A few random thoughts about my weekend spent IMMERSED in soccer...
1) I would rather be called "The Viscous Substance Stuck to Britney Spear's Thigh" than "Soccer Mom."
2) If the person who makes up tournament schedules happens to read this one day in a mistaken attempt to find ball-girl porn online or something, I'm totally offering up cash payouts and blowjobs and homemade cookies to avoid two 8am games in a row on any future weekends. You have it in writing, Mr. Scheduler. Except that because the team fund-raiser was cookie dough, the cookies won't exactly be homemade. I feel no compulsion to make any cookies from scratch after I had to transport 132 POUNDS of cookie dough. So you might just have to live with the blowjob and a fistful of cash.
3) There are no magnet thingies on my car. Nor will there be. Even if Work Husband manages to draw my name at Christmas and buy me one like he has threatened. If he would like to be jumped from behind an office door when he least expects it and forced to eat magnetic particles covered in ranch dressing (only for lubrication because I fear my time will be limited on the force-feeding, as he is 6'2" and has 60 lbs. on me), he can go RIGHT ON AHEAD WITH HIS SICK AND TWISTED HOLIDAY PLANS.
4) I don't think true soccer mommies get busted for smoking too close to the kids at halftime by tournament officials. And then reply with, "I'm trying to get them to start early" to the mean no-smoking park-ranger-looking lady. Not that this actually HAPPENED or anything. I mean, I WALKED TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE, BITCH. THAT'S ENOUGH TO QUALIFY AS NON-SMOKING IN RESTAURANTS AROUND HERE. Shit, don't visual barriers count for ANYTHING?
If this happened HYPOTHETICALLY, and HYPOTHETICALLY I noticed the park-ranger lady had a gun AFTER I made a smart-ass comment, I promise I would put it out and return to my seat without a further word said.
IF something like this actually happened, you know. Not that it did or anything.
I know you all know I'm a soccer fan, so I would be a TOTAL AND COMPLETE LAZY-ASS if I didn't write something about the mess that has become the US Women's National Team. (A lot of talk is going around the web, and I'm sure this will even come up in searches about the whole thing, so I'm giving myself a lot of credit for making input, because after all, the opinion of an old, tired useless 35 year old rec league player FUCKING MATTERS, PEOPLE. SCREW ESPN.)
Well, not really, but I've never been short on opinions. And if you're reading this and have no idea what I'm talking about, consult Google. There's TONS out there.
So here goes. NEWSFLASH. Mia Hamm RETIRED YEARS AGO. Which I don't think anyone has noticed yet. For this World Cup, even though she's been poppin' out the munchkins at home for years now, every single stinking place that sells WNT (Women's National Team) stuff has the Mia jersey right there, front and center. She can't even say "I'm a soccer player" in the new Nike commercial- she has to say "I'm an athlete." Why? Because she doesn't play soccer anymore. And why is she even IN the damn commercial when we have 21 other female athletes playing on the biggest stage in the world? Anyway...
Most everyone that follows the WNT still thinks it's 1999 and Brandi Chastain is somewhere out there ripping her shirt off in a blaze of penalty-kicking glory (Which, by the way, I hate to watch because she looks INCREDIBLE and
I'm usually sitting on the couch eating cookies when I see it.) while Mia competes with Michael for a bottle of Gatorade and tosses her shiny hair for Pert Plus or some equally shitty shampoo. Most of the players from that team have managed to get some kind of media careers out of it, and they're still out there. Living off the old glory.
And THAT'S where Hope Solo fucked up. (Hope if you're reading this, stay with me.)
Don't get me wrong- the old US WNT was great and I loved them. They did more for women's sports in this country than anyone short of Billie Jean King ever has, and TONS of girls now have athletic opportunity because of what they did. My high school had no women's soccer when I was there (1986-1990), and now they have JV and Varsity. That team did their job, and they did it beautifully.
