The One Where I'm Feeling My Feelings

Before I get into the whole thing about the concert last night, I'd like to make a comment. I read on another blog (Oh, OK. . .it was Aunt Becky's. . .I'm just feeling like I'm referencing/name-dropping her a LOT as of late. . .) about Being Yourself when you're blogging. She talks about all the people who present their perfect-sounding lives on their blogs. People who refer to their children and significant others as "DD" or "DH," which, as I found out, stands for something like Dear Daughter or Darling Husband. I would like to clarify right now that when I refer to D, I'm not calling him Dear or Darling or anything else that makes me want to throw up like that. It's the first initial of his name, so that's why I call him that. It's because I'm lazy, not because I'm super-sentimental.

I have trouble sometimes with having Too Many Feelings. My Feelings eff up a lot of things. Between My Feelings and my OCD and That Time of the Month, I'm an emotional wreck often. The thing is, though, I don't want to be. I hate that, and I try my damnedest not to let My Feelings spill over onto my blog. At least not too often.

I don't want to bitch and moan and cry about every little detail of my life that's bugging me at any given time. That's what my middle school/high school/college livejournal was for. Also, my old Blogger blog. I don't feel like that's what people read blogs to see. I don't think everything in the 'blogosphere' should be puppies and roses and mommy bloggers who think their Dear Offspring crap Skittles, but neither should it be daggers and skulls and. . .I was trying to think of an antithesis for Offspring Who Crap Skittles, but failed. You know what I mean.

I feel like people read my blog (or any blog) because they want to (a) Be Entertained; (b) Be Informed; (c) Be Stalkers; or (d) Some Combination Thereof. Therefore, when I write, I do it first and foremost because it's what I DO. I like telling stories, and I like people saying, hey, that was funny/sad/off the chain/etc. (I don't think anyone I've ever known has used the expression "off the chain." Maybe they should.)

I'm completely getting off whatever point I'd started out trying to make with this. The point is, I'm not happy with my current lot in life. But at the same time, I feel like I can't complain about ANYTHING, because I have a stack of 8 resumes I've received in 3 days, which tells me, "Hey, Sarah. Quit your bitching, because even if you don't 'feel satisfied' by it, at least you have a job."

Yeah, at least I have a job. A job that's contract, so I have no benefits and no vacation time, so if I want to, I don't know, get married and go on a week's honeymoon, guess what? That just means a week of no pay. No one gives a fuck if I'm getting married. They're not going to pay me so I can have time off to do it.

Or time off to do anything. I feel like I'm over here, drowning in my own self-loathing and self-pity, but I can't take any time off because guess what? I have bills to pay. Bills that aren't going to understand that I just need an em-effing BREAK.

But guess what? I can't complain about it. I can't complain about anything. Because you know what happens then? My friend, The Universe, decides to say, "Oh yeah? Let me REALLY give you something to complain about."

I just want to be doing something that means something right now. This job means nothing to me but a paycheck. I don't even get any benefits, so there's an extra $400 a month in health insurance. Just for me.

I'm going under, and there's not a thing I can do about it. But I can write about it, and risk turning my little Corner of the Interwebz into a Bitch Fest, alienating anyone who might have been otherwise interested and diminishing my chances that someone will happen across my blog and give me a book deal.*

So there it is, people. Take it or leave it.

*Yes, I know this is not a thing that really happens to most people.

The One With My Purse

And now, for something completely different. It's dumb, and pointless, but why does everything in life have to have a point?

I've seen on a couple of the other blogs I read where women did this "Hey, check out what's in my purse!" post. I thought they were kind of weird, but the more I thought about it, the more I was like. . .that's cool. And I'm enough of a narcissistic exhibitionist that I feel like everyone should WANT to see what's in my purse.

So here's the purse (sorry for the crappy picture. . .lighting wasn't great and it's a camera phone.)

It's a Vera Wang Kohl's brand purse (Simply Vera? I think that's what it's called.) I have a billion purses, but this is one of two I use most frequently, since it matches everything.

Here's what's in it:

OK, here we have everything I tote around with me daily, sans my cell phone, since that's what I was taking the picture with. There's gum, a jump drive, a tampon, a stack of receipts that I made all nice and neat for the picture, a stack of Other Various Things I made all nice and neat for the picture, hand sanitizer (a godsend), my iPod, lip-plumping lip gloss from E.L.F., glucose tablets for low blood sugar, business cards, hand cream, tweezers, hair bands, a little pocket knife, a nail file, a stack of Diet Coke pop tabs (we collect them for. . .some reason.), a random dollar I was pleased to find in the back pocket of the purse, my wallet which is really badass. . .at some angles, it's black and white with a piano pattern and at other angles, it's colorful guitars. Also from Kohl's, 10,000 pens (because I can never find one. And yes, they're always bundled together like that. Not just for the picture.), my checkbook, a comb, a pad of paper, my jumble of keys, and the change sock D got me from Iowa.

