Today’s news?
New cookie recipe on Paunchy & Penniless – check out the link above.
ALSO – First Demo up on Magatha Trysty’s FB/MySpace pages. Will be more up on www.magathatrysty.com soon… Until then, search for (and friend) Magatha Trysty on FB/MySpace to keep up with shows, news, tunes, and more.
Hilarious updates on my day-to-day coming soon… until then, humor me. Make my favorite cookies and listen to me sing.
After the longest blog-hiatus of all time, I have returned.
Brief life update in 3… 2…
PET COUNT: 4. 3 cats; 1 wild dog.
JOB: Corporate Development Manager (movin’ on up, baby).
HUSBAND: The balding and the beautiful.
BAND: Seriously up and coming. (See the link, please. Except it only has our names. So, you know, enjoy the… font.)
SHOES: Still cute, but limited. The dog has eaten four of my favorite pairs. Count ’em: Four.
HOUSE: Love it. All moved in. All happy. All lovely.
Check out new links – my recipes site (I do some hardcore cooking – but these are recipes that aren’t so tough, for people who aren’t so much into spending hours in the kitchen, for people who don’t so much have a billion dollars a week to spend on groceries), the band site, Chris’ music blog.
WHAT WILL MY BLOG BECOME, NOW THAT I AM NOT A RECEPTIONIST ANYMORE?
… It will become your everything. Seriously. It will probably become the next version of the Bible.
Soon to come— tales of wonder, tales of hilarity, tales of extreme stupidity – in short, tales about my life.
What shoes will Wilbur eat next? How many times will I listen to Joy Williams’ “If You Wanna Go” and sob like a baby (or like a woman who has listen to “If You Wanna Go” too many times)? How many times will I pledge to eat a salad and eat a whole pizza instead? (The answer? Many, many times.)
All this and more. Soon.
Remember the story I told you about when I got bit in the eye by some horsefly-monster hybrid and it hurt really bad and I cried and my parents didn’t believe that I’d been bitten and they chose instead to believe that I just wanted to get out of the boring family trip to some lame-ass waterfall that looked like a dribble of dirty pee? If not, catch up in my blog post, bitches. If you do remember this, then you understand my hatred for winged, bitey creatures which may or may not include birds.
Today: A horsefly found its way into my office, and by “found its way,” I mean I had the door open because it was beautiful outside so it just flew in and, I suppose to be fair, it had every right to, since I practically hung a friggen sign that said, “COME IN, HORRID FLYING CREATURES.” Anyway, I wanted to kill it. Live and let live, man, that’s how I roll, unless the thing that is living can bite my face and make me look like a swollen, red pimple of a person. So, this thing was in the office, and I was like, “What do I use to kill it?” and at first, I eyed the cat that is boarding in the office near me, but I didn’t want to risk the cat getting bit, so I eyed a file folder, instead. I picked up the folder and started swinging it wildly around the office, flailing maniacally at anything that resmbled a horsefly. I inadvertantly attacked a phone, a pencil, a pocket-sized dog (not really, but seriously, big-eyed, 2-pound dogs look A LOT LIKE INSECTS), a porcelain bird, and a picture frame. Then, I eyed my prize. I swung harder – and sent a spray of postcards, brochures, blank thank you cards, and advertisements flying about the office.
Ah, yes. The new marketing materials. Found them.
When a customer walked in and saw my messy spread, he looked confused. I picked them up gradually, trying to do some sort of sales pitch. “Heeere you go, sir, a THANK YOU CARD for visiting our kennel, and a… BROCHURE to tell you more about us, a POSTCARD to offer you a free daycare session, and….a….what the hell is this? Oh, a used kleenex.”
Later Today: One of my favorite dogs came in. He’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. A little pudgey, a sweet face. He’s completely deaf. Our kennel staff is mostly hispanic, and one of them speaks no English. So, I tried to explain to one of them (who does speak English) that it was okay if this dog was near barky dogs because he wouldn’t know. I was all, “Ohhh, this sweet puppy. I love this puppy.” Then, he went back to the kennel. A few minutes later, I said to her, “The Cavalier is deaf.”
A look of utter horror crossed her face. She turned to the Spanish-speaking kennel-worker and started shrieking.
“El perro es muerto!! El perro es muerto!!!!” (Classless09, I think this is verbatim. You can verify if this is entirely accurate.) (Classless09’s beautiful boyfriend just confirmed that this is, indeed, correct.)
I do not speak Spanish. I speak French quite well, and I spent several years in diction classes, learning how to pronounce words whose meanings are all Greek (or Spanish, such as it is). But I know that “perro” is dog. I’ve heard them say this.
And “muerto…” that sounds like…
Aw, shit. “muerto” is dead.
“NO NO NO NO!” I cried, which translates into any language, especially when you shriek it, jump up and down, and slap your hand on a hard surface for emphasis. “NO MUERTO! NO MUERTO!” I slapped my head and pointed at my ears. “HE CAN NOT HEAR,” I shouted. “NO HEAR! NO HEAR!” As if that would help. Honest to God, I never thought I’d be one of those disgusting people who just screamed when people didn’t speak her language. But, I am. I so am. And I sort of, like, step outside my own body when I do it? And I look at myself and think, “You loser, your wild gestures and slapping of surfaces will get you nowhere.” And, yet, I do it.
However I’ve just had a brief tutorial from Classless09 and her classless boyfriend, and I’ve learned several new words that will help, one of which is “leash,” which is nice, because I can be all, “HEY PUT THAT DOG ON A FRIGGEN TRAILLA!!!!!!”
