I no longer take showers. Also, I have a band. September 24, 2010

Oh hay freends.  I know it’s been too long, but damn I’ve been busy.  I’ve been doing things like THIS.

we fight crime on the side.

And THIS: http://www.myspace.com/spiralfiremusic.

Which is to say, go look at my band’s myspace because we’ve been laboring our well-defined asses off (ok they are not really that well-defined, we drink a lot of beer and eat cake and hots dogs sometimes) to get this thing off the ground so that we can actually be a real band that exists in the interwebs and not just in our attic!!!  Yayyyyyy!!!!!  And also our first show is this Sunday at the Carrboro Music Incestival…I mean Festival.  Incest is gross.  Ew.  2:00 in front of the Music Loft.  Be there or be a bobo lame-o.

Also here is another thing.  SOMETIMES I FORGET TO TAKE A SHOWER FOR LIKE 3 DAYS.  THAT IS THE TRUTH IT IS NOT A LIE.  Since the whole working-at-home thing started, I get up in the morning, I do work, I go to yoga or run, I work more, I eat, I pet the cats and then scream at them for doing something bad, I watch like maybe one second of a movie, I eat something else, I work more, then I go to bed.  And sometimes…I forget to take a shower that day.  And I’m like, OH IT’S FINE.  IT’S NOT LIKE I HAVE TO SEE ANYONE EXCEPT THE BOYFRIEND AND THE CATS.  And then…THEN.  This is where it gets tricky.  The next day I’m like…get up, do work, yoga/run, eat, yell at cats, eat, work, movie…wait, did I take a shower yesterday?  Yeah.  Of course I did.  Of course I took a shower.  I don’t smell.  I mean…I ran today, but I don’t smell.  Like…I kind of do in a way that people do if they are paranoid about if they smell.  But not really.  And THEN the next day comes.  And shower time feels like it was way in the past, and that it shouldn’t really be a part of my life anymore.  Until the boyfriend says that really, it should because my hair is clumping together from the grease and food crumbs that have gathered in it.  I have progressed right through dirty hippie status to dirty hermit.

I promise if you come to my show on Sunday, I will shower beforehand and be clean and sparkly for your viewing and listening pleasure.  Amen.

Moving Times 2010. Not fun. July 28, 2010

Why yes, moving does make me want to punch someone’s face in.  Thank you for asking.

Sure, I have work I could be catching up on.  But am I doing that?  NO.  I’m packing up all my stupid belongings (they only seem stupid when I have to move all of them at once) and listening to Joan Jett very loudly on my record player.  I hope my neighbors get pissed about it too.  However, it’s only 3:30 in the afternoon so they probably are at work and can’t hear my music, about which they rudely complained to the apartment complex people a few months ago BEFORE EVEN KNOCKING ON MY DOOR TO SAY IT’S TOO LOUD.  AND DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU COMPLAINED ABOUT THE KITTY LITTER THAT THE TRASH PEOPLE SPILLED ON MY DOORSTEP AND I DIDN’T CLEAN UP FOR LIKE ONE DAY BECAUSE I WAS WORKING THAT DAY AND GOOD GOD IT WAS ONLY ONE DAY AND IT WAS NOT EVEN ME WHO SPILLED IT.  ALSO DO YOU REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU LEFT THE FUTON FRAME IN THE BREEZEWAY FOR A MONTH WITHOUT THROWING IT AWAY AND I DIDN’T COMPLAIN NOT ONE WORD EVEN THOUGH IT WAS SUPER-TACKY TO HAVE A FUTON FRAME ON THE BREEZEWAY, WHAT ARE WE REDNECKS HERE?  I could say a lot of things here about their lack of balls and abundance of hypocrisy, but I will just say that I’m happy to be moving out.

Here are some things I have noticed while moving:

1. Certain small items vanish very easily, items that you need and have already packed, items like corkscrews.  WHERE IS MY CORKSCREW OMG I PACKED IT ALREADY AND IF I CAN’T OPEN THIS BOTTLE OF WINE I WILL CLEARLY HAVE TO RIP YOUR FEMUR OUT OF YOUR LEG AND FASHION A MAKESHIFT CORKSCREW FROM IT.

YOUR FEMUR, MY CORKSCREW

another use for femurs: when you can't find anything else to put your pens in.

2. I dried off after a shower with a handtowel because there were no more towels to be found in the whole place.  The towel was soaking wet after about one second and now it smells moldy because I’ve been using it for a few days.  I am gross.

