The Miracle of Age 21

Having become a hardened old woman in my homeowner status, I truly feel authority in saying it is a damn miracle that most people make it past age 20. Because the fates willed it, our big move (which, thank you Jeebus, is complete) coincided with opening weekend at Saratoga the opening of the dorms at SFA and the start of school. That being the case, coupled with the fact that everything in Nacogdoches basically lies along one main drag meant that for every trip we made between old house and new, and we made many, we were forced to reckon with an endless parade of teen drivers who were anxious to wreck their new cars (thanks Mom and Dad!).

How ridiculous did it get? Well, last Friday on our way out to dinner, a girl completely cut off Matt to get in the turn lane so that he had to slam on the brakes to miss her. Then, she didn't get her car completely in the turn lane, so we couldn't go forward because there was traffic in the next lane and no other way to go around her. So she was holding up traffic here and had cut us off and after a minute or so, Matt starts honking for her to get out of the way, which she had ample room to do. And honking and honking--still she sits. Finally, she points to her cell phone and mouths "I'M ON THE PHONE!" Oh, our mistake! Sorry to interrupt your call! Way to prioritize.

And stuff like that happened all weekend as I white-knuckled my way from north to south, praying that hauling a load of dirty laundry and cleaning supplies wouldn't ultimately cost me the use of my limbs.

Even this morning, an anxious teen hot-footing her way out of town kept swerving her giant jeep from lane to slightly faster moving lane, tailgating every car and big rig in the hopes of arriving at wherever approximately 14 seconds earlier than the rest of us slackers.

So what's the lesson here? I'm not too sure, but I do want to say that I have a new understanding of why the drinking age is 21. I guess people figure--what the hell--if you can live through your ridiculous teens and another year on top of that, driving among your peers and making absurd suppositions about the world around you, why not add alcohol and see if you'll still live? 22-year-olds, my hat is off to you.

I don't want no scrubs.

"A scrub is a faux uniform that can't get no love from me..."

Why do so many people think that it's acceptable to wear scrubs to work?

Here are the people who may wear scrubs (in my elitist opinion):
Doctors and Nurses who are in contact with patients almost exclusively, esp. surgeons, but not school nurses
Dentists and Dental Hygienists (iffy)
Veterinarians and Veterinary Assistants

That pretty much covers it.

But now, it's like if you ever handle anything not pristine, like an unwieldy child or a chart with health records or God forbid---food, you are granted scrubs-wearing authority. Doctors' secretaries, day care providers, dog walkers, occupational therapists, special education teachers, opticians (not even just optometrists!), cafeteria workers, and the list goes on. Apparently, even if you are just in the proximity of anything that throws up or could be thrown up, or know someone who has thrown up, you are entitled to wear scrubs as part of your job. I am not for this. I'm not for it at all. It's like wearing Thanksgiving pants at regular meals. There ARE casual clothes that aren't pajamas/Garfield-print broadcloth in unisex sizing, people. I am fine with jeans! I say okay to comfy and attractive tees and polos! I am pro-comfort.

But what are we when our entire workforce is reduced to scrubs? I think the name is self-explanatory. Scrubs. Please stop wearing these.

The Precariousness of the Mighty

It's hard not to think less of someone you imagine to be very highbrow when you ask them about their favorite restaurant and the first place they mention is an all-you-can-eat buffet. Or as the popular terminology might require all-"u"-can-eat. It's not that I would dislike anyone on this basis alone, but having this information, it is very difficult to grant them a lofty position in the hierarchy of "peops whose opinion you respect."

Same goes for anyone who says their favorite place to shop is Dress Barn or anything involving the word "barn."

Mixed Vegetables. Mixed Metaphors. Mixed Bag.

Who? What? I hardly know where I am today. Matt and I, and in no small way the mighty Jen, managed to move everything from a house that was totally (mostly) up and functioning Friday morning into another house (woo woo!) that is somewhat functioning, save the fact that our "refrigerator" consists of a rapidly warming Igloo cooler with gatorade and beer, by Sunday afternoon.

I spent yesterday cleaning my heart out at the old house, only to finish five out of nine rooms. The four remaining rooms--office, bedroom, living room, and kitchen, are real doozies though and are haunted by that horrible debris that remains when most of your stuff is packed and gone (and with it your will to keep going), but what remains you can't quite throw out either. Plus, if you're married to Matt, which I am, there is no shortage of bullet shells, loose change, used ear plugs, tiny unidenitifiable metal parts, and official looking papers that have been through the laundry a few times scattered about everywhere.

