Monday, May 31, 2010

The One Where John Edwards' Former Aide is Obnoxious

If you're wondering, the "maternity prom dress" is up to $10,000 in eBay bids, and also, in case you were wondering, it is "not actually a maternity dress." It is a size large. So what you're telling me is that a large majority of the clothes in my closet are actually maternity clothes. Score. If I start having babies, I won't need a new wardrobe.

I know I mentioned a million years ago that I'd read that John Edwards book written by his former aide, Andrew Young. I took notes (NOTES!) on this book so I could write about it, but today, when I went back and looked at said notes, I realized I'd shorthanded it, so a lot of it, I'm only like 67.8% certain what I meant when I wrote it down.

What I have to explain, first and foremost, is that the guy that wrote this book is a gigantic tool. He obviously OBVIOUSLY was involved with John Edwards and his campaign because he thought it would get him big bucks "when" Edwards became president. My theory also (a theory that was repeated by Rielle Hunter, John Edwards' baby mama, in her interview with GQ magazine) is that this guy was in love with John Edwards. He was obsessed with the guy, and, according to a quote someone (I think Elizabeth Edwards) said to him that he wrote in the book, he was "hold[ing] [the Edwardses] close so [he could] advance [himself]."

One thing that points to the "this guy was in love with Edwards" theory is in the chapter that references John Edwards' $400 haircut debacle. Allegedly, Edwards didn't know the haircut was going to be that expensive because he "didn't usually take care of things of that nature" on his own. I don't really care one way or the other about any of that; what makes ME laugh is the fact that, while Andrew Young is going on and on about Edwards' obsession with his own hair, he said, "[Edwards'] hair, which was naturally thick and lustrous. . ."

I feel like, if I were a dude, a supposedly heterosexual dude, I would not be referring to another dude's hair as. . .anything. Especially "thick and lustrous." I laughed, a lot, when I read that.

Then, in further exhibitions of toolishness, Young mentions in the course of the book that Elizabeth Edwards had written a book and had thanked him in the acknowledgements. . .but in this book, Young thanks "The Edwards and Anania families. . .except John and Elizabeth." Yeah. . .thanks to everyone except the man he was obsessed with and that man's wife. . .both of whom made surfe he was paid handsomely for his time and effort, even though all this guy does is bitch and complain about the work he was doing throughout the entire book.

Um, how about you say, "No, I'm not doing that. I quit"? Yeah. Because you wanted the money that came along with the job. You wanted it then, and now it has come crashing down on you, you and the unethical things you did, and now you want to play martyr.

I'm saving everything I have to say about his part in the whole John Edwards-Rielle Hunter affair, because that will take up an entire post on its own.

More reasons this guy is a tool:

*He spends the first chapter of the book talking about himself, how he got together with his wife, how much he believed in Edwards, etc. My question here is. . .who cares? I don't pick up a book called "The Polititian" to read all about some guy who used to work for a politician and is now bitter because he got screwed. The book is not called, "The Politician('s Bitch)".

*The epilogue of this book is about Andrew Young's dead father. Again. . .I'm really sorry his father died, but I did not pick up this book to read about how his father died. I picked it up because I am a celebrity gossip whore, and was interested how everything actually happened. I mean, this chick (with the help of Edwards' sperm) brought down an entire presidential hopeful's campaign. Salacious stuff, right? That's what I was hoping for. Instead, I read about Andrew Young's dead father.

*Apparently, in Elizabeth Edwards' book (which I have not read, but which I keep seeing at the library and I may have to pick up, even though I think Elizabeth Edwards is another one who needs to shut up) she portrayed Young as an obsessed fan. I'm thinking, after reading "The Polititian" that this might be a more accurate portrayal than the woebegone, downtrodden Andrew Young he himself portrays.

*He keeps complaining throughout the book that the house he and his wife were building was "getting bigger and morwe expensive than planned." First of all, if that's the case, tell the builder what you actually want. Secondly, boo freaking hoo. You used to have the money for a giant house. I feel so sorry for you and your gobs of cash.

*He had to go into hiding for some reason, and where did he choose to take his family for this occasion? Disney World. I don't think I even need to make commentary on that one.

*All throughout, he complains about the things he "had to miss" (school functions, family time, etc.) because John Edwards was calling. Hey, how about this? Say, "Can't do it right now. Give me an hour." Maybe he would have said something like that if he weren't so obsessed with Edwards and his naturally thick and lustrous hair.

So, all that to say, I was pretty disappointed with this book. While it was interesting to see what went on behind the scenes (supposedly) throughout the campaign and all that, Andrew Young is just whiny, self-involved, self-pitying, and has his head so far up his own ass that you can't really take him seriously. The book didn't really tell a whole lot more than the news media had already shown, and the most honest part of the book was in the prologue when he says, "A lot of people will say I am writing this book for money. This is partially true. . ." and then he goes on about being unemployable (thanks to the Edwardses, of course). I could give him props for saying, "Hey, yeah, I wrote this because I needed the money," but from there, I just want to slap him.