Um, what this tells me is that I have a lot of crap in my purse. No wonder my back hurts sometimes.

And if you're wondering (and, I know you are, because OBVIOUSLY), in the stack of receipts, there's a receipt from all of the following: My bank (cashier's check made out for rent), Target, Wal-Mart, Chik-Fil-A, and Lowe's Foods. And in the stack of random crap? A card for a doctor's appointment next week, a coupon to save $1.50 on any 3 General Mills cereals, a check of D's, a letter from the company that manufactured my insulin pump, a recipe for Zucchini Cheese Casserole I found in a library book, and a coupon for $1 off yogurt purchases at some place called Local Yogurt that I got from work.

Um, I think I need to clean out my purse. There would also be a book in it that I am currently reading for my Gay Book Club, but I left that out in the car over lunch. There was also a greeting card in there, but I took it out to write in it. Also, way down deep in one of the pockets, there was a clear lip gloss. I didn't feel like taking everything out again to include it in the picture. Oh! And in the same pocket as the clear lip gloss, there are 3 coupons for CiCi's Pizza.

The One Where My Book Club Blows

Just got a message in my Spam folder with the subject line, "Sarah -- You can become the new King of Cleveland!"

. . . . . . .

I was not. . .aware Cleveland had a king. Or that a female could be king. Obviously, I am on the wrong career path as of this moment.

This kind of makes me miss the days when King Djibashae Tutalegument of Nigeria wanted to deposit 1,500 trillion dollars into my bank account. Hey, Djibashae! Where's my money?*

Book Club was tonight. Let me set a background here. I've been signed up for this meeting for the last month and a half or so. I've been super jazzed. I've been looking forward to breaking out of my social anxiety-laden shell and meeting some people and talking about books. Getting opinions and stuff.

D went with me to the coffee place, and I roundaboutly asked him (Read: Demanded) that he stay. The meeting was at a coffeehouse, so he was able to get work done while he was sitting there, listening to whatever he had playing in iTunes.

So I sit down at these tables, and realize what I did not actually expect: I am clearly the youngest person there. That always makes me feel super awkward, because people assume that young = stupid. For the majority of people my age, yeah. That's true. But not all of us are stupid. Someone asks me if I'm new, and I said yes. She says she could tell.

She could tell because everyone knew each other. Even though the meetup description said, "There're new people at every meeting!". . .well, I mean, I guess that wasn't a lie. I was new, after all. But EVERYONE ELSE knew each other.

"How're the kids, Doreen?"
"Oh, they're great, Helen, thanks for asking! Daniel is still talking about the pot roast you brought to mine and Damien's potluck dinner last week."
"Oh, hey guys! Are you talking about the potluck? Me and Greg sure enjoyed that!"
"That's right, Cynthia! I think we should all get together soon and have another potluck. . .maybe a girls' night out afterward!"

Kind of like that.

So our moderator, a woman who is most definitely going to look like Betty White in about 20 years, starts off with a fairly innocuous question. . .that I can't even remember. What I DO remember is that I had a BADASS answer to it, so I said, ". . ." (whatever my answer was.)

Except.

This other lady had the same opinion I did, and took the beginning of my sentence and then ran with it. . .effectively taking it from me. That sounds melodramatic, I'm aware, but there's really no other way I can describe it.

OK, fine. I'll wait until something else comes up.

So then there was something I wanted to say something about. I started to say whatever it was I wanted to say, and half a second after I started talking, this other lady started talking, and raised her voice to be heard over me. I tried a tactic I use occasionally when D and I argue, where, if I'm being interrupted, I continue saying what I was saying in the hope that he other person will be like, "Oh. She's still talking. I'll knock it off. Maybe she's saying something important."

But no.

She raised her voice so she could be heard over me, and I just kind of gave up on the entire concept.

One person sent my a sympathetic look when that happened, but I was like, eff a bunch of book club.

So I sat there and just listened.

And let me tell you. . .what I was listening to made me mad that I'd chosen to waste an entire evening on this thing. I've been to book clubs before, and when I did, we discussed. . .the book we'd all read. At this one? The novel had been about Alzheimer's, and this one woman went on and on in a sort of monologue for about 15 minutes about the fact that her father (or mother?) had died of Alzheimer's. And then after her monologue, it became about mental illness as a whole. And then somehow, diabetes was thrown into the mix.

I'm texting D throughout this entire travesty of an evening, telling him how bored I am, etc. He's sitting there, but he's got headphones on, so he's not having to listen to every little inane detail about what these women were talking about.

