Why is it so hard to find a good toaster?  The toaster of my youth was a heavy thing that could probably survive a direct hit from a meteor.  I wonder what happened to it.  I bet my mom threw it away during the Great Toaster Scare of the 80's, when the breaking news announced that toasters were spontaneously combusting and setting the neighborhoods afire.  She probably replaced it with one of the cheap plastic toasters that they make today. 

I just want a toaster that makes nice, brown toast.  Every toaster I ever purchased does this:  I set the "level" to 1, and the toast comes out looking a lot like it went in.  I set the level to 2, and the toast starts smoking, and I have to press the Eject button, and out comes a black chunk of charcoal.  The real laugh is that there are levels 3, 4, and 5 that remain untested!  Those must be the settings you use to heat your house in winter.

Our toaster in Colorado was a piece-o-junk so we bought a new toaster to celebrate our move.  It's a nice Oster four-slice, but it's four slices in two slots "the long way" instead of a fat little toaster with four slots.  It wasn't a cheapo $11.99 toaster, either.  I've bought my share of $11.99 toasters and they usually die a month later (I make a lot of toast).

Well this toaster is a FAILURE!  Not only does it have the same problem discussed above, but it only toasts half the bread!  The slots, while lengthy, aren't deep enough.  So with a decent piece of bread, the bottom of the toast will be crisp-erffic, the top will remain soft and unbaked. 

Casey had an antique toaster in his basement. 

I should have asked for it instead of those stupid butterscotch disks.  Little did I know that in the case of toasters, like many other things, they just don't make 'em like they used to.

I just want some sleep.

• No, I don't have a new job lined up
• No, I am not going to stay home with the kids...nice, but can't afford that
• We may be moving, but our house could take 6 months to sell in this market
• I didn't slam the keys down and there was no storming.  I did envision it that way, but it was very easy and nice and I was invited back if I didn't find anything new

But besides all that, I wanted to discuss the practice of Saying My Name.  After a farewell dinner with friends last night, we stopped at Safeway to pick up some milk.  The cashier glanced at the receipt and said, "Thanks, Ms. Speer."  Now I really hate this.  Please stop pretending that you know who I am.  It's fake, it's lame, and it makes me want to shop somewhere else.  You're a huge, national grocery store chain.  You aren't a mom and pop shop in Pleasantville.  Stop trying to convince me that you are.  If you want me to think that, stop importing vegetables from outside of the United States and stop charging ridiculous prices for food, otherwise I'll have to go grocery shopping at Wal-Mart because I won't be able to afford you anymore.  Anyway... 

Starbucks and other places do this too.  They ask for your name and write it, or some bastardized form of it, on your cup.  It's always spelled wrong.  Then the barista on the end of the line has to call out your name, but they can never read the writing of the other barista who wrote it on the cup in the first place.  They'll yell out "A nonfat latte for...Ma...Ma...Malissssshaw?"  After enduring the glares from other patrons (they're all looking up to see who has that awful name) you grab your coffee and say "Thanks."  Even though you don't mean thanks, because people who don't know you at all should not pretend they do by reading your name off of a cup.

The WORST is when there is a little placard at the counter that says "If I don't ask for your name when you order, the meal is on us!"  I don't WANT you to know my name.  I'm really sorry that your boss will probably fire you if I don't give you my name, but I just can't help you.  There are over 300 million people in this country.  Let's just finally admit we can't know (or pronounce) everyone we meet.  And that's okay.  I promise to come back, if you knock this pretentious garbage off. 

Lady, you are a regular biohazard.  How many people have fallen over dead when you walked by?  I know I almost did.  Whatever smell you are trying to cover up cannot possibly be as bad as the alternative you have chosen.  Please read the following article before you traumatize or maim any more olfactory centers.  Please. 

Perfume Do's and Dont's

If you have to wear it, please, please figure out what you are doing wrong.  You are poisoning the earth and the systems of those around you, and you are paying seventy dollars a bottle to do so.   

So let's take a week when there aren't any assassinations of political leaders, exploding airliners, or hurricanes.  And let's face it, hearing the presidential candidates vote for change is already smelling stale.  Now let's add an attractive blonde Marine who was in a legal battle with a man she accused of assault.  Let's say she disappears, and wait for the news outlets to attack.  Let's quote her presumably evil mother calling her a "compulsive liar" and watch as the picture gets painted...woman gets pregnant by man who outranks her and takes off on a bus, eight months pregnant, to hide from her lies.  That's pretty much the story I've been reading.