That’s “leash.”
Anyway, off to bed. SOME OF US, and by “some,” I mean “me,” have to work tomorrow and I mentally punch the teeth of anyone who is enjoying a three-day weekend starting now.
Sweet dreams!
If you work in customer service, you should read this.
Also, if you utilize any business that has a customer-service aspect (hint: that’s all of them), you should read this.
… Read this.
THIS, my friends, is a guide. It will show you exactly how to annoy people whose sole purpose is to serve you, the crabby asswipe customer.
1. Please, by all means, have extreme body odor. I work at a dog kennel and I cannot even begin to tell you how disheartening it is, day-in and day-out, to deal with customers who smell worse than their canines. Every time a smelly feller leaves and the next customer comes in, I feel awkwardly apologetic and uncomfortable when they’re all, “Whoo! Someone’s dog needs a bath!” and I’m like, “ha-HA! YEAH! …DOG needs a bath. NOT the person. Beause people bathe…all the time. And use deoderant. NOPE, this poo smell is DEFINITELY NOT the LARGE, SWEATY MAN who walked out before you came in!”
2. Please comment on my appearance, but only comment on the negatives. Like, you should definitely walk in, give me a once-over, and state, “WOW, you’ve had a LONG DAY!” Chances are, if I hadn’t been having a long day at that point, you just made it one. And, because of you? I’m going to drink copious amounts of alcohol when I get home, and I’ll wake up looking like I’ve had a long day, and the cycle will continue. You’re just feeding the fire, asshole.
3. Please, when you see that I work at a kennel, give me a look of pity that says, “Oh, I bet you never passed fourth grade.” …I did. And I probably made fun of people like you, because I was not only brilliant, but also AWESOME and MEAN. Also, bonus points if you reveal that you’re, say, an English professor, and I say, “Oh! My husband is an English teacher, and I hope to be, too. I was a lit major!” and you give me a look of pity that says, “Oh, I bet you are something of a dimwit because you work at a kennel.” (I’d say I’m reading too much into these looks, except today, this happened, and when I told the woman about my background, she looked at me for a long time, looked around the kennel, and said, “….Oh. Okay.”)
4. Please tell whoever is ringing you up that “Oh, now, you should be able to do that math in your head!” Hardy-Har-Har, Brainiac. Did I mention I majored in English? Also, however I calculate the bill, whether it be in my head, on my trusty calculator, or by summoning heavenly spirits, your total still comes to $465. Cash or Credit?
5. Please, I beg of you, talk very slowly to customer service professionals. Surely, they’re all idiots. You must speak to them as if they can only process one word every thirty seconds. It makes people very happy, and it really does wonders for their self esteem.
6. Please allow your dog to shit all over the office. Then laugh, pick it up with a paper towel, and say, “Hey, do you have a trash can?” Then, place it into the office manager’s hand. That’s right. Just hand that steamy dung-nugget right over. Nothing makes us happier.
7. When a customer service professional tries to give you directions, and you tell them you’re driving East on blah-blah Avenue, and the C.S.P. says politely, “Actually, I think you’re driving West,” please do not disagree. Because you’ll arrive at the office about seven hours late, and you’ll try to blame traffic, but you’ve got a tan that suggest you just spent, oh, about seven hours in the desert somewhere, and since the office is in the midwest, your cover is blown. You’re going West, my friend. West.
8. Please allow your children to play in the street outside the office. Then, every time a car drives by, shriek with horror and blame the office’s parking lot. Then, preach to the office manager about safety procedures in parking lots, which the office manager tried to explain to you already when you left your offspring outside to die.
9. CLOSE-TALKERS! We LOVE them. I don’t feel we’ve communicated unless I’ve felt your spittle and smelled the beer you drank with lunch. Keep doing that; it’s sure to win you friends in the end.
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You’re ready! You’re ready to WOW people with your ettiquette.
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I do love my job. But, truly, people can be exhausting. And I’ve learned a lot, actually, about how I treat people when I go into any business. Honestly, I used to be a more of a one-strike-and-I’ll-punch-your-teeth kind of person, and now I’m much more accomodating. Sometimes. But if you’re a true idiot, I’m not. Like, I never, ever let customers see me on the computer, on my cell phone, or just generally pissing time away. I work hard, and so I expect them to respect that. And I respect that in people that I deal with, too. I’m always sure to ask how the day is going, now, and I’m always sure to say a big thank you and tell them that I hope their day goes well. I’ve considered hugging them, but I’m wondering if I could be arrested for that. Also, the man who works at the gas station across the street might get the wrong idea, and honestly, I’d like to make it home safely at night.
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We’re apartment-hunting again! I might have mentioned this. I’m too lazy to check. Look, I’m not at work, I don’t have to have great follow-through, here.
We’re looking at a couple of duplexes tomorrow. Most of the landlords seem super-nice.
And, now, I’m going to risk a law suit by warning you a little bit. Probably none of you are looking to rent a house in Downers Grove, but if you are, I suggest staying away from a landlord who responds to your inquiry with an email that begins “Hello, dear, are you married?”
Also, this particular landlord goes into detail about how he’d like to make sure that his tenant takes great care of the home and that they are always tidy and ready for his “check-ins,” because he does those “from time to time.” Uh, dude? You’re fucked up. I’m just saying. Please stay away from me. Also, don’t start talking about how you’re putting the decision in God’s hands, because obviously, God isn’t doing the check-ins. And God knows I’m married. In fact, I believe that God is checking in on me all the time, and he doesn’t do it by poking his head into my better-be-tidy-or-I’ll-murder-you-in-your-sleep-dear home, and he doesn’t seem to want to spy on me in the shower. That’s all you, pervy landlord. All you.
