After seventeen months, we have made the jump from "waitlisted" to "enrolled" at our first-choice, just-around-the-corner daycare. Goodbye, crazy Mrs. J. Goodbye toddlers watching Barney (shudder) videos in the afternoons. Goodbye constant fear of my Birdy being dropped or stepped on. Goodbye to the director's horrible, horrible breath. Goodbye screaming, coughing, snotting baby M. Goodbye extra 45 minutes in the car on the way home in rush hour. (and, consequently, goodbye afternoon nap? we'll have to wait and see).
And can you believe I'm getting ready to say this? I'll kind of miss them. Okay, not really. I just feel like I'm breaking up with the whole gang, and they don't even see it coming. I know they love her, I know they'll miss our family. She's a good baby, and I always pay on time.
Don't Threaten Me With Your Flowers
I do not like being on hold with chatter on the line. I can't type or think.
So, this just happened at work:
Caller from NM: What's your mailing address?
MS: PO Box 1234
CFNM: No, your street address. Someone is getting flowers today.
MS: Oh! okay, it's 1234 Street Name.
CFNM: Okay, great. bye.
Local Florist Shop: What's your mailing address?
MS: Somebody just called and asked for that.
LFS: Asked for your mailing address?
MS: Yeah, somebody from New Mexico. About flowers, right?
LFS: Well, I need it.
MS: Okay, I just wanted to make sure...
LFS: Well maybe they'll get there and maybe they won't!
AND HE FUCKING HUNG UP ON ME!
LFS: Hello, Flower shop.
MS: Our address is 1234 Street Name.
And he hung up on me again.
So I spent twenty minutes on hold with 1800 flowers waiting to BITCH THEM OUT. The lady was very nice and understanding, so I missed out on my chance to really let her have it with the rage. It would have been so misdirected, anyway. It's the LFS guy I'd like to kick in the nuts. And apparently, it is suspected in the office that he was the one who actually delivered the flowers. But I did not get to see him, or kick him in the nuts, because I was out of the office, hanging out at the 8th Avenue Kroger.
The Only Way To Kill Them is to Cut Off Their Heads
The closest you will ever come to being in a zombie (as in trying! to escape! but can't! get! around! the Zombies!) movie will be in one of the two places:
a. TJ Maxx*
(people walking around the narrow, cluttered aisles with carts full of mismatched housewares and ill-fitting clothes, glazed over, movements slowed to a point of gllarrrrrrggghhhhhh)
b. The post office near my place of employment
(people wandering around, stumbling with hands full of mail and keys in the middle of the parking lot, not aimed at any one car in particular, but slowly moving, looking for brains to eat)
Take This Job and Just Show Up
This job has gone from "I think I can fuck around a little bit as long as I get these three things done every day" to "I'll get to those three things later, I'm not done fucking around yet."
This is dangerous territory. This is a bad habit I cultivated at the last non-job.
However, there may be some developments around here. There maybe some movement and hopefully a different paycheck. I'll keep you posted.
Please Be Gentle With Mama
I wrote an article for a website I frequently write for, and it was about Vanilla Ice. Was it insightful? No! Was it thought-provoking? Of course not! Did I write it while the pasta was boiling, and not a minute before or after? You bet! But I got a venomous comment from some asshole out there in the internet world of assholes. And it really, really hurt my feelings. What? I'm somehow bruised by some shithead calling me an idiot because they didn't like my chatter about Vanilla Ice? Because Vanilla Fucking Ice matters so much to you that you would take the time to post a comment about it? A comment about how you regret reading my article, when you did so of your own free will? Vanilla Ice would totally have called that guy a chump.
Sixteen All Over Again
So, mom and dad are here for the weekend while I have another round of intensive classes and A. goes to Michigan for the wedding of dear, dear friends, the lucky bastard. And I totally scraped the shit out of mom's car and someone else's car (yes, I left a note) last night trying to parallel park and get carry out burritos down the street. Ugh.
A Calm-ish, Sustained Sort of Freaking Out
I'm wondering if my anxiety is getting a little bit... um... how you say, unchecked? lately. Probably from having a lot on my plate, combined with new crackhead-looking folks across the street, sitting in their car all the fucking time and dunking on the neighbor kid's basketball goal. I probably need to get off the paranoia-churning listserv again, though things have been fairly calm. Being a small town girl, sometimes I think the only place I'm going to feel totally at ease is in a smaller place. Is that a little insane? I like restaurants. I like having things to do and friends that aren't small town rednecks and living in an arty neighborhood. I'm just a little jittery these days. Maybe it is the house, the street. I do know I don't usually feel perfectly at ease at home by myself, and that's completely ridiculous.
*any business name ending in -xx makes me automatically think it is porn-related.