I tell you, I am batting a thousand today.
Let's begin with the good news, eh? The good news is that I've FINALLY been called for an interview with a private tutoring company a few minutes from my house, which is good for a host of reasons that should be obvious after I've been pathetically unemployed for two months and couldn't even get a call back for a $6/hr. job at the library. I now have a reason to live for a few more days.
So, knowing my one professional "business-y" outfit is ill-fitting and atrocious for a multitude of reasons (and knowing I'll need to look presentable for interviews for real teaching jobs), I went out today to invest a new one. Now, I'm well aware of the fact that my body is horribly disproportionate, so I was prepared for this to be a frustrating venture. In the end, though, I only had to visit four stores before I found a winner. However, anyone who knows me knows that's four stores for me to make a spectacular ass out of myself or attract some kind of weirdo.
Store #1: The sales lady wouldn't leave me alone. And she was very keen on trying to get into the dressing room with me, which I don't get and I've always hated. All of this unnecessary "checking in." Ugh. Finally, I was like, "I swear to you, I will come to you if I need your assistance, but at this particular juncture I can put my own pants on." Later, as I was checking out (I bought a single shirt), she invited me for a bra fitting (all on the up-and-up, of course), and my response, though I don't remember the exact wording, was something to the effect of, "Well, you know I would, but my husband prefers to watch and as you can see he's not here now." In case you're wondering, she WAS horrified! I probably can't go back there for a while.
Store #2: Why do people bring their frigging kids to stores? This little 5-year-old boy with a plastic Slinky was running around and no one was controlling him, and he was just screaming and being a little shit. You probably can guess how I feel about that. Anyway the sales lady was talking to me, and I was becoming visibly irritated with the little shit as he ran up to her and started talking to her. I must've rolled my eyes, because she asked me what was wrong. "I dislike little children," I replied. Her brow furrowed. Oh god, what now? "That's my nephew. He's my little buddy." PERFECT! My response: "Of COURSE he is. Why not."
Store #3: Nothing of note, as I only spent about 3 minutes in there before leaving.
Store #4: The woman in the dressing room next to mine was talking very loudly and in far too much detail about how she had some sort of oral surgery two days ago that involved a cadaver donation. I'm still kicking myself for tuning it out up to that point, because it got sooooo good when she started telling the sales ladies that she bit into this cadaver tissue, causing it to dislodge from her mouth. Long story short, she claims she SWALLOWED IT (blargh blargh blargh blargh blargh) and that (this is a direct quote I swear I'm not making up) "it really had a very distinct taste" which she claimed was still in her mouth. I tell you, if you asked me to grip a pen at that moment I would've been unable to. Sickening! So I spent the majority of the rest of my time there studying the woman and unsuccessfully trying to figure out the first part of the story. What kind of oral surgery was it? Why was her mouth not swollen? Why was she not speaking like a marble mouth? What kind of oral surgery requires a cadaver donation? Why was she not behaving as horrified as I felt she should be in a situation like that? And what kind of oral surgeon uses a cadaver donation that so easily detaches and is swallowed?! And does this constitute cannibalism if you accidentally eat a part of someone else's body? Ohhhh if it weren't for my horse...
On a final note before I proceed with today's quote of the day, if you are a friend of family member of mine reading this and you're mad at me for not returning your calls within the last couple of days, please forgive me. My cell phone has decided that it can't be bothered doing its damn job anymore. Yesterday it started turning itself off randomly, and after I convinced myself it was not, in fact, a poltergeist, I discovered the battery was going to crap. Then things went downhill quickly like an episode of According to Jim (what a horrible, horrible show) and my phone began telling me it was 1999 (ohhh to be young again!) as I kept it on life support plugged into the wall at all times. Finally, the death bells came and it won't do anything, so yeah....bear with me as I attempt to replace it sometime soon.
Ok, finally...the quote of the day. I was talking to my friend Steve online yesterday, and we were comparing notes about a particular professor at our old school whom I despise and whom Steve is getting his first experience with. This particular professor pissed me off because he was always unprepared for class and would stall for time. He was also really disheveled and had that curious problem of collecting white dobbins of spit at the corners of his mouth, which made me gag. My main problem with him, though, was that it was clear his four-pack-a-day smoking habit had taken over his life, as he would routinely leave in the middle of our 75-minute class to go outside and smoke. Come on dude, get the fricking patch or something. Ridiculous! Anyway, Steve has the great pleasure of having this professor as an internship supervisor, requiring him to meet with him one-on-one weekly...an unparalleled adventure in awkwardness, for sure. So we were commiserating about this teacher's quirks, and I asked Steve if he still has his nicotine-withdrawal bumbling stutter. Steve's response: "Yes...and breathes heavily, kinda like he's making a pervy phone call."
Picture it...piiiicture it. Now you've come along for the journey. That is funny.
UPDATE: We ordered new cell phones today (fear not, we were already planning on doing this; it wasn't merely an overreaction to my battery dying), and it's looking like my new one will come around Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. Til then, call the home phone, my husband's phone, or just e-mail to reach me. All two of you.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Free to Good Home: Cat
12 years old, spayed, front declawed, answers to the name "Peanut, NO!"
You ask, "But Cor, why would you want to get rid of Peanut? You love her!"
You're right, I do love her. But I just might kill her if I don't vent my temporary hatred for her.
You see, for the past five nights she has been waging a campaign of sleep deprivation against me. The moment I begin to nod off to sleep, I hear it--the sound of her 12-pound body thumping up onto the bed. She has arrived for her nightly regimen of tapping me in the head with her paw until I turn myself into a position that satisfies her insatiable need to sleep in my armpit with her face burrowed in my hair and neck.
"Just ignore her and she'll go away," you say. Silly, ignorant reader. You are wrong. It doesn't stop. It never stops. If I ignore her, she will leave once, returning within ten minutes just as I am again on the verge of sleep. She taps me on the head again. Again. Again. Again. I continue to play dead. Then the crying starts. "Meowwwww." If I don't respond to the crying, she will take to biting me until she gets her way. Biting me! What kind of savage have I raised? If I swat her away for biting, she leaves. But you know the routine. She's back 10 more minutes later, and by then I'm wide awake and have lost half an hour of sleep time. So it's best to just accommodate her.
But then there she is blissfully resting in my armpit with her face in my neck, and I can't move. I can't move from that position or I will destroy her nook and open a floodgate of her trying to reposition herself within my next sleeping position. The worst is when I'm sleeping on my back and she must...must burrow between my legs like they're her own personal warmers. My lower back where I hurt it over a year ago always kills the next morning when she pins me down like this.
And this, my friends, was the position I found myself in at four o'clock this morning when I decided I loved her but that she was going to have to die. We had already had our little hour of fun with her walking all over my body trying to find the most opportune position for herself. (In case you're wondering, it was in my armpit with her head burrowed in my neck--the usual--with the added twist of her pushing off of me slightly so that her back claws dug into my stomach.) At some point I had managed to get to sleep, and she left me to get herself a snack.
I don't know what it was, exactly, that made me realize what was happening at four in the morning. I was sleeping soundly. I had my earplugs in, which I wear often now because of my husband's pesky little snoring problem. Perhaps it was the dull, repetitive shaking I felt toward the end of the bed, definitely occurring between my lower legs and not coming from me. Perhaps it was the faintest hint of an audible gurgling sound I perceived just barely through my earplugs.
Then it hit me. Peanut was lying on top of me...retching. Heaving.
I jolted up and kicked her off the end of the bed as I yelled, "Peanut, NO!"
It was too late. She barfed a full, steaming loaf of undigested cat food on me at four o'clock in the morning.
Actually, let me clarify. It wasn't on me directly. Rather, it was on the 40-year-old patchwork family heirloom quilt my great-grandmother made and passed on through the generations, which, incidentally, had been my main covering. Gee, thanks Peanut! You're the best!
If the fact that she vomited on me in the middle of the night isn't bad enough, she has spent almost the entire day attempting to jump on tables she knows she's not allowed on, and then went and dropped a load in her litter box literally ten seconds after I finished cleaning it, tying up the bag, and throwing everything away.
So, as you can see from the evidence I've presented today, she and I are going to rumble. And I am going to win.
You ask, "But Cor, why would you want to get rid of Peanut? You love her!"
You're right, I do love her. But I just might kill her if I don't vent my temporary hatred for her.
You see, for the past five nights she has been waging a campaign of sleep deprivation against me. The moment I begin to nod off to sleep, I hear it--the sound of her 12-pound body thumping up onto the bed. She has arrived for her nightly regimen of tapping me in the head with her paw until I turn myself into a position that satisfies her insatiable need to sleep in my armpit with her face burrowed in my hair and neck.
"Just ignore her and she'll go away," you say. Silly, ignorant reader. You are wrong. It doesn't stop. It never stops. If I ignore her, she will leave once, returning within ten minutes just as I am again on the verge of sleep. She taps me on the head again. Again. Again. Again. I continue to play dead. Then the crying starts. "Meowwwww." If I don't respond to the crying, she will take to biting me until she gets her way. Biting me! What kind of savage have I raised? If I swat her away for biting, she leaves. But you know the routine. She's back 10 more minutes later, and by then I'm wide awake and have lost half an hour of sleep time. So it's best to just accommodate her.
But then there she is blissfully resting in my armpit with her face in my neck, and I can't move. I can't move from that position or I will destroy her nook and open a floodgate of her trying to reposition herself within my next sleeping position. The worst is when I'm sleeping on my back and she must...must burrow between my legs like they're her own personal warmers. My lower back where I hurt it over a year ago always kills the next morning when she pins me down like this.
And this, my friends, was the position I found myself in at four o'clock this morning when I decided I loved her but that she was going to have to die. We had already had our little hour of fun with her walking all over my body trying to find the most opportune position for herself. (In case you're wondering, it was in my armpit with her head burrowed in my neck--the usual--with the added twist of her pushing off of me slightly so that her back claws dug into my stomach.) At some point I had managed to get to sleep, and she left me to get herself a snack.
I don't know what it was, exactly, that made me realize what was happening at four in the morning. I was sleeping soundly. I had my earplugs in, which I wear often now because of my husband's pesky little snoring problem. Perhaps it was the dull, repetitive shaking I felt toward the end of the bed, definitely occurring between my lower legs and not coming from me. Perhaps it was the faintest hint of an audible gurgling sound I perceived just barely through my earplugs.
Then it hit me. Peanut was lying on top of me...retching. Heaving.
I jolted up and kicked her off the end of the bed as I yelled, "Peanut, NO!"
It was too late. She barfed a full, steaming loaf of undigested cat food on me at four o'clock in the morning.
Actually, let me clarify. It wasn't on me directly. Rather, it was on the 40-year-old patchwork family heirloom quilt my great-grandmother made and passed on through the generations, which, incidentally, had been my main covering. Gee, thanks Peanut! You're the best!
If the fact that she vomited on me in the middle of the night isn't bad enough, she has spent almost the entire day attempting to jump on tables she knows she's not allowed on, and then went and dropped a load in her litter box literally ten seconds after I finished cleaning it, tying up the bag, and throwing everything away.
So, as you can see from the evidence I've presented today, she and I are going to rumble. And I am going to win.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Party...Math Style!
Last night my husband and I went to a baby shower at our friend Adrian's house. Can I just say "nerd fest" right now and get it over with? My husband and Adrian are both math professors, but I like to think they're the "cool" ones...the guys who have a life outside of math who are capable of carrying on a normal conversation about things unrelated to their work. (Let me just interject that I am oh so grateful for that too.) Anyway, last night I met some new science people they know and I spent a good deal of the night thinking, "Hmmm, am I that much of an ass or what?" I have too hard of a time talking to these people. Among my favorites from the party were 1. being flat-out denied a handshake when meeting one of these new people as if I were the rhesus monkey from the movie Outbreak responsible for annihilating the world's population with my monkey disease, and 2. later trying to talk to this same person again to tell him about my conversation with his wife (who was normal and nice to talk to) and getting literally no response after 10 seconds. Face-to-face, no confusion at all over who I was talking to. Just an expressionless stare. I even stopped for a moment mentally and thought to myself, "I don't have a weird accent. I know I'm speaking English. I know he speaks English too. I swear I heard it. I haven't dropped the F-bomb or said anything overtly rude or embarrassing. What the hell?" What the hell indeed.
Sometimes I think science people should be forced to wear shirts that say "Socially awkward is my middle name" just so the rest of us know what we're getting into.
Among other interesting tids and bits from last night, I discovered math/science people should not be allowed to drink more than five beers in one evening, or else they think their math jokes are waaaaaaay funnier than they actually are. (For the record, they're never funny. Sorry, guys.)
Jokes that had the math people on the floor last night include but are not limited to:
"Is that a NORMAL distribution?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Y=X squared! Graph it on Yal's graph paper shirt!"
"I said Bezel Functions, not BASIL Functions! DUH! Harharharharhardyharhar."
I could go on, but you get the idea. It hurts me inside.
My dear husband did indulge me in one of my new favorite things at the party yesterday by doing for everyone else what he did at home all day prior to going to the party. That, my friends, is revealing the "secret ingredient." To understand this reference you need to know the popular Food Network show Iron Chef (or, for our purposes, Iron Chef America). Here's a Cliff's Notes synopsis to bring you up to speed if you're not familiar. The show originated in Japan and has been brought to the U.S. Every week a "challenger" chef comes on the show and faces off against one of the Iron Chefs (well-known chefs who are considered masters in their field, although I disagree because Bobby Flay is in the American version and I have an unnatural dislike for him, but that's beside the point). Anyway, the challenger and the Iron Chef must each cook 5 dishes in an hour to be reviewed by a panel of esteemed judges who are basically glorified food snobs. Each meal must include the "secret ingredient." The "secret ingredient" is revealed to us each week by "the chairman," who is a Japanese man who does karate moves and bulges his eyes to a frightening degree as he screams the name of the secret ingredient with unnecessary intensity For example, last night's secret ingredient that had to be used in every dish was chile peppers. So the chairman threw his arms out and screamed, "CHILLLLLESSSS!!" as he revealed a cart full of chiles to the chefs.
Anyway, my husband delighted in this yesterday and decided to spend a good part of the afternon going around the house and introducing things like they were the secret ingredient on Iron Chef. So he'd be in the kitchen and would run into the living room where I was and yell, "The secret ingredient is....ORZO!" Or I'd say, "Quick, what's the secret ingredient?" and he'd have to pick something to identify and announce it like the chairman. "The secret ingredient is....BULBS!" Too funny. So what delighted me more was that he did it at the party last night and indulged me and his friends every time we asked him to do it.
"Yal, quick, what's the secret ingredient?"
"GUINESS!" (It's very important to remember the arm gestures here.)
Ohhhhh it was good. You probably had to be there, but if you're reading this (all three of you that do read it) and you know my husband, you know why I love it so much.
Finally, on to today's quote of the day, which comes from my husband also. (Sorry, but I don't have a lot of contact with other people these days.) We were watching the news, and the weather man has his "Three Degree Guarantee." When he gets the forecast right, a home viewer wins a prize. The prize this week was (I swear) a case of RC Cola. Let me just interject at this point that if I won a case of RC Cola I would call the station and be like, "Ummm...nevermind."
So anyway, this lady wins a case of RC Cola (yes...yes you MUST always say "Cola" at the end...it's vital), and Yal says, "Oh good! She can shake it up and spray it on her friends because it's undrinkable!"
Sometimes I think science people should be forced to wear shirts that say "Socially awkward is my middle name" just so the rest of us know what we're getting into.
Among other interesting tids and bits from last night, I discovered math/science people should not be allowed to drink more than five beers in one evening, or else they think their math jokes are waaaaaaay funnier than they actually are. (For the record, they're never funny. Sorry, guys.)
Jokes that had the math people on the floor last night include but are not limited to:
"Is that a NORMAL distribution?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Y=X squared! Graph it on Yal's graph paper shirt!"
"I said Bezel Functions, not BASIL Functions! DUH! Harharharharhardyharhar."
I could go on, but you get the idea. It hurts me inside.
My dear husband did indulge me in one of my new favorite things at the party yesterday by doing for everyone else what he did at home all day prior to going to the party. That, my friends, is revealing the "secret ingredient." To understand this reference you need to know the popular Food Network show Iron Chef (or, for our purposes, Iron Chef America). Here's a Cliff's Notes synopsis to bring you up to speed if you're not familiar. The show originated in Japan and has been brought to the U.S. Every week a "challenger" chef comes on the show and faces off against one of the Iron Chefs (well-known chefs who are considered masters in their field, although I disagree because Bobby Flay is in the American version and I have an unnatural dislike for him, but that's beside the point). Anyway, the challenger and the Iron Chef must each cook 5 dishes in an hour to be reviewed by a panel of esteemed judges who are basically glorified food snobs. Each meal must include the "secret ingredient." The "secret ingredient" is revealed to us each week by "the chairman," who is a Japanese man who does karate moves and bulges his eyes to a frightening degree as he screams the name of the secret ingredient with unnecessary intensity For example, last night's secret ingredient that had to be used in every dish was chile peppers. So the chairman threw his arms out and screamed, "CHILLLLLESSSS!!" as he revealed a cart full of chiles to the chefs.
Anyway, my husband delighted in this yesterday and decided to spend a good part of the afternon going around the house and introducing things like they were the secret ingredient on Iron Chef. So he'd be in the kitchen and would run into the living room where I was and yell, "The secret ingredient is....ORZO!" Or I'd say, "Quick, what's the secret ingredient?" and he'd have to pick something to identify and announce it like the chairman. "The secret ingredient is....BULBS!" Too funny. So what delighted me more was that he did it at the party last night and indulged me and his friends every time we asked him to do it.
"Yal, quick, what's the secret ingredient?"
"GUINESS!" (It's very important to remember the arm gestures here.)
Ohhhhh it was good. You probably had to be there, but if you're reading this (all three of you that do read it) and you know my husband, you know why I love it so much.
Finally, on to today's quote of the day, which comes from my husband also. (Sorry, but I don't have a lot of contact with other people these days.) We were watching the news, and the weather man has his "Three Degree Guarantee." When he gets the forecast right, a home viewer wins a prize. The prize this week was (I swear) a case of RC Cola. Let me just interject at this point that if I won a case of RC Cola I would call the station and be like, "Ummm...nevermind."
So anyway, this lady wins a case of RC Cola (yes...yes you MUST always say "Cola" at the end...it's vital), and Yal says, "Oh good! She can shake it up and spray it on her friends because it's undrinkable!"
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Of Course
Today, I went to the post office to mail my application for Indiana teacher licensure. All was well and I got the required money order, paid for all of my mailing, and stepped backto finish filling out the money order and hand my envelope back to the worker like she asked me to. That took...ohhhh...20 seconds.
I turned around prepared to wait in line for a moment behind the woman who arrived after me and had now stepped up to the teller. Hell if this isn't what I heard come out of the woman's mouth as I stood there just needing to give my envelope back to the worker: "I need 75 books of stamps." Seventy-five mother truckin books of stamps!
So I stood there...like a goon...waiting...while the postal worker painstakingly counted out 75 books of stamps for this lady. In case you're wondering, counting 75 books of stamps takes a while. Shocking, I know. Also, in case you're wondering, 75 books of stamps comes out to $615, which the woman paid in cash....six hundreds and three fives. I know this because I unsuccessfully attempted to set that money and the woman's hands on fire with my eyes. *sigh*
I turned around prepared to wait in line for a moment behind the woman who arrived after me and had now stepped up to the teller. Hell if this isn't what I heard come out of the woman's mouth as I stood there just needing to give my envelope back to the worker: "I need 75 books of stamps." Seventy-five mother truckin books of stamps!
So I stood there...like a goon...waiting...while the postal worker painstakingly counted out 75 books of stamps for this lady. In case you're wondering, counting 75 books of stamps takes a while. Shocking, I know. Also, in case you're wondering, 75 books of stamps comes out to $615, which the woman paid in cash....six hundreds and three fives. I know this because I unsuccessfully attempted to set that money and the woman's hands on fire with my eyes. *sigh*
Sunday, February 17, 2008
A Plethora...Plethora...of Things to Mention
Last night my husband and I went to a housewarming party for people I later learned had lived in that house for over a year. I don't know about you, but that seems a little belated to obligate people to buy housewarming gifts. Oh well, it's ok. They're really nice and so I didn't feel bitter about it. Plus, it gave me an opportunity to force Apples to Apples (the best game on the planet) on them, as that was our housewarming gift to them. Additionally, they gave us an all-access house tour, which I am always up for.
Before the party we also went to a wine store in town to buy a bottle for the couple as well as pick something up for ourselves. When we entered, a worker approached us and asked if we needed any help. Being the wine ignoramuses we are, we gladly accepted his assistance. He spent several minutes talking to us about the ins and outs of wines, which ones have certain kinds of flavors, etc. Trying to keep on my best (read: least ass-like) behavior because we were in a classy wine store, I complimented the man on his knowledge and asked him if the store ever offers little classes. He said no, but that he himself taught a wine class at the local community college. He talked about it for a minute, giving me way too much information about something I mostly asked about just to be nice. Here's where it got funny, though. The man told us that he often takes expensive wines from his own collection to the class for his students to taste. What a noble soul, I thought as I told him that was mighty generous of him. His response, as he leaned in close as if we were sharing an intimate secret: "I just need an excuse to drink this shit!"
Well, of course! What wine connoisseur doesn't need an excuse to drink "this shit"? A classhole. A classhole, indeed. Don't think for a second that I won't be going back to he wine store to get more wisdom from this man. That, however, will be another blog entry for another day.
Changing gears now....
In my last post I promised an update on my ongoing holy war with Sallie Mae. You'll remember from the old blog that they royally screwed me six ways to Sunday and then blamed me for it like only a truly soul-sucking evil corporation can do. Well, I called them back and this time spoke to "Jack" (riiiight), who told me he was sorry "Chris" was such an a-hole. "Jack" told me that I was not sent to collections despite receiving an e-mail telling me I was. He also said my account was not considered far enough past due for them to report it to my credit score. So while they are still screwing me on the loan by charging me late fees and upping my interest rate (something that will end up costing me about $600 more by the end of my loan repayment period for something that wasn't even a little bit my fault), they're not ruining my future by destroying my credit. Now, of course we all know I'll check my credit score a month from now and it will be on there anyway, and then the rage will cause me to have an aneurysm and die. But at least I can live for one more month in relative peace (aside from proooobably having to rough up our old landlord to get him to return our security deposit, but that is also another post for another day).
Finally, I would like to comment on Philadephia cream cheese commercials. They've been airing a new ad campaign for their new "same great taste but less fat" stuff, and I'm just wondering if anyone else finds it disturbing that this company's TV ads use angels to get the point across that the cream cheese tastes like heaven. This is the thought process I go through whenever I see it: angels = dead people...dead people hocking cream cheese. Dead people = my grandpa who died 10 years ago. Then I picture my decomposing grandfather zombie-hobbling into my house with a tub of 1/3 less fat cream cheese trying to get me to eat it.
The scenario:
"Why are you screaming? It's grandpa! Come eat some cream cheese with me! Where are you running off to? I came back from the dead for you! It's good cream cheese; try it! Ohhhhhh my arm fell off."
So my point is that angels = dead people = my dead grandpa = I will never eat that cream cheese.
Before the party we also went to a wine store in town to buy a bottle for the couple as well as pick something up for ourselves. When we entered, a worker approached us and asked if we needed any help. Being the wine ignoramuses we are, we gladly accepted his assistance. He spent several minutes talking to us about the ins and outs of wines, which ones have certain kinds of flavors, etc. Trying to keep on my best (read: least ass-like) behavior because we were in a classy wine store, I complimented the man on his knowledge and asked him if the store ever offers little classes. He said no, but that he himself taught a wine class at the local community college. He talked about it for a minute, giving me way too much information about something I mostly asked about just to be nice. Here's where it got funny, though. The man told us that he often takes expensive wines from his own collection to the class for his students to taste. What a noble soul, I thought as I told him that was mighty generous of him. His response, as he leaned in close as if we were sharing an intimate secret: "I just need an excuse to drink this shit!"
Well, of course! What wine connoisseur doesn't need an excuse to drink "this shit"? A classhole. A classhole, indeed. Don't think for a second that I won't be going back to he wine store to get more wisdom from this man. That, however, will be another blog entry for another day.
Changing gears now....
In my last post I promised an update on my ongoing holy war with Sallie Mae. You'll remember from the old blog that they royally screwed me six ways to Sunday and then blamed me for it like only a truly soul-sucking evil corporation can do. Well, I called them back and this time spoke to "Jack" (riiiight), who told me he was sorry "Chris" was such an a-hole. "Jack" told me that I was not sent to collections despite receiving an e-mail telling me I was. He also said my account was not considered far enough past due for them to report it to my credit score. So while they are still screwing me on the loan by charging me late fees and upping my interest rate (something that will end up costing me about $600 more by the end of my loan repayment period for something that wasn't even a little bit my fault), they're not ruining my future by destroying my credit. Now, of course we all know I'll check my credit score a month from now and it will be on there anyway, and then the rage will cause me to have an aneurysm and die. But at least I can live for one more month in relative peace (aside from proooobably having to rough up our old landlord to get him to return our security deposit, but that is also another post for another day).
Finally, I would like to comment on Philadephia cream cheese commercials. They've been airing a new ad campaign for their new "same great taste but less fat" stuff, and I'm just wondering if anyone else finds it disturbing that this company's TV ads use angels to get the point across that the cream cheese tastes like heaven. This is the thought process I go through whenever I see it: angels = dead people...dead people hocking cream cheese. Dead people = my grandpa who died 10 years ago. Then I picture my decomposing grandfather zombie-hobbling into my house with a tub of 1/3 less fat cream cheese trying to get me to eat it.
The scenario:
"Why are you screaming? It's grandpa! Come eat some cream cheese with me! Where are you running off to? I came back from the dead for you! It's good cream cheese; try it! Ohhhhhh my arm fell off."
So my point is that angels = dead people = my dead grandpa = I will never eat that cream cheese.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
By Jove, I've Done It
Well, kids,
I've finally mustered up the courage to leave Windows Live Spaces. "WHY, Cor, WHYYYYyyyy?!" Well, I'll tell you. It's mostly because I was annoyed by their overly complicated interface and unreliable posting buttons.
Dry your eyes, though! I'll save the old blog, but I just don't plan to add to it anymore. (I'm sure the two whole people that actually read this on a regular basis don't really care anyway.)
I don't really have a lot to say right now on this first boring trial post. Tomorrow or so I am planning to give an update on my ongoing death match with the first class ass-hats at Sallie Mae, so stay tuned for that. In the meantime, I want to relay an observation I've had for some time now but always forget to write about.
I've noticed that our answering machine is very judgmental. VERY judgmental! I go to push the button to check the messages and it says in an uppity woman's voice, "You have NO messages." How rude! Why does she have to rub it in that no one calls us? There's nothing quite like your answering machine exposing your deepest insecurities in the sanctity of your own home.
Finally, I do have an excellent quote of the day from Anne, who overheard this outside a wine tasting charity event she went to last week. According to her, she was standing outside to get some air and overheard two women talking about using drugs.
Woman 1: "I used to be stoned all the time. You name it, I took it. But I don't do that anymore."
Woman 2: "Well that's good. I only ever took drugs once, and I'll never do it again."
Woman 1: "What did you take?"
Woman 2: "Steroids."
I've finally mustered up the courage to leave Windows Live Spaces. "WHY, Cor, WHYYYYyyyy?!" Well, I'll tell you. It's mostly because I was annoyed by their overly complicated interface and unreliable posting buttons.
Dry your eyes, though! I'll save the old blog, but I just don't plan to add to it anymore. (I'm sure the two whole people that actually read this on a regular basis don't really care anyway.)
I don't really have a lot to say right now on this first boring trial post. Tomorrow or so I am planning to give an update on my ongoing death match with the first class ass-hats at Sallie Mae, so stay tuned for that. In the meantime, I want to relay an observation I've had for some time now but always forget to write about.
I've noticed that our answering machine is very judgmental. VERY judgmental! I go to push the button to check the messages and it says in an uppity woman's voice, "You have NO messages." How rude! Why does she have to rub it in that no one calls us? There's nothing quite like your answering machine exposing your deepest insecurities in the sanctity of your own home.
Finally, I do have an excellent quote of the day from Anne, who overheard this outside a wine tasting charity event she went to last week. According to her, she was standing outside to get some air and overheard two women talking about using drugs.
Woman 1: "I used to be stoned all the time. You name it, I took it. But I don't do that anymore."
Woman 2: "Well that's good. I only ever took drugs once, and I'll never do it again."
Woman 1: "What did you take?"
Woman 2: "Steroids."
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