And speaking of loose change, I just have to mention the little promo for Loose Change Radio that comes on umpteen times a day on our NPR station. They really need to re-do it. They use "mouth-watering combination platter" in concert with "loose change from the streets" and the result is a horrible image of what Luby's would be like if they served LuAnn platters heaping with the contents of Matt's pockets. It makes me want to puke and never, ever listen to the show. However many things money is--it's not delicious.

I hope my refrigerator comes today. I am pretty sick of being in purgatory, but tra-la! tra-li! we're moved! and though I jumped the gun before, I am truly a home-o now! Whee.

Poised for Greatness and a Sword Fight

Friends, you are just the best!

Your great birthday wishes coming at me every direction all day have been like a magical shield and helmet that...well, I don't actually know where I am going with this imagery. I just feel like I felt this huge wave of protective, bad-news-fending-off love wash over me today as so many friends bid me health, wealth, and happiness in my newly-minted 27-ness. It was kind of like putting on armor for all the less magical stuff that can potentially lie in your path. Maybe that is why August is hard--my yearly magical shield is starting to wear off--so thank you, thank you for bestowing another one on me. The future is bright!

We're set to close on our house next week and soon, Li'l Zippy and I will hit the open road together again. And Chrissy and I will go to WFTDA nationals! And Pens and Jen will get married! And Matt and I will be celebrating our first anniversary! And Meg and Danny will get married! And Piney Woods Roller Derby will begin their inaugural season! And many, many more such happy moments will be around every corner because another magical year in underway this auspicious day. Thank you friends for the terrific send-off and for being such a constant blessing in my life.

Love, love, love,
MaryT, 27, and feelin' sassy

In Honor of my Birthday

...and the recent comments about this once popular post:

The time I was an infant at age 25. Enjoy.

Another Reading from the Book of Job

Don't worry--it's not too bad. It's just sometimes, well, damn!

This morning Matt went to the termite inspection of our potential house and afterward, drove straight to my work in Lufkin to tell me the bad news. No! We don't have termites (that's good news), but we do have bulldozers and dump trucks in our soon-to-be front yard.

You see, our lot that we will soon own was, for the last fifty years my neighborhood has existed, a very, very large lot with only one house on a sea of green grass and wide open space. Whee! But then the guy who re-did the inside of our house (and good job there--it's pristine) decided the house would be more sellable and he could make a lot more cash if he divided the lots and sold them individually. In the beginning, our intention was to buy that extra lot, but when *someone* got into a car accident and it appeared that we *might* have to front the cash for repairs ourselves, we backed off for a few days. Then someone bought it out from under our noses. Rar. Fine, fine, fine--what are they gonna do, build on it?

You guessed it, sister. And five feet from our house. How ironic that one of the reasons we had just fled Houston and were so loving Nacogdoches was the lack of all the irritating noise and constant construction. And now, for the first time in 50 years, there will be a new house on Shirley Street in Nacogdoches. And it will be next to mine. Extremely next to it. And just as we move in. And goodbye extra frolicking area.

I wonder if I can sue the car wreck guy for emotional damages because we were unable to procure the lot next to our house? I now extra dislike him.

Boo. Hiss. Grrrr. But hey, we don't have termites. So that's a clear win. Yay!

P.S. My birthday is tomorrow.

A Little Tap Dance about Bumper Stickers

I know I am not the boss of all bumper stickers, but I do consider myself sort of an aficionado, so maybe I should be.

In the last two days, I have come across some stickers that utterly bamboozled me, especially the part when I imagined someone purchasing it and then going to the trouble of actually putting in on their car.

The one I saw this morning "It's Alright to be Li'l Bitty!" on a PT Cruiser (not a Geo Metro or so) really baffled me. Yes, I have nothing substantial against midgets. It is fine to be small. Well done, wee ones. But you bought a sticker to convey this message when it is not controversial or funny or even conversational? It reminds me of another one I see fairly occasionally in Nac that says "Little Girl. Big Truck." Great. Thanks for helping out my eyes with that observation. I might have missed that--or even not cared enough to notice. Actually, I still don't care.

Then there are the kind that really get my ire up. Like I often see this old Granther in Lufkin driving around with the big red 700 Club-sponsored "Marriage = men's restroom symbol + women's restroom symbol." What is the thinking that goes into this one? I know! "I am old and hateful. Let me further my hateful intolerance to all those I can trap behind me at 11 mph! [cackle]" Also, I like that these little revelations on vinyl stick with the neutrality of the restroom symbol where all parties are white and modestly covered and women are known by their dress-wearing. Nothing says filthy, unGodly fornication to me like those artist-formerly-known-as-Prince-type symbols, or women who wear pants, so you can just forget that! (Note: I like dresses and appreciate the option, but on the whole, pants are a lot more sensible for most tasks.)

So I was talking about bumper stickers... I guess, like my feelings about making one's vehicle a shrine to the dead I really just don't understand what people are thinking when they put certain messages on their car. But my stunning revelation of just now (yes, just now--don't judge harshly as I do!) is that I can never hope to understand the Beanie Baby dash collections either, nor the giganto spoilers, and if I may extrapolate--any rationale for "Kountry Kitchen"-type wallpaper in one's home. So to all you Confederate Battle Flag-displaying peops, well, I will continue to not ram you, even if I want to.

Fools Gladly Suffered Here

I guess it's my personality or something, but I seem to attract the weirdest people, or at the very least, the oddest comments leveled at my general self. I don't mean as far as friends go. My friends are tops and can beat up your friends any day. I am talking about general people I come across. I can never have an incident with a stranger that's just like, "Oh, you wanted that can of soup? Let me move out of your way." "Yes, thank you." No, someone always has to throw a tantrum or mutter a spell under their breath or be wearing a cloak or have an imaginary friend or something.

Take this morning. The old blue monster rental car, henceforth referred to as "Blue Meany" ran out of gas on my way to work and that is always kind of a bummer of a situation. The two gas stations en route are kind of like fric or frac in the amenities department. Neither offers pay-at-the-pump, as both have pumps that harken to a simpler time (read: much less convenient time when cars only had top speeds of 45 mph), and they both have very suspicious counter attendants who have determined that I am going to rob them or otherwise commit some type of felony until I prove otherwise. Also, they're kind of filthy and creepy.

So choosing the Citgo for it's proximity, I roll in and pump my gas. When I go in to pay, holding only my credit card, dressed for work and looking rather perky and alert for 8:15 am, the clerk blasts at me "YOU MUST PAY FIRST!" Um, really, because there was no sign that said that and the pump seemed to work and HEY! here I am PAYING and not driving off. So, can we move on? What I actually said though was "Oh really? I'm sorry, I didn't know...Pump 4 please," and handed my credit card over.

"YOU MUST PRESENT ID!"

Damn. There sure are a lot of rules here. So I say "well, it's in the car, do I need to get it?" Um, yes Mary. You have to go get it.

"YOU MUST PRESENT ID!"

Right, let me just go get that. After returning with my ID, the clerk then examined it for like 5 minutes instead of appreciating the fact that, here I am, a young lady dressed for work, willing to produce ID if called upon, and not driving off with gas. And he eyes me suspiciously and says "Nacogdoches, eh?"

Yes, that's very suspicious considering I am one mile over from my home county. But I just say "Yep."

He then says "Your ID looks like you have an H last name, which doesn't match, but I guess you don't."

At this point, I am just like "Dude. No. There have never been any H's in my name. My credit card is legit. My ID is legit. Can you just give the old thing a slide on your adding machine and I'll be off to other criminal treachery elsewhere?" Well, once again I didn't say that. I just sort of stand there looking bland.

Finally, he lets me sign the receipt and when after doing so, I reach for the bottom copy, he says "Ah, ah, ah! I have to do it!" and grabs it from me, then re-hands it to me. Yeah. Then he urges me to have a good day. Right-o.

The thing is, I kind of enjoy experiences like this because if people weren't so wonderfully weird, I'd have little to write about here. So indeed, fools are suffered here--grudgingly in the present and gladly in retrospect. I guess I have my own weird rules, too.

Have a nice day!

Fresh Roasted Task List

You may have noticed some aesthetic changes at French Roast. I know I promised you these long ago, but as usual, they're still not finished. The truth of it is that the only reason these got finished and posted just now is I just didn't feel like packing.

As those of you who have helped me move can attest (and that's a fair few of you), I am terrible at it. I hate it. I spit on it. It makes me emotional. But i usually shred a lot of papers and get a lot of other random tasks dusted off. So that's pretty good I guess.