Then, somehow, it turns into a conversation about how people in their 20's take everything for granted. ("Hey, guys!" Internal Monologuing Sarah yells, "We're not ALL like that!" And then it turns into a conversation about how, if this were to happen to us in real life (a loved one having Alzheimer's) how, "Since we're women, it would be easier for us to take on the role of the caretaker." But if we, as women, had the disease, we'd expect our menfolk to just fall apart and not be able to take care of anything themselves.

Um.

I can tell you one thing with the utmost of certainty. If I had Alzheimer's, D wouldn't fall apart in the least. But if he had it? I wouldn't know what to do with myself. Maybe that's because I "take everything for granted."

And then everyone started chiming in with, "Oh! My husband's the same way! Oh, it's be so much easier for me to take care of him than for him to take care of me."

And then? They all started talking about what a brilliant book "The Notebook" is.

OMFG.

THE NOTEBOOK?

Why didn't they just say that Justin Bieber is the most awesome superstar in the history of entertainment, that Michael Jackson would be a great babysitter for your son, or that Perez Hilton would be the ideal person with whom to share your umost deepest, darkest secrets?**

If I wasn't convinced before the Notebook conversation that this wasn't the group for me, that just did it. Because Every. Single. Person. agreed with the "That was the Best! Book! Ever!" statement.

So, needless to say, only about 10 of the 90 (90!!) minutes was spent talking about the book. I'd come for a conversation during which I could feel smart because I had something intelligent to say about something I'd read. But instead, I felt like an outsider, because I had nothing to say about any of the topics at hand. Had I said, "'The Notebook'? REALLY? I HATED the movie, and I find everything Nicholas Sparks has ever read to be insipid and stupid," I probably would have gotten the exact same reaction: No one noticing I was a part of the group.

Needless to say, I will not be going back. And my experiment into the World of the Socially Un-Retarded failed. Epically.

I guess I need to find a new hobby, because reading the same thing other people read clearly isn't going to work for me.

Eff.

*Um, I never fell for this.
**Clearly, my knowledge of current events is awesome.

The One Where My Brain is On Backwards and I Can't Stay On Topic

I swear, I'm going to finish some of the posts I've started, but for some reason, I'm just like. . .they aren't shiny and new to me anymore. They were awesome when I started them, but then I started to bore myself. And when you start to bore yourself, you're in trouble. Big Trouble.

Also of note, I went from 12 subscribers to 11. That made me. . .a lot more sad than it probably should have. I don't know who it was that dropped me, or what I did to offend them so. It was like (before I stopped caring) when I lost facebook "friends." I was like. . .wow. What have I done that is SO BAD that people don't want to be facebook friends with me anymore?

And then, of course, I started weeding out my facebook friends list, went from almost 600 friends to just under 335, and I continue to weed it occasionally. These people shouldn't necessarily take it personally. . .I just don't really care that much to keep up with them.

I'm a little all over the place today, and I actually wouldn't even be here (writing, I mean), had I not read a post by the lovely Aunt Becky about why she writes. Aunt Becky is one of those bloggers that I wish I knew in real life. She's awesome and crass and heartfelt (can one BE heartfelt, or do people just SAY heartfelt things?), and I'm not even exaggerating when I say that she sometimes may even make me feel better about myself. Call me lame, call me whatever. . .that's the way it is.

I have a book club meeting tonight. I can't remember if I mentioned the book I read, but it's "Still Alice," and it's about this 50-year-old woman with early-onset Alzheimer's. This book broke my heart, and I'm excited to talk to other people who read it, to see what they thought.

Of course, reading this book gave me yet another thing to worry that I have. I'm a hypochondriac of the worst kind, and I'm also horribly, horribly absentminded. So, in my mind, of course, Absentmindedness = Alzheimer's.

Some time, I'll have to tell you about the time I thought I had simultaneous cancer and liver failure, thanks to the blue ice cream.

I'll share this with you here: I've decided that my OCD is taking over my brain to such a large extent that I am actually therapist shopping right now. I'm not. . .terribly ashamed about it, but the problem that I have is actually, I know how drugs to tone down the problem can mess with you, and I've taken those, and I do not like them. I don't like how they make me feel, and I don't like how they make me think.

That may sound kind of weird, me not liking the way brain drugs alter my brain, but what I mean is, if I'm on something like that, I'm. . .less interesting. It's kind of like putting an artist on Ritalin. They just can't do the same things when they're not a little crazy. This concerns me. I battle enough with thinking I'm boring. But then again, during a screaming match I may or may not have had yesterday, I was accused of being "paranoid and delusional," so if that is, in fact, true, maybe my brain NEEDS to be altered.

I don't really know. I don't know why I feel the need to share this either, but there it is. So if I get really boring and my subscribers list drops from 11 to 8, and then from 8 to 3, and then, one day, I only have 1 left. . .that's probably why.