I typed in moldy on google image and this came up. It is a crocheted cupcake that's supposed to be moldy and the caption says "it's an adorable moldy cupcake!! free pattern here." Let me ask you please who wants to crochet a moldy cupcake with eyes? Who? Not me. Not my cupcake, not my problem.

3. I have wimpy arms that cannot carry boxes only even half full of books.  Also you should know that one time when I was probably 12 years old, someone gave me a flat of like 5 gallons of sweet tea to carry to a car and I dropped the entire thing and sweet tea went everywhere.  I am pretty sure the ants had a party that day in the parking lot, all because of my wimpy arms which probably haven’t developed at all since I was 12.

ANT PARTAY WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

another kind of ant partay. this one is not as much fun.

4. Wow I have a lot of crap, crap that needs to be thrown away and never should come back and visit me again.

i want one of those hats but i'd just have to move it along with everything else.

5.  How did I amass so many screws, buttons, and broken pieces of things that seem to belong to nothing?  How?

6.  I end up hurting myself in weird ways when I move.  Like, I will go to pick something up and not get a good grip on it and then my hand flies up and hits me in the nose and immediately my eyes get teary and even though there is nobody around I say HAY I COULDN’T CONTROL THOSE TEARS THEY JUST HAPPEN WHEN I GET HIT IN THE NOSE OK I’M NOT A CRYBABY.  DON’T JUDGE ME.  And then I cry a little bit for real because it really did hurt and it makes me mad to accidentally hurt myself.

classy.

I’ve switched to the Boss on the record player, and he says that you can’t start a fire without a spark so I think he’s telling me to stop blogging and start packing.  Have a good week, people who read this.  Crabby, bitchy, all-caps kisses from moving-land USA.

OH HAY. July 7, 2010

OH HAY…AGAIN.  IT’S ME.  DID YOU THINK I DIED?  I DIDN’T OK.  BUT THIS ZEBRA DEFINITELY DID.

It's Dead Zebra Wednesday! Yayyyyyyyyy!

I realize it has been a month since I last posted, so maybe you thought I was mauled by a bear, or that I got the consumption and have been coughing up blood and dying in a really dramatic way and sighing a lot with the back of my hand pressed against my forehead, or that a piano was dropped on me from a great height, or that the cats had decided I wasn’t feeding them enough and turned on me in my sleep with their little pointy claws and teeth.  DO NOT WORRY I TELL YOU.  None of this has happened to me.

I have been trying (really hard) to get used to this new busy lifestyle that I seem to have now.  I think I almost have acclimated (almost? I hope?) but I cannot be sure.  I do know that these things have happened lately to me:

1. I bought a new backpack for my laptop so that one shoulder doesn’t feel like it’s going to fall off of me (I had a laptop bag with a shoulder strap before the backpack).  My backpack is green and is made by Swiss Army and it took a really long time to look for it and I feel like I’m in high school when I wear it, but at least it does not look like this, which is my real high school backpack:

sideways picture fun times 2010

Now that’s some dorky shit.  Did you know that I refused to put a middle initial between the S and the P because in middle school, my first and last name initials were SP, and that was ALSO GET THIS THE INITIALS OF THE SMASHING PUMPKINS OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG.  And did you also know that those patches say “Love is real, not fade away” and “VW” and “Keep on truckin’”?  That last one was stitched onto the back pocket of my jeans in the 10th grade, and it/my right butt cheek was poked and/or groped when I was making my way through a crowd at a Pearl Jam concert.  That is the truth and I am here to tell it to you.

2. I had a birthday, which means I am 28, which means I am close to 30, which means…OLD I FEEL OLD GAHHHHHHH.

3. I have been editing a lot of documents for publication in British journals, so I now think that “humour” and “behaviour” and “favour” are the only way to spell all of these now instead of how we spell them in Amurica.

4. I ate a lot of ice cream in the past week.

5. I tried to start running again because I ate a lot of ice cream.  This is a joke because I always start running and then I get bored with it after like a week.  BUT THIS TIME IT’S FOR REAL.  EXCEPT THAT THE FACT THAT I SAID THAT AND MY AWFUL TRACK RECORD (GET IT TRACK RECORD…LIKE A TRACK…FOR RUNNING…NEVERMIND) MAKES ME LAUGH REAL HARD CAUSE I’M PRETTY SURE I WILL STOP IN A WEEK FROM NOW.  I’M GONNA STOP TYPING IN ALL CAPS NOW OK.