They were America's golden girls- all teamwork and athleticism with a sparkly hint of girl-next-door- and parents everywhere LOVED such positive role models for their little Mias. There was never any controversy, and you could always conjure a mental image of the team having turkey together every single fucking Thanksgiving because they were so in love with each other. You know- the turkey cooked while they were outside with their husbands and kids and boyfriends and mothers having a spirited pick-up game. In spotless Nike casualwear. With perfect ponytailed highlights.
Which couldn't POSSIBLY have been true. But that whole team was a marketing GENIUS. And it worked. And even when only two are still playing, they're still the face of Women's Soccer.
So, even though people started to see women as athletes, they only saw the bottled version. Which is all US Soccer ever WANTED anyone to see. And still wants them to see. It gave the US the first success in soccer it ever had. It gave them a ton of media coverage. It gave them the chance to let the men's team ride on their coattails. And above all, it made them a fuckload of money.
Which is great, because Women's Soccer became a big deal with real stars. But 8 years later, it's kind of time to take the next step. We know they can play now.
So, Hope opened her mouth on TV. GOD BLESS HER. Not because she said anything great- I mean honestly, had she worded it differently that fucktard coach would probably already be fired- but BECAUSE SHE SAID ANYTHING AT ALL. What a lot of people don't know is that a US Soccer PR guy was standing right there, first telling the reporter not to talk to Hope because she didn't play and then not letting Brianna Scurry, the player Hope "threw under the bus," say anything at all. And Brianna, a member of the old guard, said, "He's the boss" and walked away. Hope said, "Don't you tell me who can interview me ever again."
And THAT'S why she's great.
She's EXACTLY what US Soccer wants in it's women players- gorgeous, talented, etc. They had already started marketing her and her young teammates just like they did with the Mia crowd.
And she said fuck that, I'M REAL.
They chalked up her being left out of the last game to the other players feeling she had "broken an unwritten team code." Yeah, SURE. She basically said that it's time to move on past the old years and that the new girls might actually be BETTER. And the old girls on the team didn't like that. Neither did the old girls commentating during the games. Someone didn't fall at the Mia team's feet and beg them to return because no one else could ever live up to them.
gasp.
And UH-OH, people might actually figure out that they're not all shiny perfect! They might wonder if they've had sex! And might drink! And might be OH NO DON'T SAY IN THE WORLD OF WOMEN'S SPORTS BECAUSE BE NEVER EVER EVER TALK ABOUT THIS PART be lesbians. And don't go home every break to their loving parents and boyfriends and bake cupcakes for the PTA in between their training sessions!
You think I'm exaggerating? US Soccer actually posted a rather large picture of one of the player's hands with her engagement ring on their website a while back. Their Player's Yearbook I bought for Soccer Chick at the game in June makes A POINT to mention husbands for every player that has one, but all the single girls get about their non-soccer lives is "I really like cheese. It's my favorite, since I'm from Wisconsin."
No shit.
So Hope, if you ever read this, THANK YOU.
You're going to pay dearly for being the first to be your own woman and a competitor to the bone in public. You're going to take a lot of heat for being brash and honest and not towing the party line. You will never in your life manage to get rid of those 28 seconds on TV, and no one can say that it will ever go away enough for you to get back to normal.
The first always takes it the worst.
But, because of your 28 seconds, the next generation won't have to be so perfect. And bottled.
Maybe one day my daughter can call out a total example of the Fucktards of America Coach's Club without being crucified if she makes it to that level.
Maybe she can just be REAL. As a female athlete. Without having to put on all the other bullshit image things with it.
And get to do a better commercial than Pert Plus, because DAMN, that stuff sucks.
I LOVE coming to work and finding a package that I ordered. LOVE IT.
I immediately have to rip into it, as if I have no idea what it is (even though I ordered it 2 days ago) and it's Christmas morning and I'm 7 years old again. It's FUN TIMES, people.
