Stricken by the urge to simplify, and to seem less attention-needy, I'm going to take out the commenting feature. I think if anyone wants to say anything to me, they'll email. Or just yell at the screen.
Besides, it only seems to work once in a great while anyway.
The comments, I mean, not the yelling. I find the yelling works wonderfully if it's strictly for stress relief or to make the cat leap up and dash out of the room in fear of the great roaring beast at the keyboard.
(previously posted on Blogspot)
Peeved, and no one to blame except myself, that's the situation just now.
I am tidying my bookmarks, sorting them into some kind of order so perhaps it will be a little easier to find things. So I've foldered the animations into a folder labled "Animations" and the wav sites into one called "Wav Sites" and the blogs into one called (can you guess?) "Blogs". Of course, being the borderline OCD candidate that I am, there are subfolders and addendums to site titles so I can make sense of a non-revealing name such as "Happy Tree Friends" (nothing to do with sweet squirrels or darling koala pictures) or The Cutie Bunch Friendly Pal Pack (not nearly as saccarine as it sounds). Then comes the bit that peeves me.
I have a folder set aside labeled "to post about later", containing interesting news items or odd pictures that I had earnestly planned to write a concise, witty post about, how they made me feel, what struck me as interest about them, why I bothered to save them in the first place. The trouble is, once I've clicked them into Laterville, I completely forget just what the bloody hell I wanted to say about them, or even why they took my fancy to begin with.
So there they sit, in limbo, while I try to suck up the memories from the sludge of my hindbrain, debating whether to hit that delete button or give them a second chance. I have tons and tons of room left to store these orphans on, but I'm working on the paranoid theory that if I keep unwanted or unloved links in my Favorites file for a microsecond longer than necessary, eventually they will gang up and plot the overthrown of my file system and then who knows the carnage that might follow?
I must stop anthropomorphizing everything. I really must.
The looks I get from the GM1 everytime I kiss the computer good night should have told me that long ago.
(previously posted on Blogspot)
1. What do you most want to be remembered for?
Oh, geez, so many answers, so little time. My perfect blogging abilities? My intellectual talents? My nicely-matured yet still perky breasts?
I guess I want to be remembered for any time I made someone happy. That's pretty much a goal you can't go wrong following. Oh, and the whole world domination thing, that would make a nice footnote in eulogy.
2. What quotation best fits your outlook on life?
"The Fear had two parts. Number one, you have lost control absolutely. Number two, having done so, the Real You emerges and you won't like it."
Tom Maddox, "Snake Eyes"
3. What single achievement are you most proud of in the past year?
I'm very proud that I still haven't lost my mind and gone up on the roof with a high-powered rifle, with the fully-visualized intent of relieving myself and the planet of some very singular asshats who constitute nothing but the sole purpose to drive me mad. See how nicely that cycles round? I realize also that I come back to the "high powered rifle on the roof" fantasy a lot, perhaps because it is the best stress-relieving image I have even conjured up.
Oh, and making some of the best friends I've ever found in Tonya, Maddy, Rachel, and Michael. That too.
4. What about the past ten years?
That's pretty easy.... remaining happily married for that entire time. It might not seem like a work-laden effort, but you must bear in mind that I am a serial monogamist. This is my fourth marriage, with a couple of near-misses mixed in. I've currently been wed to the GM1 for almost 15 years, an impressive record for me, because I have the attention span of an attention-deficit pigeon and the trust level of a loan officer. I impulse buy a lot. I believe firmly in the potential of a fixer-upper. All these traits have led me down a very rocky matrimonial path three previous times. I am absolutely convinced all my prior mistakes were necessary learning experiences, despite the complete and utter losers that I chose. I also still think of them from time to time... framed in the scope of my high-powered rifle, up on my vengeance rooftop.
5. If you were asked to give a child a single piece of advice to guide them through life, what would you say?
Learn from your mistakes, but waste not one second on regret or unnecessary guilt. Oh, and always take full advantage of an open bar at a wedding... especially if it's your own.
(previously posted on Blogspot)
Those of you with delicate sensibilities, stand clear. I am now going to vent my spleen with great force.
I am pissed. Tired, worn down, and last nerve exposed pissed. Let's see if I can explain why in the shortest manner possible.
We are scheduled to return to our homeland, San Diego, in the first week of July. So my dear hubby, the GM1, is leaving on Monday for SanDog to go apartment hunting. Stressful enough that he will be doing it all alone... I keep imagining living next to a strip club with megabass monster stereo addicted frat boys for neighbors. So when word came down that all our paperwork, furniture moving arrangements, car shipping, etc deadline would fall in the time frame when he's not around, we promptly ran around madly from one office to another, begging for emergency appointments and debasing ourselves before the Housing gods. After they stopped playing Catch-22 with us ("you have to get paper A signed at that office before we can sign B." "NO, you have to go back and get B signed over there on the other side of town before we'll sign A." "Oops, didn't we tell you to get C, D and Q notarized before we can even look at B? Silly us.") we got it all scheduled nicely and were assigned a move-out date of July 7. No problem, just glad to get all the ducks in a row with as little duckshit on the boots as possible.