6. I tried to start a lot of blog posts, but they all failed miserably because I didn’t have the brain energy to finish them.

7. I drank some Nyquil one night so I could get to sleep and I felt like I was going to die the next day, which of course (unfortunately) makes me call it Diequil now.

8. I really did spend probably $250 on plants yes plants in the past two weeks, and now my porch is completely full to the top of plants but you know what that’s ok because

9. I am moving to a house in August and the landlady said PLANT WHATEVER YOU WANT OK and I said OK YOU WILL BE SORRY YOU SAID THAT BUT OK.  She really has no idea what I plan to do with that yard.  I am like the Rainman of plants except not as socially awkward.  There are 26 plants on my apartment porch at this very moment, and it is small, I tell you, SMALL.  I have also noticed that there is a bird couple that seems to be interested in moving into my asparagus fern and that’s just fine, but they obviously need to realize that if their babies do not hatch by August, I’m taking them with me to the new place and raising them as my own for tiny bird pets.  Also I require a deposit of a month’s rent and a background check for moving into my plants.

the insizzles

the outsizzles

10. I have been sleeping what some people would call “way too much” and what I call “just enough.”  Or rather, I’ve been getting something like eight to nine hours (ok sometimes it’s 10 or 11 hours) of sleep a night on a very weird schedule.  I can say this: I do not feel sleep-deprived.  I can also say that yesterday, I woke up at 11:00 AM and went to bed at 12:20 PM (that is only about 13 hours of being awake, for those of you who are stupid), although that is not exactly normal for me.  For some idiot reason, I’ve been staying up until 2:00-ish, which throws everything off.  Also, my skin looks fantastic because of this sleep thing, which some people might regard as an addiction.  I can quit whenever I want.  You shut your filthy mouth ok.

11. I’ve been formulating a blog post about my awkward middle/high school phase that will be revealed shortly.  It includes pictures.  It’s going to be rather painful for me to post, but you know…what doesn’t kill you makes you puke because you’re so weird-looking in middle school.  HUECK BARF VOM VOM VOM.

Have a freaking amazing Wednesday.  (Can Wednesdays ever be that great?)

THEY CAN WITH DEAD ZEBRAS!

BEARS BEARS BEARS GET YOUR BEAR PICS HERE June 8, 2010

Well. This week, I have pretty much nothing to report, except…WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PEOPLE LOOKING FOR PICTURES OF BEARS ON MY BLOG. Ok. I will explain this, I just had to get that out first, in all capital letters, to show my baffled-ed-ness at the bear phenomenon. The bearomenon.

Over the past week, I have gotten somewhere around 100 or so hits for “bear” or “bear pics.” YASE, I have a picture of a bear on my site. Here it is, in fact:

I put this picture up, what, a month and a half ago? I mean…why all the bear pictures now, versus, you know, a month ago? As my friend Emily said,

yes, like what the is the need for EVERYONE TO HAVE A PICTURE OF A BEAR RIGHT NOW.

I DON’T KNOW, EMILY. I. DON’T. KNOW.

I think last week was the first week where I’ve actually had people come to my blog because they were searching for certain words or phrases (I have no problem with this publicity at all, even if it is mainly bear-related), unless that dirty ho WordPress has been lying to me since January.  Other terms I have had recently for hits:

it just made sense (bear-related publicity makes no sense if you ask me but it will make a lot more sense after this post)

who is awsome? you are (yes, spelled exactly like that)

your ass is grass (I don’t know what I did to piss you off but I’m sorry)

медведь (???????)

and for the grand finale…

what if i put my foot in your ass?

Whoever said anything about putting their foot in anyone’s ass? It wasn’t me, so the ONLY answer I see here is that a bear took control of my blog when I was sleeping and said something dirty about putting its foot up someone’s ass.

IT WAS ME I DID IT YAY FUN

In other news, my job is freaking AWESOME. Or awsome, depending on who you are. Seriously, I worked from bed two days last week. FROM BED IN MY PJ’S. Unfortunately, I think that trend is going to have to fall by the wayside, as my neck/back are beginning to hurt a bit. I’m gonna get one of those fancy chairs with a mesh back so it looks like I’m in space when I’m sitting in it, even though nobody will see it but me and the cats. HEY CATS LOOK AT ME I’M FUTURISTIC.  YOU CAN TELL BECAUSE MY CHAIR IS MESH AND YOU CAN SEE THROUGH THE BACK OF IT AND THAT’S NEAT. YOU DON’T CARE, ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS EATING AND THEN POOPING IN MY PLANTS. PAY ATTENTION TO MY MESH SPACE CHAIR BECAUSE IT’S IMPORTANT TO ME AND YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME ALTHOUGH I’M PRETTY SURE YOU JUST USE ME FOR FOOD. NO I SAID PAY ATTENTION NOT CLAW. GOD. THIS IS A DISASTER.