Since I can't seem to keep a straight train of thought, I'll leave you with a conversation I had with D after lunch. His car is in the shop currently, so he comes to get me for lunch.

Another thing you need to understand is that my parents (my mom and SDad) are gross. Like. . .in a nauseating kind of way. In the kind of way that my mother always has flowers at her desk that he bought her, and that there are little notes around their house that say things like, "I dove my Tschugah!" or "I miss my Tschugah!" (Um. . .Tschugah is kind of a bastardization of "Sugar," and that is what my parents call each other. They do not refer to each other by name. Ever.) (Also, dove = love. This is important later.)

So, we're pulling into the parking lot, and I don't even know what prompted this (it could have been the fact that my SDad was in the parking lot, waiting for my mother), but this is what happened:

D: I dove wu!

Me: Oh my God. OH MY GOD. Never again. Never. Again. We are not longer talking. OK, you can come and pick me up at 5, but I'm not speaking to you on the ride home.

D: But. . .I DOVE wu!

Me: AAARRRGGGHHHH!!! NO!

Probably, it was funnier in person. But it made D laugh.

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.

The One With Profanity and Cupcakes

I'm going to share with you a commercial that, inexplicably, makes me laugh like a maniac. There's one particular part. . .the rest isn't terribly funny, but the kid with the sousaphone makes me laugh. Maniacally. He shows up around the :10 mark.




That kid makes me laugh. So. Hard. What irritates me, though, is the chick that holds up the appendages and says something about not spending, "one of these and one of these. . .an arm and a leg." C'mon, T-mobile. . .you give your potential customers no credit. I think that bit would have been hilarious if she hadn't clarified. The guy buying from "Schnitzel and Things" is pretty funny, too.

Not a lot to report, really. Still working at the same place. People still think it's funny when I tell them I work in the Accounting Department. (I get it. I'm bad at math. It's irony. Get over it.) I kept track of the number of times The Blonde One used profanity on Friday. . .my tally sheet isn't right in front of me, but I'm pretty sure it was 15 uses of the F-word, 3 uses of the MF-word, and 20-something various other obscenities. D and I (and by "D and I," I mean "D") figured out that, broken down, it came out to one obscenity every 5 minutes and 35 seconds. . .or something ridiculous like that. 5 minutes and something. That seems. . .vaguely unprofessional.

So, needless to say, I'm still looking for a full-time job. I need to call this woman who e-mailed me about a position at a local magazine, but, unfortunately, it's not a full-time job that pays. . .anything. I feel like, though, if I want to do something in that industry at all, I need to start over from scratch. Which sucks, but it's kind of necessary. I've been out of full-time, permanent work for almost a year now (it'll be a year in. . .10 days. Wow.) and I'm just wanting to do something I like. Preferably something not profanity-laden.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not against profanity as a rule. I'm a fan, actually. I don't care about the people who are like, "Profanity is for unintelligent people who have no other words to use and nothing better to say." Well, no. I'm relatively intelligent. I have a lot of words in my arsenal. Sometimes, it's just necessary. And it feels good. But like all good things, it should be used in moderation. You wouldn't sit down and drink a bottle of whisky, would you? (Maybe you would. You shouldn't.) My point is, there's a line, and The Blonde One crosses it on a daily basis, and I'm kind of surprised she still has a job.

So the anniversary of my firing is coming up, and Valentine's Day is also coming up. At least Valentine's Day comes with cheap candy the day after. I feel like cupcakes should be a thing that happens, to commemorate. Also, D's and my relationshipiversary is in February. I don't actually know how to do that. . .anniversaries for things when you're not married. My mom and SDad do anniversaries like. . .the anniversary of the first time he called her at work and the anniversary of the time she drove 45 minutes to bring him chocolate chip muffins she'd baked. (Seriously.) They also do the anniversary of their first date. It was 10 years ago this year (February, incidentally, I think.) and I don't know if they still do this, but they used to wear the same outfits and go to the same restaurant. (Red Lobster, if I'm not mistaken.)

And all that came from. . .cupcakes. February is a hopping month, apparently, and I think cupcakes are probably a thing that needs to happen. Funfetti, with the good icing, not the crap they're trying to pass off as Funfetti icing these days. (If you're wondering, the correct Funfetti icing, more commonly called "Rainbow Chip" is the vanilla-looking one that has. . .rainbow chips in it. Don't even believe anyone when they try to tell you that the vanilla icing with the sealed packet of oblong jimmies, or circular jimmies on top is a Funfetti icing. They are lying to you and should be slapped.

Unacceptable.

The One With Funny Pictures I Did Not Take

I have nothing of importance to discuss today. However, I have this:

and this: