bulls, three German shepherds, and one doberman pinscher.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Cooking for one
Thanks to the great Spend Less Initiative of 2010, I have started planning and cooking my meals at home. Let me tell you a little something about cooking for one*. It stinks.
Cooking for one is just as hard as cooking for six, with the unhappy side effect of copious amounts of leftovers. I've even tried halving my beloved family recipes and guess what I get? Three servings instead of six. That means that if I cook something on Monday, I'll be eating it until Wednesday. Truth be told, I don't really mind leftovers, but I do mind them when I'm eating them day after day after day.
"Why don't you portion them out and freeze them?" Mom asks.
Been there, done that. Most prepared things don't freeze and reheat as well as you'd suspect, and usually, even after you've let them hang out in the freezer for a couple of weeks, I'm still sick of them from when I ate them fresh out of the oven (three nights in a row).
Sigh.
What is a girl to do?
My friend Carrie bought me an awesome cookbook for Christmas, Cooking for Two. I have yet to try it out (it's much, much fancier than what I'd normally cook for myself--Beef Wellington?!--and uses ingredients I've never dared touch--I'm looking at you, filo dough), but I'm looking forward to trying out some of the recipes in the coming weeks and months. Mostly I'm excited to just eat something twice and be done with it. I'll keep you abreast (heh, breast) of the results as soon as I do.
Now go eat something delicious!
*Cooking for two would be crappy as well, I would imagine, but still not as crappy as cooking for one.
Cooking for one is just as hard as cooking for six, with the unhappy side effect of copious amounts of leftovers. I've even tried halving my beloved family recipes and guess what I get? Three servings instead of six. That means that if I cook something on Monday, I'll be eating it until Wednesday. Truth be told, I don't really mind leftovers, but I do mind them when I'm eating them day after day after day.
"Why don't you portion them out and freeze them?" Mom asks.
Been there, done that. Most prepared things don't freeze and reheat as well as you'd suspect, and usually, even after you've let them hang out in the freezer for a couple of weeks, I'm still sick of them from when I ate them fresh out of the oven (three nights in a row).
Sigh.
What is a girl to do?
My friend Carrie bought me an awesome cookbook for Christmas, Cooking for Two. I have yet to try it out (it's much, much fancier than what I'd normally cook for myself--Beef Wellington?!--and uses ingredients I've never dared touch--I'm looking at you, filo dough), but I'm looking forward to trying out some of the recipes in the coming weeks and months. Mostly I'm excited to just eat something twice and be done with it. I'll keep you abreast (heh, breast) of the results as soon as I do.
Now go eat something delicious!
*Cooking for two would be crappy as well, I would imagine, but still not as crappy as cooking for one.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
The day my life was almost ruined
Before we get started there are two things you should know about me:
1. I love Diet Coke. A lot.
2. When it comes to food, texture is as important as taste. The first (and only) time I had tiramisu I thought the lady fingers would be crispy. Turns out they were soggy, and it totally put me off tiramisu forever. Apples should be crispy, Twinkies should be cake-y, and liquids should not be chunky.
I think you see where I'm going with this.
I've heard horror stories of people ordering fountain drinks, getting to the bottom, and discovering a big, fat cockroach (true story) or something equally horrific at the bottom. Needless to say, I do not want this to happen to me. Particularly when I've just finished enjoying a delicious, cold, fizzy Diet Coke, my drink of choice, my reason for living. One of the worst things that could ever happen to me, lifestyle-ly speaking, is finding a baby's toe or, God forbid, a hobo's tooth in the bottom of my Diet Coke can. It would literally put me off Diet Coke for life. And oh, how sad would I be!
The day after Christmas I headed back over to my mom's house for about the ten billionth time in three days. I brought my full-throttle caffeinated Diet Coke with me (my parents only stock caffeine-free--hey, whatever floats your Diet Coke boat), and had enjoyed the majority of it, down to about the last half inch in the bottom. I went into the kitchen for something (let's be honest, it was probably a snack), came back to my Diet Coke, and tipped my silver baby bottom up. Everything was business as usual until I felt a chunk--A CHUNK--come out of the hole and plop onto my tongue. Understandably shocked and disgusted, I somehow managed to spit the contents of my mouth back into the hole (side note: I hated the larger holes they started putting on soda cans a couple of years ago, but you'd better believe I was grateful for it this day) and ran in a blathering to the garbage can (You know the sound the crazy cat lady makes on The Simpsons? That.). I threw the can in and screamed, "IDON'TKNOWWHATITWASBUTTHEREWAS SOMETHINGINMYSODA!" To which everybody (my mom, sister, and teenage nieces), properly horrified, screamed back, "WHAT WAS IT?!"
Now, maybe you're the kind of person who wants to know what non-soda items fall out of your soda can and into your mouth, but I am not. In this case, ignorance is as blissful as you can get. My mom tried to get my niece to be all stealthy about pulling the can out of the garbage and finding out what the offending item was, but I intercepted, decreeing, "NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO LOOK IN THIS CAN. EVER!"
Then I sat back down on the couch and contemplated the rest of my life. This had huge ramifications on my lifestyle. After this incidence I obviously couldn't drink Diet Coke anymore, at least out of the can. What was I going to do with the fifteen cases of Diet Coke still lining my basement wall? How would I wake up in the morning? What would I have to wash down my breakfast? What would pick me up in the afternoons? What would make my eyes go all big and dreamy, with Diet Coke out of the picture? Is it still acceptable to drink Diet Coke out of a bottle? What if I just pour the contents of the can out into a clear class? Through a strainer? There must be some way out of this disturbing, disgusting mess...
My friends, I fretted over this the rest of that night and all the next day. I still hadn't worked out the finer points when I went out to dinner with my family the next night, so I ordered a water to be on the safe side.
"Why are you ordering a water?" my brother asked.
"Because there was something in her Diet Coke can last night and she's all freaked out," Mom answered for me.
My brother started to laugh, his shoulders shaking.
"I put a piece of cracker in your can last night," he managed to get out. "I totally forgot about it until just now."
If I had caught him in the act of actually putting the cracker in my Diet Coke, I would have given my brother a swift punch in the junk. But now I was so relieved that it wasn't a bug or piece of human appendage that I couldn't be angry.
"You swear it was you?" (I demanded this multiple times over the course of the evening.)
"Yes, I swear it was me," he replied.
I grabbed my mom's Diet Coke and took a huge, long gulp through the straw. After a tenuous twenty-four hour separation, my true love and I were back together at last. And it felt so good.
1. I love Diet Coke. A lot.
2. When it comes to food, texture is as important as taste. The first (and only) time I had tiramisu I thought the lady fingers would be crispy. Turns out they were soggy, and it totally put me off tiramisu forever. Apples should be crispy, Twinkies should be cake-y, and liquids should not be chunky.
I think you see where I'm going with this.
I've heard horror stories of people ordering fountain drinks, getting to the bottom, and discovering a big, fat cockroach (true story) or something equally horrific at the bottom. Needless to say, I do not want this to happen to me. Particularly when I've just finished enjoying a delicious, cold, fizzy Diet Coke, my drink of choice, my reason for living. One of the worst things that could ever happen to me, lifestyle-ly speaking, is finding a baby's toe or, God forbid, a hobo's tooth in the bottom of my Diet Coke can. It would literally put me off Diet Coke for life. And oh, how sad would I be!
The day after Christmas I headed back over to my mom's house for about the ten billionth time in three days. I brought my full-throttle caffeinated Diet Coke with me (my parents only stock caffeine-free--hey, whatever floats your Diet Coke boat), and had enjoyed the majority of it, down to about the last half inch in the bottom. I went into the kitchen for something (let's be honest, it was probably a snack), came back to my Diet Coke, and tipped my silver baby bottom up. Everything was business as usual until I felt a chunk--A CHUNK--come out of the hole and plop onto my tongue. Understandably shocked and disgusted, I somehow managed to spit the contents of my mouth back into the hole (side note: I hated the larger holes they started putting on soda cans a couple of years ago, but you'd better believe I was grateful for it this day) and ran in a blathering to the garbage can (You know the sound the crazy cat lady makes on The Simpsons? That.). I threw the can in and screamed, "IDON'TKNOWWHATITWASBUTTHEREWAS SOMETHINGINMYSODA!" To which everybody (my mom, sister, and teenage nieces), properly horrified, screamed back, "WHAT WAS IT?!"