We’ll be passing on that one.
But the prospects we do have are great ones, so we’re excited to figure out where the hell we’ll be living in a couple of months, if anywhere. I wonder if I could just rent out some space for us in the kennel? It’s pretty nice. They feed you twice a day. And I hear the office manager is kind of hot. Heh-Heh.
Alright, listen. I have a lot to say, here, so let’s get down to it:
First off: My top searches. This pseudo-feature has provided me with a lot of entertainment, but two on here today are throwing me for a bit of a loop. Please know that these are written verbatim, so any misspellings are not my fault, but rather the fault of people searching for these strange things. The first of these makes me vomit with discomfort. The second is just… some dumb person making me laugh.
The first search phrase: “Romping with my mother law.” …Mother Law? Is that like Mother Nature? Maybe? Sort of? And what sort of romping are you talking about? I certainly hope it’s not nude romping, because that’s just inappropriate. And why are you searching for this? And how long did you look at my blog, hoping to find pictures of romping mother laws?
The second search phrase: “Charlotte’s web wilber when was baby pig.” I mean, really, maybe this person is just really… deep. Like, I can’t answer that question. Can you? Have you ever thought about it? When was baby pig?
I make this plea, yet again: if you are crazy and/or scary, stop reading my blog. It makes me feel dirty and ashamed.
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Now, in other news, we’ve decided not to go after the house. It looked like the offer was going to be rejected, eventually, and we were going to be asked for more money – which, of course, we don’t have – and, so, we re-evaluated. We took a road trip (more on that soon) and spent the four-hour drive back talking about why we wanted to buy a home. We realized that, really, we just wanted a yard. And, honestly? That’s a lot of money to spend on a yard. I can sneak into a stranger’s yard and let my dog poo there for free, yo.
Kidding. Okay? Kidding. But, seriously, we’re not going to buy right now just because we can.
Also, “we can” is a bit of an overstatement. If I want to go back to school immediately for my teaching certification (which, of course, I do), I can’t take out a loan for that as well as a mortgage. So, I had to choose. I could have a house and no school, or schooling and no house. Or, at least, no house in my name.
But, now we’ve got a lead on a rental home that’s a little larger than the one we were going to buy, in a better area, closer to work, and it’s gorgeous! So… again, we’re crossing our fingers. If you still had them crossed for the home we were trying to buy, just start wishing for the rental house, instead. No need to un-and-then-re-cross. Just… I’ll let you know when you can uncross them. Things are chaotic right now; I’ll need a lot of your well-wishing.
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I just finished Jen Lencaster’s Pretty In Plaid. Definite must-read. Especially if you’ve ever been a girl scout, pledged or tried to pledge a sorority, looked for a job after college, saved up to buy a designer purse, had parents, or been a girl. Just read it.
Anyway, she talks about Brownies and Girl Scouts in there, and it made me totally relive my nerd days, and by “nerd days,” I mean “glory days,” and by “glory days,” I mean the Girl Scout Days.
Look, I’m not sure why I thought wearing the uniform in its entirety, complete with kulats, was a good idea. I’m not sure. Baggy old man shorts with a flowered turtleneck, a big green vest, green knee socks, and loafers? Not the wisest decision, I guess. I’d say the teasing was worth it, but I hated all the work I had to do to fill the vest with patches, so I’m not so sure.
To remedy the Kulot situation, I begged my mother to buy me the tight, floral leggings that were also acceptable Girl Scout Uniform attire. “LEGGINGS,” I thought. “Leggings are the answer!” Turns out this was not a better idea, just so you know.
So, the lesson, here? Jeans go fine with the Girl Scout top & vest. If you ever have a daughter, just skip the legging and kulat pages in the catalog. Seriously. You’ll save her a lot of grief.
Also? Jen Lancaster talks about how her mom pinned her badges onto her sash. We glued mine. So… there were little hot-glue strings hanging off the edges of every patch and every badge. Gluey little streamers, dangling in mock celebration of my scoutly accomplishments.
With my baggy bottoms and my stringy vest, I was totally the ghetto girl scout. The blonde, blue-eyed, loafer-wearing, buck-toothed, ghetto girl scout.
Celebrate the moments of your life, indeed.
I’m burning all those pictures.
So, I haven’t blogged in about a month…?
Remember me? Your favorite receptionist? I was your favorite, right?
Tap, Tap… this thing on?
Anyway, I have an excuse, and that excuse is that I’ve been quite busy. Really. I have.
And I’ve brought lessons back with me from the depths of stress. Lessons! Morals! Great, mystical truths! And, so, because of that, I shall present you with coping mechanisms for your stressful months. Because I’m probably some sort of genius about this sort of thing. I’m some sort of something, anyway. Let’s do this by situation, shall we?
Your Stressful Situation: You’re preparing paperwork – alphabetizing it, to be exact – and the phone keeps ringing and customers keep walking in. Also, you hate alphabetizing, and you’d rather leaf through papers than remember whether “Boat” or “Boats” comes first. Does it matter, really? No. The answer is no.
How to Cope: Sing the ABC’s in your head. Regardless of what else is happening. Just keep filing and organizing, filing and organizing, through the desperate cries of “Ma’am? MA’AM?!” and through the endless ringing of the telephone. In your head. ABCDEFGHIJK ELLAMENAPEE… Over and over. And the more people who come in, and the more people who call, just keep singing it, faster and faster, and sing it out loud if you have to, and when the owner of the crazy sheepdog comes in and hears you singing, just laugh it off and pretend you were singing something else or, better yet, that you weren’t singing at all, like, “ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOOOOOOOOOOOO, HELLOOOOO!” If that doesn’t work, just run. Run away. Really fast.
