A Ramble, A Poll, A Decision…

There are times in life when I have to make decisions, and I agonize over the right thing to do. The reality is that in six months, what I ultimately decide probably will be irrelevant. Still, I’m a woman and I’m genetically engineered to overthink everything. As an attorney, it’s even worse, since I not only overthink but also have to know every possible outcome, have two backup plans for each possible scenario, and even if all else fails, still emerge having made the totally right decision. Considering all that, it goes without saying that any decisons that are remotely guy related become as impossible to figure out as attempting to get Nick and Jessica to reconcile.

When it all becomes too hard to analyze by myself, I turn to my friends. Every woman has a group of other people (Re: women and a gay guy) she turns to for Life (Re: guy) Crisis Analysis. For me, the first line of defense is my Bestest Friend. The BF knows all the deep, dark secrets in my life. Everything from what really happened That Night, to how loud I can really fart, to my tendency to eat cheddar cheese and choclate together when in emotional turmoil. She’ll be honest, but she’ll also temper it so it won’t hurt as much. For example, BF will tell me the jeans I have on look cute but the other pair REALLY make my butt look skinnier. She’ll empathize, sympathize, and call the guy a Pimple Butt Face if that’s what needs to happen. Finally, BF has the scary psychic abilities of my mother. Basically, she just knows everything thanks to her super mental powers. It can’t be explained, it just is, and it’s darn unnerving sometimes.

Next, I turn to the group of Analyzers. These people help me disect every possible meaning, outcome, scenario, and aspect of whatever action, word, inflection, touch, or look I am trying to figure out. Often this is an indepth process that covers multiple hours of conversation over multiple days. This group is so good that if they worked for the CIA, there would not be any more terrorist threat. They’d have found them, figured out everything the bad guys thought, and learned every nuance of every plan the bad guys tried to impliment (not to mention the Analyzers would have concieved an action plan for the situation, complete with eight million variables covering everythign from what to wear to what to do if he could kill a small dog with that breath).

There’s also the Token (Gay) Guy. When the BF and Analyzers simply aren’t giving me complete picture I need, then I sometimes have to reach for the mole. Usually, the Token Guy is refreshingly honest (if disolussioned) and has an entirely too simple explaination for the issue at hand. But, it’s still important to ask…and then laugh at his refreshing-but-oh-so-simple mind.

But, I believe my current situation is beyond even my tried and true method of Guy Crisis Analysis. BF has said this is too much even her Great Wisdom. The Analyzers have deemed it a “Catch 22 of you’re F-ed no matter what you do magnitude” and Token Guy wants no part of this one, for fear of repercussions if I don’t like the answer. I’m desperate. So, I’m going to ask the Universe (or rather the five people who actually read this blog) What To Do?

The situation is as follows:
X and Y (and that’s not obvious who’s who, based on chromosones, now is it??) have a long standing relationship with clearly defined paramaters. Y has been acting funny, throwing some kinks in the works, and it is not clear if Y is attempting to change the relationship or what. It is totally possible that Y is just a Dumb Ass. Or there could be more afoot. If there is, it’s not clear what. In a nutshell, X is now confused by Y; Y is just not as evolved as X and thus can’t communicate properly; and X doesn’t know what to do without messing up everything, and is afraid to act just in case nothing is really happening. Makes perfect sense, huh? So, please vote for one of the following options:

A.) X does nothing
B.) X says something to Y involving phrases like, “what are you all about, you stupid head?” or “why ruin a good thing, you retard?”
C.) X says something to Y without the phrases because she doesn’t want things to change
D.) X says something to Y without the phrases because she wants things to change
E.) X decides to chuck it all and swear off men (wait, don’t vote for that one)
F.) X just makes a martini and forgets about all of it until tomorrow

Thank you for your input. Oh, and if you know who X and Y are, please refrain from using names (unless it is refering to X as Girl Genius and Y as The Munchkin Intellect Man).

I wish this thing had spell check…

The Sidekick

I think that Batman was the ultimate, best, coolio-est superhero of all superheros. And frankly, it wasn’t just because he had the Batmobile. It had a lot to do with how hunky Robin was. Thus, in the great tradition of great superheros having cute sidekicks, I decided that Bionic Kitty needed an adorable buddy. Needless to say, she was not too keen on this idea.

A little over a week ago, I brought home Number Two. I was no more than two inches in the door with the cat carrier than Bionic Kitty knew something was up. She came barreling to the door, took one look at the poor, innocent kitten and started to throw a fit. In that moment, I learned what a hissy fit really is. There was spitting, hissing, and extraordinary hair-standing-on-end behavior. I eventually got past Bionic Kitty, but not before she tried to take off my arm with her teeth. I dashed for the stairs, trying to protect myself and the kitten by locking Number Two in the office. Miraciously, we made it, but Bionic Kitty is wiley. She quickly realized that she could scare Number Two sh!tless if she threw herself at the door repeatedly and hissed.

This continued for two days. It was cat fight hell, with Bionic Kitty trying to establish dominance and Number Two running for dear life. Then, suddenly, they declared a truce. I’m still not sure what happened, but I think peace returned when Bionic Kitty realized that despite her attemps to crush Number Two with her massive weight, she would not win. Number Two, while tiny in comparison, has a secret weapon: claws. Bionic Kitty lost hers several months ago, and Number Two once again brought this to her attention. Number Two also has a few extra claws since she is “mitten pawed.” Bionic is still the alpha in the relationship, but Number Two keeps her on her toes. It’s the best of superhero relationships; Bionic Kitty is still the (questionable) brains, but Number Two is the cute one.

Would the Landlord Go For This?

My rental has wallpaper that’s very ’80s Grandmother in style. Maybe I could replace it with this?

I don’t think I am their target audience…

There is a banner ad that I have been seeing on the internet recently. For some reason, it amuses me immensely. Perhaps because it applies so aptly to my life. Anyway, it says:

The Fart Button. (Then, there’s a big round red button like icon thing in the middle of the banner) Press it. You know you want to.

Yes, I do occasionally enjoy the same humor as a 12 year-old-male.

I’m Never Going to a Pool Again

A little over a week ago, my friend a great idea: hanging out at his apartment complex pool. It was an unusually hot Ohio day, all applicable open container laws were to be ignored, and there would be cute guys in bathing suits. As any single, red-blooded American girl would, I immediately asked what time I should arrive. I neglected to fully think the pool thing through, however. My horny, alchoholic (better?) half had shut off my brain.

Any pool situation has one inherent pitfall for women: the bathing suit. Duh. I think only 2.6% of the females out there don’t mind wearing them. That group is made up of 67+ year-old European women and anorexic girls with boob jobs. Oh, and women who will later appear airbrushed in all photographic evidence that they have ever actually donned a bathing suit. For every other woman, there is always a moment where a minor maiming is more appealing than a two-piece.

I’ve never claimed to be a skinny little thing. I openly admit that there are parts of me that jiggle in strange and unusual ways. I also have copious amounts of dimpled, cellulite ridden hinney flesh. Generally, I’m all right with the situation and take a “love me, love my thighs” approach to life. But I’m also a female and I’ve been socially constructed to absolutely detest jiggling, dimpled anything within 15 feet of a bathing suit. Thus, this pool thing was not altogether a happy situation. Still, I sucked it up. I was all about free beer, and I will take any chance to openly ogle hot semi-naked men in the middle of the day. If I had to wear a bathing suit to do it, then I would take one for the team, suit up, and jiggle with pride.

But there was another problem: I am only one step above albino. There have been very few times in my life when I’ve had tan lines, and they were all before I turned five. Since then, I’ve had multiple cases of sun poisoning and have come to accept mystic tanning as a fact of life. When going to the pool, sunshine is my mortal enemy and SPF 50 is my friend. But I only had SPF 15. Needless to say, the multiple slatherings of sunscreen in the hour or so that I was there only did so much. I still burnt. A lot. I was burnt on my ears, on my part, on the tops of my feet, on my back, on my front, on my face, on my legs, did I mention my back, on my arms, on my chest, on any and all parts of my body exposed to sun. Absolutely fried.

Recovering from sunburn is not a pleasant process. First, trying to put on a bra over any sunburnt area just plain old sucks. I think women should be exempt from wearing a bra if they have a sunburn, and by extension should not have to go to work because they will be bra-less. (It might help make up for the continued wage disparity and having to shave our legs) Trying to get aloe on the middle of my back by myself stunk, too. No matter what I did, what I tried, or how I contorted my arms, there was always that one place right in the middle that I could not reach. Consequently, I’ve come up with a new Get Rich Quick Scheme. I’m going to invent an aloe applicator on an extendable arm. That way, no matter where somebody burns, they can still aloe up. I think the nudist and redheads will be my target market. Anyway, my burn was so bad that I would actually take aloe breaks at work. It was me, the handicapped stall, and 15 minutes of attempted aloe application three or four times a day. But without question, the shower was the worst. I tried to minimize contact between damaged skin and water, but when EVERYTHING was burnt, there was only so much I could do. For three long days, I seriously debated how much maintaining good hygiene was worth.

Now I’m in the peeling (aka itch like a mo’fo) stage. I got up from the sofa this afternoon to a fine sprinkling of dead skin that had peeled and seeped out from the bottom of my shirt while I watched TV. It was like my back was a snow machine and I was supposed to cover the couch. My scalp was peeling so badly that I looked like I was in a Head & Shoulders “before” shot. And my lips just finished peeling. It’s all been very attractive, I’m sure. In the last few days, I’ve begun to have some insight into what the early stages of leprosy must be like. If this continues, I think the aloe applicator with extendable arm will have another optional attachment that helps peel skin…I’m gonna be rich!

Moving Chronicles: Part Two

Or, Why Living by Myself is Worth Every Penny I Pay in Rent…

1. Total and absolute control of the remote, the DVD player, and the DVR. This translates into a lot of Real World/Road Rules marathons. And E! True Hollywood Story: Britney Spears is now permanently saved on the DVR player. When it came on the day my cable was installed, I took it as a sign that God was sanctioning my move.

2. The dishwasher is loaded my way, otherwise known as the right way.

3. Nobody else is there to eat the leftover pizza that I was going to have for dinner. If I want a Freeze Pop, I know there will be cherry ones. The bag of carrots will be properly resealed to ensure continued freshness. And my super secret emergency chocolate stash doesn’t have to be hidden in an undisclosed location. It can live on the top shelf of the pantry, like a normal SSECS.

4. That toothpaste in the sink? That’s mine. It’s my mess and nobody else is gonna be disgusted by my laziness this morning.

5. On Friday, when I got home from work, I cranked Hit Me Baby One More Time on the stereo. I then proceeded to dance around the living room. Granted, I looked like I was having convulsions while holding a spatula, but nobody was there to see me except Bionic Kitty. And she’s not one to talk.

6. Per the above item, I can play Britney Spears all I want, without shame.

7. A shoe closet. I have a shoe closet. That in itself is a sign that I Have Arrived.

8. Sole, uncontested use of a tank of hot water every morning. When I get married, my husband better like cold showers, since that’s all he’s getting. Future Husband: Consider yourself warned.

9. When I fart, I don’t have to say excuse me.

10. Because it is not my parents’ house and that in itself is worth writing my rent check each month.

A New Addition, or a Single Gal’s Birth Announcement

My home has been enriched by one tail…

Matlock the Crown Tail Beta Fish came home from the pet store on May 27th.

The new addition doesn’t weigh very much and is red.
Birth date and location unknown, assumed to be Petsmart.

Proud parent Katherine,
Very fascinated sibling Bionic Kitty,
and
Indifferent sibling Lucy the Guppy
Welcome Matlock.

The Moving Chronicles: Part One

Reclaiming the Microwave, or I should have just bought a new one

About a year and a half ago, my brother received my microwave on loan. At the time, my place had a built in version and Little Brother didn’t have a quick way to thaw a pork loin. I figured I would be the benevolent older sister and let him borrow the spare one sitting in my basement. Big mistake.

I recently reclaimed possession of my microwave. For several days, I strongly considered giving it back.

When Little Brother initially borrowed it, the microwave was only about 3 months old. It was pristine, white, and didn’t smell funky. All the parts were in working order, and the tray rotated flawlessly. When I got it back, there was an unidentifiable sticky substance on the top of the microwave. I didn’t open it since Little Brother had recently moved back in with my parents. I figured he would have cleaned the microwave before he transported it back with him. After all, that’s what logical people do, right? The sticky stuff on should have tipped me off that something was not right.

A few days after moving into my new place, I was fitted out with Clorox wipes and a strong scrubbing arm, ready to get rid of the sticky stuff. After two hours, I’d tried the wipes, Soft Scrub, Windex, Spic and Span (yeah, I know that’s for floors, but I was desperate), rubbing alcohol, plain old soap and water, and some organic nature-friendly cleaning stuff that I inherited from my last room mate. I was high from the chemicals and there was no progress on Operation Reclaim the Microwave. In desperation, I got a butter knife.

As a single girl, I don’t have a lot of tools. Sure, the basic hammer or screwdrivers are stashed somewhere. But I don’t own a putty thing or a scrapper of any sort. Ingenuity is what single women are known for. Need to shorten a shelf and no saw is handy? Try a kitchen knife. It’ll take a few hours and the knife might suck afterward, but it works. I know; I’ve done it. Need to snake a drain RIGHT NOW and the hardware store is closed? I recommend wire coat hangers and some duct tape. Works just fine. So, when I was unable to scrub off the sticky stuff, obviously I looked around my kitchen for other options and landed on the butter knife.

I chiseled away at the sticky stuff for about an hour and I finally got it all off. It was a little irritating that my brother had gotten it on in the first place, but I was not about to be defeated by some unknown substance when I had a butter knife and elbow grease at my disposal. To celebrate my victory, I brought out a bag of microwave popcorn and opened up the microwave.

I think I passed out from the smell. Bionic Kitty ran and cowered under the bed. Upstairs. It was so bad that I almost called the military to let them know Little Brother had grown a new chemical weapon. I let the microwave sit with the door open for a day before the smell had dissipated enough for me to get close without seeing black spots. Red and green things were growing in there. It was the worst food based science experiment known to humankind. It was in my kitchen, in my microwave, and like an idiot, I decided to clean it.

It took an entire dispenser of Clorox wipes before I was even willing to use a sponge in there. Of course I don’t own plastic gloves so the whole procedure was done with plastic baggies scotched taped on my hands (I was not about to risk them coming off). When I eventually deemed the microwave clean enough to clean it with baking soda, the soda started to turn green. That’s the point where I realized it might be good to turn the machine over to the EPA. Just in case.

It’s clean now. But I have serious doubts about cooking food in there. I haven’t used it yet, and I walked down the microwave aisle at Target this weekend. I noticed that I could get a decent looking model for under $50. That’s must cheaper than a stay in the hospital for Ebola, so it might be a prudent investment. Still, what I really want to know is if my brother really lives with a microwave like that, what woman in her right mind would ever consider dating him?

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

The Internet is My Crack. If I don’t have it, I am not exactly a nice person. It’s been 3 long, harrowing weeks without my habit. I don’t know how I made it without committing mass murder. First, I was waiting for the internet hooker-upper guy to finally got the connection in my new apartment in working order. Then I didn’t have the cord to my ghetto fabulous (but free) monitor. Once I got a cord, I learned that the free as an adjective for computer does not indicate good things.

The first problem occurred when I realized that I had Windows 98. While in itself, this is a semi-functional operating system, it became an issue when I hooked up my iPod. Apparently, iTunes is only compatible with Windows 2000 and above. Curses.

Then, I attempted to post on my blog. Happily, I typed in the url and attempted to log in. Fatal error. Tried again. Error. Tried again. Blue screen of death. Sh!t! (*&(%##@!%*%^$&^%#~+B*&^*&^1!!!

I am still trying to get this resolved. In the mean time, I’ve learned that a free computer is really a fancy way of saying boat anchor.