Anywho, let me know what you think of the new look and ways I can improve it. The repeating background image is not smooth enough for me yet, but that's just a first draft. Also, can we agree that the side bar also needs a border? I'll work on that during my next move. :)

Also, I just found $20. Huzzah!

Rental Car Most Foul

Well, Matt picked up the rental car today and all I can really do is thumb my nose at it.

Aside from looking like this:



(which is disappointing enough on its own)

It smells like this:



+


(Yes, that's a fabric softener robot)

Add that the cup holders are sticky and the fabric on the seats is deteriorating and I am even more heartsick for the pristine, shiny, red L.Zippy and wanting to send Mr. Pfizer Salesman a special delivery from dogdoo.com.

Also, I feel like some kind of victim of advertising that I miss my car so much and have eerily personified it. But if you drove LZ ever, you'd understand. Even Matt misses LZ.

Come home soon LZ.

Crazin' Up UR Internets

By happenstance, the following two photos came to my attention independent of one another this week. They're really funny I think, but it seems like they have a common joke that quite eludes me.

Anyone want to hazard a guess?

Best of= The Clear Mediocre Champion

Chrissy recently wrote about our local paper's 2007 "Best of Nacogdoches" and despite my wholehearted agreement with her assessment of the "contest," I still feel the need to put my $0.02 in--and so I will.

For one thing, I'd like to encourage all young persons to keep their chin up. I was intimately involved (a little too intimately for my taste) with the 2006 Houston Press "Best of Houston" and I have to tell you that giant city or rural hamlet: people have universally lame taste. That is, unlike Nacogdochians who wisely selected Java Jack's for Best Coffeehouse, Houston Press readers, who smugly and most inaccurately considered themselves the sophisticated urban elite, selected Starbucks for Best Coffeehouse--as they have for at least the nine years that I've been a reader of it.

On the other hand, I frequently see "Best of" awards displayed at places like Sonic who garnered an overwhelming victory in "Best Drive-in Restaurant." This is not surprising since, to my knowledge, it is the ONLY Drive-in Restaurant in these here Piney Woods. So my question is: is it really an achievement? Is it quite necessary to have a category in which the only contenders are mediocre national chains? I do see the wisdom in having a category in which the only choice is a local independently-owned business because currently, American laws hate small business and we need to throw a little love their way for any reason and every reason if we possibly can. Then again, there's little truth to giving (and you'll forgive me as I've spent many a night there) Skatarama best skating rink. I don't care if it's the only one. It's exceptionally crappy--and I know they can do better. Just look at how rock and rolly the Lufkin branch is?

Back to this contest...
Pizza Hut wins Best Pizza? Auntie Pastas wins Best Italian Food? ICK. I nominate them in the worst service category only.

It seems like this "Best of" trend is becoming very big in every town large enough to have a newspaper and many of the awards are certainly well-merited. Yet, I disagree with this kind of endorsement as a whole because as I said right off: most people have universally lame taste and it sure would be sad if our "Best of" winners were the ones that we put forth as the epitome of what is fine and wonderful in our lovely town, not known for fine dining or cheap lube jobs, necessarily, but a glorious nearness to nature and kind, honest, everyday people (with universally lame taste, granted).

It's so hot in Texas in August....

How hot is it, Mary?

Look, I know you're tired of hearing me complain about how brutally hot it is here--especially since some of you loyal readers also live here, but I just got my electricity bill and I need to speak up about it.

June/July electricity bill: ~$150
July/August electricity bill: $300

And we keep our house at a sultry 82 most of the time, but I guess it takes a LOT of kW hours to bring it down from freaking 106. I am impressed that in the era of hoop skirts and girdles that people didn't crawl into holes in August. I would have needed a fainting couch in every room.

Not for All the Tea in China

However bad my week got off, I have to feel worse for the Chinese. With the way they are manufacturing these days, I'm kind of impressed that they yet have a population problem as they are apparently on a mission to poison and disfigure the innocent of America.

Consider: the poisoned dog food, the anti-freeze toothpaste, the lead painted children's toys (multiple recalls there), and the new magnet crisis in which more than one swallowed magnet could lead to major intestinal damage.

Maybe next we can look forward to unfired earthenware tea sets, and arsenic-laced icing for birthday cakes. I mean, sure arsenic shouldn't be in icing to begin with, but I don't generally gargle with automotive fluids either.

Good luck, Chinese kids!

Cheer Up, Charlie

It's a great day for self-righteousness. The insurance company just granted me a rental until my car is fixed. Boo-yiggety-yah. The seller of our Virginia Ave. house just called Matt and made a total butthole of himself trying to get us to buy his house, but wouldn't come off the price at all, despite his total desperation. Conclusion= lunatic avoided. Phew!

Also, I am really making headway in the Ed Room and soon mouse droppings will be no more and many freshly-sharpened pencils neatly arranged will stare up at me and thank for my "place for everything" m.o.

And finally, there's The Daily Puppy! I have this little gem on my iGoogle and it usually makes me feel like a great human being.


Puppy anyone?

All Hell Breaks Loose or Shiny Zippy, I Hardly Knew Ye

As per rule of thumb, in MaryT-land, when it rains, baby it pours. Ready for the bad news of yesterday?

First, Matt called me to tell me our house appraisal (remember our palatial Virginia Ave. bungalow?) came in and the seller said "No way in hell I'm selling it for that price." Thank you, eloquent sir. May your deteriorated roof leak and termites haunt your dreams, you greedy, greedy bastard.

Second, Li'l Zippy, gorgeously shined and polished and purring on a fresh oil change and full tank of gas was rear-ended by a sizable car right into another sizable car. The result, two cars drove away from the accident with hardly a scratched bumper and old LZ, well, baby LZ doesn't look so hot with a smashed in front grill, a buckled hood, and front and rear bumpers hanging on by a thread.

The thing is, I had this terrible feeling that that guy was going to hit me. He was a Pfizer salesman and every image you are conjuring up of the perfectly-suited douchebag for that job is dead on. (Slimey even hit on me! YUCK!) At the previous light (oh, did I mention I was hit at about 25 mph while at a complete stop at a light? I was.), I heard a terrible screeching sound only to look behind me and see a man on a cell phone practically sitting in my back seat his car was so close to mine. I made up my mind to switch lanes asap to avoid him. At the light, I knew I'd have my chance because when it turned green, he sat there because hey--he wasn't paying attention! Patiently waiting at the next light, turning my head to see if there was room to get ov---WHAM! Mr. Pfizer had found his gas pedal. Crap.

One of the sarcastically best parts of this experience was that I was essentially across the street from the police department when it happened, yet it took them an HOUR to show up. An HOUR. In August. In the afternoon. And lest you forget, it took TWO patrol cars about 30 seconds to show up when we were gaily setting off fireworks in a parking lot on New Year's Eve. Further, I got pulled over and given the third degree one evening about a month ago when I had a headlamp go dim, so let me remind you that it's rather improbable that the entire department was bogged down with heavy crime-busting at just that moment.

Of course, two guys did try to rob us the other night by knocking on our front door at 11 p.m. and demanding to Matt that he open the front door. Meanwhile, Molly T howled her head off at a suspicious person in our side yard who disturbed her slumber. Matt watched as knocking-on-door guy and side yard guy convened at the parking lot across the street after our refusal to open the door and Molly's insistent verbal warnings, apparently deciding not to rob us. So that's good news in the grand scheme I guess.

But did I mention our landlord has rented our house starting September 1? So, if it looks like homelessness is inevitable, I'll be sure to keep you posted on that as well. Happily, the new tenant likes our freaking awesome goldfish pond though, so we have been given a reprieve on filling it in. Three cheers for small victories.

Well, now I'm off to the Education Room where I continue (Day 3) to clean up fabric paint from the 70s amid a sea of mouse droppings. Photos of all coming soon. Whee!

Sincerely,
Job

P.S. I am wondering if, in fact, hell has truly broken loose. For one thing, it's hot enough. The heat index today is anticipated to reach 110. (sigh.) Matt was just saying last night how, after being a lifetime Texan and knowing full well that it gets intolerably hot here, August is shocking EVERY year. Your body can't remember how brutal it is until it's upon you, maybe a little like how women remember child birth as painful, but don't recall the intense pain of it until it has come on again. Maybe it's better this way or Texas will go vacant.

The second thing is, heat aside, August is always a very trying month for me, though it always seems to precede a wonderful fall awakening of happiness and wonder (good news!). I'm wondering if it's like an annual test before I am admitted to my birthday? "Ah yes, you definitely deserve to have another year under your belt old sport!" Well, I hate to tempt the gods and all, but baby BRING IT! MaryT is ready. But I might cry some.