Being about eight months pregnant myself, let me tell you there isn't much running from anything.  That little detail in itself was enough to make plenty of people question the accuracy of the reporting.  What, was she planning to deliver in a bathroom?  Up until the time, she had made all of her prenatal appointments (even though dear mommy was pressuring her to give the baby up for adoption). 

Well it's good that people questioned it because she is dead.  She didn't run away.  She and her nearly-born baby were murdered.  It's probably too early to tell whodunit, but my money's on Mr. Assault.  Didn't have anything to hide, did you?  Well apparently you did.

It's unfortunate that we'll never really know what happened, not everything, to LCpl Maria Lauterbach.  We'll only know the warped version we hear through the news.  The Marines in her battalion will only hear the rumors and the speculation, and inevitably take sides with either she or the others involved.  As groundbreaking and human-interest driven this story seems to be to the public, I can tell you from my four years in the Marines that it's not anything new.  Maybe the details are different...it's not always a death, it's not always a rape, it's not always a particularly good-looking individual.  However, one common theme - woman cries foul, investigation ensues, woman pressured to drop charges and "remember what really happened," everyone starts questioning woman.  Until woman ends up buried in a shallow grave. 

"Oh, damn, we must have missed something," say the investigators.

I got to see a lot of changes at the time I enlisted in August of 1996.  My boot camp (excuse me....recruit training) platoon was the very last pre-Crucible platoon.  Halfway through boot camp, our female drill instructors lost the lame red cords and were allowed to wear the Smokeys like their male counterparts.  The PFT run time for females went from 1.5 miles to 3 miles while I was in boot camp, making the PFTs equivalent (let's not get started on arm-hang vs. pull ups, shall we?).  

One thing that becomes apparent right off the bat when you join the Marines is that you better be good.  This should be more apparent to the women than the men, but your personal reputation follows you everywhere you go in the green machine.  Screw up on your first day and it will never be forgotten.  I was a lucky one, and I have an older, wiser female Marine (let's call her Q) who visited me on my first day on duty, post boot camp, to advise me to hide out in my room for at least three weeks until my newness died down and someone else replaced it.  She was a quite the intimidating one, that Q, and I followed her advice.  It was probably the best advice anyone ever gave me during my time in the service.  I repeated it with each duty station.  I turned down every offer that was made to me "to go out and party" or "come hang out in my room" until I had made my own group of friends and over-protective brothers. 

But I was lucky.  Let's take a look at those who are signing enlistment papers, shall we?  Straight out of high school, typically these are Generation Y kids who may have never held jobs.  Fueled by freedom, hormones, and a paycheck, temptations lurk at every corner.  Would someone like LCpl Lauterbach have been easily pressured by an older, saltier Marine who pressured her into something?  Or just the first person who took her side?  It's often the older, crustier "women shouldn't be in the Marines" men who pull this crap, from what I've seen. 

However:  Nothing a person does in their own life, whether you agree with or not, entitles anyone else to threaten or hurt them.  Nothing. 

I can name three women in my battalion who had experiences similar to this (of course I won't name them).  Guess what.  At times, there were only 5 women out of 500.  Those aren't good odds.  The odds get worse too as the "good women" pull away from the "bad women" because it's too easy to be guilty by association in the military.  So the "bad women" (whether they've done anything to deserve the title or not) end up having no one to turn to.  Might make it pretty tempting to turn to the first predator that offers a hand...especially if your mommy is the kind who would talk smack about you to CNN.   

Then again, we can't trust the picture the media paints.  I mozeyed over to the Jacksonville Daily News, where Maria's uncle is quoted:

"She was a very beautiful, athletic young lady. She volunteered to join the Marine Corps. She was very committed to the Marines, and she is being portrayed in a way that does not look well. She was petrified; she has been continually intimidated and harassed by people (Marines). She was not protected; she was not well looked after."

We'll never know.  I do have friends that were in that still carry the mental scars of not being believed.  I even admit there were times I didn't believe it all.  Until one accused man eventually got himself in trouble somewhere else, getting shot down from an E-7 to an E-3 must have really stung, eh?  Or one of the other ones, who lost a stripe and a hefty chunk of his future retirement checks.  Those women are at least still alive to carry their scars, though.  When I moved into my barracks room at Camp Lejeune in 1997, one of the first things I was warned about was to not go out at night alone.  I guess a few years before, one woman from the battalion was raped and murdered on the stairwell fifty feet from my room.  What a warm fucking welcome that must have been.   

Would I do it all over again?  Hell, yes I would.  Joining the Marines was the best thing I ever did in my life.  If you find this blog in a Google search, and you're pondering joining, and especially if you are of the female persuasion, just do it.  But please, I beg you.  Be good.  For yourself and for the other WMs that you'll be working with. 

And please, please don't turn on each other. 

So I am filling out some final Christmas cards and I got a paper cut from licking the envelope.  It is not fun to get a paper cut anywhere, but its really not fun to get a paper cut on your lip.  Every time I smile, frown, eat, drink, or brush my teeth, it stretches a bit and stings.  Lovely.

I felt a bit better after we got a little orange card in the mailbox.  The card instructed me to come pick up a package at the post office.  Now that's more like it!  Packages start arriving about this time of year, so I was excited to go get the first one.  Usually, the post office has no line at all in our small town, but since the holiday season is upon us, there was a ten minute wait.  I waited, waited, watched the line slowly shrink down, and finally it was me.  I was next in line to get the package! 

I gave the mailman the card and he went into the mail room.  I wondered what the package would be?  Probably presents for AJ.  Maybe something I ordered for Jesse from Amazon.  There is something special about picking up a package, especially around Christmas.  Finally the mailman returned...with a big, fat, yellow...

phone book.

WHAT?!?!  I drove to the post office and stood in line for a phone book?!  Since when do they consider phone books a "parcel" or a "package?" 

Since it started snowing.  They usually leave a pile of phone books near the mailboxes, but they can't now, since there is snow on the ground. 

If we got phone books once a year, like people used to, this would not bother me so much.  But for whatever reason, we get four or five phone books every year.  I guess there are more companies publishing phone books for the advertising.  However, I only need One. Stupid. Phone book. 

AUGH!

Why can't retail stores and the like help us by phasing out this disgusting nonsense from our shelves?  How many examples of 'oops' do we need to stock?  I think Americans should be able to live without more plastic crap from China.  It's not enough to have lead paint in toys, plastics in pet food, poisons in toothpaste and cough syrup...but now toys that turn into drugs if swallowed?

Time to give the children some nice wooden blocks for Christmas.  Preferably ones that you have whittled yourself.  This is past ridiculous.

Just to clarify, I detest Halloween.  Detest. 

I have to say that the last year I enjoyed Halloween, I was about eight years old and I got a whole pillowcase full of candy.  Ever since then, Halloween has been a drag.  I can't explain why I don't like it, I just don't.  I like the endless supply of cavity enhancers.  I like watching The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.  I like roasting pumpkin seeds.  But I don't like the holiday itself.  It's great fun for little kids, and I like seeing wee people dressed up as furry characters and pirates and superheroes.  I do not like seeing little kids covered in fake blood and wielding plastic cutlery.  I also do not like it when teenagers trick or treat, especially when they do not wear costumes.  Dude, if you are going to show up at my house with breath that smells like you raided your dad's liquor cabinet, and ask for candy, at least have the decency to make an effort.  Remember how to make a ghost costume?  Sheet.  Scissors.  Done. 

I'm at a coffee shop now, waiting for the dealership to fix our car and come pick me up.  As I was typing that first paragraph, a three hundred pound woman entered the shop.  She is dressed in a purple and black tie-die dress.  On her back are huge, glittery butterfly wings that look like they took a long time to make.  All this is fine and good, but she turned to grab her latte and swiped the lady behind her, right in the nose, with one of those stupid ass wings.  I fantasize about telling her she looks like a jerk.

See?  Halloween makes me really crabby and apparently,  judgemental.  On the radio this morning, they said that Americans spent $5 Billion dollars on Halloween this year.  B-b-b-b-billion?  On fake blood and candy corn?  No wonder other countries hate us.   

I do confess that I really like November 1, when all the candy is half price. 

• It's not the dog, it's the owner
• The ones who attack were trained to do so

I now have two friends/acquaintances who had to put their pit bulls down because they turned on a family member.  In the first case, the dog just started growling and acting weird so they had the dog put to sleep before anything worse occured.  In the second case, the dog attacked and bit a little kid.  Now I can tell you that neither owner in these cases had trained the dogs to attack.  Both were responsible owners who took care of their dogs.  So who is to blame?  Dare we say...the dog?!?!?!

Personally, I can't stand pit bulls.  Yes, I know all dogs can attack.  But I don't get nervous around a golden retriever or a collie or whatever other non-headline-making dog you can think up.  If I am near a pit bull for any reason, I leave.  I hate them.  We were near one during a 4th of July parade and I spend most of the parade looking at it from the corner of my eye, especially when it started barking at other dogs.

Today's Denver Post has an article about a pit bull attacking a grandma and her grandchild.  The ferocity of these dogs when they do attack is terrible:

"...So when police arrived, the responding officer shot the dog in the head through a glass door.   Police dragged the dog outside, but it wasn't going down without a fight. Officers had to shoot it a second time.

"Someone in the home used a knife and was stabbing the dog, trying to get it off the two ladies, and it wasn't doing anything," Aurora police spokesman Bob Friel said. "Then the officers showed up and shot and killed it. The knife was still sticking out of the dog.""

Um, the dog wouldn't let go after multiple stabbings?  It had to be shot twice?  Doesn't sound like any animal I'd want to take a chance with. 

 5/19 - Massive thunderstorm knocks out power to the house several times in the course of two hours.  Modem does not survive

5/20 - Call Qwest's 1-800 number.  The recorded message politely informs me that I should try out Qwest's super-cool online help chat feature.  This would be awesome, if I could get online.  Thanks for the advice, Qwest. 

I stay on the line.  Finally a speaker of poor English answers the phone and says "I would be happy to assist you."  They walk me through a clearly scripted series of steps to troubleshoot my lack of internet connectivity.  Things like "Reverse the ethernet cable" and "Power down the modem and power it back up."  I say I will call back later because I have somewhere to be.  The truth is, the futility of talking to this person makes me want to kill myself.

5/21 - Early morning at work I try to use Qwest's super-cool online chat feature.  Chat lady finally comes online, eager to assist.  I tell her I think I need a new modem.  She asks a bunch of questions.  I answer them.  They send out a tech guy to the house to test the lines to the house.

5/22 - Tech guy shows up at the house to test lines.  All the lines are fine.  He calls me and says that my modem is probably blown, so I should get a new one.  Luckily I've only had this one three months, so replacement should be free, he tells me.  He lets me know I have to call the 1-800 number again to set up the modem swap.

5/24 - I call Qwest to ask for a new modem.  "No problem," they tell me.  They will send me a label "right now, so I get it tomorrow" so I can send the modem back.  Once they get the modem back, they will send out a new modem.  The process should take "5-7 days" .  My other option is to pay a 99.95 deposit, you know, in the event I decide to go all renegade on them and keep the broken, useless modem as a paperweight with blinking lights.  It could happen.  I opt to wait for the label.

I mentioned that a year ago when this same thing happened, they were able to replace the modem the next day, by sending out a tech guy.  "No," says the speaker of poor English.  "We only do it by UPS now."  Crap.  My MySpace inbox must be overflowing by now.

5/30 - The label is STILL NOT HERE.  I call Qwest's happy f'ing 1-800 number.  I want to puke when they tell me to try out their online chat.  I'm seriously experiencing inner rage; however, I am very polite and explain that I REALLY WANT THE INTERNET I AM PAYING AN EXORBITANT MONTHLY FEE FOR.  I say "Surely there must be a way to get a modem faster than this.  It's 2007.  I should not have to wait for a modem like this. 

The speaker of poor English (not the same one as before, I might add) gives me two local (Colorado Springs) numbers to call.  "They should be able to help you swap out your modems," he says.  I call the first number.  It's freaking out of service.  The Qwest guy gave me a number that is not in service.  Suddenly it's not surprising that this process is taking so long.  Morons.  The second number works!  Hurray!  A friendly, local, perfect-English lady answered.  "Help me," I tell her.  "I need to swap this modem out!"

"They shouldn't have told you to call us," said the lady.  "We can't do warranty replacements.  Qwest doesn't let us.  I don't want you to get it replaced here, because you would have to pay for something you should get for free.  Call them back." 

Major eff.

I call Qwest again.  I am a seething ball of fury.  Another speaker of poor English answers this time, not just poor English but I-have-no-idea-how-to-construct-an-intelligible-sentence English, and I explain my quest with Qwest for the umpteenth time.  Unfortunately I don't know that she has a clue what I am talking about. 

"I need to replace my modem," I tell her.  "They sent out a label for me to send this one back, but it never got here.  I want a new modem.  Tomorrow."

"You have two option," says S.o.P.E.  "We can send out label, you send back modem and you get new modem in ten working day."

"I did that," I said.  "It's not working.  I want a new modem.  Now.  Yesterday."

"Oh, I see," says S.o.P.E.  "They already do label send you.  You can deposit 99.95 on credit card and you get refund when you send modem back Qwest."

"Can't I just put it on my bill?"  I ask her.

"Let me find out help you," she tells me.

I am on hold for thirteen minutes.

"Sorry you wait," she says.  "We put deposit on next bill.  Now I transfer you to hardware person to help you with modem."

I am on hold for a couple minutes and then Tech Guy answers.  (He speaks good English)

"Hello.  All I need is a credit card number for a 99.95 deposit and I can send out this modem.  You'll have it tomorrow."

"The lady just told me, like two minutes ago, that it was going on my next bill."

"No, they don't do that," said the hardware man.  "I can't send this out without a credit card.  Go ahead and give it to me."

"Um," I say.  "Um, I don't think I will.  Can you put me back on with the lady?  She just told me I'd see it on my bill.  I don't want to get charged twice."

"That won't happen," the man said.  "It's not even possible within our system.  Just give me the credit card and you'll get your new modem tomorrow."

"No," I tell him.  "Though I've had a great time dealing with Qwest for the last week and a half, I think I'll just talk to the lady again."

"Hold on," the man says.  "Let me see what I can find out."

I'm on hold for seven minutes.

"Okay," he says.  "We're going to go ahead and waive that credit card requirement.  You'll have your new modem tomorrow.  Just send the old one back and you'll get your refund on your next bill."

Stay tuned.  If I get the modem, the actual modem, tomorrow I may forgive them. 

It must be pretty hard for a mega-corporation such as Qwest to hire phone-people who have a clue (and a grasp on verbs), create a system that enables communication between their own workers, and allow local branches to take care of local people.  It is a communications company, sure!  But how can we expect an entity such as Qwest to operate with any semblance of common frickin' sense?  The higher-ups probably don't have much time to deal with such minor inconveniences.  After all, there's golf to play!  And martinis to drink!  And tropical vacations to endure! 

Not that I am bitter.   

Now I like Sherwin Williams paint.  It's great.  And I am no tree hugger by any stretch of the imagination.  But somehow I think the world getting dumped on is more depressing than convincing. 

Am I taking this too literally?

It's kind of an unwritten rule that you don't have to wear your seatbelt in a taxi.  The driver wasn't.  I wasn't.  Taxis just seem like strong, impenetrable tanks with force fields around them.  If you're paying for the drive, it must, somehow, be safer. 

At least that is what I thought until this:  The driver took out his cell phone and started looking for a phone number that was programmed in there, somewhere.  He couldn't seem to find it.  He then proceeded to lean waaaay over to the glove compartment to retrieve a magnifying glass.  A magnifying glass!  This is when I noticed that he already had ridiculously thick eyeglasses on.  The ridiculously thick part is the part that it took me a while to see. 

Then, speeding down the highway toward my hotel, he started examining his cell-phone contacts list with the magnifying glass!  One hand on the phone.  One hand on the magnifying glass.  Eyes searching the list.  Hello?  HELLO?!

I arrived safely at my hotel.  Whew!

Not my big toe.  My little toe on my right foot.  Possibly the toe next to that too, but definitely the little one. 

The thing that sucks about busting a toe is that there just isn't much you can do about it.  You can tape it and ice it but that's about it.  There is no cast involved with a toe. 

Anyway, I just thought I'd tell you about my purple toe.  Ouch.

Colorado has been getting a lot of snow this year.  Sometimes the news reports get the masses fired up by comparing the oncoming weather system to Armageddon, or WWII, or something like that.  Usually when they make these grandeur claims, we get a slight breeze and a few flakes of snow.  That's what happened a couple of weeks ago.

Apparently in order to avoid embarrassment again, the weather stations and newspapers casually mentioned that we "might see a bit of snow" and that "a storm system was going to hit somewhere in the Rockies."  It was buried deep on page 13 or mentioned briefly just after some update on the ghost of Anna Nicole.  So what is it doing now?  Blizzarding.  White out. 

I left my laptop at work yesterday because I didn't think I would need it today to work from home.  I'd like to blame the weather people on this, but I can't really do that.  This is the second time over the season that I have left my laptop at work just before a serious snow storm hit the area.  But this post is not about forgetting, luckily!  It's about the importance of all-wheel drive.

So on my way back home from work this morning, the roads were already a lot worse than they had been on the way down.  I was driving carefully, as was everyone else on the road.  There was one semi-visible lane on Highway 24 West.

Then the lady two cars ahead of me spun around.  The truck between us managed to go off the road to the left.  The lady in the tan Honda was now headed toward me.  The expression on her face let me know that she was really not doing this on purpose.  So I drove myself into the ditch.  (If you are ever in this situation, go in the ditch.  It's a lot better than hitting someone or getting hit.  The ditch is a much safer option)  The lady managed to slow herself and turn around.  Of course she just went on her merry, slippery way.  Jerk.  Didn't even bother to check on anyone and she had forced two cars off the road.  I hate to be a jerk about it, but I hope she gets a flat tire or something. 

 So there I was in the ditch.  It wasn't the world's deepest ditch or anything, but in a different car I would have had a hard time even thinking about getting out.  With just a couple of tries my Forester was able to get out and get back on the road.  I love my car.  I am really glad that lady didn't run into it.   

Today I went to Wal*Mart and spent a lot of time stocking up on things.  Shopping at the big grey box is never a pleasant experience, but the rottenness is amplified the day before a holiday.  Today I got stuck in line behind Coupon Lady and in front of Lady with Screamin', Sugarfied Twins.  We were all happy, standing together, far, far back in the line.  Eventually only Coupon Lady was in front of me. 

Naturally, Coupon Lady wrote a check which seemed to have a problem "going through," a manager had to get called to the scene and everything.  This was taking forever.  It would have been pointless to go look for another line, because there were maybe five cashiers (How May I Help YOU?) in the entire store.  It was best to stay put.  That is, until I realized I forgot something vital!  I was on the hunt for a woodenstep stool, and I was too late-already stuck in line.  I had already invested a good thirty minutes in line.  I guess thirty minutes doesn't sound like much, but time spent in Wal*Mart is very similar to time approaching a black hole. 

So I went next door to Hobby Lobby.  The craft king always has wooden stools.  And they did.  I grabbed my simple purchase and went to find a cashier, pay, and get back on the road.

I like Hobby Lobby.  Really, I do.  However, their infrastructure is in serious need of upgrade.  Their cash registers are old.  Nothing seems to be connected.  The poor lady has to type in each price instead of scanning it in.  This might not seem like a big deal, until you think about the nature of Hobby Lobby. 

Crafts and bubbly old people. 

Case in point.  The elderly lady in front of me was purchasing a basketful of small, paper-based items.  Some of the items were 50% off.  Some were not.  Some were five for a dollar.  Some were three for a dollar.  Some were not on sale at all.  The customer kept pointing inconsistencies out in the pricing.  A newspaper insert, advertising Hobby Lobby sales, was found and studied.  The cashier had to go through this mess and figure it out.  She was typing, and glancing, and backpedalling.  She was ruffling, and searching for tags, and changing her mind.  I would not have been surprised to see her pull an abacus out of her apron to speed things along. 

The line behind me grew longer.  It was good to be second.

My waiting time at Hobby Lobby (with only the one person in front of me, with a small basket-o-crap) was equivalent to my time in line at Wal*Mart, standing behind cartloads and cartloads of plastic bonglebits and goombatrons. 

So it is with great regret that I am boycotting Hobby Lobby until they enter the 21st century.   

I had an appointment with the back doctor today.  I had some horrible pain a couple of weeks ago, but it's gotten somewhat better.  But I called them at the time of badness and made an appointment.  I had to wait for two weeks to see them. 

I'm a psycho about being on time.  Usually people should be about ten minutes early for an appointment, right?  That gives plenty of time to fill out any paperwork, pay any fees, and those kinds of odds and ends.  Well I don't know what it is, I have tried my best to shake it, but I have to be ten minutes early to the ten minutes early rule.  I just can't have it any other way.  If anyone knows of a good way to shake me of this need to be early, please let me know. It's a problem.

Anyway, my appointment was scheduled for 3 PM.  I arrived into the lobby at 2:45.  I signed in, paid my co-pay, and took a seat.

One issue of Arthritis Today, three issues of Colorado Springs Style, and two issues of Highlights later, I looked at the clock. 

Three forty-five.

I got up to ask the lady at the desk what was going on.  This place usually runs a little late, but not forty five minutes.  She informed me that the doctors were running about forty-five minutes behind.  It sounded like I should get called back any minute.  I went back to my seat and flipped through an old Sports Illustrated (not much to choose from).

Finally at 4:10 I got called back to sit in a private exam room and wait for X-Ray Man to come retrieve me.  That happened pretty quickly.  He took four x-rays and sent me back to wait.  In the exam room I read through a September '06 Time and re-read a Colorado Springs Style I had already flipped through in the lobby. 

I waited.  And waited.

I really wanted to get up and leave.  But I figured the moment I marched out of there would be the moment that the doctor came in to see me.  So I stayed.  Every time I looked at the clock I wanted to get out of there.  But after all that time invested, why leave?  I'd just have to reschedule an appointment and play this stupid game again next time. 

The doctor finally came in at 5:15 and apologized profusely.  Yippidy-doo.  It would have been nice to get a phone call earlier in the day (apparently they had been running behind all day due to some earlier mishap with a patient...oh, that's comforting) or even told about the wait upon check in.  Jerks.

I'm just sayin'.

 It is never nice to joke about PMS.  Not ever.  However, if you are going to joke about this unfortunate timeframe then you really ought to NOT do it during said timeframe!  Danger, Will Robinson!