I DO have a lot to say about the whole Rielle Hunter thing, but that's for another day.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

The One Where No One Has Talent Anymore

D and I have had this conversation before, about how sad it is that in order to be famous in America, you don't actually have to have an ounce of talent. Today, Karen and I were also discussing it, thanks to an eBay link she sent me, coming from a person formerly featured on MTV's "16 and Pregnant." She's selling her prom dress and at. . .press time? The bidding was up to $5,600.00.

What I've deduced, is that, to be "famous" and a "celebrity," you need to be willing to get on TV and show that you truly have no shame. None.

TV used to be entertaining because it was funny, not because you got to see what people are willing to do for fame. Back in the day (you know, until the late 90's, early 2000's), there was legit comedy on TV. You did have things like The Real World, but in its early stages, it was interesting. It was interaction between people who probably wouldn't have ever been in the same house with each other otherwise. Now, it's all about casting people who will most definitely have conflict with each other. The virgin and the man whore. The gun-toting, homophobic, hog-wrangling Southerner and the drag queen from Los Angeles. The white supremacist and the former Black Panther. Me and Matthew McConaughey.

Then there was season 1 through 3 or so of America's Next Top Model. Season 1 (which, yes, I own on DVD) was legitimately about these girls who thought they had a shot at worldwide fame as a supermodel. This was before Tyra Banks turned her own show into a giant joke. The producers of this one also use the same tactics with casting.

"Hey, Kevin," one bigwig will say to the other, "it's time to get it down to the final 20."

"OK, Lou," says Kevin. "We have here many attractive people. . .and also an 'interesting-looking' lesbian and a 'plus-sized' model who says she slaps lesbians for a living."

"Those last two sound real swell," says Lou. "Make sure they're in."

It has nothing to do with anything except making sure there is some kind of conflict, and that contestants have seen previous seasons so they know how to play the game.

And then that brings me to 16 and Pregnant. My question is, when did it become AWESOME to be pregnant in high school? I mean, I know stuff happens. (Not to me, obviously. I wasn't cool enough to be having sex in high school.) But it does happen. Accidents and all that. But didn't it used to be that it was. . .a bad thing? Like, vaguely shameful?

Maybe I'm all old-fashioned and I just don't get Kids These Days. But while I'm not necessarily of the "Wait until you get married to have sex or you are going to Hell," line of thinking, I DO think that maybe possibly high school isn't the best time to be doing something like that that could result in a PERSON, especially if you're not going to be careful about it.

All I'm saying is that I don't think it's fair that this chick not only got paid to be in 16 and Pregnant, and that getting knocked up is why she's pseudo-famous, but that now she's selling her maternity prom dress (three words that SHOULD NOT GO TOGETHER) for probably about $5,500 more than she paid for it, just because she was on TV with her pregnancy.

And don't even get me started on Justin Bieber. He's an entire other post for an entire other day.

My roundabout point is that I don't feel like people (I'm looking at YOU, Heidi Montag) should be famous for being famous. I'd like to get back to the days of actual talent being on TV, rather than just self-deserving douchebags. (Hi, Spencer Pratt.)

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

The One Where Christmas is in May

Happy Tuesday everyone. I've spent the last little while feeding my Google Reader obsession (I'm up to somewhere between 90 and 95 blogs I follow now. . .) and now it's time for a Christmas Update.

. . . . . . .


"But Sarah!" you say. "It's May!"

True. My family, for whatever reason, doesn't do Christmas ON Christmas anymore. (We don't do Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving either.) We were going to have it in January, but then my cousin (the one I mentioned was in the car wreck?) wouldn't have been able to make it. So the whole family, plus a couple of cousins from Massachusettes, got together at my uncle's house for barbecue and Yankee Swap.

(I didn't take any of the following pictures, FYI, except for the one of the dessert. They were either taken by my uncle, my aunt, or my SDad. Or possibly Mom, I'm not sure.)

Here's John, my little cousin who was in the car accident. He's doing a LOT better, even though he's not able to really communicate that well, or move around on his own. That sounds really bad, but trust me. MUCH better than before.My brother and sister looking. . .angry? Gangsta? I'm not sure about this one.Then there's my mother and HER siblings behaving. . .as siblings do.

And, of course, the dessert. (Crappy quality thanks to it being a camera phone photo.This is a chocolate peanut butter trifle involving chocolate cake (it was supposed to be brownies, but I didn't have the time to make them), vanilla pudding, peanut butter, and Reeses Cups. Yum. I also made deviled eggs, but didn't take a picture. (And, by the way, my sister, who's 18, said they were "Legit, the best deviled eggs she'd ever had." This is the second time she's said I made the best (whatever) she's ever had, and I take that as high, HIGH praise coming from a teenager.
Yankee Swap went. . .better than expected. I actually HATE the whole concept of YS. For the uninitiated, Yankee Swap means everyone who's playing brings a present, and they're put in a pile. Then everyone draws numbers. The first person picks a present and opens it. The second person can either open a new present or steal the present from the first person. And so on and so forth.

