Month: September 2008

Just call me Featherbrain.

So, yeah. Have you ever been fairly unwillingly dropped into a city where you don’t speak the language? That’s where I am right now.

If you care: Liquidweb is now my host. BUT, they apparently won’t let me use one of the later versions of WordPress? Maybe? And although I was able to drag some of my old stuff over here, it looks like crap. Also, my e-mail isn’t working. No incoming. No outgoing. And my M&M thing? Yeah. It’s screwed up again, too. Seething! Me! Right now! Do you smell it?!

I’ve currently got the towel wrapped around me. But I’m about to take it off and throw it in.

Go celebrate the fact that you’re not around me right now! Because I’m shooting fire out of Every Hole.

Do you think it’s time for our Monday morning meeting?

Okay. These are the things I need to tell you.

1. David Foster Wallace is dead. And oh, how that just sucks. Sucks! Agh! Jeff is now reading Girl with Curious Hair, and I’m spending a lot of time thinking about the night we saw Mr. Wallace at a reading many years ago. He was terribly sweaty and he couldn’t drink enough water and he read from a book he was working on titled Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. And he was so funny and so smart—one of those guys you just sort of want to be around. (If you’re not familiar with David Foster Wallace and you can spare six minutes, go here.)

2. Last night I experienced a really bizarre sort of sensitivity in my fingertips. Shut up. I know! When it came time to change the sheets, I could barely stomach the thought of touching them. As I lounged in bed reading, I could barely turn the pages of my book without wincing. I’m one of those odd people who hates touching food unless it’s covered in some sort of crust, so I’m sort of used to a bit of weirdness. (I’ll make the occasional exception for Doritos, but don’t ever ask me to eat hot wings without the assistance of a fork and knife. By the way, I’m closing in on the Vegetarian for Two Months mark. Release the doves!) Anyway, this morning I’m able to touch things without wanting to vomit, so back to business.

3. As of today, I’m once again a freelancer. My latest (and possibly greatest) assignment is to mimic nurse and doctor handwriting on medical forms that will eventually become part of a hospital simulation for medical students. This morning I went out and purchased pens for the project. And the purchasing of pens is pretty high on my list of Things I Love to Do. Adding to the excitement is the fact that this morning handed me a little touch of cardigan weather. It doesn’t get much better than this.

4. On Friday, I’ll be participating on a panel (Hey! Where can I purchase some P stock? Purchasing of pens! Participating on a panel!) that’s part of the St. Louis Interactive Festival. (I’ll give you more details later this week if you’re interested.) Also, next weekend is my 20th high school reunion. Anyway. Last night I had a dream during which someone from my graduating class handed me a beer bottle full of spit right before my panel was set to begin. And I drank the spit before I realized it was spit, and everyone was laughing, and as I made my way to the stage, I realized that my dress was all ripped out on the sides, and I muttered something into the microphone that I thought was sort of clever, but it ended up stirring up major conflict between Black Hockey Jesus and Laid Off Dad.

5. On Saturday night, I had a telephone conversation with Mr. Jon Deal regarding web site switcharoo business. And during our talk, I realized that I am completely incapable of learning anything new that doesn’t involve icy cold vampires falling in love with truck driving high school girls. This whole discouraging “My brain is no longer sharp” thing reminds me of a meeting I once attended during which my boss confessed to “needing some ginkgo balboa” to improve his brain function. At the time, I suggested he sign up for a few matches with Rocky Biloba instead and Ha Ha Ha! That’s not so funny anymore. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Wait a second. This is not my house.

On Wednesday, September 19 in the year 2001, I started writing at Fluid Pudding. To celebrate that anniversary, I’m moving all of my stuff over to WordPress. And you know how moving really sort of sucks because of suitcases and things getting lost and I forgot toilet paper and all of that? Yeah. Please be patient with me. Please. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m about to break a Girl Scout law.

Last week Meredith came home from school with a note that said something like “Scouting Registration Night! Wednesday! 6:00!”

I talked to Meredith for a bit, and she expressed an interest in scouting. So, I called the school.

Apparently, Scouting Registration Night is for Boy Scouts only. The administrative assistant at the school told me that registration night doesn’t exist for the Girl Scouts and that she doesn’t have any additional information about Girl Scouts.
I should have let it die right there. BUT, because I’m nothing if not tenacious, I called the Girl Scouts of America to try to track down a local leader.
The Girl Scouts of America told me to call the Girl Scouts of Greater St. Louis (GS-GSL) for leader contact information. Okay! Now we’re sort of getting somewhere maybe.

I eventually reached Cindy from GS-GSL. After babbling on about how old Meredith is and what school she attends, Cindy said the following.

Cindy: Okay. Your troop coordinator is Bonnie. I will call her and give her your information. If she doesn’t call you within two days, call her and leave a message. If she doesn’t return your call, call me back.

Me: Well, that’s sort of weird, but okay.

I waited two days. No call from Bonnie. I then called Bonnie, left a message, and waited two days. She never called back.

Cindy: Okay. Since Bonnie didn’t call you, I’d like you to call Victoria. If she doesn’t call you back, I’ll ask you to call Sheila, who is here at the GS-GSL.

I called Victoria. She didn’t answer the phone. Within two minutes of me hanging up, my phone rang.

Victoria: This is Victoria. You called me?

I told her the whole story, and she told me that she would call me back. And she did. Five minutes later.

Victoria: I’m going to ask you to call Bonnie.

Me: I called Bonnie. Cindy at the GS-GSL called Bonnie. Bonnie doesn’t return calls.

Victoria: Well, Bonnie is definitely the person you need to contact. Do me a favor and leave Bonnie another message. Dawn and I will see Bonnie on Thursday, and I’ll let her know that she should return your call. Then, Dawn will call you on Friday.

(I have no idea who Dawn is.)
Hhhhhhh. Onmyhonor,IwilltrytoserveGod,mycountry,andmankindandtolivebytheGirlScoutLaw.
I *do* know that I’m no longer excited about Meredith being a Girl Scout.
And I’m wondering why everyone seems to walk on eggshells around Bonnie.
Why should Victoria have to tell Bonnie that it’s okay to return my call about Girl Scouts when Bonnie’s job is to return calls about Girl Scouts?!

I know you hate me for saying this: I’m done with these women. And if they were men, I would say that I’m done with these men.

Do you want to know who else I’m done with? (I recently read that it’s okay to end a sentence with a preposition, especially if moving the preposition would introduce awkwardness.) I’m done with the Tuesday night ballet/tap moms. (I’ll talk about them some other time. Or maybe I won’t. Are you bored by stories of moms who sit around bashing other moms because of their socioeconomic status? Yeah, me too. And although life is too short to sit in a room full o’ ugly, Meredith really loves to dance. So, tonight I shall wear my Don’t Talk to Me clothes and try to look as invisible as possible while the Mean Moms torch another friend who lives on the outskirts of Easy Street.)

And this is what I really wanted to tell you: Harper’s been throwing really amazing tantrums lately. They’re completely unpredictable, and they involve kicking, hitting, throwing things, and screaming. Oh! The screaming! This morning’s tantrum hit right after I turned off the shower water. Apparently, she wanted to watch me take a shower and “I WANTED TO WATCH YOU TAKE A SHOWER!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!” And she threw her cereal and Jeff carried her (kicking and screaming) to sit in The Thinking Chair, which is sort of our clever version of Time Out, and gheez. The tantrum never ended. They never end! They’ve been going on for over six months and are getting worse instead of better and the doctor thought it was reflux, but it ended up not being reflux, and gheez.

I’m tired.
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Let me sail, let me sail, let the Orinoco flow.

Sometimes when you’re really not in the mood to witness a man and a woman asking God’s blessing upon their holy union, you find yourself sitting in a pew in a chesty black dress holding a wedding program and praying for time to pass quickly. Last Saturday afternoon, Jeff and I attended a wedding. And because I was feeling sort of sad and Jeff was feeling punchy, we turned down the class and turned up the smart assidity.

Jeff (pointing to the line in the program that said Communion): So, I suppose *that’s* going to happen.

Me: In these shoes? I don’t think so.

Officiant (who I suspect had been drinking a wee bit): I hope we can all get together to celebrate the bride and groom’s fiftieth anniversary on October 30th, 2059.

Jeff: I thought this was August 30th. 2008. Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.

Me: It’s just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right. Actually, he’s talking about their 51st and 2 Months anniversary. I think that’s a big celebratory wedding anniversary day for the Catholics. They call it The Big 51-2. I’ll Google it when we get home.

Officiant: I’d like to read to you from 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13.

Jeff: I’m going to pretend I’ve never heard this before.

Me: First Corwhathians?! Wait. What is that smell? Could it be an overdone Bible verse?

(Sometimes Jeff and I are real jerks. You heard it here first, folks!)

Officiant: This time around, I’m going to shake it up a bit.

Jeff: ???
Me: ?!?!

Okay. He then inserted the bride and groom names into the verses.
And when he was done, I mentally inserted OUR names into the verses.
And it went a little something like this:

Angela is patient, Jeff is kind. (Well, one out of two isn’t bad, right? Jeff really is sort of kind. You should meet him someday.)

Angela is not jealous, Jeff is not pompous, Angela is not inflated. (Okay. Yeah. Jeff is not pompous. Also, stop looking at my butt.)

Jeff is not rude, Angela does not seek her own interests, Jeff is not quick-tempered, Angela does not brood over injury. (I don’t brood over actual injury, but I *DO* tend to overreact to things I don’t understand. Like the cyst thing above my right ear. In my mind, my swollen brain has busted through a crack in my skull and is planning some sort of gushing escape with the permission of my semicircular canals.)

Jeff does not rejoice over wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. (Gheez. I really *did* score a gem.)

Angela bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. (I suck.)

And because we weren’t good citizens during the wedding ceremony (Don’t worry. No one heard our utterances. We are not unlike mice! Muffled mice!), the DJ at the reception paid us back by playing nothing but Enya.

Me: When I was in college, I once invited a boy over so we could make out to Enya. When that got old, we made out to The Lawnmower Man.

Jeff: I’m just hoping we’re able to Cabbage Patch to an extended mix of Brahms’ Lullaby before the night is over.
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