Democrats for Irony

On Sunday, I spent a great deal of time sprucing up old Li'l Zippy. It was a tedious task, to be sure and I sweated buckets, but after a little bit of elbow grease and some quality time with the vacuum, LZ was shining like a diamond and I kind of felt like I was driving a limo later when Matt and I went to the movies. Anywho, the instigator of LZ's sprucing up was a sticker I just ordered and got in the mail of "Republicans for Voldemort." It really is the best because it's funny and catchy and conveys my political leanings and love for Harry Potter so succinctly, so I figured I needed a clean back window to put it on--and while I was at it, why not the whole of LZ?

The sticker has been, to say the least, very well received. People have given brief horn toots and waves in appreciation of it--kind of. I mean, they have been doing this, but I think the finer points of the message elude them. You see, most of the people who honk and wave have some sort of "Republicans for XYZ" sticker on their cars, or W stickers, or "I support the war" stickers. Yes, they see "Republicans" and count me as their own, which I guess says a lot about the way they vote, too. It's extremely odd.

Having never been a Republican before, nor still, I never knew what it would be like to be accepted by the Grand Old Party and nestled in their suffocating bosom. And I have to say, it's hilariously nice. Everyone loves me. Democrats think I'm funny and Republicans like to see their name on vinyl. I can't lose! This bumper sticker is better than I thought and we're only on day 3 of my having had it.

It's great to be loved! Republicans for Voldemort indeed!

The Benevolent Inventor Speaks

I got this quiz from Stonceipher's blog. It's neato, but it was like 800 pages of quiz. Take it at your own risk!


Mouse over the different colors to see what they mean. Neato!

Please Hang Up and Dial Again

Buying a house is a lot like playing the game Telephone. You call your realtor and your realtor calls the other guy's realtor who calls the seller and then the message comes back again--if you're lucky. Then the mortgage company and the inspector and the appraiser get involved and there are even more rules about who can talk to whom and exactly who owns what information. No wonder it takes at least three weeks to close on a house. It's a wonder it doesn't take three years.

As of Friday before last, the deal on our house looked like it was going to fall through, but we had to hear from the appraiser to know for sure. Well, he came out Monday and then took every minute of five days to get his report handed in to his boss who was contracted by our mortgage company who "owns" the appraisal. So as of Saturday morning, no one had "officially" seen the appraisal which apparently stated that the house did not meet the appraisal, yet everyone seemed to know that it didn't--except us, who were apparently responsible for communicating it to our realtor and the seller's realtor and also the seller, once the mortgage company told us, that is. Yet they knew? But that is only assuming that the contractor for the mortgage company had handed over the report that the sub-contractor (the actual appraiser) had written. So here it is Sunday and Matt and I can't do a darn thing, until tomorrow when this whole thing starts up again and we have to find out if the seller will negotiate further or if we have to pull out and buy our back-up house, which is looking better than ever with its lack of involved parties. But even so, we have to wait until the seller hears the official appraisal and says yay or nay, so we can back up and call our lender and re-do our home loan and then submit an offer and wait to hear back from the other seller. And round and round we go.

My main hope, aside from not being homeless on September 1, is that in the end we aren't buying a used wedding dress on eBay instead of a 3-bedroom house. After all, something is bound to get lost in translation. Oy.

Siriusly Hot

Well, it's the dog days of summer and you know what that means--all the world's on summer holiday-- at least the part of the world that is in the Northern Hemisphere and can afford it.

But what are the dog days? Well, I once thought they were the days so hot that we all had to lay around like dogs to keep from death. While possibly true, the actual origin of the terms is from the ancient Romans, who called them caniculares dies (days of the dogs) for the days during which Sirius (the dog star and brightest star--to us-- aside from our sun) rose just before or with the sun on the horizon each day.

According to Wikipedia:Popularly believed to be an evil time "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies" (from Brady’s Clavis Calendarium, 1813).

So those Romans were really onto something, right? I'm feeling languid, hysterical, and frenzied. I attribute this in part to the weather report on NPR every day. Adam Giblen on our NPR station has been coming on telling us it's going to be hot and sunny with a heat index of 103 or 104 pretty much every day for weeks now. Hearing it every day is another nail in the summer coffin of death and humidity. It would be better if he just said something like "Well, it's Texas in the summer. What the heck do you think the weather is going to be like you damn fool? Go swimming!No weather report until September! Whee!"

