Can't tell the difference between visage and vagina

I'll be the first to admit I'm not a baby person.  I adore toddlers & kids, but babies just aren't my thing.  I don't get all squishy when I see a newborn in a stroller or a babe-in-arms at the grocery store.  Sure they have that new-baby-smell, but that's only about 10% of the time.  The rest of the time babies smell like a cross between mildew and sewage - sickly sweet and mildly unpleasant.  The only good thing about babies is that when you put one down you can come back later and find it right where you left it.

Anyway, I saw my pregnant friend yesterday and she showed me a bunch of pictures from her ultrasound.  Ultrasound pictures look like abstract art to me: I know there's something there but I just can't make sense out of it.  I know enough about being a good friend to make an effort, so I looked through the pictures and then pointed to one that I thought was the face and said (in all sincerity) "oh, look at the sweet face!"

My friend gave me the "LAB, you're a moron" look and said "That's the crotch.  The doctor took a picture to show me that it's a girl."

Whatever, people.   I tried.

The one where Jeff becomes a welder

Jeff has been buying "how to" books about welding recently.  I'm not sure what to make of it.  Should I be worried?

Late yesterday he asked me if I wanted to go to Barnes & Noble with him for more welding books.  I declined, primarily because I was already well into the wine cabinet but also because I was afraid to find out what kind of people we'd encounter in the welding section of a bookstore.

After he went to bed last night I opened one of the books he bought because I thought may be "welding" was a metaphor for something awesome.  It's not.

I don't know what kind of trouble he's stirring up this time, but I know I should be afraid.  Very afraid.

The one where I get a couple of extra dollars

Guess what I got yesterday?  MY (petite) BONUS!!!  That's right, folks.  In the 2010 world of real estate land development there was a bit of "scratch" left over, and some of it trickled down to me.

Do you know what this means?  We're going to LIVE people!  Sure, it's not the same bonus I received in 2007 (the last time bonuses were paid by my employer).  It's barely 10% of the bonus of yore.  But still!  It's money I didn't have a couple of days ago.  Although technically I don't have it now either, since Jeff took the check away from me as soon as I showed it to him. *sigh*

I've got a good feeling about this year, especially since at this time last year I was just happy to have a job that didn't require a hairnet and a vinyl apron.  Bring it 2011!!!

Things I’d like to kick in the cojones, v. 2011.02

You (never) asked for it…you got it!  More of my 2011 “cojones list”:

People who try to reach me by calling every possible phone number in quick succession:  This one drives me absolutely crazy.  I’m not going to name names here (although the person most guilty of this offence is commonly referred to in my family as “Dad”), but if it’s not an emergency why is it necessary to call my office phone, then my cell phone, then my home phone?  Seriously.  Why, why, why?  I was leaving work in a hurry on Monday trying to get home before the impending tornadoes when my desk phone rang.  I recognized the number and figured I’d return the call when I got home.  On the way to my car, my cell phone rang.  Same caller.  I finally got home (after driving through the onslaught of rain) and there’s a message on my home phone from said person as follows: “Just checking in.  No big deal, catch you later.”  GAH!!!  I’ll admit that I’m guilty of ignoring phone calls.  One of the benefits of not having kids is that it’s nobody’s damn business where I am or what I’m doing.  But if you need me, just call my cell phone and leave it at that.  You don’t even need to leave a message!  I’ll see that you called and get back to you (eventually).

Journalists:  As the proud owner of a (much wasted) Journalism degree, I’m appalled by the news industry today.  Do you know who determines what news is?  Journalists (and producers and editors et al).  Apparently these douche bags believe that “news” is Lindsey Lohan and Charlie Sheen and John Galliano.  It’s not.  And those “what would you do” shows?   Those aren’t news stories.  If you’re paying people to act from a script, it’s entertainment.  And it sucks.  Here’s a little tidbit to get journalists headed in the right direction:  If the word “rehab” appears in a story, cut it from the program (or the newspaper or any magazine that doesn’t feature gossip).  I’d like to propose that the news industry make a clean break from the entertainment industry and just report the damn news.  You know, world issues and shit.  It’s out there!   

The horizontal lines slowly creeping across my forehead.  What. The. Hell.  I’ll admit that I’ve been hoping for something to distract from the vertical lines that recently appeared between my eyebrows, but this isn’t what I had in mind.  “Aging like an old suitcase” used to be a punch line for me.  Not so much anymore.   Now I know why women of a certain age (i.e. 40’s, like me) wear long bangs.  F*ck you tiny lines.  Don’t even think about turning into wrinkles.  You and I are headed for the championship bout…and you’re going down!  Ding! Ding! Ding!

Things I’d Like to Kick in the Cojones, v. 2011.01

I didn’t post yesterday because I was generally pissy and didn’t have anything to say.  Today?  Still pissy, but much more specifically.  Today I know what’s bothering me and it’s a list full.  Been awhile since I’ve posted a “cojones list”, so here you go:

Mall Kiosks and Carts:  No, you may not see my phone.  No, I don’t want to try your sea salt scrub.  I don’t care if it came from the Red Sea, the Salton Sea or Chicken of the Sea, stop approaching me with a palm full of dubious goop and attempting to rub it on me.  And a big double hell no, I do not want you to whiten my teeth right here in the middle of the mall walkway in front of a boatload of strangers.  I know my teeth could be whiter, but I’m not letting some high school dropout who couldn’t find a better job stick his hands in my mouth.  Screw all of you!  Move your ass out of my way so I can buy my overpriced lotion at Bath & Body Works and go home.

Twitter:  I tried it (@StarkRavingLAB).  I didn’t like it.  May be I’m not sufficiently needy or desperate for attention.  I don’t need to know about the last time a celebrity took a dump or where everyone I know in the Twitter-verse is at any given time, and I’m certainly not sharing those things about myself.  It’s impossible to follow a “conversation” with all the Tweeting and Retweeting and blah, blah, blah.  It’s all just noise to me.  It gives morons (present company excluded) an opportunity to spout off about things they don’t understand without offering any backup or rationalization. It’s like diarrhea of the keyboard. Quick, dirty and forgotten in a flash. No thank you.

And while I’m on the topic of social networking, People who share a Facebook account with their spouse: What the hell?  Is there a reason you don’t have individual accounts?  Does one of you have no friends?  Is there a level of mistrust in your relationship that prevents you from communicating with others without your spouse’s review and approval?  I don’t get it.  And that ridiculous smashup of your two names that you use as your FB account name?  Lame.

People who come to my office, ask me for a favor and then bitch me out while I perform said favor.   A couple who lives in the community in which I work recently stopped by the office to ask if anyone here is a notary.  I told them that I am, and while I was notarizing their paperwork they started bitching me out about how crowded the pool is, how they need a bigger clubhouse and how their new fence didn’t get approved.  Really?  So glad I could stop what I was doing (i.e. my job), perform a free service that you would have to pay for elsewhere and get my ass chewed out for my trouble.  It also happened to me when I agreed to drive to a resident’s home to notarize a document for their ancient mother who couldn’t leave the house.  Seriously.  I got in my car, drove to their house, notarized their documents and got treated like shit about things over which I have no control. Lesson learned.  My notary seal is officially expired for them.

Snakes:  I hate them.  They love me.  The live in my yard and greet me on dog walks.  They live in my attic and shed their nasty skins.  Much like Visa, they’re everywhere I want to be. Want to know the last time I saw a live snake?  Yesterday at 5 pm while I was walking to my car after work.  It was right there on the sidewalk like it had every right to be in my path.  It was a baby snake, so I’m really looking forward to meeting it again when it’s all grown up this summer.  I’m like a frigging snake magnet.  If you have kids who want to see a snake just have them stand next to me and one will be right along.

All Atlanta drivers except me:  Hang up, wait your turn and for the love of God use your damn turn signal.  That is all.

More cojones targets to follow later this week.  Previous lists can be found here and here.

Whew!  I feel better.  Thanks for letting me vent!