You know when this method didn’twork? When I was interviewing at Family Video. You have to take some random intelligence test to work there. From the looks of it, I initially thought they wanted me to proofread it. I was all marking it up with my red pen, and they were all, “Ms. LaLaLa, you need to put these titles in alphabetical order,” and I was all, “But you’ve spelled Titanic incorrectly and you’ve surrounded it by inappropriate commas,” and they were all, “Please, ma’am, the alphabet,” and I panicked and started scribbling like mad and humming the ABC’s. I totally failed the alphabetical part. But I still got the job. I guess that whole test was just for grins.
Your Stressful Situation: You’ve needed to go to the bathroom for approximately twelve days, but people keep interrupting you on your trek the restroom. You see a customer pulling into the parking lot, but if you don’t go, you’ll burst, so you have to go RIGHT NOW. FAST.
How to Cope: Multitask. While doing your business, whatever your business may be, paw desperately at the toilet paper roll. Slap it, even. Gather your wad of paper while doing… other things. But, you must abuse the roll so that it flies off the holder and rolls around on the floor. Also, you must make sure that when this happens, the roll completely unravels. This is important, because you have to get out of the bathroom as quickly as possible, which means you won’t have time to completely clean up the unwound roll, so you’ll walk out of the bathroom and leave it on the floor, and people will think you’ve been unwinding toilet paper and batting at it like some sort of psychotic, bored cat. And, come on, don’t you think people would just assume that you accidentally knocked the roll down? No, they don’t. Instead, they look at you like they believe you’ve actually been playing in the restroom, and you’re all, “I was in a hurry,” and they’re like “A hurry to do…what, exactly?” and you’re all, “I had to go to the bathroom,” and they’re all, “Yeah, to play with your little toilet paper toy, you simple child,” and….
It was a really long day, okay?
Okay. Maybe I’m not the best person to consult when it comes to stress management. But I really have been busy.
For starters, our offer on the house was accepted! I was so excited when we found out. I started throwing shit into boxes willy-nilly — books, papers, plates, the cats. Then the realtor was like, “It should only be about two months now!” and I totally slapped her. Okay, I didn’t. I kind of slapped the computer, and it kind of made this angry sound at me, and I decided that maybe anger wasn’t the answer. But, so, if everything goes well, we’ll be in the house in a couple of months. If it doesn’t, we won’t. There are all these hoops we have to jump through, and I think those hoops are on fire, so I’m trying not to get too excited yet. But I totally am. Because the house is very, very wonderful.
Also, my dog is getting bigger, and he’s the sweetest little assmonkey. He’s really stubborn, but not in an evil way. He’s ALMOST totally housebroken, except when it rains, because when it rains, he just licks the grass to quench his thirst, goes inside, and poops under the piano. Just like me.
SO, I’ve missed you, folks. I’m totally back. I promise. And I know I’ve promised this before, but now that I’m blogging again, I’m feeling sort of a rush, and it’s probably like those alleged “endorphins” that exercise-fiends speak of, so I’m just going to blog instead of exercising. Not that I exercise. Or blog, really, at least as far as the last month is concerned. Look, never mind, okay? I’m rusty.
Happy evening. More to come soon…
Thursdays are glorious.
See, I feel the way about Thursdays that you feel about Saturdays. Today, I took a writing test at Trinity Christian – part of my admission into the teacher certification program, visited with my dad for a couple of hours, took the puppy for a little drive, and wandered around Target while munching on one of my favorite treats… the Target popcorn/soda combo for $1.50. Okay, I’m sorry, I have to say that I’m STUNNED by my use of the word “munching,” because I hate that word. I think it’s disgusting. I didn’t munch on popcorn. I friggen ate it. A lot of it. “Munching” had nothing to do with it.
When I got home, it was still late afternoon. It was a glorious day today – what was it, 69 degrees? – not a cloud in the sky. I sat on the balcony and started a book I’ve been waiting to read: Carrie Muskat’s Banks to Sandberg to Grace. It’s a book of interviews with former Cubs players, managers, sportscasters, etc. It covers five decades – so far, beautifully.
It’s amazing to me. Some of the players whine about the state of the current team (“current” being around 2002, when the book came out), and others simply relive their glory days with fond nostalgia. But a couple of the interviews really hit me hard, though I can’t explain why. One of these interviews was Ernie Banks’. As one of the first African Americans to play on the Chicago Cubs, he surely has a lot to say – but he just… doesn’t. I mean, he says a lot of things, but not about that. As far as he was concerned, it seems, he’s wasn’t an African American Chicago Cub – he was just a Cub. And a mighty classy one, at that. During his interview, he stated:
“Everywhere I go, there’s somebody that has touched my life and I have touched their lives. They were 10 years old sitting out there in those bleachers. Now they’re in their 50’s . . . What I always thought of when I walked out of this ballpark when I was playing was that one day I might have to ask this little boy or girl for a job. I always thought of that. I don’t know why. My children would say, ‘Dad, we got to go.’ And I’d be signing autographs, looking at faces. I thought, gosh, I might ask you for a job someday or you might have to save my life. I always thought of that. I can’t explain it.”