And swimming, I feel, is maybe the antidote to all of life's problems, especially as they trouble you in this hot, hot time. This is that part of the summer during which most people with any sense just throw in the towel and say "eff this, I'm not taking my bathing suit off for the next two weeks!" This also explains my hysteria and frenzy since Chrissy and I were woefully noting last night that we had each only been swimming once the whole summer and it was together at ye olde swimmin' hole--that of the biting fish. That was a heck of an outing to be sure, but people. People. People. What of toobing? What of leisure in Barton Springs? Rained out at every turn! Where is the tire swing into the lake? Where is the grandmotherly type calling us in from the back door to eat ice cream and lemonade and tuna fish sandwiches? Yes, I'm living in a Country Time lemonade ad, but what of it? It's time for a little nap. It's time for some R & R and watery recreation and I will have it!

Fortunately, I won't be traveling this weekend as I have almost the entire summer. Friends, it was great seeing you, but the time for eating popsicles on my *own* front porch is now. Chrissy and I are plotting another outing to ye olde swimmin' hole on Sunday with our own siriusly cool dogs in celebration of August being our month because of our August birthdays.

And that brings me to my birthday which is two weeks from yesterday (and Chrissy's, which was yesterday). So, can anyone get me a swimming pool or so? That'd be rad. 27, here I come. Woo hoo!

P.S. Also according to Wikipedia: The Romans sacrificed a brown dog at the beginning of the Dog Days to appease the rage of Sirius, believing that that star was the cause of the hot, sultry weather, but please: don't do this. They may have been right about the heat causing hysterics, but let's take their advice with a grain of salt in consideration of the fact that they were also fond of vomitoriums.

Wanted: Self-Starter

You know how a lot of job ads say that they're looking for self-starters and a bunch of other biz world malarkey that makes you want to chuck the paper or the computer, or whatever you're reading from? Well, I was always that way until I had to actually manage people and now I think I can empathize with those poor, hapless middle managers. Allow me to explain.

I recently took a survey for Matt's business communications class that asked some questions about managing people. And even though Matt fudged the results because he and I filled out all the surveys to cover the multi-generations his teacher was looking for, I learned that when I answered truthfully, I am uncomfortable managing older people. And before my current position, I don't think I would have answered the same way but it's only because I sort of thought that this type of person was more like a unicorn than a well, horse, I guess. The idea of a non-self-starter mystified me and one older than you? Why--what in heck is a self-starter anyway?

My new understanding of it is someone who doesn't need to have their hand held through every step of the day. It's just odd to think of explaining how to complete a task to someone who is easily old enough to be your grandmother or great grandmother. And I don't mean figuring out the remote control or troubleshooting a troublesome (cough, cough unplugged) computer. I am talking about basic problem solving here--the way in which you might instruct an 8-year-old to look for his mittens by re-tracing his steps. No technology involved, see? It's truly exasperating to explain this process to adults who are practically *back* in diapers again and what's worse is that when I try to sort of extend the length of the stick from which the carrot dangles, teaching the proverbial man to fish if you will, I feel like I am going to be grounded for having a smart mouth with my Gran or something.

I notice myself saying things like "aaaaaaand?" a lot and it seems so incredibly rude, I want to smack myself. On the other hand, I really don't understand why I am expected, nay, begged to micromanage. I'm routinely handed short factual statements to which I feel unnecessarily privy.

(as I rush to stand on my head for other job duties)
"Mary, we need ice and it's in the chapel kitchen."
"Okay..."

I then kind of shift my eyes around until I understand that I am expected to stop what I am doing and explain exactly how ice can be obtained. Unfortunately, my answer usually turns out something like "So....can you walk down there and get it?" It seems like a really assy thing to say, right? I think so, too, but I swear to heck those kinds of "revelations" often make eyes light up in understanding. "Ah, so this is what must be done! Bravo!"

And when I present a typed document, it's like in The Gods Must Be Crazy when the coke bottle falls out of the sky.
"What is THIS?!"
"Well, it's a typed list of..."
"TYPED?!" (swoon.)

I'm really baffled by all of this and a little embarrassed, honestly, even if this is 11ty billion% improvement over the emo-youth-culture-obsessed media conglomerate-that-knows-everything that once was my employer.

But still--I'm looking for some self-starters that will roll their eyes when I bring up TPS report covers and hit the printer with a baseball bat when it says "PC LOAD LETTER." Think you can manage?