Maybe I will get a chair made out of something other than mesh.

SPACE CHAIR WOOOOO LOOK AT ME I'M AN IMPORTANT BUSINESS EXECUTIVE FROM THE FUTURE WOOOO

dear service industry: eat me. xoxo, me. May 29, 2010

Unfortunately, I have had quite a few jobs in the service industry.  For me, these jobs are like cockroaches or a stalker ex-boyfriend or the herp…they just keep reappearing, no matter how many times you try to get rid of them.*

I guess that’s what I get for going to grad school for English.  I sort of feel sorry for Sinclair of 18 years old, thinking she could TOTALLY go into publishing because y’all, my mom told me I could do ANYTHING.  Instead, here I am, four years after grad school, just now having hooked a job that has anything to do with what I studied.  I feel like there was an easier way to do this…

I digress.  Here is why nobody should ever hire me to work in the service industry, ever, ever, ever again:

1. LATENESS AND MORNING HATE.

If a job requires me to be somewhere at 8:00 AM, it is maybe the biggest struggle of my life to be there on time, and I swear to you I am thisclose to being late every single day.  You can bet your ass that I will be getting up at 9:00 or later every day from tomorrow until the end of time because I HATE HATE HATE HATE HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE mornings.

Stupid morning, what with its little singing birds and dew on the grass GET OFF MY FEET DEW I’M TRYING TO GET TO WORK ON TIME AND YOU HAVE ALREADY RUINED MY DAY BY MAKING MY SANDALS AND THE BOTTOMS OF MY PANTS WET THANKSALOT.

Then, there’s the whole traffic issue.  I live down a road that is two lanes with no passing zones anywhere.  This makes me furious, only because people don’t drive the way I tell them to.  HAY THE SPEED LIMIT IS 45 AND YOU ARE GOING EXACTLY 45 WHY AREN’T YOU DOING 60 YOU WASTE OF A HUMAN BODY.  Also I feel it is necessary to point out that presently I only live about five miles away from my job, yet I have to leave at 7:fricking40 on the dot to pull into the parking lot at 8:00 and runrunrunrunrun my ass into the building.

After I do this, I sit down, out of breath, at the front desk.  WHEW I say to myself.  Except then people start coming into the building and for some reason expect me to talk to them when I do not even have ample coffee amounts in my bloodstream to open my eyes.  Yes, I drive to work asleep.  For one year and a half, I have said “hey” in the morning to, on average, 50 people per morning.  Instead of “hey,” I am really thinking, “I hate you and I hope you never talk to me again.”  I say this to people with whom I have no problem when the morning crazies have left my body.  It’s still beyond me, however, as to why anyone would expect me to acknowledge their presence at such an ungodly hour.

2. INTERNAL STRUGGLES WITH SELF RE:AUTHORITY.

Though my mother and father brought me up to be a good little girl who respects her elders and doesn’t question authority, I ended up not turning out that way…at least not in my head.  I have a serious problem when the people in power do idiotic things that are not at all based on logic, but since I was raised in the South where you have to shut your mouth about things you don’t like, I have internal conversations on a daily basis that go like this:

Me: Ok so I have to make people sign in at the front desk.  That’s part of the job, no matter how much I hate it or think it’s stupid.
Self: But why?  There is absolutely no reason.  Nobody looks at these logs where people sign in.  You put them in a binder and NOBODY LOOKS AT THEM.  This is ridiculous and irrational and I WANT JUSTICE.
Me: I know but you also want to keep your job, right?  Especially since you ALREADY GOT LAID OFF THREE TIMES IN ONE YEAR?  DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?
Self: (sheepishly)…yes.  But it still doesn’t seem right to do something irrational just because someone tells you to.
Me: ….
SHUT UP AND DO WHAT I TELL YOU! YOUR MOTHER WOULD BE SO DISAPPOINTED IF I TOLD HER THIS!  YOU ARE A PROPER SOUTHERN LADY NOW ACT LIKE IT GODDAMMIT!
Self: You just cursed.  That’s not very ladylike.
Me: (turning bright shade of red) YOU ARE REALLY PISSING ME OFF AND IF I COULD GET RID OF YOU I WOULD!  I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT WE’RE FIGHTING ABOUT!

I’m pretty sure people can see this going on in my head when I’m told to do something I don’t want to do, but I paste a crooked painful smile on my face and do it anyway.  I’m pretty sure they can also see the lasers that are on the verge of shooting out of my eyes into the middle of their foreheads.

3. DANGEROUS SPIDERLIKE TENDENCIES.

I have a somewhat reclusive nature, especially when working, because I need to block out all distractions SLASH I lean towards introversion in a very real way.  Although I hate spiders more than I hate mornings, please feel free to think of me as a brown recluse- happy in its own little woodpile, and REALLY PISSED OFF when exposed or bothered.

It pains me to put this on my blog but I feel you need a concrete representation of what I am asking you to visualize. Just kidding, I kinda just want to skeeve you out. Is that wrong?

This is why working from home is the most perfect thing I could ever dream up for myself and why service industry jobs for me are like someone taking my hand, breaking all of my fingers one by one, then putting my hand on the ground, and THEN jumping up and down on it until it further breaks into a billion shards of bone and hand-flesh-pieces.  I actually do like people, I just don’t like interacting with them 8:00 to 5:00, Monday to Friday, all day long, with no place to hide if I need a minute or need to eat my breakfast without 30 people commenting on what I’m eating (YES IT’S GRANOLA NO I’M NOT A HIPPIE).

I LIKE WHOLE GRAINS NOT NASTY HAIR.

Seriously, I swear to you on the grave of Kurt Cobain that is how serious I am, one of the doctors that works here just said to me, “I’m gonna miss your pretty smile in the morning.”  <—– WEIRD.  It’s like I’m an evil troll living in a the body of a normal, likeable person.  I even feel a little bad about being so bitchy in this post.  Not that bad.

What I look like.

What I feel like.

4. PHONE HATE.

This is the last reason why I should not be made to work in the service industry ever again.  I hate talking on the phone more than I hate either spiders or mornings.

I don't know what this means in terms of this blog post but I am strangely drawn to it.

I hate talking on the phone so much that on multiple occasions (by multiple I mean at least a hundred times I am not joking), I have hung up from a call with my mother and wondered, “Did I just make mom cry again?”  It’s not her, it’s not whoever I’m talking to, it’s me and my intense phone hate.

When I hear the phone ring, sometimes before I pick up I actually growl at it or mutter a string of obscenities that include “What the @^$#%! do you want, stop calling here.”  If my supervisor has overheard this, she has not mentioned it.  I think receptionists are probably not supposed to act this way, which is why I should never be one ever again.

DID YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE?  STOP GIVING ME SERVICE INDUSTRY JOBS PLEASE.  THANK YOU FOR THE WORK FROM HOME EDITING JOB I REALLY APPRECIATE IT AND I WILL WORK REALLY HARD AT IT AND I’M GLAD YOU SEE I’VE PAID MY DUES WITH SERVICE INDUSTRY JOBS NOW IT’S TIME TO NEVER GIVE ME ONE OF THOSE AGAIN.  OK THANKS FOR YOUR TIME XOXO, SINCLAIR.

*Disclaimer #1: I don’t have the herp or stalker ex-boyfriends or a cockroach problem.  That was a simile, not a confession.

*Disclaimer #2: I realize this post makes me sound a little like the Unabomber, which I’m not.  I’m actually pretty social and nice most of the time.  That is all.

13-year-old me says I APPROVE. May 24, 2010

One of my friends says that when he does anything significant in life, he asks himself what the 19-year-old version of himself would think of his life now as a 28-year-old.  Although the younger versions of ourselves are perhaps if not certainly very immature, there is something to be said for the blind purity of self that we all possess before it gets beaten out of us. 

At some point during my adolescence, I learned to stifle any thoughts I had that didn’t conform to the standards of my peers, as I’m sure we all did, or at least most of us.  There are probably those of you out there who still have no concept of what social norms are, so let me do you a favor by saying that people are probably laughing at you behind your back.  The good (and bad) thing is, you don’t care, because you don’t know it’s happening.  When I was 13, I hadn’t reached that point yet where I cared what people thought, and I actually liked myself too.  When I begin to doubt my life now, I ask myself WW13YOSD?  (This stands for What Would 13-Year-Old Sinclair Do?…I’m getting buttons and bracelets made…you can order one by mailing me a self-addressed stamped envelope and three installments of $19.95 each.  Also I will take pajamas or a Snuggie instead of money.)

Look how happy she is. That's cause HER BLANKET HAS ARMS. THIS INVENTION IS MAGICAL AND IS MADE OF UNICORN SNOT.

Today I got up at 7:ass15 for the fourth to last time in my life and got in the shower.  Immediately, I felt a searing pain (ok it was more like a dull ache…wow I’m lying a lot in this post already and it’s only 8:30) in my neck and shoulders and thought to myself, SELF WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?  Self said hey remember at band practice last night when you were acting like a teenager and jumping around and headbanging?  You are not 13 anymore, you are 27 now, and we don’t do that unless we want our muscles to hurt, dipshit.

I was like SELF YOU SHUT IT OK.  I WILL DO WHAT I WANT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.  OW.  THAT REALLY HURTS. 

When I was 13, I had grand aspirations of becoming a rockstar.  Not just the kind that people say OH GIRL YOU ARE A ROCKSTAR FOR GETTING ME THAT REPORT ON TIME YOU REALLY SAVED MY ASS LOLZ!  No.  This is not the kind of rockstar I wanted to be.  I wanted to be a real live rockstar that yelled a lot on stage and thrashed around and shredded on guitar (my serious lack of hand-eye coordination has prevented this part from happening but I have learned to accept my limitations).  Also I should note that my impetus at 13 for pursuing rockstardom was to meet people like this:

Don't worry, my tastes have matured since 1996.

I wanted to marry Daniel Johns.  Actually if I couldn’t have him I would have been ok with either of the others but it would have been settling. 

Side note: I was just looking up Silverchair pictures and DANG I am glad I didn’t marry him because he scares the sweet bejesus out of me now.  I think it’s the mustache that makes him look like a villain from the 1930′s.

Please don't steal my soul, Mr. Johns/Evil Brad Pitt/1930's villain.

Unfortunately, my dream of meeting and dating millions and bajillions of beautiful rockstar boys has been dashed to pieces because I’ve already met one who is the guitarist in my band and who I would willingly give up that dream for (go ahead and say it because I know you’re thinking it…HOW VERY FLEETWOOD MAC OF YOU).  Also I’d like to think I’ve matured at least a little since I was 13, and that I actually want to do music for the music now and not for the boys.  Plus this is an effective method of self-protection against STD’s because I’m sure Mr. Johns et al. have some nasty diseases that I need no part of.  NO THANK YOU.

Anyways.  We just recruited a kickass drummer for our band so now all we need is a rhythm guitarist and we will be ready and packaged for distribution.  This is why I was so damn excited last night that I maybe did a little bit of thrashing and maybe even a little bit of headbanging (what is this, the 90′s?  Am I at Lollapalooza?  OMG PORNO FOR PYROS) because finally there is a beat behind all of this music that I’ve been laboring over for months now.  I know I’m biased and all but you guys we sound GOOD.  I mean we will rock your faces off of your heads and you will like it.  I think 13-year-old me would be very proud. 

Also a request: if you come to a show of ours in the very near future, please remind me of this post and to maybe take it easy so I don’t wear myself out two songs into our set.  That or buy me a drink…whiskey sours seem to work wonders for my energy levels.

I’m going to sit quietly at my desk now and count the hours until I never have to sit here again.

NO MORE DESKS ONLY LASERS

Jobs, moneys, sickies, pajamas, and dead zebras. May 19, 2010

So I know I haven’t updated in a while, but I have reasons I swear it to you on pains of death and beheading.

My reasons are these, in chronological order:

1. I got a part-time job as a freelance copyeditor for an online website.  This is good for me because of a. experience and b. MONEYYYYYYYY.  It’s not hard and doesn’t take long and pays well…no more hooking!  Just kidding, I only do that when I’m otherwise unemployed.

Seriously when I get money I look at it just like this. 27 years of broke and money doesn't make sense anymore.

2. I got sick…AGAIN.  This time it was even worse than when I got sick a month ago, and I was dragging myself around my apartment for a week, wailing and sneezing and coughing up things that shouldn’t be mentioned on a blog or ever.  On top of not being able to breathe, my stomach decided it didn’t want to digest anything ever again, so every time I ate even the tiniest piece of food, I was in pain for roughly four hours.  At some point I decided that eating was just not worth it.  I’m on the upside of both of these afflictions now, but I think I’m addicted to Afrin and Sudafed, so that’s unfortunate.

3. Ok get ready cause this is the big one: I GOT A NEW JOB!  I interviewed for a job at a company that does editing and actually GOT IT.  I am still in disbelief.  I did my interview all sicky mcsickerson with snot and Afrin running out of my nose that was scabby from blowing it too many times and they still called me back only four hours later to offer me the job.  This, after graduating with a M.A. in 2006 and still only being able to land numerous shit jobs that paid nothing and were the least stimulating things that you could possibly imagine on the planet, after having been laid off not once but THREE times in one year, and then after working as a receptionist for a year and a half and being promised a promotion for nine months that never showed up…I am just about to explode into a bajillion avocado pieces from happiness.  The best thing is that I’ll be working from home so yayayayayayay for that.  No more real clothes ever again!  My wardrobe from now on will consist entirely of pajamas and that is the TRUTH.

I was thinking of getting these with my newfound moneys and I am sorry in advance to my boyfriend.

Insert token Snuggie joke here. What? If you have a blog you have to make fun of Snuggies...it's a rule. Secretly I want one and I'm hoping that maybe Riley will get me one for my birthday which is only a month and a half away. Also a massage would be nice or some lovely jewels ilikenecklacesbestandanicecreamcakechocolateplease. I'm hoping that wasn't too obvious, I put it in the caption so it would be sneakier.

So as you can see, I have reasons- three of them- for not updating until now.  And I plan on being a lot better about writing from now on because well, I really like blogging.

Here’s a picture of a dead zebra to make your Wednesday a little brighter! 

Happy Wednesday!

 

meatloaf makes me weepy. May 3, 2010

There’s shame, and then there’s SHAME.

Once during that time of the month, I cried at this:

I remember laughing at myself afterwards. I was like, oh, self, you so cray cray. I can’t believe you just cried over It’s All Coming Back To Me Now, even if it wasn’t the Celine Dion version which does not rock at all but was instead the Meatloaf version who we all know you love although it’s a bit shameful to love him due to the whole melodramatic theatrical rock opera thing (YES I LOVE ROCK OPERAS THERE I SAID IT DON’T JUDGE ME OR I WILL KILL YOU IN THE FACE).

But I’ve always thought Meatloaf had it right.  Two out of three AIN’T bad.  DANG.  Tell me that isn’t true.

The next second after I had recovered from CryFest 2006, a Nationwide insurance commercial came on where someone’s home had been destroyed by a hurricane.

Yes, I cried again. I’m pretty sure I lost at the two out of three game.  Sometimes I hate being a woman.

That was going to be the end of this post BUT:

GOD SERIOUSLY I JUST WATCHED THAT VIDEO ON THE BLOG TO MAKE SURE IT WORKED (it doesn’t, go to YouTube and watch it) AND I GOT A TINY BABY BIT WEEPY AGAIN WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.  It was only one tear, I swear.  Like one single tear, rolling down my face in a really melodramatic way that would make Meatloaf proud.  Maybe one day he will read this and we will watch It’s All Coming Back to Me Now and cry together at how sad it is that he lost Marion Raven to a car crash because she is so young and beautiful and Norwegian and her last name is Raven which is really cool I bet she made it up (Raven doesn’t seem Norwegian at all) but that doesn’t detract from the coolness and she died so young and that makes it really sad cause it’s sadder when pretty people die young.  Like Kurt Cobain.

Maybe dirty. Still pretty.

One word, Kurt: why?

It doesn’t pay to piss off NATURE. April 30, 2010

Well isn't that nice.

Where I sit at my workplace, there are tons of huge windows, so I get to see outside into what we like to call NATURE.  I am very fond of NATURE and like to be in it but I guess if I have to be cooped up in an office, this is an ok location because at least I can see it.  One day last year I was sitting around doing whatever the hell it is I do here (I don’t even know anymore) and the university’s landscaping team was milling around outside doing whatever the hell it is they do (I certainly don’t know what that is). 

One: These landscapers really REALLY suck at doing their jobs.  In the past year, they’ve planted six shrubs around the front of our building, and all of them have died.  No wait…there’s one bloom on that camellia in the corner even though it has no leaves.  Other than that, dead.  Dead like a dead zebra.  All of them.

Ok I lied about the dead zebra pictures. From now on you should expect to see a lot of them on this blog.

Two: I was sitting around that day, minding my own biznast, when suddenly I see a gigantic hawk fly right by the front doors of the building and knock this landscaping girl right on her ass.  It was epic.  It was like, he came out of nowhere, NOWHERE I TELL YOU! and I swear to god it was in slow motion too.  I seem to remember the hawk being roughly the size of this thing:

I could be wrong about its size, but I’m probably not.

I personally believe it was NATURE’s way of telling the landscapers that they suck at their jobs. 

NATURE doesn't tolerate bad landscaping jobs or mistaken career paths!

it’s time to face the facts. April 29, 2010

I’ve realized I have to accept it. At only 27 years of age, I’m a crazy cat lady and there’s no getting around it.

Now, I’ve been in denial for a while about this, but I just can’t run away from it anymore. Believe me, I’ve tried to take steps to remedy the situation, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re batshit crazy about your cats. I only have two of them, and I plan to keep it that way so I don’t make the problem worse…unless of course my boyfriend and I move in together at some point…then we will have three- my two, and his one. If this happens, he wants to start referring to them as our “nightmare of cats,” which seems a pretty apt moniker to me. Their litterbox is certainly going to be a nightmare to clean and pay for. “How did you guys lose all your money and end up homeless?” “Kitty litter.”

I blame this all on him anyways…when I was single, I made sure not to mention my cats too much to anyone lest they pin me as what I really am. I actually wanted to have a love life, and I realized this is impossible if people think you are too obsessed with your feline friends. But NOW, I’m with someone who is just as crazy about his cat as I am about mine. We sit around and talk about how funny they are and the weird things they do like run at the speed of light from the room for no apparent reason, and post videos like this on each other’s facebook pages:

or pictures like this:

SIMBAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

or websites like this: http://www.catswhothrowupgrass.com/kill.php.

You get the point.

The whole i can has cheezburger bit doesn’t particularly help either. It looks like cats are becoming socially acceptable to talk about in public, and this is only feeding my addiction, people. You saw the blog post I wrote about how Buckley poops everywhere (or maybe you didn’t, in which case HERE it is). And I am appalled to say that sometimes when we go out, I have a few beers and end up mimicking her IN BARS, IN PUBLIC. She is very vocal and has a really high tiny lady voice and says things like brrrrRRRR? and frrrrp! and Gatsby, my other cat, says things like wAAAAAooooOOOOOw, and it is really fun to make those noises when you are tipsy or even completely sober.  A little TOO fun.

I have so many cat stories it’s deplorable. I make myself sick just thinking about it. I guess it’s like when people have kids and they can’t stop saying things on facebook like “Little Johnny just went to the doctor for his first checkup! He is 8.34895234098757 pounds and is eating pureed carrots and is a very healthy boy albeit the fact that he is turning quite orange!* We are so thankful for this wonderful blessing in our lives!” You know what? I’m not thankful for it, AT ALL, because you’re littering my facebook page with baby information that I don’t want to see, EVER.* Then again, I guess you don’t want to see pictures of my cats spooning on the couch or hear about how Buckley is poop-obsessed, but I could care less. I WILL DO WHAT I WANT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.

Facehole sucks anyways. I’m pretty sure nobody ever has anything to say on it except things about their babies and LOL I WAS SO DRUNK THE OTHER NIGHT!!!!! SHOUT OUT TO MY GIRLZ MISTY AND CRYSTAL AND AMBER LOLLLLLLLZZZZZ!!!!!!! LUV U GIRRRRRRLLLLLZ!!!!!! Is that what people say on facehole? I just made that up just now on the spot. Wow I am good at writing dialogue, I should probably write screenplays for a living.

*Note: I actually turned an orangish hue when I was a baby because my mom fed me too many carrots and sweet potatoes. I haven’t heard of this happening to anyone else except Jessica Simpson:

aghhhhhh why am i so orange?!?!?!?! is it because i ate too many carrots?!?!?!?!

*Note: I only mind status updates about people’s kids- I do not mind pictures of my friends’ babies, mostly because I’m a pretty visual person and I like pictures of almost anything except for toenail fungus and dead zebras. If you post either of those, you can be sure I will have something bad to say about it. You will probably have a blog post written about you, come to think of it. How did this post about cats end up being about facehole and babies too? How did this note and post get to be so long? Ah, life and its little mysteries…I don’t understand them, I just write about them.

Here are two pictures of Buckley, shamelessly posted for your viewing pleasure:

I see that you want to use your sink, and I DON'T CARE!

Buckley has her glamour shots taken at the mall.