How humble is that? As a reminder to you baseball fans, and as new news to those of you who don’t give a shit about the sport, Ernie was one of THE greats. He was Mr. Cub. And what was he thinking while he signed autographs? That someday, he might have to ask one of his fans for a job. These people idolized him; and, in his own way, Ernie idolized them.
This point hit home when I read the intro to this book. The author interviewed each of these people specifically for her book. All of them happily complied, excited to be a part of it. All of them except one. Sammy Sosa declined the special interview, stating, “I have my own book.”
Times have changed, huh?
I’m not sure why I chose to share that little passage. It’s not funny, really, and I guess it’s not life-altering. But it is baseball season (the cubs are 5-4… breathe, people. It’s a better start to the season than we often see). Baseball season means spring, which means pretty weather, flowers blooming (my balcony blooms aren’t dead yet! Hurrah for progress!), summer coming, and, of course, quality time at Wrigley Field. It just makes me happy.
On a completely different note (cue the screeching of breaks as we make an awkward transition), we were told we’d find out about our house offer in three weeks or less. That was yesterday. So… within 20 days, we’ll know. I’m not optimistic about it, though I think I’m just telling myself that I’m not so that if our offer is rejected, I can be all, “I I KNEW it!!!” Secretly, I have high hopes. But don’t tell anyone. I’m certainly not.
It’s back to work for me tomorrow. In-laws visiting this weekend, which will be super fun. I have a great time with my mother and stepfather-in-law, and this weekend, they’re coming to celebrate our birthdays. I do so love presents. Is that wrong? If it is, then baby, I don’t want to be right. But, seriously, we always have a blast when they visit. My mother-in-law has ADD – truly, she’s not one of those people who says “OMG, I’m SOOOO ADD,” which annoys the hell out of me and it’s so stupid because “ADD” isn’t an adjective, really, is it? Anyway, her ADD makes it so that we’re able to have about a million different conversations in a very short period of time, which is always fun. Sometimes confusing, but always fun. I love when they visit on the weekends, because we sit around on lazy mornings and drink coffee and talk about nothing. “Coffee and nothing” is one of my favorite pasttimes. We should all do it more often. Unless you hate coffee, in which case you could drink tea, or, if you don’t like tea, either, you could drink rum. It’s just a suggestion.
Have a wonderful Friday, y’all. Y’all? Since when do I employ that little dandy? Since today, apparently. Enjoy the weather tomorrow – I think it’s going to be one of those perfect days. Unless you don’t live in my general vicinity. If you’re reading this from, say, Hong Kong, your weather might be different. Consider yourself warned.
I’ll close this blog with a quote from an email I wrote to my good friend in Colorado. It’s an amusing story, and I don’t have the desire …uhh, energy… to type it again. Soooo, I’ll quote myself. Because, let’s face it. I used the Ernie Banks quote, but you don’t come here for Ernie. You’re here for PoorReception.
We have mice at work. Each day, I come in and check the candy basket that holds Easter-y candy treats, and each morning for the past two days, I’ve found a Reeses peanut butter egg with a hole gnawed in the plastic wrapper and the peanut butter eaten out of the middle. Today, I didn’t find one in the morning, and I was all, “phew, the mice are on holiday.” But I found one in the afternoon, which means that RIGHT IN FRONT of me, a mouse crawled into the candy basket and chewed up candy. 2 feet from where I sat. I informed my bosses that I’ve never seen a wild mouse. They asked what I meant, and I said, “you know, not in a cage,” and they laughed and said that mice weren’t wild. MY ASS. They are wild things and they scare me, and I shared a desk with one today. I’m gonna get that bastard. He’s gonna find some Reeses arsenic eggs in that basket soon. …Okay, truly, they’re probably adorable, but something about them creeps me out. I could never slap one with a frying pan cartoon-style, but I don’t know, man. I’m soon going to wind up standing on a chair and stomping and screaming.
MICE! Freaking mice. Am I lame? Have all of you encountered mice before? How have I avoided it for so long? Have all of you battled wild mice before? It’s gonna be man vs. mouse, tomorrow. And man will win. Man. Not woman. Because woman (me) will be running away from mouse, shrieking like a pissed cat.
Hugs and kisses, world.
Goodnight!
MAN, this loan stuff is silly. We put an actual offer on the house today. It’s a short sale – which is a really contradictory term because it actually takes a really long time to get a response, because we’re waiting for acceptance/rejection from the seller’s bank… short sales are generally pre-forclosures. Sooo, this short sale could take about a thousand years, and I’ll probably be grey-haired and perhaps also dead before this all goes through. We could wait a few months, just to wind up with a rejection. Such is life. We’ll call it a learning experience. And I’ll be on edge for a long time. Just so you know — so you’ve received fair warning that this is going to become bitch blog ’09.
It was another stellar day at work – actually, it really was pretty good, except for a few dingbats. I love when people agree to certain things, sign a contract proving their agreement to said things, and then pretend they don’t remember signing the contract at all. Because they don’t want to pay what they owe. They make up random numbers, claim they should get to pay hundreds less than they’re supposed to, and they look at me like they expect me to participate in their little bargain game, like I’m some crazy bartering gypsy woman who will suddenly be like, “okay, sure, I’ll knock off two hundred dollars, but you have to also give me a new kerchief and a goat.”
So, this weather can suck it, speaking of me being crabby and wanting to PUNCH THE RAINDROPS AND THE CLOUDS IN THEIR COLD, GREY FACES. Chris and I are seeing the Cubs game one week from today, and it looks like I’ll be seeing it from a cold, damp, freezing seat. But it IS at Wrigley Field. Which means I’ll be warm with… something. Joy? Hopefully. Anger? Maybe. Come on, Cubs. Don’t do me like you do. Win something for me next week.
I love the Cubs.
I can’t wait.
Chris and I are celebrating our birthdays soon — I’m the 27th and he’s May 5th which, by the way, means that he can’t celebrate his birthday at Mexican restaurants even though Mexican is his favorite food, because he HATES Mariachi bands, and there are ALWAYS Mariachi bands and crazies out on Cinco de Mayo — and we’re heading off to a B&B near Long Grove, IL and spending the next day sleeping in and wandering around the town. Long Grove is great — an awesome little getaway; shops everywhere, great little restaurants.
My mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law take numerous “30 hour vacations” throughout the year, and they make little scrapbooks from each. Chris and I are trying to do that more often. So, Long Grove it is, for now. The requirements are that they can’t be more than 5-1/2 or 6 hours from here, and they have to require only a one-night stay. If you have ideas, I’m totally open to them…
And I have nothing else to say, so I should just stop typing.
Before I stop making sense.
Unless I’ve already stopped.
In which case,… Just ignore me.
Okay, I’m not a quiet person. I’m not. Like, if you were playing a game called “SHUT THE HELL UP,” you would notwant me on your team. I was always the last person to stop talking at slumber parties so the parents hated me (actually they loved me, but they did find me hard to handle come 3 a.m. when I was still HAHAHAHAAAAing myself to pisses), I always got “needs improvement” on my report cards in grammar school under the headings “practices self control” and “works without disturbing others,” and I talk customers’ ears off at work.
But one place I don’t run my mouthconstantly is at church. Sure, I may utter a “that was nice” after a sermon or something, but I certainly don’t blatantly turn around and run my mouth and talk about bar hopping and CHECK FACEBOOK ON MY iPHONE during COMMUNION. This is what I saw on Easter Sunday. This girl – no, not a girl – this woman – would not shut up. And she talked about random shit that had nothing to do with anything, and I’m not sure that she was talking to anyone in particular. While we were all, “Happy Easter – He is Risen!”, she was all, “He is Risen and OMIGOSSSSHHH BECKY TOTALLY GOT HIGHLIGHTS!” If you don’t want to go to church, by all means, don’t go. I won’t judge ya – I’ve said from the beginning that whether you believe in God or a Giant Squirrel who walks around in a diaper and hands out magical acorns, bless your heart. But don’t go to church just to say that you went to church. Because you went to church and acted like an idiot. Thanks.
AND? Speaking of idiots? I was bullied at work today by a customer. I mean, bullied. The girl who worked my job before me messed up when she made the reservation for these people’s dogs, and they blamed me. Which is fine – I mean, I’m really not one to be like, “Hey, it was someone else, not my problem.” I really like customer service; I really strive to make everyone happy and comfortable; I want to keep them coming back. So, to make up for the fact that this girl messed up and didn’t schedule one of their dogs to be groomed while they were boarding, I gave them two free baths and nail trimmings, and two free days of grooming. (PS? That means I took $100 off their bill, for the size that their dogs were; the grooming was worth about $45. The grooming would have been, essentially, free.) I didn’t expect “thanks,” but maybe a compromise. Maybe? Or, at least, “okay, I’m disappointed, but this will work.” Alas, instead, I got “We’ve never had a problem with this place until you arrived.” …Really? Excuse me? Because I totally, then, DID want to be all, “ACTUALLY, I’m not the one who made the mistake, I’m just the one taking CRAP for it,” but instead, I just said, “What else can I do to make this up to you?” Wasn’t that nice? Because I wanted to punch her teeth out. THEN, they made a further effort to say AGAIN, “I’m just amazed that you’re the only person we’ve ever had a problem with.” Sigh. I would have groomed their dogs if I could have. But I would have cut a nose off or something. I’m no groomer. I just love the dogs; I can’t make them look pretty.
But, I believe that everything happens for a reason, and so I will say that this snotty family made me appreciate the amazing customers we have. Actually, that would be… most of them. They’re all pretty nice; they’re all so damned proud of their dogs, and they should be — we have a couple of Katrina rescues that come in, one from the bad Iowa flood, one who’s a retired service dog, and one who’s a therapy dog at Edward Hospital. Most of the owners are just sweet people who like to chat for a bit when they come in. This business truly thrives on the fact that it’s not a big business – it’s family-owned, and I love it. My bosses are incredible people. They’ve boarded dogs from the pitbull rescue for free; they’ve boarded rescue dogs from natural disasters, free of charge. They just want to make sure the animals are taken care of.
Coming from the company I used to work for, this is incredible to me. The IT company was so Me-Me-Gimme-Me-Me-Me-centric that this is totally foreign to me. In a wonderful way.
In other news, I think we’re about to make an offer on a house!!! It’s a starter home, for sure, which wasn’t the original plan, but I think it’s the smart one. It’s a 3-bedroom, though two of the bedrooms are pretty tiny. There’s a modest family room, a nice eat-in kitchen, a HUGE fenced-in yard, a nice-sized family room downstairs that we hope to put a bar in and create some sort of Irish-Pub-Cubs-Bar-fusion thing in, and a huge laundry room that I thought only existed in my dreams. 1-1/2 baths. I’m SO EXCITED!!! The yard is great; the neighborhood is cool, it seems – pretty diverse, but it’s a lot of older people and young families, which is nice. The carpet is new; the hallways and bedroom floors are newer wood. It’s very nice space, incredible for the money, and the opportunities for upgrades are great. We’d ideally like to redo the kitchen, though I’m getting ahead of myself. If the roof is too old or the furnace too iffy, we’ll be passing. But this is the closest we’ve come yet, so I’m excited! We’ve also got our eye on this amazing townhome with a small, fenced-in yard and an updated kitchen, so there are options out there. I’ll keep you posted!
So, classless09 did a Bucket List. I think I’m always considering mine; I suppose I’ll write it here. I haven’t written it anywhere else, and writing it might set some of this in stone. Some of these are more “goals,” I guess – maybe it’s the same thing – I’m not sure. But I babble at you enough that maybe you’re ready to gain some greater insight into the madness that is me…
So, at the tender age of… have I ever told you how old I am? I’ll be 23 on the 27th. So, yes, at the tender age of ALMOST 23, here’s my bucket list – though I maintain the right to change it until my 30th birthday. I just made up that rule.
1. Teach. I need to teach. I must teach.
2. Create a clothing line made from eco-friendly materials; donate all proceeds to Best Friends Animals Sanctuary.
3. Visit every state in the U.S.
4. Go to Belgium.
5. Perform live with Magatha Trysty (my band. PS. My band is my husband, me, and kind of also our friend Dan, if he remembers that he agreed to play stuff for us. We have good stuff. Folk/Power Pop? That’s what we are. Obviously, the details are sketchy).
6. Get published under my name (I’ve written stuff for hire, which means my stuff is out there in the educational world, because my stuff’s been used by some ed. publishing houses, but my name isn’t on it).
7. Compose a piano concerto.
8. Fly without fear. In a plane, that is. If I, myself, could fly, I’m not sure if I’d be afraid or not.
9. Have lunch with a musician I admire.
10. Adopt a child. (Chris knows about this. I won’t just walk in the door with some strange kid someday.)
11. Flip a house.
12. Spend an entire summer in the northwoods of Wisconsin, where I’ve spent time every summer since before I was born.
13. Take our kids to Student Prince in Macomb, IL for a huge breakfast in the best greasy diner-y place ever.
14. Buy my husband a first-edition Fitzgerald.
15. Publish an academic paper on the writings of D.H. Lawrence or Toni Morrison (my two favorite authors to study).
16. Perform in The Vagina Monologues again.
17. Pay my parents back, in some form, for all they’ve done for me.
18. Organize a variety show for a nursing home.
19. Spend Christmas Eve in a pediatric ward at a hospital reading Christmas stories and playing with the children there.
20. Learn Spanish, Italian, and Japanese.
21. Rent out a banquet hall and host a huge, black-tie-fancy-shmancy-party for no reason.
22. Raise healthy children.
23. Go on vacation with my mom.
24. Have a meal that I make be my “thing.” As in, “oooh, she’s bringing that __________ that she makes so well!!!”
25. Interior design.
26. Brew my own beer.
27. Eventually teach at a small-town school and live out in the country on many acres.
28. Get to a point where I eat only vegetables I grow myself. (Side note? My basil just died. Sad day.)
29. Get an MA and Ph. D; focus on 20th century ethnic writings of the U.S.
30. Catch a kickass muskie. (I know. My love of animals conflicts with this. I fish. A lot. I love fishing. Sorry, PETA.)
31. Try a food I’m scared to taste.
32. NEVER ride a roller coaster. What? It’s just as much of a goal as actually RIDING one is. I’ve never done it. Never want to. Do not give in to peer pressure, PoorReception. Don’t do it.
33. Own an antique, upright piano.
34. Host a party for my church choir. (It sounds boring. But it’s not. They’re crazy people.)
35. Conduct a choir.
36. Get more involved in politics without becoming a politician.
I think that’s it. I guess I’m pretty boring, because many of these are actually attainable, which I think is partially the point. If it was like, “Invent a flying car,” I’d be headed for disappointment, because, let’s face it, I majored in English. Though I totally won the bridge-building contest in my high school physics class. Because I’m the BEST.
As Classless09 asked in her blog, what’s your bucket list?
Also, what crappy people have you encountered in your jobs? And what have you learned from them? If you’ve learned nothing other than, “people are poo heads,” that’s okay. That’s a lesson, right?
Speaking of lessons, I’ve learned that I CAN grow flowers. At least I can grow them for one week. I’ve got a gorgeous orchid blooming at work, and violas, pansies, lillies, and hyacinth blooming on the balcony. Though the balcony flowers came damn close to drowning today in the freezing frigging rain that was pelting us. PELTING.
But my basil is still dead. Dead, dead, dead. It’s possible that my cat peed on it. I’m going to set up secret cameras to find out. Secret pee cameras.
Yeah, I’m THAT girl. The one with the cats. Who sometimes pee. On my spices. If that’s how the basil died, thank Christ I didn’t eat it. What a strange and pungent experience that would have been.
So, I love summer. I look forward to it each year like most children (…and, well, me) look forward to Christmas. “Summer” might just be my favorite holiday. But I’ve had many issues with summer, and each year, I choose to ignore them and pretend, with a naivete that only poorreception can muster, that summertime is equated with only bliss, relaxation, and endless splendor. And, so, dear readers, I present you with the highlights of my life’s summers.