Until we got home and looked in the mail.
All our Housing is being turned over to a private contractor (hereafter known as Those Sleazy Bastards). As such, everyone was notified they would have to sign a lease and set up an allotment so that the equivalent of their Basic Housing Allowance would go to the new owners. Housing was washing their hands of us. This was bad enough, being pushed off like an unwanted orphan, and most of the people living in Housing are not pleased. But being virtual prisoners of the system here (very little housing options outside the Navy Housing quarters here, due to location and rents being twice what they are on the mainland) we all have no choice but to hope for the best.
My hopeful best was that we would be out of here before all the lease-signing crapola was necessary.
Nope. No such luck.
In the mail was a letter from Those Sleazy Bastards, saying our date to come to a meeting and sign the lease was June 9. Well, dudes, got news for you, that is when the GM1 is out of town. Sorry. So we called up to set up a new date. Their suggestion? Put off the house hunting trip or come back early. Um, no. Not happening. It finally was decided that they would (heavy sighing of such effort on their part) come out here to our home TOMORROW and have us sign a lease.
Sign a lease for an entire seven days.
Actually six days since on day 7 we are out of here.
The financial wheels of the military grind exceedingly fine and equally exceedingly slow. Any allotment that would be started just so it could be cancelled a week later could be haunting us for the next three years. It might take that long to stop the money going out to pay rent on a place we aren't even on the same side of the ocean as. Not an option.
"But" whined Those Sleazy Bastards, "you must give us an allotment. "
Nope. Not happening.
So the showdown is tomorrow. I predict the outcome will be a compromise that we enema the week's worth of rent out of the money-laden bowels of PSD (the fund-producing and fund-deducting accounting organ of our Navy life) and give it to Those Sleazy Bastards. Not one penny is coming out of our non-reimbursed pockets. They will show up bright and chipper in the early light of morn, fully prepared to shove papers at us and steal signatures and run. I plan to sit down with a magnifying glass and a legal website pulled up and go through it all word by word.
And just to prove what a tough cookie I am, I'm not even offering them coffee.
Hmph! Take that, Sleazy Bastards!
/rant
I'm done now.
I need a beer. Or two.
(previously posted on Blogspot)
Today's chores involved lots and lots of driving, back and forth, hither and yon, Getting Stuff Done. I saw a lot of weird things out there.
1. I saw a hugely obese woman in the back of a pickup truck, munching away on ribs and getting very messy with barbeque sauce. This was, I might add, at 65 mph. At six o'clock in the morning.
2. I watched two gentlemen have a vigorous argument in the car driving parallel to me, which culminated in the passenger snatching what appeared to be a toupee off the driver and flinging it out the window. The driver then grabbed his bald head as if to shield it, forcing me to swerve and spill some very nice Starbucks. Damn you, bald man of shame!
3. I witnessed a chihuahua in a Cadillac having a wonderful time romping as his owner drove on, unaware the pup had taken a huge dump in the back window.
4. I envied a man who was sitting beside his truck on the side of the road, obviously broken down and waiting for someone. He'd taken a chair, a potted palm, a side table, and a footstool out of the back of the truck and made himself right at home, reading his paper and sipping coffee while traffic whizzed by.
5. I saw the tiniest of sports cars (Alfa Romeo, perhaps? I'm bad with things like that) crammed with the largest couple I'd ever seen, both in height and girth. I wanted to stick around to see how they got into it in the first place (baby oil? giant shoehorn? reverse osmosis?) but I was already late to pick up the GM1.
And I'm sure a lot of people saw me, squirming around as I drove, as I tried in vain to de-wedgy myself. Some things just cannot wait.
(previously posted on Blogspot)
I woke up with a phrase stuck in my head.... "corndogs and accordians." I have no idea what it means. But it's there, firmly implanted and will be fucking with me for the rest of the day.
"Would you like fries with that?"
"Corndogs and accordians."
"What?"
"I mean, ah... yes, please, fries....*muttercorndogsandaccordiansmutter*
"Ma'am, you want fries and what?"
"No, no, nothing, just fries.... *sudden shriek*CORNDOGS AND ACCORDIANS!"
"Uh.... yeah. *whispered aside* "Julie, get the manager... no, I don't care what he's doing. He's been in there how long? Two hours? What's he doing?"
*whispering*
"He's what? WHAT? With a corndog? And an accordian? OH MY GOD!"
(previously posted on Blogspot)