Now, maybe you're the kind of person who wants to know what non-soda items fall out of your soda can and into your mouth, but I am not. In this case, ignorance is as blissful as you can get. My mom tried to get my niece to be all stealthy about pulling the can out of the garbage and finding out what the offending item was, but I intercepted, decreeing, "NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO LOOK IN THIS CAN. EVER!"
Then I sat back down on the couch and contemplated the rest of my life. This had huge ramifications on my lifestyle. After this incidence I obviously couldn't drink Diet Coke anymore, at least out of the can. What was I going to do with the fifteen cases of Diet Coke still lining my basement wall? How would I wake up in the morning? What would I have to wash down my breakfast? What would pick me up in the afternoons? What would make my eyes go all big and dreamy, with Diet Coke out of the picture? Is it still acceptable to drink Diet Coke out of a bottle? What if I just pour the contents of the can out into a clear class? Through a strainer? There must be some way out of this disturbing, disgusting mess...
My friends, I fretted over this the rest of that night and all the next day. I still hadn't worked out the finer points when I went out to dinner with my family the next night, so I ordered a water to be on the safe side.
"Why are you ordering a water?" my brother asked.
"Because there was something in her Diet Coke can last night and she's all freaked out," Mom answered for me.
My brother started to laugh, his shoulders shaking.
"I put a piece of cracker in your can last night," he managed to get out. "I totally forgot about it until just now."
If I had caught him in the act of actually putting the cracker in my Diet Coke, I would have given my brother a swift punch in the junk. But now I was so relieved that it wasn't a bug or piece of human appendage that I couldn't be angry.
"You swear it was you?" (I demanded this multiple times over the course of the evening.)
"Yes, I swear it was me," he replied.
I grabbed my mom's Diet Coke and took a huge, long gulp through the straw. After a tenuous twenty-four hour separation, my true love and I were back together at last. And it felt so good.
Monday, January 04, 2010
This schedule thing is a success... for now
About two or three weeks ago I devised a schedule for myself in anticipation of the new year. The main objective of said schedule wasn't to increase productivity, duplicate synergy, or any other corporate-speak nonsense. Basically, it was to keep me from slouching on the couch in a dirty shirt all day and make sure I showered on a somewhat regular basis. Behold! Day one has been a success! Here I am showered, dressed, makeup-ed, and smelling like a rose in clean clothes. I am the very picture of hygiene. "So," I can hear you asking yourself (if you're not asking yourself, maybe you'd better start so I don't look like an idiot [like a bigger idiot than I already am, that is]), "what's on this magical schedule of hers that's keeping her one step above 'bag lady' on the hygiene scale?" Well, I shall tell you:
8:00 - get up
8:02 - make bed (note I left two minutes for cursing and bad attitudery*)
8:05 - shower and get ready
8:45 - take care of animals (food, water, change cage liners, etc.)
9:00 - breakfast
9:10 - check email, read blogs, etc. (all my online shenanigans)
9:30 - market myself
10:00 - commence actual paying work
1:00 - lunch!
1:30 - recommence paying work
5:00 - blog (guess where I am in today's schedule!)
5:30 - change clothes (wha--change clothes? Why?)
5:40 - BAM! Treadmill!
6:00 - Make and eat dinner (Shut up, twenty treadmill minutes is better than no treadmill minutes so you can keep your healthy, self-righteous comments to yourself.)
6:30ish - free time! Yayayayay!
10:00 - animal babies get put to bed
10:05 - get ready for bed (contacts, jams, teeth, the usual routine)
10:10 - get into bed and commence reading
10:45 - lights out
I also have a less regimented schedule set up for Saturdays and Sundays, but they're more like to do lists and not interesting at all. Except that Saturday is now my official meal planning and grocery shopping day. I really need to spend less and I waste a veritable bumload of money on eating out. So who has two thumbs and decided to love cooking? This girl!
Anywho, there's really not much point in bragging about sticking to a schedule for one day. I'll let you know how things are looking in one month. I hope I'm still with it then because, frankly, it's just not healthy to sit around in your own filth.
*I realize that many (probably most) people don't have the luxury of getting up 8:00, and I realize how lucky I am. However, you would be in the same boat if you'd just spent the past year and a half waking up whenever you wanted (read: 9:30-10:00), so please don't get all mean and sarcastic with me. 8:00 is the starting point; I'm hoping to eventually turn that into 7:00. But I won't get up any earlier than 7:00, or, as I like to call it, "in the middle of the night."