That's how my day started off today. I actually (almost) got enough sleep, managed to get out of the house in time to get the oil changed in the car before work, had a good cup of coffee, and came to work to find YIPPEE! MY STUFF'S HERE!
Actually, not all MY stuff. I ordered a US Women's Soccer Team jersey for Soccer Chick to celebrate the United States having at least one soccer team that doesn't suck, along with a shirt (on sale) and a pair of shinguards for myself (again, on sale).
About shinguards for soccer... SOMEBODY SOMEWHERE needs to come up with a kind that doesn't smell like hippo ass after about 6 games so that you have to keep buying new ones so that the smell of unzipping your soccer bag after a game doesn't induce coma. I'm just saying.
So back to the YIPPEE! part... I pick up the package and start looking for the scissors to open it, and notice something. Italics indicate my thought process during these distressing moments. There's dried blood all over the top of the outside of the package.
Yuck, but okay. Some UPS guy probably cut himself moving boxes, etc., right? Not great, but what can you do? Just don't... ick... touch... it. THERE. I opened it without touching blood. Am VERY talented.
YAY! there's the jersey and YAY! there's my shirt and YAY! there's my shinguards and damn those things look too big but whatever and OH LOOK- they're giving away samples of something! Men's disposable razors! Let's see what we have here... free razors would be good... I think that's his brand too...
Shit. This package of razors is OPEN. And looks USED.
And there's blood on the outside of the package.
Ummm, did I say something rude when I ordered this stuff? Ummm, nope. Ordered via Internet. Could not have brought package retaliation on myself with shitty comment. Was totally well-behaved during shopping cart phase of ordering process.
Blood. Razors. In package. DO. NOT. LIKE. Am probably overreacting. Will consult someone who usually has distinctly different ideas of what is acceptable in the world than I do for second opinion.
My boss agrees. So does Work Husband. So does real husband. Razors + blood + package = FUCKING GROSS.
Yes, I went for three consultations.
So I called the company and finally got a person on the phone who handles returns (I thought that was probably the closest thing to what I would like to do in this situation)...
Nice Phone Lady: So, what was the problem with your order?
Me: Well, there was something in it and on it that I think wasn't supposed to be there.
Nice Phone Lady: We sent you extra merchandise by mistake?
Me: I guess you could say that.
Nice Phone Lady: What exactly was the problem?
Me: When I got the order, there was dried blood all over the outside of the package and an open pack of disposable razors that look used inside the package. All of my stuff is OK because it was in plastic packages, and there wasn't any blood inside the package, and had it just been one or the other, I would have probably been fine, but blood and razors when all I wanted was a soccer jersey is a bit upsetting. Did I pick the right extension or should I have picked someone else? Would this qualify as a return? I certainly don't want it, but I don't have to send it back either. I just thought you guys might want to know someone had lost their shaving kit. And had an accident with it. In my package.
Silence.
Me: Ummm, HELLO? Did I just say all that too fast?
Nice Phone Lady: No... hold on, please.
It all ended with a supervisor giving me a $50 gift certificate and promising that when I sent the package back to them, someone was most likely getting fired.
I think I scared the hell out of the first lady, though.
I'm not even sure I remember how to do this. Or when I'll feel like doing it again.
Well, I remember how to TYPE and stuff- it's the other part of it. You know, CONTENT. Witty juxtapositions and banter and all. That sort of shit. Huh.
The time away from blogging has been less than eventful, honestly. Kind of like me these days. I'm the more REAL version of Bonanza these days- no dressing up, no heels, no celebrity tirades- just chugging on day by day doing the same shit without giving it much thought. And really wishing someone would let me take a nap. Or that I COULD take a nap with reminding myself to get my lazy ass up because there are 50 gajillion things that need doing and HOW DARE I SLEEP WHEN MY FAMILY NEEDS ME.
No bitterness or anything. Really. Just frustration. At myself.
Well... SOME things have happened. Here's the short list: Soccer Chick had scarlet fever. (That might be worth posting about... Well, really about how I made an ass of myself at the doctor's mention of "scarlet fever." Not that I ever overreact or anything. Or base my entire knowledge of a topic on what I saw on TV as a child.) My old horse cut her head open. Soccer Chick's the leading scorer on her team. I spent all weekend washing sheets (because of scarlet fever) before I remembered that my lovely bamboo sheets are naturally antimicrobial. I am joining another soccer league because I seem to have others fooled into the notion that I can play. When I'm not limping because of my persistently present shin splints. Fleas just SUCK ASS. I got a new computer. And a new office. I am selling my shoes because my legs hurt too much from exercise to ever wear them again. I hate my whole house and want to remodel it. OK, well, not ALL of it. Just the parts I spent the weekend scrubbing.
I think this is what leads to people climbing into bell towers with assault rifles. Either that or driving in South Carolina. It's a toss-up.
The humidity was 99%. Stick your face in CoolWhip and inhale. You'll get the idea.
The bugs managed to find the one spot where the bug spray didn't completely reach. Or the several spots. Like 482 individual spots on four people. Good thing we used bug spray.
The dog we took with us got homesick. Thankfully, he didn't get carsick.
I stepped in dog shit in my new running shoes exactly 37 seconds after we got there.
The friend for Soccer Chick we took along is prone to migranes. And allergies. And felt the need to tell me gum could help me quit smoking every time I smoked.
A crab bit my toe. OK, PINCHED. But it fucking well hurt anyway, whatever the little bastard did. I still have a little crabby print on my toe.
The sight of fishermen reeling in stingray after stingray kept the girls out of the water.
The island where we were has decided that they don't want to be all tacky like other beaches, so there are a ton of trees and little teeny signs for everything. And no tall buildings. Which means that you can't find a single fucking place you're looking for and are forced to wander aimlessly about until you find something comprable. Which made trying to find a grocery store an adventure.
Finding a grocery store on vacation should never be an adventure.
I actually found a tick attached to my kid's back.
The air conditioning in the restaurant we picked for our one night out was broken.
The restaurant also turned out to not have a bar.
All the condo neighbors knew my mother and felt the need to talk to me like I was as interested in random conversation with strangers as she is.
I had to buy a new bathing suit because the strap broke on mine, and when I tried to put it on the card, I discovered that the auto parts Dutch Oven needed to order had charged my card THREE TIMES rather than allowing me to have my new bathing suit.
I stood in front of a store in 106 degree heat and 99% humidity arguing with MasterCard for 20 minutes. Before breakfast.
We came home to find all the horses loose in the yard, including drinking out of the swimming pool. And leaving big mouthfulls of grass behind as a gift to the filter.
Five minutes after we got home, while we were attempting to round up horses in 106 degree heat, my mother showed up and informed us that she was meeting my sisters at my house.
Sisters that didn't show up for another three hours.
I came home and tried to book our vacation TO WONDERFUL CLEAR-WATERED FLORIDA (where you can actually see what's about to take a chomp out of your ass while it's still approaching) and found that they don't book that far in advance. But have 300 square feet for sale for $200,000.
Which looked totally reasonable at the time.
The girls had their first soccer game of the season this morning.
I let a 9 year old spray me with suncreen before the game.
My arms now resemble a rosy-hued zebra-print.
It's still 106 degrees.
The good news? We didn't see a single jellyfish. Or shark. The other good news? Vacation's over.
We're leaving for a MUCH-needed vacation the beach today (so my superb return will now be interrupted by several days of a cheap relative's refusal to install internet in a condo, but I digress...).
Have we packed? Ummmm... Are we prepared at all? Ummmm...
We suck, basically.
