Wednesday, September 30, 2009

the flu sucks

So, ladies and gentleman, the germy, grimey, infectiod students that I work with have done me in. Knocked me down and punched me out. I knew eventually they would get me down... but I always figured it would be something more interesting than the flu. I was hoping for something glamorous like getting caught in the cross fire of some mis-informed protest about union rights (don't even get me started about that...) or a keg party gone waaay wrong.

But no. I have to get the flu. Now, granted, it could be that I got the flu from someone/thing else... I have been travelling a lot and I'm not absolutely the best at using the damn antibacterial crap that is all over everywhere... but, I'd like to blame the students on this one. It just seems easier. They come into my office all sniffling, coughing, and TOUCHING things. Here I am trying the help them and what do I get? A week stuck at home with the flu. I went to the doctor today and had it confirmed that I can't go back to work for at least 48 hours. I have to wait for my fever to go down.

Oh wait a minute. This might not be all that bad. Lots of TV and time at home to do what I want? This might be great. Except for, well, the chills, blinding headache, fever, and the barfing. Okay, it is all that bad.

Except for the TV part. That has been fun.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

I'm a dumbass...

On a recent trip to Goodwill I found myself standing in line (wishing I was over 55 because they get a 10% discount...) admiring a rack of handbags by the checkout. I have far more handbags than I need, but for some reason I felt the desire to give them a look-see. Tucked behind several crappy bags was a really nice (p)leather black bag. I pulled it off the rack and began admiring it. It was super-cute and looked pretty new. And HEY! it was a blue tag which meant it was 50% off (take that over 55 crowd!). I added it to my collection of purchases and waited in line.

Because I am curious and wanted to make sure it really was worth the now $10 price tag (when did Goodwill get so expensive anyway?) I began fishing inside the pockets and found... well... my own business card. Yup. That's right my friends. I picked out a bag that I HAD DONATED to Goodwill a couple months earlier. No wonder I liked the bag.

Thus my conclusion that I am a giant dumbass.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

it's why I know I love the South

When I was a kid, I spent hours and hours playing with Barbies. I would imagine her in her world, with her fabulous friends and occasional boy-toy Ken. He was never really a long-term kind of guy in my imagination. I preferred the drama of an on-again, off-again relationship. There was something about a fierce break-up where Barbie would swing her slightly dreaded head of hair (with bangs, which I've always regretted) and storm out in screaming "I'm too good for you Ken! Go find someone who cares!"

Clearly my issues with relationships run long and deep.

Anyway - my Barbies are long gone; I don't actually know what happened to her and her gang of misfits (note to self: ask mom...). But every once and a while I think back to those nights spent playing out scenarios of the incredibly fabulous life of Barbie with a sense of loss. When did I stop playing with her? When did I transition from making her ridiculously skanky outfits out of scraps of the cuffs of my jeans (shut up. she looked hot.) to cutting knee holes in my own jeans? (c'mon people, it was the 80's. If you were really fashionable, instead of cutting a hole you would scrape the denim with the scissors over and over for that authentic "worn-out" look... don't shake your head at me. You know you did it - or now you're pissed you never knew that trick.)

So, you're probably asking yourself "Okay, but what the hell does all this have to do with the South? Remember the title up there? The one where you mention loving the South. Get the point already."

Here is why I love the South:

Yup. That's right.
It's Barbie Beach.
Lettin' us know all about Barbie's Pink Posse Walk

Complete with Barbie, her "Posse",
and the dude from the Mucinex Commercials (third from the right...)

I found this little gem outside of Macon, GA. on a recent trip. As I was heading down a back road I flew by this fantastic display and had to turn back and park my rental on the side of the road so I could get some good shots. People certainly stared. I didn't care. This was worth it. Where else are you going to find a Barbie Beach party? Clearly this if for a good cause (raising money for "canNCER victIMS." Which means that not only are these people fantasticly kitchy and creative, but they care. It doesn't get much better than that.

And THAT, is why I know I love the South, y'all.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Are you listening to what you are saying?

Me, a snob? Well, sometimes.

I know that I have particular tastes, and can certainly make judgments about people and things (My friends are probably snorting right about now...), but I try very hard to be thoughtful and sensitive about people's particular quirks. However, I can not stand when people say:

"I could care less."

Really? You could care less? Do you know that that means you actually could care less about something? Which means that you actually do care, at least a little? If you actually could not care less about something (like, say, mowing the lawn for me...) then you would say:

"I couldn't care less."

I know I say a lot of stupid crap everyday - but at least I understand what I am saying.... most of the time.

That's all I'm sayin'.

Boy Mama! I'm Moving Out!

So, a commercial for Jersey Boys just came on TV. Here's what I want to know: Who the hell is going to these shows? (insert disparaging remark about lonely baby boomers here....) Mama Mia, Jersey Boys, Moving Out? From what I can tell (from the 30 second commercial) these are glorified concerts. I am all for a concert, don't get me wrong, but I usually like to go to concerts where the performer has either written or originated the song. I know that there is some oddly-stitched together storyline that doesn't completely make sense - but aren't these shows just glorified karaoke? And instead of a two drink minimum you have to shell out $125? No thanks.

But if someone wants to give me a ticket to one of these shows, I'll totally go.

the first time....

So.... after coming into the blog world a little late (I discovered Post Secret only a few months ago...) I've become obsessed with them; I find it hard to start my day without checking out some of my favorites (hellloooooo Cakewrecks). The more blogs I read, the more I began thinking in blog posts. I would crack myself up in the car over something stupid and think to myself "that would make a funny posting...." Thanks to many of my friends who said they would read this. (esp. Amy and Jason!)

So here goes. What will follow are simple musings about my daily interactions. Some may be sentimental, some may be snarky and mean, some perhaps one liners that crack me up. I'm keeping this anonymous because, well, I think it would be easier. I might want to talk smack about one of my colleagues (or one of my students), or reveal something that I don't want the general public to know about me. I will certainly drop hints from time to time, but I hope to keep this a secret. For my friends who I've told about this - please don't bust me out over the comments. I'll just delete them and then make fun of you... and probably tell some story about you that you don't want people to know.

The pressure of what to write for the first entry is pretty daunting. What can I possibly say that would engage people enough to read more?

Here's something about me: I have cats. Two of them. I am not an obsessive cat person. No cat cartoons on the fridge, no cat sweatshirts, calendars, cards, wrapping paper, etc. for me. I don't buy them a lot of toys because they prefer bottle tops and rubber bands. I like cats because I think they are funny and weird, and I don't have to walk them and I can leave them alone for a long weekend and frankly I think they couldn't care less.

For the sake of the blog let's call them Barfy McScratch-a-lot and Scaredy O'Fatass. (Barfy and Fatass for short...) Clearly you can tell they are Scottish and Irish, respectively. After 11 years of living under my roof, Barfy has begun to wake me up with his funky breath meowing in and poking my face around dawn every morning. This isn't so bad in the winter when the sun is up for like 4 hours a day (gotta love NY) but this summer it simply pissed me off. No matter how many times I shoved him off the bed and covered my head, he manages to find the one small hole in the covers and slide his little clawed paw in there and scratch me.

So, a couple weeks ago, I finally gave in and got out of bed to find out what he wants. He walks promptly to the food and meows. There is clearly food in the stupid bowl, but that must not be good enough anymore so I pour in a little more kibble. He takes a sniff and walks away. "What the hell?" I yell, pissed off that I've had to get up waaay too early to feed a cat, and then Fatass comes running from under the couch (remember his first name, people) and begins eating (thus his last name...). And I've discovered that after 6 years of living together, they are finally figuring out how to get the best of me. I imagine the conversation something like this:

Fatass: "Psst... Barfy, come here..."
Barfy: "Dude, I'm busy ruining the arm of the couch, what do you want?"
"I gotta talk to you about something, let's go into the wall"
(I have a hole under the sink in my bathroom and the cats basically hang out in the wall at night. What I imagine goes on in there will have to be the subject of another post)
"Why the wall? I'm happy out here barfing on the brown carpeting so that the human doesn't see the barf until it's crusted into the carpet."
"Whatever, man, look... I'm hungry. You gotta hook me up with fresh kibble. The crap that sits out all night sucks."
"What do you want me to do about it? I can't reach the top of the fridge to get the stupid container. In fact, I can't open the top either..."
"We've got to find a way to wake the human up at the butt-crack of dawn so she'll feed us."
"Us? There is no 'us' in the scenario, I'll eat anything."
(seriously: plants, garbage, toilet bowl water... anything)
"Look, you're the favorite (he is) and she'll listen to you. Besides, I get to freaked out anytime she moves and I have to jump off the bed."
"Okay, what is in it for me?"
"I'll eat some of your barf so that she won't be as mad at you."

And a deal was made. At least that is how I imagine it going. I don't know for sure if Fatass eats Barfy's barf, but I have my suspicions.