8:00 - get up
8:02 - make bed (note I left two minutes for cursing and bad attitudery*)
8:05 - shower and get ready
8:45 - take care of animals (food, water, change cage liners, etc.)
9:00 - breakfast
9:10 - check email, read blogs, etc. (all my online shenanigans)
9:30 - market myself
10:00 - commence actual paying work
1:00 - lunch!
1:30 - recommence paying work
5:00 - blog (guess where I am in today's schedule!)
5:30 - change clothes (wha--change clothes? Why?)
5:40 - BAM! Treadmill!
6:00 - Make and eat dinner (Shut up, twenty treadmill minutes is better than no treadmill minutes so you can keep your healthy, self-righteous comments to yourself.)
6:30ish - free time! Yayayayay!
10:00 - animal babies get put to bed
10:05 - get ready for bed (contacts, jams, teeth, the usual routine)
10:10 - get into bed and commence reading
10:45 - lights out
I also have a less regimented schedule set up for Saturdays and Sundays, but they're more like to do lists and not interesting at all. Except that Saturday is now my official meal planning and grocery shopping day. I really need to spend less and I waste a veritable bumload of money on eating out. So who has two thumbs and decided to love cooking? This girl!
Anywho, there's really not much point in bragging about sticking to a schedule for one day. I'll let you know how things are looking in one month. I hope I'm still with it then because, frankly, it's just not healthy to sit around in your own filth.
*I realize that many (probably most) people don't have the luxury of getting up 8:00, and I realize how lucky I am. However, you would be in the same boat if you'd just spent the past year and a half waking up whenever you wanted (read: 9:30-10:00), so please don't get all mean and sarcastic with me. 8:00 is the starting point; I'm hoping to eventually turn that into 7:00. But I won't get up any earlier than 7:00, or, as I like to call it, "in the middle of the night."
Friday, January 01, 2010
A girl can dream: my goals for 2010
I have goal-achievement envy. I keep reading all these bloggers' year-end recaps detailing the goals they set for themselves at the beginning of the year and how they fared in their achievements. Why am I envious? Because I don't even remember what goal(s) I set for myself for 2009, let alone if I achieved them. One of them was probably something like, "Don't fail at my freelancing business," which, I'm happy to say, I achieved. Here I am, still self-employed and not crawling back to my old employer or begging my parents for mortgage money. So yay for that, I guess. But I'm getting off track. My point is I'm going to throw my goals out there for everybody to see so that I can be properly shamed if I fail to meet them by 2011.
Goal #1: Stick to a daily schedule. This means no more getting up at 9:30, going to bed at 1:00, and waiting to eat until I'm so hungry I could rip my arm out of the socket and start gnawing on it. No, no. I will be a woman who lives by a schedule (specifically, the schedule I made two weeks ago in anticipation of this goal).
Goal #2: Shower and get dressed at least six days a week. I'll be honest, if I don't have to go somewhere or have someone coming over, I have very little motivation to shower and get ready. Even I think it's disgusting. How will I achieve this goal? By sticking to my new schedule where I have allotted shower, hair, dressing, and makeup time (see Goal #1).
Goal #3: Use my treadmill. Twenty minutes per day, six days a week, to be precise. I didn't realize the havoc working from home would wreak on my body. I get little to no exercise and it's just not healthy. I'm sure walking twenty minutes a day will do wonders for my health and help keep my unmedicated depression at bay. Huzzah! (also included in Goal #1)
Goal #4: Stop spoiling myself. I'm pretty sure this goes against everything American media is telling us, but seriously, I'm way too indulgent with myself, and I'm sure it's to my own detriment. If I want something, I buy it; if I want take-out, I get it. The problem is it's making my bank account skinny and my butt fat(ter), and I'd actually like the opposite to happen. By not giving in to each and every little whim and fleeting desire, I'll be able to save money. Plus, self-denial is fun, right? RIGHT? Hmm, this goal might not be specific enough. Let's say I'm going to limit my I-want-it purchases to one a month, and eating out alone (because I'd die if I didn't get out for lunch with friends every now and again) to twice a month. I think that sounds stingy enough for now. "Walk before you run" and all that...
Goal #5: Increase client base. I won't bore you with the details, but I need to increase my income. To do that I either need my current clients to give me more work or I need to get some new clients. Now that I think about it, I was actually pretty good at this in 2009. I got two new repeat clients and three or four one-timers. For 2010 I'm going to shoot for one two new repeat clients and three one-timers. Imma make that happen with increased, regular marketing (time already allotted in daily schedule from Goal #1) and a spanky new website (currently under construction by Make My Blog Pretty).
Goal #6: Work on financial preparedness. At one point I actually had six months' of living expenses saved up. Yeah, not anymore (see Goal #4). So this is actually a two-part goal; get six months' worth of living expenses saved back up, and, once that's done, open a retirement account, transfer my two 401k's into it, and start contributing 10% of my net income to it. This is mighty ambitious of me. We'll see how I do.
Goal #7: Get Milo 100% house broken. He's already 90% of the way there, so this shouldn't be too hard to do. As soon as I'm satisfied that he's all the way there, I will have the carpet professionally cleaned as a reward. (Lest you think I've been walking on pee-saturated carpet, please know I have been diligently and regularly cleaning my carpets. I just think a professional cleaning will handle the deep cleaning my little cleaner can't.) (I hope this doesn't violate Goal #4...)
And there you have my seven goals for 2010! Lucky, most of them are just smaller parts of a larger goal, but they're all important and I think will ultimately be good for me.
Oh, how I hate things that are good for me.
Goal #1: Stick to a daily schedule. This means no more getting up at 9:30, going to bed at 1:00, and waiting to eat until I'm so hungry I could rip my arm out of the socket and start gnawing on it. No, no. I will be a woman who lives by a schedule (specifically, the schedule I made two weeks ago in anticipation of this goal).
Goal #2: Shower and get dressed at least six days a week. I'll be honest, if I don't have to go somewhere or have someone coming over, I have very little motivation to shower and get ready. Even I think it's disgusting. How will I achieve this goal? By sticking to my new schedule where I have allotted shower, hair, dressing, and makeup time (see Goal #1).
Goal #3: Use my treadmill. Twenty minutes per day, six days a week, to be precise. I didn't realize the havoc working from home would wreak on my body. I get little to no exercise and it's just not healthy. I'm sure walking twenty minutes a day will do wonders for my health and help keep my unmedicated depression at bay. Huzzah! (also included in Goal #1)
Goal #4: Stop spoiling myself. I'm pretty sure this goes against everything American media is telling us, but seriously, I'm way too indulgent with myself, and I'm sure it's to my own detriment. If I want something, I buy it; if I want take-out, I get it. The problem is it's making my bank account skinny and my butt fat(ter), and I'd actually like the opposite to happen. By not giving in to each and every little whim and fleeting desire, I'll be able to save money. Plus, self-denial is fun, right? RIGHT? Hmm, this goal might not be specific enough. Let's say I'm going to limit my I-want-it purchases to one a month, and eating out alone (because I'd die if I didn't get out for lunch with friends every now and again) to twice a month. I think that sounds stingy enough for now. "Walk before you run" and all that...
Goal #5: Increase client base. I won't bore you with the details, but I need to increase my income. To do that I either need my current clients to give me more work or I need to get some new clients. Now that I think about it, I was actually pretty good at this in 2009. I got two new repeat clients and three or four one-timers. For 2010 I'm going to shoot for one two new repeat clients and three one-timers. Imma make that happen with increased, regular marketing (time already allotted in daily schedule from Goal #1) and a spanky new website (currently under construction by Make My Blog Pretty).
Goal #6: Work on financial preparedness. At one point I actually had six months' of living expenses saved up. Yeah, not anymore (see Goal #4). So this is actually a two-part goal; get six months' worth of living expenses saved back up, and, once that's done, open a retirement account, transfer my two 401k's into it, and start contributing 10% of my net income to it. This is mighty ambitious of me. We'll see how I do.
Goal #7: Get Milo 100% house broken. He's already 90% of the way there, so this shouldn't be too hard to do. As soon as I'm satisfied that he's all the way there, I will have the carpet professionally cleaned as a reward. (Lest you think I've been walking on pee-saturated carpet, please know I have been diligently and regularly cleaning my carpets. I just think a professional cleaning will handle the deep cleaning my little cleaner can't.) (I hope this doesn't violate Goal #4...)
And there you have my seven goals for 2010! Lucky, most of them are just smaller parts of a larger goal, but they're all important and I think will ultimately be good for me.
Oh, how I hate things that are good for me.
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