I think my obvious lack of enthusiasm has something to do with the fact that we can't afford to go back to my ultra-favorite beach-side high-rise condo WITH BAR in Florida this year. Damn that husband and his bionic knees and the bills that never seem to end. And the rising costs of feeding a crowd of 1000lb. yard ornaments. Damn being financially responsible and leaving money in savings.
Fuck savings.
I miss Florida.
So we're leaving work early to rush home, throw some underwear in a bag, clean out the car, and leave in a rush, making sure that the three things we will absolutely need when we get there will be left sitting on the kitchen counter. Like the sunscreen, the keys to the condo, and probably our child.
And to top it all off... The friend Soccer Chick is taking with her reported to me on the phone this weekend...
Friend: Have you seen the news?
Me: No... why?
Friend: There's a BUNCH of jellyfish in the water where we're going because the water's so warm. They said 200 people got stung Saturday!
Me: We do have a pool, you know. Jellyfish don't like pools. They have problems crossing the street to get to them.
Friend:(obviously not listening to a word I said) I AM NOT GOING IN THAT WATER WHERE THE JELLYFISH CAN EAT ME.
Me: Technically, they only sting you. Jellyfish don't eat you. Sharks eat you. Did they mention sharks at all?
Friend: I don't like jellyfish. Sharks are OK. Soccer Chick:(eavesdropping from the other room) Jellyfish!! I don't want to swim with jellyfish!!
Me: ENOUGH WITH THE DAMN JELLYFISH, CHILDREN. I promise we will do our best to swim in stinging creature free waters, OK? You don't have to swim with the jellyfish. Besides, if they sting you, all you have to do is pee on it and the sting goes away.
Friend and Soccer Chick: EEEWWWWWWWWW!!
Which was the desired result. And not a good omen for the week.
But if anyone has to pee on themselves or each other, I promise to post pictures when I get back. Unless it's me. There will be no pictures of me in lycra with anything remotely related to urine. Dignity, you know.
I'll start writing again, I won't start writing again... I'll start writing again, I won't start writing again...
Which might have actually worked fine if I ever had the ability to actually GROW something vaguely resembling a flower... Plants see me coming at the store and, if they could run, they'd totally be doing the same thing as dogs at the pound when the buyers from the animal-product-testing division of some large pharmaceutical complany who swears they NEVER test on animals comes through the cage rows. You know, shirking in fear at the back of the cage trying to look dead already.
Unfortunately for them, plants can't do that. So they end up at my house where they're lovingly cared for until I forget about them, which usually takes about two weeks, and then they're dead and shriveled in the front yard from a combination of no water and the dog mistaking them for a fire hydrant.
I really didn't mean for this to be a plant entry. Considering my usual ways with plants, however, this is about the grand sum total of all I could ever write about them.
So there you have it- my entire horticultural career in three paragraphs.
So what have I been doing that was SOOOOO important I forgot to post?
Nothing. I just didn't feel like it. I needed a break, I think. And now, FINALLY, it just seemed like a fun thing to do.
Now, for the catch-up...
Well...
Never mind. Nothing's going on. Seriously. I have reverted to the most boring life imaginable. Taking the kid where she needs to go (which now includes physical therapy because of her mutant foot growth- did I mention she weighs 53 lbs. and wears a women's 5.5?), taking care of the innumerable animals that now call our house home, moving into my new office (where I decided NOTHING would be putty-colored and went through all the trouble of painting everything and have now realized that the printer is indeed putty-colored and would most likely not respond well to navy blue spray paint)... Yep. Blah, blah. blah.
I'm sure I'll think of something better tomorrow. I am rusty, after all.
I needed a little Shirley MacLaine, y'know? We all do sometimes. And if you haven't seen Postcards from the Edge, you're missing out. And I don't think I can ever respect you again.
But seriously... So where have I been? What IN THE WORLD could have been going to actually cause a 2 week disappearance?
Nothing.
I just didn't have anything to say.
The blog turned 2 during my hiatus, and I'm starting to think sometimes you get to the point where you just don't feel like it anymore. Which is where I was. Nothing worth writing about, nothing pissing me off enough to inspire a rant- I was just shipping the offspring to soccer camp after soccer camp, working, surviving 2 family birthdays, and trying to keep attending my place of employment every day.
In other words, life in general. Hopefully, it's passed. Because now that I'm typing something, little as it might be, it feels pretty good.
And before you tell me how I couldn't possibly be THAT boring, I give you evidence to the contrary. This is about the most exciting thing going on around the ol' Bonanza homestead lately. And I hate my kitchen floor. This just reinforced that.
OK, the computer still sucks. And the new one hasn't arrived yet. So here I sit, laboring away, hoping that it will keep running long enough for me to finish what I have to finish. Also? Hoping I can get through an entry FINALLY, because Computer. Does. NOT. Like. Firefox. Big baby.
ANYWAY... On to Our Much-Belated Fun and Literary Dismemberment...
•••••
Work Friend: So where are you going this weekend?
Me: We're taking Soccer Chick to Cleveland for her birthday.
Work Friend: Why IN THE HELL would you take a kid to CLEVELAND for her birthday?
Me: We're going to toss matches into the river and see if it catches on fire.
Me: We might toss some matches, though. At halftime, maybe.
The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame. I wonder if they have a groupie wing... if they don't, THEY SHOULD. Groupie-related-activity is HARD WORK, people. That's why retirement is mandatory at age 25. It has nothing to do with boob saggage. Promise. Also? Do not let the serene picture fool you. We just hadn't gotten close enough yet to see exactly what was happening at the ol' folks rocker home yet. The bus we passed full of men and women in lifeguard outfits should have told us something, but we're small town folk. We from SOUTH CAROLINA. We have no idea what the fancy big city folk get up to on the weekends.
We pulled into the stadium and parked, thinking we would walk around for the afternoon and see the sights before the game. Like, "walk over to the RnR Hall because the stadium is closed and I have to PEE RIGHT THIS SECOND walk around." The 8 year olds didn't have to go, but the 35 year old did. Let's see how the little shits do in 25 years after they pass some ungrateful little parasites through their plumbing.
The first sign something was amiss?
Dutch Oven: Why is there a big gay pride flag on that very large boat?
Me: No idea... Hey! Look! BATHROOMS! Food! Oh, I get the bus now- it's gay pride weekend here. OH, YEAH- the lifeguards were from "GAYWATCH"- cool!
Dutch Oven: You're kidding.
Me: You're not going all republican on me, are you?
Dutch Oven: NO, but I really don't want to take someone else's kid over to the Pride event. We have no idea what she knows or doesn't know.
Me: She did mention Vacation Bible School on the way up here... NEVERMIND. I have to go. NOW. The Port-a-Potties are on the edge. We can skirt the whole thing and go pee without altering the kid's world view, can't we?
Dutch Oven: Ummmm, NO.
Me: You're just afraid someone will hit on you. Big chicken.
FINALLY, we found a non-morally-threatening-for-children bathroom and found a little café and were all happy. We began wandering aimlessly about the Lake Erie shore. Cleveland Browns Stadium, the Science Center, and the RnR Hall were all right there.
How many tourists does it take to operate a camera? I don't know. How many? None. We put the fucking thing back in the bag and promised to email photos later.
I love rock and roll, so put another dime in the jukebox, baby.
Do you REALLY THINK you have to obey EVERY "Don't Feed the Birds" sign you see? And you think I'm going to pose after I got NO COOKIE? I fart in your general direction, human.
Dutch Oven: I guess we've reached the age where it's not cool to walk with your parents anymore.
Me: No, I think we've just reached the age where we walk slower than everyone else.
Me: Hey! We're in Cleveland now, and I had to call you because you're the one person who could appreciate the humor of what's here.
Me: We just brought two eight year olds to Cleveland Gay Pride without even knowing it. Note to self: check pride schedules before leaving so that husband doesn't have a fit when you get there because we might undo 8 years of parent-supported churchgoing. They got to see the "Gaywatch" float. You know, like Baywatch? With lifeguards and everything.
PChef: That is TOO. COOL. What's wrong with him, anyway? I thought he didn't care about things like that.
Me: Oh, I don't know. He usually doesn't. He's probably just afraid he'll get some attention. He's a magnet for it, usually. He WAS singing along with Tori Amos on the way up here, so...
PChef: That doesn't make him GAY. That makes him an angry lesbian. What's going on there, anyway? It sounds kind of... LOUD.
Me: I have no idea. I'm not looking. They're playing or something. Dutch Oven's keeping them company. He should have had enough any second now...
Utterly defeated by the physical-world-defying level of 8 year old energy. Which, by the way, is apparently endlessly renewable. And endlessly ADORABLE.
OK, not so cute now. I just looked a did a mental ballpark calculation on the cost of the orthodontics ALONE in this picture. Never mind the education, food, shelter, etc. They've been reverted to parasites again. Who destroy plumbing.
The hero, Kristine Lilly. Who is THIRTY-FIVE. OLDER THAN ME. I got winded climbing the stadium stairs. Fuck.
Hey, you ladies might have just played a 90 minute game, but I WALKED AROUND CLEVELAND ALL DAY WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO EIGHT YEAR OLDS. I WIN, BITCHES-WHO-THINK-YOU'RE-SO-FIT-AND-SKINNY-AND-CUTE.
Isn't it OBVIOUSLY apparent that I have developed some kind of complex about my fitness level now?
Okay, not bitches. Not bitches at all. Pretty fucking FABULOUS, honestly.
This is my effort at providing my daughter with role models in a hope that she won't end up a 17 year old crackwhore because of my lack of natural maternal instinct. Thank you, Christine Rampone and Brianna Scurry and all the others I didn't get good pictures of for not being crackwhores and giving them someone to look up to besides fucking Paris Hilton and for ENDLESSLY signing autographs for little girls.
Just like Soccer Chick said she'll do one day when little girls ask her. No matter how tired she is.
And thank you again, US Women's National Team. From all of us out there who have little girls who want to grow up to be more.
I get tears in my eyes every time I watch that. So I definitely let her play.
Filled with workplace drama, another oozing dog, and whatnot.
But that's not why I've been absent.
Anyone use Macs? If so, you'll know what this is.
How about this?
I know what this is. Now.
It was like, TOTALLY, a whole episode of Sex and the City, so I am of the belief that everyone on the planet should have it committed to memory. Unlike my computer, which is having, ummmm...., ISSUES with memory. And processor. And everything fucking else.
Basically, it's dying. It's five and a half years old, and I've worked the hell out of it, and I'm in the middle of a catalog, and it decided "Enough of this shit."
I coaxed it back from the grave yesterday, enough to cross my fingers and start working again until the new one can get here.
Just like I'm crossing my fingers that I can get an entry up before I have to restart for the fifty gazillionth time today. You know, in case anyone might think I'm dead or something and think it's now OK to be booger-eaters again and start stealing my shit again because HEY! SHE'S DEAD. WHAT'S SHE GOING TO DO? HAUNT US? HA HA HA HA! Or something equally ridiculous.
Maybe I should have titled this one "What a Post with No Pre-Planning Can Turn Out to Be."
ANYWAY... I'll be back. You know, like the Terminator. Except without that whole mono-syllabic eastern European accent thing going on. And did anyone ever wonder why a Terminator from the future would have that particular accent and why none of the other models of Terminator seemed accent-particular? Or how the whole cyclical time thing could actually work so that someone could be sent to impregnate someone by the very product of already impregnating that person? Or that in T2 when the bad Terminator's flying the helicopter, he has three hands for a second?
Nah, me neither. I never think about shit like that.