PoorReception’s age: 7
The setting: Copper Falls in Wisconsin
My parents and I have traveled to Wisconsin each year since I was just an idea in my mother’s head, and so some of my fondest memories have taken place there. Unfortunately, while this memory is, well, memorable, it isn’t necessarily fond. In the first few years of my childhood, my parents wanted me to see all these beautiful places in the north woods, and so we decided to walk around Copper Falls, this GORGEOUS place up north. We took our video camera, and old dinosaur of a recorder that weighed about 600 pounds. The camera holds the evidence to this tale. See, everything was going fine. The video shows that we were oooh-ing and ahhh-ing over the beautiful waterfalls and stunning scenery, when suddenly you hear a young PoorReception exclaim, “OHMYGOD, OUCH, OHMYGOD, OHMYGODDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Then, you hear my parents tell me, “Calm down, Katie… Calm down. It’s okay. We’ll put ice on it later.” We continue to walk. Again, this is all documented. HOURS later (or 20 minutes), you hear me exclaim, “Whoa, it stings. And it itches. HAHA… wow, it really hurts. And it itches.” Again, I was told to calm down. In my parents’ defense, I was an excitable child. The serenity of Copper Falls continues to be interrupted by my vivid descriptions of the itchy, bite-y, painful sting. Shortly thereafter, the video ends. Where was this insect bite? It was on my eye. MY FREAKING EYE. And the next day? MY EYE WAS SWOLLEN SHUT. And my parents cried. They felt awful. And my uncle said, “Oh, you’re a little half-Asian girl!” What? I never said my family was P.C. To this day, when my parents upset me, I can be all, “Hey, remember when you were all, ‘shut up, it’s just a bug bite,’ and the next day, I was BLIND?????” My parents never let ANY injury go unnoticed after that. Never.
PoorReception’s Age: 13
The setting: AOL. And Wisconsin (again).
AOL chat was this HUGE thing when I was in junior high. There was this cute guy, Bobby, and we decided, ONLINE, that we’d be boyfriend/girlfriend. He was a basketball player. Unreal, RIGHT? Anyway, like I said, we decided this while talking online, and then I went to Wisconsin and was having SO MUCH FUN fishing and romping with my friend Betsy that I totally didn’t care about him anymore, and went I got home, I broke up with him ONLINE. And he’s all, “BUT I LOVE YOU!!!!” and I’m all, “I’m so sorry; I know you’re devastated; you’ll find love again! YOU MUST LIVE!” This is my story of Summer Lovin’. That song from Grease? Written about my relationship with Bobby. I’m sure of it.
PoorReception’s Age: 14
The setting: Movie Theater
I saw a movie with a junior-high boyfriend. After the movie, he said, “You know, I should tell you, my dad’s in the mafia.” His family moved away really shortly after that.
….
……..
Maybe enough said.
PoorReception’s Age: 18
The Setting: Summer Camp
I worked at summer camp. This has been mentioned before – way back in the beginning of this blog. I had this problem child. His parents’ insisted to me that he was a vegetarian, and so he must receive meat-free hot lunch each day. Soooo, that’s what I gave him. And, as a carnivore, I felt for the kid. One day, all these kids were eating delicious mystery meat sandwiches, and this child had a bowl of buttered pasta, and I was all, “look kid, vegetarians can’t eat mystery meat,” and he’s all, “I’m not really a vegetarian,” and I said, “this is what your parents would like you to eat, and MMMMMMBOY, I bet it’s good,” and he got pissed and threw his pasta at my head. And the bowl connected with my skull, raining pasta down upon my hair and my clothes and my feet and I was like, “YOU’RE A LITTLE SHIT.” Actually, I didn’t say that. But ohhhhhh, I was mad. And then later, the kids played dodgeball, and he punched some kid in the face, and I grabbed him and dragged him off the dodgeball court and said, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” and he said, “DOES MY MOTHER TELL NO ONE ABOUT MY BRAIN DAMAGE???!” And, no, she hadn’t, and I realized that this child was seriously disturbed, and I couldn’t wait for him to disappear when autumn came. I hope he’s doing okay now. You know, what with the brain damage, and all.
PoorReception’s age: 18 (same year)
The setting: my parents’ house
I was dating this boy, and I thought I loved him. He was the first English major I’d dated; I think that was it. Anyway, he was leaving for somewhere on vacation, and he was about to leave my house, and I was laying on top of him, and we were smooching and being all, “I’LL MISS YOU!!!” but I was sick, and coughing a lot, and he was like, “I’ll miss you,” and I coughed, and the force of my cough was too much, and I TOTALLY FARTED. While ON HIM. And then he left for vacation. “I’ll miss you.” “PPPPPFFFFFFFFTTTTTT!!!!!” And then he was gone. Poof. Or, Poot. As the case may be. (PS? I call farts “pooties” sometimes. I think this might make me an idiot.)
There have been other tales – the summer in which I got into 2 car accidents (one of which involved my backing my mother’s car into the brick, outdoor wall of my church), and the summer in which I discovered my need for leg-shaving when I realized that I was the only one among my friends who looked slightly canine. All these little memories… all taking place during summer. And yet? Some of the best things of my life have happened during these months. We got one of our cats, Lolo, during the summer. My husband (then fiance) and spent wonderful times in a small, studio apartment that looked out on Wrigley Field during the summer. I saw Cubs games with my family and my husband, I went on a barbecuing binge and served ONLY meals cooked on the grill for a 40-day period during the summer.
I love summer. I love outside. I will take a bead of sweat over a flake of snow any day. I’m itching to garden, to walk, to swim, and to grill. I’m dying to listen to Ron Santo on WGN, because that’s something I equate with complete happiness. My summers may be perpetually odd, but they are also – most certainly – perpetually happy.
Tell me about your summers. I can see how many of you read this blog – and very few of you comment on it. Come on, now. Don’t be shy. You can’t make a fool of yourself – because, come on, look at me! You can do no wrong. Trust me.
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