Makes me crazy. My OCD way of things needing to be a certain way doesn't jive with this, because if something is mine, if it's given to me, then it's MINE. This isn't to say I'm selfish. . .it's not that I want everything. It's that if something's mine, it belongs to me. I'll share it, but it goes home with me.

So, needless to say, it's a very, very frustrating game for me. I'll play it, but it's frustrating. I ended up with this really, really ugly chicken (I'll have to put a picture of this thing up. It's UGLY. And a leopard-print Snuggie.


D got this foam thing to put on the wall that says (I think) BAM! It's like the sound effects drawn in old comic books? It's kind of awesome. (That does not mean, however, that when he started to put it on the wall right beside the front door, I didn't go, "Um, how about over here?" and put it on the wall beside the bathroom around the corner. It's cute and kitschy and I like it, but not in the main foyer of my living area.
So that was Christmas. Sounds like we'll be doing it in May from here on out.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The One With Irritating Terminology

Today's soapbox rant is sponsored by the letters D and G, the number 7, and this article. I came across this on the facebook page of a. . .not a friend, per se, but someone I used to know who survived the cut when I sliced my number of facebook friends in half. (True story.)

Now, I have to say I kind of agree with what the guy that made the statement was saying. That's neither here nor there. What irritated me so much was a comment someone made on the guy's facebook wall that said something about "reverse discrimination."

This bugs me in the same way people bug me when they say "ATM machine" or "PIN number." It's not an automated teller machine machine, it's not a personal identification number number, and discrimination is discrimination no matter who it's happening to. It's not just racism if a white person is being mean to a black person because they're black. It's ALL THE SAME THING.

That's. . .all, I guess. Not terribly interesting.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

The One Where There's Too Much Pizza

This place loves their pizza.
I'm in the training department here, and that means that whenever we train new people (or new temps coming in), we order pizza for them for lunch. Training lasts two days for each group, except for this week, during which it lasts three days. The reason for this being (because I know you're dying or curiosity) two of the guys being trained came in on the second day of training, so they'd missed the first day's, and needed to make it up.
So every day this week, I've ordered pizza. I think it was three days last week, I ordered pizza. The week before that, two days of pizza. And in two weeks? At least two more days of pizza. And then yesterday, I walked to the gas station up the street to pick up some sodas. All in the name of training.
You'd think I'd be sick of it, but I'm really not. The conclusion I came to was that I can handle All Pizza All the Time if it's cheese, which is my favorite anyway. When you start putting stuff on it, it's like my stomach goes, "Whoa! You're eating pizza! Again!" and then I feel like I'm sick of it.
Not true, however, for cheese. I swore to D last night that I was NOT going to take part in the pizza today, but then I started thinking about cheese pizza. Mmmm. Cheese. I feel like when training's over for the week, I'm not going to know what to do with myself.
"What? A turkey sandwich? I can't eat this crap! Where's the PIZZA?"

I have a whiteboard above my desk with important phone numbers on it. IT Help desk? Check. Unofficial Admin who gets all my panicked questions? Check. Corporate office? Check. And yesterday? I added the pizza place. I'm kind of surprised they don't know my name by now.

In other news, I went to Chili's last night for a giant salad and a slightly smaller beer. It was a buffalo chicken salad, which I'd recommend highly. The downer was, first of all, the beer was big enough to where I had to sit on a bench and read for a while to get it out of my system, and secondly, the waiter called me sir.

I'm in the middle of reading that book that John Edwards' former aide wrote, and I'm sure I'll have a whole post on that when I'm finished. It's interesting; I'll give it that. It better be, seeing as to how I was like number 189 on the waiting list at the library to get it. And I'm sure once I check it back in, someone will immediately have a hold on it.
Because everyone (including me) loves a good scandal. Or even a bad scandal. Or even a scandal where someone fathers a child and then goes to the media and says, "Not no way, not no how, not my baby."
Or whatever.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The One Where I Don't Have Any Kids

So, today is not a stellar day for me. I had plans to have dinner with my sister, but they had to be cancelled. I thought D was coming home today, but he's not coming home until tomorrow. I was going to make myself feel better by going to a movie, but there's nothing playing I would be willing to pay 8 to 10 dollars (with my "valid student ID") to see. I'm thinking I'm going to go home and bake something. I still haven't made Mom anything for her birthday, which was last Friday, so I may be in the throes of baking a birthday present tonight.

I have found an interesting phenomenon in the blogging world, which I have fairly recently jumped into. I've kept an online diary (or whatever) for years and years and years, since before it was cool, but I have just recently reached out to other people doing the same thing and found community.

Out of the. . .82 blogs I follow on my Google Reader, a great majority of them are cooking/baking blogs, but a large majority of them are also what seems to be called 'Mommy Blogs.' I think the name is pretty self-explanatory. I have no issue with Mommy Blogs (clearly, since I follow so many of them), but it's hard for me, at least, to find a blog that doesn't have a theme (baking, books, etc.) from a woman who does not have kids. I came across two of them today, and was oddly excited about it. It was like. . .my God. There are people, women, still out there who don't have kids!
Sometimes I feel like I'm in a very small majority. Don't get me wrong. I love kids. Kids love me. D and I went to see "Babies" at this little theatre downtown, and I thought my ovaries were literally going to explode from all the cute. But that's where it ends. I like kids, but I don't want to take one home with me. I've had the "Do-I-Want-Kids-Or-Not" discussion several, several times, but I still just don't know. I'm going to be acquiring a step-daughter (two, actually, but that's another story in and of itself) when D and I get married, and that's kind of where I feel my extent is right now.
(I'd like to take a moment and comment that yes, yes, I'm aware the irony of talking about how I enjoyed finding blogs of people who don't always talk about kids, and I'm using this entry to talk about kids. But whatever.)

I don't have the deep-rooted urge to carry another human being around for 9 months. I had a conversation with D that I'm fairly certain scarred him for life a while back where I referred to kids as parasites.
That's what they ARE, though. The rough definition of a parasite is something that feeds off of whatever host it attaches itself to. What do you think babies/fetuses/feti DO for the 9 months they're in there? I guess it's because he has kids himself, but for me? I don't like the idea. I am not dying for the day when I'm walking around with that "pregnant glow," knitting booties, having baby showers, and painting nurseries. Maybe it's just not in my genes, I don't know.
What I've always said is that I'm too selfish to have kids, and I think I'm going to maintain that for the time being. I am just not willing to give up all the things I COULD be doing for someone else that literally needs me all the time. I've already conceded I'm never going to get to live in New York like I'd wanted to because D's kid is here in NC. OK, that's fine. But that's the extent that I'd like to concede to. I don't, right now, want to have to give up time that I could do something I want to do because I have to take care of someone else.
Self-centered? Sure. But you know what? I'm not even 30 yet. I still have enough time to get unselfish if need be. I feel like I'd rather accept my own limitations than be one of these people who pops out kids and then can't (or won't) take care of them. That's all.

Monday, May 17, 2010

The One Where Pet Names Creep Me Out

I have read every comment left on my last post. I've stopped responding because honestly? I don't want to talk about it anymore, and I don't want to sound like I'm fighting with anyone. (I'm not.) Thanks for thoughts, though. I like getting other people's points of view.

Slow (slow slow slow) day at work today. Can't really complain, I guess, but no work for a temp = no more work period. I ordered pizza for the class that's training right now, and the Papa John's guy is going to be here in about 20 minutes. I have eaten more pizza in the last two weeks than I think should be legal. So much pizza. But I'm pretty sure I could live off of cheese pizza if it became necessary (i.e. the government mandated that 3 meals a day need to consist of cheese pizza.) That would not be a problem for me.

It was raining and gross this morning, but I got to work without hydroplaning (like an Explorer in front of me did) or getting into a wreck (like three people did on the road that takes me to work), so I consider it a good day.

I have this issue that I've been contemplating. I don't ever call D by name. Like. . .I don't call him anything. This is something I used to do with my friends' parents. I went to a Christian school, so most of my friends' parents were Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So, because everyone was conservative and old school, and I was massively uncomfortable with that. Then I got to public high school, and some people were OK with first names, and some people still wanted to be called Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So, so I didn't know what to do, and I didn't want to ask, so I rectified this by just not calling them anything, and just standing in front of them and talking, which I'm sure was massively awkward. But most things I did throughout my schooling were awkward, so there you go.

Anyway, this has leaked over into my own personal personal life. I don't refer to him as anything most of the time. I also have trouble using pet names. I like pet names. I like being called Sweetheart, or Hun, or whatever. (Note: this does not apply to people I've just met. Don't call me Baby if I don't know your last name. Or, don't call me that at all unless I'm dating you. Which I'm not.) I like the concept of the pet name, but I can't make myself use them for some reason.

And then there are the extremes.

Nothing irritates me more than being on facebook or something, and seeing people refer to each other by sickeningly, SICKENINGLY sweet little pet names. This one person I know, and the person they're going to marry, call each other things like Lovey Dovey Honey Buns or Pumpkin Cream Silly Willy. (Note: these are not exact replicas of names.)

I need something in between to call D, if not by first name.

Or maybe I should just start by calling him by name.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

The One Where I'm Against Doing Illegal Things

I try not to talk about political issues. I have my opinions on them, but I don't like how riled up some people get when they're discussed. As such, I generally won't make commentary on stupid things liberals do, stupid things conservatives do, stupid (or smart) things the president does, gay marriage, abortion, etc. You believe what you want to believe, and I'll do the same.