Tonight, my spouse and I were trying to make some important decisions.  Things got steadily heated.  Then suddenly he informed me that he did not want to make any decisions with me while I am PMS'ing. What? Who's keeping track?

What I tookfrom this stab is the feeling that should I become defensive or opinionated in any way, it must be due to that time.  Couldn't possibly have had anything to do with intense subject matter.  Or even that I just have strong opinions on certain things, and I am willing to say so.  Even if I was hormonal and/or weepy and/or homicidal, I should still be allowed to participate in conversations.   

Guys, you really need to learn to not bring up things you just don't understand.  Many of you have already discovered this and have the battle scars to prove it.  If you insist that you DO understand, please show me the medical degree and your extensive training documentation from your GYN rotations.  Because you know what?  I don't even understand it sometimes and I get to experience it firsthand.

I'm just saying it's not frickin' funny.  ;)

At my company's local office, I decided that it was time for a bathroom break.  Went into the bathroom, did my thing, you know the drill.  So I was standing there washing my hands, when suddenly, a really tall man in an Air Force uniform walked out of the stall two toilets down!  Oh, eff, I thought.  I'm in the wrong freaking bathroom!  I headed for the door as fast as I could without running into the wall or tripping over a stray roll of TP. 

I checked the sign on the wall as soon as I was out of there.  Whew.  I had been in the gender-appropriate bathroom all along.  Which meant tall Air Force Guy had not been paying attention when he walked in!  Didn't he catch on to the lack of urinals?  If so, was he in there on purpose?  I didn't see any camera equipment or things like that. 

I felt better about me but I felt pretty bad for him.  Being embarrassed for other people can be as oogy as being embarrassed for yourself.

Yet, the logical part of my brain reminds me of something that my dad told me a long time ago, before I ever set foot on an airplane.  I told him that I would never, ever get on a plane; he replied "Well, then I guess you'll never go anywhere."  I guess he had a point. 

I've been on plenty of planes by now, but I still don't like it.  I get on them because you need to get from point A to B in a timely manner.  As much as I wish that trains were as popular and accessible here as they are in Europe, I have to face the fact that my freaked out rear end is going to ride coach in the back of a cramped aluminum coffin at least a couple of times a year; usually in a seat really close to the bathroom...you know, the ones that don't fold back all the way? 

I still remember listening to Paul Harvey in the third grade (Mr. Williams used to make the whole class listen to Paul Harvey after lunch) .  One of the bits on the radio show was about a woman who sat down on an airplane toilet and flushed while still sitting there.  Apparently the butt/seat combo was aligned with the stars just so, because according to smooth-voiced Mr. Harvey, her innards were sucked out her butt upon flushing.  I am hoping that this story is fictional; yet I think about it every freaking time I use a plane bathroom.  Thankfully I am quite skilled at the "hover" method; you may know it as the "quad flex."  No way am I creating any kind of weird suction situation, no thank you.

Anyway what is the point of all this?  I want to go on a trip somewhere soon to either:

Russia

Argentina

India

I can't drive to any of those places.  So I have to get on a plane.  I hate flying.  If you feel my pain, then you should try this.  It's actually a really good online course about basic facts on airplanes and whatnot; it helped me for a while.  Now I just use drugs.

“Mommy?” This was AJ’s wee little voice.  He is the first one awake in the mornings (I have a hard time waking up in the winter months) and he usually stands by the side of the bed and demands that I wake up.  This morning he said “Mommy? Look mommy!  I broke your glasses!”

He wasn’t kidding.  Two year olds don’t know how to kid yet.  I turned the lamp on and there he was, proudly handing me his modern art, formerly known as my spectacles.  He somehow managed to twist the “arm” or “leg” or whatever it’s called right off the left side.  They were rendered unfixable.  NOT cool.

So I left the house in a rather poor mood, knowing that my vision insurance probably wouldn’t help much, since these glasses aren’t a year old yet.  I was mentally preparing to fork over a bunch of dinero to Lenscrafters, and I was mentally preparing so hard that I forgot to grab my laptop on the way out the door.  You know, the laptop I need for work.  I realized this several miles later.

I turned around on the icy roads and headed home.  It was a long morning. 

Things did improve later on during the day.  They usually do.  I like my office. 

And I found a somewhat decent pair of goggles for my noggin.  I picked out an extra nerdy pair.  Nerdy is so in, though. 

Today I got my temporary crown off and the permanent one put back on.  This was about as much fun as...well, I suppose no simile is needed here.  The dentist is a really nice guy, I think I will keep him.  Usually dentists HATE me because I squirm like a four year old.  And it takes forever to get me numbed up.  But this guy is patient and tells me "You're doing really good," which means a lot when you are in the dentist chair and whatnot.  I do feel bad for the chair though, I usually rip up the armrests pretty good during these sessions.  But I digress.

So besides that first procedure, I had to get a cavity filled and then another old, Navy-made crown off (think: big hunk of mercury...) and fashioned for a new one.  But that one wasn't so bad, since it had also been the site of a root canal and no nerves were there. 

It isn't so much the injections, and the bad tasting ickiness, and the drilling, and the sanding, and the high sounds of the drill...no, it's not just those things that make the dentist a rotten experience.  It's the pulling apart of your jaw to immense proportions that was never meant to see, sticking hunks of rubber between your teeth so that your mouth stays open.  It's the "rubber dam" held on by vice-grip metal clips that pierce into your gums.  It's the smell of burning nerves as the dentist saws into the deep pockets of your tooth that frankly, should never have to see the light of a curing beam.  And don't even get me started on that purple goo that they use to make the molds of your teeth out of.

Two and a half hours later, I was able to leave.  And I had to give them money for this. 

In the dream I was checking out of the military, and I was running around searching for the place where all the outprocessing was going to be.  I think this was supposed to be Washington, DC.  I found it accidentally by going down the stairs of some industrial-looking building.  There were lots of tables set up with people milling around, apparently all getting ready to check out, too.  It was in a really long hallway.

 So I finally reach the front of the line in the dream and my name is not on the list.  Well, it is but it took a minute to find it because it was listed under my old name (I hate the word maiden name...I mean, who says maiden anymore?  Gross.) .  So they give me a piece of paper and tell me to go get my numbers off the board. 

Numbers?

I turn around and there is this massive whiteboard and lots of people standing around it writing numbers down.  About halfway down I see my name, followed by a long string of numbers.  I had more numbers than most people.  Some were letter-number combinations.  It looked like this:

SGT MALEESHA KOVNESKY - 3L, 6B, 14, 2oF, G17....and so on.

I went back to the table to ask what the heck was I supposed to do with these numbers.  They informed me that those were the directions that I needed to follow to get back to Colorado.  The numbers were the names of the tunnels that I needed to follow.  So I had to start off with 3L, then when I ran into 6B I needed to follow that, etc.  I had to walk underground all the way across the country.  In this wacko dream, there is a series of interconnecting tunnels underneath all of America (think massive subway system).  Then they informed me that the tunnels were reachable above ground by finding special doors in shopping malls, airports, and warehouses.  Whenever a tunnel connected, a city was aboveground. 

I was a little surprised to hear that I had to walk underground all the way home.  I mean, wouldn't that take a while?  The lady doing my paperwork chuckled and informed me that yes, it could take up to six months to make it that far in the tunnel system.

Then I woke up.  I had an oogy feeling...at 3 AM I found myself wondering Are there tunnels underneath the whole country? 

*Shudder*

That is me yelling at the plow that went over our neighborhood road this morning.  So the streets are somewhat smoothed over and clear, but we can't GET to them because there is a wall of snow left over by the plow that is blocking us in our driveway. 

Thanks for the help, toolbox.

Usually these catalogs (everything ranging from high-end coasters to a catalog just for cigars to a catalog that sells English muffins (no!  Really.)) go straight into the trash.  But the holiday catalogs are starting to come out, and these can be kind of fun to peruse.  I mean, from some of these catalogs you can order your very own portable sauna!  For five thousand dollars though, it is going to have to stay in the catalog.

Today we got a goofy catalog full of toys and gadgets.  Most of the items in it are cheap doodads made in Taiwan.  One item really was a hoot.  It was a "Twirling Spaghetti Fork."  For only $14.95, the twirling spaghetti fork will "take the effort out of spaghetti eating." 

First of all, if you have to put effort into eating spaghetti, a fork of any kind is not going to help you.  Secondly, if I am going to pay $14.95, that fork better make the spaghetti. 

I wonder what delights wait in tomorrow's mail...

Why?

I have a zit on my chin today, right by the side of my mouth.  The injustice!  The unfairness of it all!  It's not the worst I have had, that honor goes to the MOAZ (Mother of All Zits) I had in seventh grade; the one that erupted right in the center of my forehead, inspiring Eric Ryan to come up to me and say "Hey, Gandhi." 

But even back then I looked forward to a zit-free adult life!  No one ever tells you about the adult zits that occur regularly.  And will they go away?  No.  Some of my 'older' friends have them too!  Not fair.  Not fair at ALL.