My Desk Smells Like Pizza

When I got it into my head to move to Hawaii, my mother told me right off the bat, “You know this means no birthdays (with us), no Christmas (with us), no more seeing the baby, right?” and I said yes. Quickly and without hesitation. I knew I wouldn't be there with my family anymore. (I was actually sort of looking forward to being alone for Christmas and not having to make a huge deal about it.) What I didn't know was that I wouldn't be there for my family.

That may seem like a no-brainer, but, for me, it wasn't. I'm kind of nutsy about my little brother and sister, and absolutely crazy about my niece. I fought with them like I fight with everyone (violently and loudly) but I love them to death. I took my brother out driving (me driving, not him) at least once a week, and we would get some sort of food and just talk for an hour or two. I went out with my little sister to go shopping or, once a month, going to our favorite sushi place and splitting the order. I talked to them (read: lectured them) on these drives, and I'm sure they loved that. And when I found out my older sister was going to have a baby, all I could think about was being an aunt, and, for everything I had in mind, my niece and I would have to be a lot closer—like, at least two states between us. So I didn't realize until I held my first online conversation with my little sister that I couldn't run upstairs and bop her in the face for something stupid she said. I also wouldn't he able to go home every day and talk to my mom and dad. This stuff didn't occur to me until after I'd moved, after I hated my job, hated thinking about money, had my first late phone bill and bad things had happened and my mom couldn't talk sense into me and make me see reason.

With the exception of their living situation, I watch the first seasons of Friends and have surprising affiliation with situations I used to not understand.

WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG TO BRING YOU THIS BREAKING NEWS: Iron Man just came on my Pandora radio and, oh, dear god, I feel so much better.

[Five and a half minutes of awesomeness later] Anyway.

Ella, my cat, comes home on the 26^th. I work that night at Narbes, but I have the next day off and I'm going to work on getting her to like me again, because I know she won't. I haven't been to visit her in a while, but when I did she would get really pissy, and even bit me once—I wasn't handling her right, but she still put her teeth around my finger, and she's never done that before. So this is probably going to be like when I first got her and I'll have to reestablish the relationship. Good times.

It's A Conspiracy

Quite recently, I applied (and by “applied” I mean Katana nagged me until I put in an application and had my interview in the same thirty minutes) for a position in the Narbes cafe. Which is fun; I like the cafe and I like the people in the cafe (for the most part). What's not fun is that I also work at Hallmark four days a week, and now my schedules are quite often back to back.

This, as you can gather, was a mistake.

Take Monday. I had orientation at Narbes from 9:30 to 1:30, which meant that I had to get up at 7, leave the house by 8:30 to catch the bus to the mall and ZombieSlayer's house to get the black shirt I lent her so I could wear it to work, and then go to work. Again, not so bad, right? Not until you add on the fact that I worked in Hallmark from 2:00 to 9:30. Better yet, I get to do a similar run on Friday, working 7:30 to 3:30 at Narbes and 5:00 to 9:30 at Hallmark.

My fee hate me, by the way. At least I get a slight break in between, and a killer discount.

On a different but slightly consecutive note, I was babysitting two kittens during this period. Their names are Shoebox and Lucky. I've never owned a kitten before, and I've come to realize that they fall under the same category as human babies: I like them just fine when they are someone else's. I do not want my own.

My cat, Ella, is actually pretty easy to live with. She gets 75% of the bed, and I respond quickly when she meows. (Yes, I am whipped. No, I don't care. She is a princess.) The only times she has ever gotten in my face when I was in bed was when I was sick, couldn't respond to her meows and she wanted to see what was up. Then I coughed in her face and she ran away.

These kittens got in my face all the time. It was freaking ridiculous. I pushed them off and they came right back within five minutes. I finally put the fear of water in them and started spraying them when they annoyed me. Shoebox liked very much to sit on the back of my chair and either play with my ponytail or knead my sunburned shoulders with her claws. How considerate, right?

Okay, maybe I would like them a little better if I hadn't come home on Saturday to find all of my Snuff notes strewn across the floor. Just maybe.