The Exclamity Era Comes to a Screeching Halt

I know you've all been enjoying my outpouring of good news in the past few months and even year-ish. I'm getting married! I got a new job I love! We bought a house! My dog is in the newspaper! (Well, she was on the web site.) But face it, the ones of you who will be honest were sitting back hoping my toilet would back up or something, weren't you? No, but seriously, I know that with the exception of the occasional odd duck ex-boyfriend who likes to stalk me, most of you are truly happy for my exciting life benchmarks--and thank you so very, very much. You're my favorite, too.

Unfortunately, life is never always sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows all the time, which is fine. I love a little melancholy; I really do. But all this is to say I have a bit of cruddy news. Our stately Craftsman bungalow house is probably not going to be our house. :( After the seller accepted the contract and all and we had the inspection, a lot of faults started coming to light--including the fact that based on its condition, the house price was about double what it was worth and well over twice what was paid for it only one year ago. So after attempting to negotiate with the seller over the last week, sinking in some earnest money, a house inspection, a termite inspection, and an appraisal, it looks like we may be walking away from the Virginia house of dreams, money pit though it was, minus about $500 and shattered dreams in hand. We'll know for sure by the end of this week.

The good news is that our devoted realtor may have found us a sure thing house in its stead, so despite having given notice on our house, we likely *won't* be homeless at the end of August--BONUS! It's not the Craftsman bungalow of my vintage dreams, but it will certainly pass muster I think. Hope. Anywho, no more news until the closing is signed, sealed, and delivered. Anything less might break my heart. Just wanted to update for those of you (ahem, Sonnie) who were chomping at the bit for full-color photos and a virtual tour. :)

MRT Unplugged

Remember when being "unplugged" was cool? Yes, in the early-to-mid-90s, making an acoustic album was definitely the way for an alternative band to get some cred. Being unplugged certainly worked out for Neo and Zion and what have you. But you know who it doesn't work for? It doesn't work for laptops. No, they all need to be plugged in sometimes. And when they aren't, you might think that they're broken or crashed or spun into orbit or something. But you (I) would be wrong.

So let me just say it. My allegedly crashed laptop, Lazarus Lappy 5000 as it will henceforth be known, was actually just unplugged. After working myself up into a fury because I had lost all my data and then determining I would resurrect the damn thing, I began steps to reset the PRAM and other fancy-type tricks--to no avail. It was then that my dear husband, inspecting the power cord which dangled precariously above the power strip, which I must claim (for some amount of face-saving sake) apppeared to be plugged in from a cursory glance, was not plugged in. Cord in, power on, laptop lives. A miracle!

Smack Bauer rightly threw a pen at me when I made this announcement at craft night (mortified though I was to own it) because there was a point, I think 1997 or so, at which time not figuring out that your computer didn't work because it was unplugged became the joke of the world. Like the people who call tech support and claim that their cup holder/cd-rom drive is malfunctioning. Like the woman who (according to Sonnie) was using her mouse as a sewing machine foot pedal. Yes, this is the stuff help tickets and urban legends are made of. But now it's out there and you all know and I'm a free woman because I have nothing to hide. Some might say I'm unplugged. But you can be sure that Lazarus Lappy 5000 is still getting the juice.

Now, can anyone verify for me if there actually is a serial killer out there luring women by playing recorded babies' cries? Just checking.

D. None of These

I am trying to be better about blogging, now that it seems impossible that I will be able to do so. The good news is, it may be the motherboard of my computer which has totally pooped out on me. I mean, this is expensive news (maybe), but it may mean all my time-wasting projects (hobbies, if you will) are safe on a hard drive deep in the rotting cavity of my computer, which would be cool. Also, I think I'm still under Apple Care--so A+ there. But until I am back up to roaring capacity, know this about me:

You Should Get a PhD in Liberal Arts (like political science, literature, or philosophy)

You're a great thinker and a true philosopher. You'd make a talented professor or writer.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

I took this from Chrissy's blog, sure that the findings would help me know my true self. Unfortunately, the results came out as every quiz from the last 15 years from Seventeen to Sassy to Finding the Color of My Parachute to Meyers-Briggs always do. "You should do something nebulous related to thinking and doing stuff." Thank you, quizzes of the world! I should write and think and invest tons of money into a degree which is very unlikely to secure me a position in academia, already chock full of a bunch of ill-dressed brainiacs who like to discuss the finer points of the semi-colon. I'd rather be unappreciated and underdressed and not in debt and keep my semi-colon ponderances, however revolutionary, to my damn self--and you, of course, internets.

P.S. I'm not bitter. I love thinking about intangibles! Either that or I am just terminally fated for e. none of the above.