The immigration law in Arizona is something I feel the need to make brief commentary on, and it's all because of a facebook group.

I know a lot of gay people. The college I went to had a large amount of them so, as a result, I am acquainted with quite a few. I was cruising around facebook (as you do), and I came to the profile of this one guy I know who had joined a facebook group called something like 1 Million Strong AGAINST the Arizona Immigration Law. Or something.

I clicked on it, and noticed that a lot of people I know are a member of said group, and most of those people are gay. I started wondering if it was a political issue. Political, meaning, Republican vs. Democrat. I know that most of the gay people I know are staunch liberals, so I had to assume that liberal people are the ones against this law.

(I don't really watch the news, so I legitimately only know what I hear on the radio/what catches my attention on news blogs/what I hear in passing/etc. I don't necessarily consider myself uninformed, but nothing these days is good news.)

But that wasn't what REALLY caught my attention. What did that was part of the group's description:

The new law makes it a crime under state law to be in the country illegally. Immigrants unable to produce documents showing they are allowed to be in the U.S. could be arrested, jailed for up to six months and fined $2,500. Other provisions allow lawsuits against government agencies that hinder enforcement of immigration laws, and make it illegal to hire undocumented workers for day labor or knowingly transport them.

Apparently, this is a problem for these group members.

But wait. Wait, wait, wait. What is this?

The new law makes it a crime under state law to be in the country illegally.

Hold the phone. What? These people have a problem with the fact that the law says it's illegal to be in the U.S.. . .illegally? What I'm getting from this is that the members of this group feel like the new law is punishing people doing something illegal. . .and this is a bad thing.

If we take this stance with all our laws, this is what I forsee happening:

Murderer: Why are you arresting me? This isn't fair.
Cop: You broke the law. You killed that guy, and killing is against the law. It's illegal.
Murderer: But. . .I WANTED to kill him. I wanted to do it, so I did it. This isn't fair!
Cop: You have a valid point. . .OK, you can go.

That's what's going on here.

I am judging the people, all the people who joined the facebook group, because this is just stupid. Everyone in that group is saying, "We are mad that the law is saying it's illegal to be here illegally!"

I, personally, feel like the law isn't perfect, but at least it's a step in the right direction. I'm not going to get on my Illegal Immigrant Soapbox right now, but I have one, and I think they should all, every single person here illegally, should be shipped back to where they came from. I don't care if you're Hispanic, Asian, African, Scandinavian. . .whatever. If you're not supposed to be here, you need to go home.

And for those people who are on the other side of the fence about this. . .I could at least respect your difference of opinion if you knew what the hell you were talking about. But telling me that you're opposed to people being here illegally being illegal just makes me think you're either:

A) Jumping on a bandwagon you know nothing about, because you think it makes you look cool/that's what all your friends are doing/that's what your political party believes, so that's what you're "supposed" to say;
B) Horribly uneducated on what "illegal" means;
C) Dumb

I'd be more than willing to have a conversation with someone who disagreed with me if they had intelligent, valid points to make about why they believed what they believe. I have been known to change my mind about things, and I'm always open to conversations with people whose intent is to MAKE me change my mind (if they do it logically and aren't just plain dumb about it.)

But this one kind of takes the cake.

The One Where OCD is Not the Same as Being Organized

(After reading this, I was like. . .Dude. Not nearly as light as you like to keep your entries. But I'm going to leave it anyway. I'll be back to normal by next time. I'm also quitting with the song lyric titles; they're exhausting. I think I'm going to take the Friends [TV show] approach to titles, and just tell you which one it is.)

I have started this entry 3 times, and keep deleting what I write. I think it's a Thursday thing. Either that, or the fact that I had a absolute OCD breakdown last night, and I don't think I've fully recovered from it.

Here, it should be noted that I legitimately have an OCD diagnosis. It's an actual thing that they medicated me for, but the medication made me feel like such crap, I stopped taking it. I felt like I would rather have minor problems all the time and major problems occasionally than feel like crap always.

It drives me up a wall and down another wall when people are like, "Oh, yeah, I totally have OCD! I can't stand it when my shoes are out of order! And if something's out of place? I just can't stand it. OH EM GEE, I've got the OH SEE DEE!"


That's called being anal retentive. Big difference.

It's kind of like those girls in college (you know the ones) that make out with each other at frat parties so the boys can watch, and then on their MySpace page (because people like this still use their MySpace pages for trolling), proudly proclaim their bisexuality. But the fact of the matter is, the only time they think about women is when they're making out with them so heterosexual dudes will get turned on and then they can take one of the aforementioned dudes back to their dorm room with them, get wasted on a couple of Miller Lites, hook up, and then the next day get on their MySpace page and write, "OMG, I'm totes a bi-grrl because I have a boyfriend AND a girlfriend!"

These people drive me crazy. And that's how I feel when anal retentive people translate their quirks into being obsessive-compulsive.

Along the same vein, a lot of people don't understand that OCD doesn't necessarily mean that the person washes their hands 500 times a day, or that they can't go to sleep until they switch a lightswitch 17 times. For some people, yeah, that's the case. But that's the extreme case. What it comes down to is that it's an anxiety thing.

This is a really good synopsis of what it's like. It's. . .horrible. I won't go into last night's work at the library, but a lot of things just felt like they were spiraling out of control, and by the time it was time to leave, I had to sit in my car for a while before starting out to try to regroup. Then I called D and yelled for like 10 minutes, just because I didn't know what else to do.

I don't know why I felt the need to share all of this, but there it is. Needing things in order doesn't necessarily mean you have OCD. It's more of a feeling of not being able to control your own brain, and the obsessive thoughts in it.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

The One Where There's Just Not Enough Money

So, every day that I get closer to the day we've picked for our wedding day, the more I go, ". . .but it's all So Expensive!"

I want to wear the dress that I've had picked out forever and I want to get the ridiculously awesome cake we've picked out. (Did you know that you can go in for consultations to these places and they give you free cake? Free. Cake.") But the more time that passes, the more I think about other things I could be buying with the hundreds (thousands, probably) of dollars we'd be spending on wedding things.

Par example, I just found out yesterday that the supplies for my insulin pump are going to cost me $785 for 3 months.

"Your deductible is $1,000," the chipper lady (who probably has great health insurance) tells me. "But that's not so bad, because you'd meet that deductible in an order and a half!"

That's all fine, dandy, and cupcakes, sweetheart, but where am I going to get the $1,000 to pay OFF said deductible?
I swear I didn't start a post just to bitch and moan about money. It's just that that's the first thing I thought of.
Oh, and actually, speaking of money, I went by Dad's house yesterday to pick up mail (because, since I moved out, for whatever reason, I still haven't forwarded mail to my new address), and I got this letter that about made me hit the roof.
I was in this car accident about a year ago (a year ago Thursday, actually), and after everything was said and done, and insurance took care of me (Nationwide insurance, by the way, is the way to go. Since the wreck wasn't my fault, they took really good care of me. They probably would have taken care of me even if it HAD been my fault, but they were ESPECIALLY nice and understanding since it wasn't.), I got this bill in the mail from the NC DOT.
Long story short, they were telling me that I owed North Carolina about $1,900 to repair the guardrail I'd hit. It should be noted that I hit the guardrail after the third rotation of my car flipping over, and it stopped me from going down a steep hill into trees. Just FYI.

So I was (understandably, I think) not too pleased about that. I feel like. . .that's the purpose of a guardrail, you know? To prevent steep hill flipping. And if I'd been driving drunk or something and crashed into said guardrail, sure, make me pay for it. But, in fact, I was minding my own business when some asshat on an "electronic device" tried to change lanes on top of me. And then he drove away without stopping.

I'm digressing. My point is, I don't think they should fault people who, through no fault of their own, hit guardrails intended to. . .you know, GUARD.
So Nationwide was like, absolutely, we will take care of that.

However, I kept getting letters telling me, in increasingly nasty terms, that I need to pay this God-awful amount of money to these people, or they will. . .actually, I don't know what they intended to do. They never threatened anything.
I'm like. . .if I have to pay this amount, I should OWN this section of guardrail. I should be able to paint it. Maybe build structures around it. Maybe open a highway-side discotheque!
I get one of these letters every 4 months or so, and there was one there yesterday. It informed me that they had been "very patient" with me and "exceedingly generous" with said patience, but I need to pay ASAP.
I. Hit. The. Roof. I was having a bad day anyway, and this just added to it.

I had everything in mind I was going to say to the people when I called. I was going to be One of Those People, who call customer service lines and are as mean and rude as can be.
So I call, and this guy with a British accent picks up and asks me how he can help me. I explained the situation to him, and he's all like, "Oh, well, that was taken care of May 4, 2010. The account balance is $0!"
. . . . . . . .

I didn't even get to yell at anyone. I wouldn't want to yell at a British guy anyway.
(Sorry for the anticlimactic ending to that story.)
God save the Queen.

Monday, May 10, 2010

The One With No Sexual Tension

Some of you (the 5-ish people who I'm aware read) may have noticed that I put up my "parenting on facebook" poll, only to take it down like a day later. That can be explained by my attention-whoredom, because in 24 hours, I only had one vote (my own) and that made me go, "Oh my GOD, I'm writing and no one's READING." Being that. . .type of person I am, that bothered me, so I took it down, prefering not to know if no one cared. I like to pretend people care.

I'd noticed that there was something weird about this place I'm working. I've worked in a lot of places in my time with the temp place, and there was something different about this place. A few days ago, I finally figured it out: no sexual tension.

Anywhere I've worked, there has always been sexual tension SOMEWHERE. At one place, I was working in a room with a girl who pretty much wanted to jump on top of any guy that walked in. At another place, my boss was really, REALLY chummy with another one of the temps (this was the place that the boss made the decision that my contract had no need to be extended because said Other Temp told him I wasn't necessary. She hated me, so that was her little revenge. This was OK in the long run, because I hated that place, but I will never understand why I have to give at least a one-week notice if I'm leaving, but if they're done with me, they can literally call me at home on a Tuesday evening and say I don't need to report for work Wednesday. But I digress.)

Point being, part of the fun of working in different places is watching the social dynamic of everyone. I was a Sociology minor, and part of the reason for that is I like watching groups of people.

It's really disappointing, having no one to watch. No one to make up secret stories about, assuming they're having a clandestine meeting during lunch. It's just kind of like no one really likes each other.

And that is nowhere near as interesting as watching two people who PRETEND not to like each other, but who you know are actually going at it in the document control room.

Went to Mom's for Mother's Day, had dinner with the family plus one. D wasn't feeling well, so I let him sleep.

Brought Mom truffles I made, which were. . .really tasty, but really ugly. I'd gotten the recipe here and needless to say, mine did NOT end up looking like that. I need to learn how to melt chocolate smoothly without a double broiler. D showed me how to heat watch in a big pot on the stove and put a bowl with the chocolate in it on the water ("There WAS a time when there weren't microwaves, you know," he says.), but it always turns out weird and chunky, not awesome and smooth.

I also made cookies last night. I know they look burned, but they're not, actually. I take pictures with my camera phone, and you can only expect so much out of the poor thing.

I need to start taking donations to keep me in sugar and vanilla.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The One Where I'm a Hypochondriac

I am dying.

I am dying of some horrible, horrible thing that possibly hasn't even been discovered yet, but I have it because I am 3 steps ahead of science.

Whenever something feels weird, especially when my head is involved, I get really paranoid. Maybe I watch too much Grey's Anatomy/Scrubs/House/Etc., but when something doesn't feel right, I go straight for the most awful thing ever.

Me: My head is hurting. Oh my God, it's never hurt like this before. OH MY GOD, I have a brain tumor. Or meningitis. No. Definitely a brain tumor.

Whomever I'm talking to: Have you had caffeine today? Maybe it's a caffeine headache.

Me: . . . . .NO! It's a BRAIN TUMOR!

I don't know why I always immediately jump to worst case scenario, but I do, and I've been doing that for the last 48 hours or so. My inner ears have been hurting since Monday-ish, and then I felt fuzzy headed and dizzy yesterday, and today, I woke up feeling like my eardrums, both of them, were going to explode.

Me: Oh my God, my ear drums are going to explode and I'll be deaf forever.

D: Maybe you have an inner ear infection. You should probably go to the doctor.

Me: . . . .NO! My eardrums are going to explode and I'm going to go deaf and I'm going to waste valuable hearing time going to the doctor and why would you suggest such a thing WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE?

D: . . . . . . . .

I did not end up going to the doctor, because they were feeling better once I got up and around and even better once I got to work. But if they get worse, I will probably break down and go to the doctor.

I did go to the dentist today, which is one of my top 5 least favorite things to do. I should note that both my dentist and the dental hygienist (sp?) are lovely people of whom I am quite fond, but it's the IDEA of the dentist that I dislike, and not so much my dentist herself. I don't like people being that close me to with their hands in my mouth. I also don't like the pokey metal Instruments of Torture they use.

Since I'm diabetic, I am more prone to having gum trouble. Therefore, flossing is something I should do often. The thing is. . .sometimes you're running late and don't think about it. And sometimes, you've brushed your teeth and have already gotten into bed by the time you remember it. And sometimes. . .you just don't feel like it.

I will be the first to admit that I'm not the best flosser. HOWEVER! I do not buy that the fact I'm a bad flosser is the ONLY reason why my gums bleed when they start stabbing me with their Instruments of Torture.

"Your gums are bleeding because you don't floss enough, Sarah," they say.

What I want to say (but don't, obviously) is, "No! My gums are bleeding because you are stabbing them with pointy metal things."

But I digress.

Since my teeth have "soft spots" caused by improperly formed enamel, and have therefore been sealed, and one of those seals, apparently, came off, I have to go back and get a filling. As it turns out, fillings are expensive. However, Mom said she and my Sdad would help me pay for it, so that's awesome. (Me being poor and all.) So I'll be back in the dentist's chair in the next couple of weeks, this time with Instruments of Torture INTENDED to cause me pain aimed at my face. Which is awesome in the not-so-awesome sort of way.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The One With Passive-Aggression and Crazy Brides

I'd like to start out with one of those really, really passive-aggressive things that I hate when people do, because I'm naturally nosy and want to know what they're talking about, but I'm going to do it anyway.