In other news, BeccaTwoC started college and I'm sooo proouuddd 8'33333

Our carpet is still wet.

We are moving on the 16^th... but we have to be out of here on the 15^th. We only officially started moving things into our new house yesterday.

This was a mistake.

Last night, AK-47 got assistance from a friend's dad and we started moving things. That was fun. I actually haven't seen the bulk of the new house; I've seen the living room and front lanai.

Today, we had an appointment to have our carpets cleaned, so everything in the rooms had to be gone. That... sucked. There is a lot of crap in this apartment. There is 4½ peoples' worth of stuff in here. Even with a lot of it gone yesterday, we... have things.

The carpet cleaner was scheduled to arrive at 2. Hamburglar, AK-47 and I started clearing at 10. At noon, the guy called and said “Hey, can I come sooner? Like, now?”

“Um, no. We're not ready for you.”

“Okay, I'll come at two.”

Hamburglar and I were done by one. AK-47 was still working, but she was also done by 2. The guy, however, called at 1:45 to say he would be here at 2:30.

Uhmmm?

Alright. We took this time to clean a little bit more, goof off and all around become quite bored. When the guy came, we had to CLEAN OUT THE BATHROOM so his dumbass could use our tub for his water crap.

Me: “.....What.” There was nothing about that mentioned in my phone call to the operators.

After this, AK-47, Hamburglar and I went downstairs to sit around, be cold (“You can close the door,” AK-47 boldly states) and wonder at the workings of the universe.

The guy is done in a record 40 minutes. The carpet actually looks a lot better; like, there is more color than there are stains now, oh my god. He claims it will be done in 4 to 6 hours.

We had planned for this. We were aware that we would not be able to move anything this day. We didn't really have anything planned for the day. First order of business was to pick up ZombieSlayer and Katana. We then went to Curry House.

We also had to get some keys made. So we went to WalMart. They could not do this one key that we had. So we went to Sears (Katana had a moment of self-affirmation. She hates the jewelry section of Sears but she went through it. Yay.) They were able to make some of our keys, but not the main one. Damn.

We still have four hours to kill, so we hang around the patio section, sitting and talking and being tired of being out of the house. We make plans for tomorrow. AK-47 and I are going to commandeer LionDancer's van and make several high-priority trips to and from the new house. Yay, oh my god.

We drop ZombieSlayer off at the house she is sitting, and go home.

WHAT THE FUCK.

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

The carpet is still wet.

It has been 7 hours. SEVEN. HOURS.

We are sleeping on PLASTIC BAGS because all of our bedding stuff is on the lanai where we cannot reach it.

I am, as I type this, planning out my strongly worded message for the carpet cleaner's company. This is some major bullshit.

Pictures to follow.

P.S. AK-47 doesn't name her cold-blooded pets, which is bloodist. I named as many as I could. I named one of her bettas Tumor for... an unfortunately obvious reason.

P.P.S. Hamburglar was color-guard captain, and the high school across the lanai has nothing on them. They are not original at all.

What The Hell Was Perez Hilton Doing There?

Hamburglar found the greatest show in existence this morning. And it was a complete accident, which makes it even more awesome. The show is called “You're Cut Off” and it's about these complete divas who spend something between 7,000-10,000... a week. Their families finally get fed up with it and call in this life-coach person, Laura.

The girls are told that they're going to be featured on a show about their lavish spending habits called “The Good Life”, and are followed around by a camera crew for a week. All nine of the girls are brought to the same mall, where they go shopping as usual, all of their purchases are rung up... and their credit cards are declined.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” screamed they.

The girls are brought to the customer service place of the mall, and are shown videos from their families telling them how pathetic, shallow and overly confident they are in their credit card balances. They're sent to the intervention house (One girl comments “We're in the ghetto!” as they pull into a nice, suburban driveway) where they are given one duffle bag for all of their crap, and anything they can't fit into the duffle bag will be stored elsewhere.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” screamed they.