For the person who is taking my (locked) Twitter updates and passing them along to person or persons who are part of the REASON they're locked updates, I've figured out who you are. I'm not going to call you out specifically, but I want you to know that you really need better things to do with your life than try to cause drama. I know you live in a small town, and there's not a lot to do, but I suggest you find a hobby, rather than trying to get into something that, quite frankly, has nothing to do with you. I'd also like to thank you for keeping my updates in check. God forbid I say anything too personal, or say anything about wedding plans, because I know that you're going to run straight to the person or persons in question and talk about it/me/etc. So, have fun continuing to think you're getting one up on me. But let me tell you: I don't put anything out there that I expect to be super-secret or anything like that. It's just a shame that you're trying to put a damper on my fun. That just tells me you need more fun of your own.

That being said? Let's continue.

It's been over a month since last time, and life has continued rolling on. I'm working two jobs now, and as a result, I suspect I'm beginning to feel. . .if not my own age, then someone else's much older than me. I've legitimately become one of those people that looks at the clock at about 9:30 p.m. and wonders if it's too early to go to bed. (Answer: Generally, yes. But sometimes no.)

I'm especially sore from this last weekend, because D and I pretended like we're outdoorsy people and DID things. (Well, OK. I pretended like I'm an outdoorsy person, and D just continued being as such.) We went to try out a place for wedding cakes Saturday (There's something for you, Gatherer of Information. Go run and tell people we looked at cake!), and, in addition, I got some new shoes for work, and. . .wow. It's Tuesday, and for the life of me, I can't remember what I did for the rest of Saturday. That's. . .sad, isn't it?

Sunday, D and I played tennis (in 90 degree heat) and then went to the pool briefly (due to the aforementioned 90 degree heat), although I didn't get all the way in because it was freaking cold. Aren't most pools closed until Memorial Day? That's probably why. The freaking cold.

Then I went to work. Then I took a nap. Then we took a 4,000 (or 4) mile walk. Then I collapsed from exhaustion.

Now, a couple of weeks back, we went to this bridal expo that came through. We went because, even though I don't actually buy into the whole thing of the big, fancy dresses and the overpriced flowers and the food at $20 a person, it seemed like something that would be fun.

Let me tell you something. About 85% of the brides there? C-R-A-Z-Y. Some of them were there in big, scary groups. Some of them were there with miserable-looking fiances. Some of them were there with their moms, yelling things like, "OH MY GOD LOOK AT THIS IS I DON'T GET THIS FLORIST I'M GOING TO LITERALLY DIE AND OH MY GOD LOOK AT THIS DRESS I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT!!!"

Legit. Frightening.

It was fun, though. Samples of things, people giving me things. All the makings of a good day. If I could have all that, without the crazy, crazy brides-to-be, it would have been even better.

The further I get into this whole planning process, the less sense it makes to me. I mean. . .I understand the day being special and all that. . .but why would you want to spend your life savings for one day? Why would you boss people around and bully people and have to have everything JUST SO for one day? A long time ago (maybe a year ago) I told one of my friends' mothers that I'd be OK just going to Vegas and getting married. She didn't believe me. For some reason, she was under the impression that I had to have all the pomp and circumstance surrounding one of these things.

The fact of the matter is, I want to have a party. I want to wear the white dress (mainly because I already have one picked out that I would wear to work if I could, but people might look at me funny). But. . .that's about it. I only marginally care about the rest of the "wedding day." Because I think that what most people (and probably a good percentage of the girls at that bridal show) [the first time, I typed "bridal ho" and the second time, I typed "bridal shoe"] forget is that it's one. Day. You have to spend the rest of your life (in theory) with whomever you marry, and it's not going to matter if your dress is coordinated with the ribbons you tied around the doves' necks, which are coordinated with your bridesmaids' shoes, which match the boxer shorts the groomsmen are wearing.

Plus, I don't care how many times you say "oh, yeah, you can wear this dress again!", bridesmaids' dresses are good for nothing other than being in a wedding, going to a prom, wearing as a Halloween costume, or giving to someone. And they're expensive.

So, I'm probably going to end up a giant hypocrite after all of that, but that's how I feel about it at the moment. And I will never think it's OK to spend as much as some people do on weddings.

I'm going to attempt to put up a poll on my blog. . .I had a conversation with my mother during which I did that thing I do where I don't think about things before I say them. I'd like to know opinions of people on the subject of Facebook Parenting.

Here's the sitch: I have this cousin who's, like, 14, 15. This cousin tends to run their mouth on facebook, using profanity I didn't know existed at 14, 15. Said cousin said something. . .especially ridiculous and parental-insulting and profanity-laden on facebook. Mom sees it, tells cousin's parent. Cousin's parent says, thank you, we did see it.

I (not so brightly) say, "You've become one of those people. Why people were so pissed when parents were allowed to join facebook."

(You can take this moment now to cringe.)
She says (not thrilled-ly) that she would want to know.

So what's your opinion? (Let's see if I can make polls work!)