This is where the hilarity ensues. These spoiled bitches are forced to cook for themselves (on a budget they have to earn by doing chores; if they don't do the chores, the budget is cut down), clean up after themselves and shop in thrift stores. They were made to clean with a maid service... in Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth's house. OH MY GOD.

I am dying with laughter (and shock at their interviews) throughout the entire series of episodes. This show makes up for me cleaning bathrooms for my family.

And yet, at the same time, I sincerely hope that their antics are exaggerated. (One girl actually stated that she had no idea coupons existed, and didn't know how to use them.) They were so unbelievably clueless about how their actions may effect others. As I'm watching, I'm wondering how their families let them get out of control like this... because they sure as hell don't earn the money they're spending. You have to ask for money to spend money, and someone gave it to them. Whoever that is, I want to cut off their penis and/or steal their ovaries because they should not be allowed to breed ever again.

Unfortunately we didn't get to see the finale because we had to pick Katana up from work. Big. Fat. Bummer. On the list of things I'd rather not want to do tonight, having a stranger spontaneously appear in my apartment and order pizza with bacon and sausage (which equals blinding migraines for me), comes right after “make a painting with my own blood” and “eat rocks”.

My most prominent personality flaw, but one I can't/won't do anything about, is my hatred for strangers and visitors. Having my brothers and sisters visit once a month is stressful for me, and I love my brothers and sisters to death. But I still get stressed. If BeccaTwoC was coming to visit, I would still need at least twelve hours warning. BeccaTwoC is my best friend in the world. That is how strong this aversion to visitors is. Spontaneous visitors render me catatonic, especially when I have nowhere to hide. Our lanai is full of suitcases that were in the living room. My headphones are broken so I can't even block out the noise.

And then the bacon.

Nitrates give me terrible migraines. They always have. I actually see spots when hot bacon is in the room. Cold bacon, fine. But the fumes are terrible. It also comes in sausage and ham. (By the way, all three are on this pizza.) Best way to get me out of a room? Make bacon.

And bring strangers.

In other news, I'm turning in my job paperwork tomorrow and officially starting on Sunday. Wish me luck.

P.S. Hamburglar and ZombieSlayer finished Left 4 Dead. Yay. Now they get to go back and redo it.

Doo-dee-doo-doo-doo, Charlie Brown, doo-dee-doo-doo-doo...

What a clown, that Charlie Brown...

I'm waiting for the drama to dissipate from my life. I'll be waiting until I'm dead. And in the ground. Because then I won't have to worry about my funeral arrangements. (I want the song to be “Ding dong, the witch is dead”, by the way.) I'm totally going to worry about it right up until then, though.

I'm waiting for passive aggressiveness to become punishable by law. I'm waiting for people to realize that they are embarrassing themselves. I'm waiting for selective telepathy so you won't have to actually verbalize your intentions to the world. I'm waiting for whining to be punishable by a slap in the face without legal ramifications.

Of course, these are things that will never happen. I know you should be the change you want to see in the world, but I can't change people. I can't slap people in the face and say “You're not twelve!” I can't—well, actually, I could, but that wouldn't make my point. Because the whining usually takes place in a conversation where I'm trying to act like a therapist. I do believe, though, that if therapists slapped people and said “Stop that”, more good would be in the world. I think I'll look into that.

On a happier note, I am now up to 90%. For a while, there, I had difficulty breathing. I had to sigh to take a breath. I still do that from time to time, but not as frequently. I still cough, but only when I laugh. I think my lungs are still weak. But I definitely want to get back out in the world again. I want a freaking zen tea. (the drink, not the person. Lulz, possible mix-up.)

I also managed to revive my roommate A's turtle. She had this turtle who was... well, he was not animated, to say the least. I know turtles don't move a lot, but this one just did not, ever. So I put some wet paper towels under him and over him and he revived and started crawling around and climbed over my hand. I like him. I named him Oscar.

I'm also thinking of ways to rid the apartment of the smell of carcass. I don't mind dead things, but I do mind the smell. I don't think I could work in a morgue. Although I kind of want to be a medical examiner.

Also, this: