Well, It Was Bound To Happen Sooner Or Later

Barrett and I have a morning routine. It's good to have a routine. Following a routine helps with the auto-pilot I so often have to run on because motherhood = chronic sleep deprivation. So anyway, our routine. Our routine is I pick up my purse, my lunch, B's day bag and whatever else I need to schlep that day. I get them all balanced on my body and then I pick up B. Then I walk, loaded down with 40+ lb, to my car, which is often parked a block or two away. Upon arriving at the car, I open the back door and put B down on the back seat so he can scramble into his car seat. (I used to try to actually PUT him in the car seat, but that led to much yelling and flailing of arms and gnashing of teeth... and B didn't much care for it either. So we worked out a deal: I allow him to get into the car seat on his own and he makes sure the screaming is kept to a minimum. It's a good deal.) While B scrambles, I unload all my crap into the front seat. One time B scrambled right out of the car and tried to run down the street, so now I close the back door after dropping him off in there.

So anyway the process is basically this:
1. Unlock car
2. Open back door
3. Place baby inside car
4. Close back door
5. Open front door
6. Place crap inside car
7. Close front door
8. Re-open back door and buckle baby in his seat
9. Get on with rest of day

Unfortunately today we hit a small snag somewhere after step 7...

B has recently developed a love affair with mommy's keys. If he sees them, he NEEEEEEEDS them. Like "RightThisSecondOhMyGoodnessIfIDon'tGetThemNOWLifeAsIKnowItWillEnd!!!" :\ When it comes to parenthood, I'm a big fan of choosing my battles . I'll lay down the law when he gives me the "Mommy I NEED to stick my fingers in this electrical outlet" whine, or when he tries to climb on the kitchen counters to reach the knives, or when he's pretty sure his pacifier would taste better if I would JUST let him dunk it in the toilet. So, having fought all those battles already today, when he grasped desperately for my keys as I placed him in the back seat this morning I thought, "Fine. Take them. Have a ball."

With my car keys in his happy little hands, B started scrambling into his car seat. Step 3: check. So I moved on to steps 4 through 7. Close back door, open front door, place crap, close front door... and then I heard it: *Click* ... the sound of my car doors locking in response to my son pushing the lock button on my key fob. Worst. Sound. Ever.

The window of time that my son had to push that lock button (between me closing the front door and reopening the back door) was exceedingly small. We're talking 2 seconds, max. But toddlers are exceedingly good at doing the wrong thing at EXACTLY the wrong time. It's a special gift they have.

So now my child, my keys, and all my stuff (including my purse) are locked in the car. And I'm standing outside like a moron waving my arms and tapping on the window trying to convince B to push one of the other buttons on the key fob he so desperately loves. Except now he's realized that he's alone in the car and suddenly the keys just aren't that interesting anymore. So he shakes them around and launches them into the front seat. And then he realizes that he's not strapped in yet... so he stands up in his car seat, and he jumps up and down in his car seat, and he climbs over the back of his car seat (which is still rear facing) and nose dives into the center console in the front seat. !!! I was certain he'd come up with a bloody nose... or at least crying. But no. He popped his head up with the biggest smile ever on his face. Apparently trapped in the car is AWESOME when you are 1 1/2. Weeeeee! dive into the back seat. Weeee!!! dive into the front seat... lovely.

So I'm on the phone with AAA, (THANK GOODNESS my phone was in my pocket and not in my purse!!!) and they're asking for my member number - which of course I don't have because it's LOCKED IN MY CAR ALONG WITH MY BABY!!!!! And the lady is making my spell my last name like 10 million times while I'm knocking on the windows trying to tell B to at least dive carefully between the front and back seats. I finally told her to just send someone, NOW! and so she put in a call to the fire department. Mind you the fire department is around the corner from my house. Had I yelled loudly enough, I probably could have put the call in myself. But whatever. So AAA called the fire department and I hung up the phone with them.

2 minutes later, a GIANT fire truck pulls up and no less than FIVE MEN jump out. (I cannot believe they drove their GIANT TRUCK literally a block and a half. The drive was so short they didn't even get a full cycle of their siren out. It was like :::ruuuuuuummm::: <--- start the engine... :::rrrrr::: <---- siren wind up.... "Alright we're here!!!" Oh well.)

So giant truck, 5 dudes, baby running a muck in the car, and me. Apparently I was their first call of the day (at 9:15 am?? What a bunch of slackers the folks in my city are!) so I got a rose. Neat!! Luckily I had my wits about me so I could snap some pics:

B discovers mommy's stuff on the front seat.


Awesome firemen attempt to jimmy open my car


My rose!



So the firemen try and try and but they cannot, for the life of them, get my door open. They hit the unlock button with their coat hanger thing-ee but nothing happens, they get their coat hanger thing-ee around the door handle and pull, but that just sets off the alarm... Apparently Toyota has spent a lot of time and effort making their cars un-break-in-able. Which normally would be a good thing... except when your baby is locked inside. :\

So I call AAA again and have them send a locksmith. He gets there about 15 minutes later. Meanwhile B continued to enjoy his unchecked rampage around my car.

Here he is eating my eyeliner.


Here he is pretending to drive. (Much better picture when I press the phone against the window)


At one point, B found a nickle in the car and we all thought FOR SURE he was going to eat it and the guys were going to have to break a window and rescue him from chocking. They even got the tape out (to keep the glass from shattering) and debated which window would be best to break. B put the nickle in his mouth and we were all like, "No no no no no no! Don't eat it! Don't eat the nickle!!!" and he smiled and took it out of his mouth and we all cheered! And then he put it back in his mouth and we all freaked out again... and then he took it back out and we all cheered. We must have looked so strange to folks walking by.

We also tried (in vain) to convince B to push the unlock button on the door. We succeeded in convincing him to push all the radio buttons and to jerk the turning indicator and windshield wiper levers wildly but apparently door buttons hold no allure for babies.

At another point, B found his beloved keys in the front seat and we tried to get him to hook the keys onto the glorified coat hanger (so we could pull them out of the car through the pried open door). But all he did was grab the coat hanger and try to eat it. 17 month olds, it turns out, are pretty worthless when it comes to breaking into (or I guess out of) cars.

So finally the locksmith shows up and he tries all the coat hanger tricks without luck. I resign myself to the fact that my baby will be locked in my car forever.




Just then, the locksmith tries the "double door handle pull" trick. Which is to say, use the coat hanger to pull on the door handle, the car alarm sounds... then, pull the door handle AGAIN (within in 3 seconds.... which p.s. is NOT easy to do with a coat hanger!) VIOLA!!!! The door opened.

Oh thank goodness!!!!!!!

The whole ordeal took over an hour. But we all survived. And B didn't panic or complain once. He rules. I thanked everyone about a million times. (I considered hugging them, but 6 people is a lot of people to hug and I was afraid it would be awkward...) Then I belted B in and proceeded to step 9: Get on with rest of day.

The End.


(And yes, I know his shoulder strap is all wonky here... don't worry, I fixed it before driving off.)

This Is Why Kyle And I Are Different

We found a cat turd in our bedroom the other day. Lovely. But what can you do other than sigh, clean it up and move on. I volunteered to bring Kyle a paper towel if he would pick it up. He agreed but asked if I would bring him some toilet paper instead so that he could just flush it. My husband is a genius. I love him. So I leave and bring him back a box of tissues to use. Upon receiving the tissue box he stares blankly at me and asks what happened to the toilet paper. To which I reply that the tissue box was easier to grab and what difference does it make??

Him: Well, can you flush tissue?
Me: Ummm, duh. Have you never flushed a tissue before?
Him: No.
Me: Seriously?? So, like, when you run out of toilet paper, and you have to use a tissue, do you just throw it away???
Him: I've never run out of toilet paper before.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why my husband and I are very, VERY different people.

Snacks

I'm starving today and the only snack I have at my desk is a giant bag of prunes... this can't end well.

BCBC

Me: So, I was thinking... how about a little Brown Chicken Brown Cow today
Kyle: huh?
Me: Brown Chicken Brown Cow
Kyle: Brunch at brown cow???
Me: No.... Brown. Chicken. Brown. Cow.
Kyle: ::blank stare::
Me: Brown Chicken Brown Cow (::sung to the tune of bow chicca bow wow::)
Kyle: ... like Brown Cow yogurt???
Me: NO!!! Like BOW CHICCA BOW WOW!
Kyle: ::seriously confused blank stare::
Me: It's code for sexy time! (you, idiot)
Kyle: Oh.
Me: Sheesh.
Kyle: Ok. But, can we still get brunch? I'm hungry.

:\

The Joys Of Homeownership…

So it all started when Kyle and I decided to put ourselves down as “Owner/Builder” on our building permit.

In San Francisco you can hardly pick your nose without a permit and so when our architect told us that the wall we wanted to tear down in our newly acquired condo was structural, we knew that we’d be spending some quality time downtown in the building permit office. On the building permit you have the option of putting your own name on the permit (in which case you are considered an “Owner/Builder”) or you can put down your contractor’s name. According to my architect, it didn’t REALLY matter whose name was put on the permit – especially for a job as small as ours. On the day that we got the permit we were 99.9% sure that we were going to go with a certain contractor, but, as long as it doesn’t matter whose name is on the permit… and as long as we’re not 100% sure… we figured we may as well just put our own names down.

Do you ever have moments in life that you REALLY wish you could do over?

Three days into the construction (which p.s. was only supposed to last 5 days), the building inspector came by the house to inspect the newly torn down wall. Upon inspection, he noticed that the light switch that had previously existed in the middle of the wall had been moved. (Well duh! We tore the wall down and it seems light switches aren’t especially good at hovering in empty space. They’re funny like that.) So the building inspector asks my contractor if we have an electrical permit for the moving of the light switch. And of course we didn’t, because does moving a light switch three feet to the left REALLY count as permit worthy electrical work?? (p.s. both my architect and my contractor thought no… but of course Mr. Building Inspector Man thought yes.) Great. Ok – so we need an electrical permit. How hard should that be, right?

So my contractor calls me up (this is Tuesday morning) and explains the situation to me and informs me that *I* have to get the electrical permit because it’s my name on the building permit as Owner/Builder. Ok. Fine. I can get a permit. So I go downtown to the Department of Building Inspection and I see a sign that says “All permits issued here. Please take a number.” Ok. So I take a number and I wait. And wait and wait. Typical. So then it’s my turn and I say, “Hello! I am here to get an electrical permit.” And the lady says, “Are you a contractor?” and I say, “No – but my name is on the building permit. I’m an Owner/Builder.” “Oh…. So you’re a homeowner?” “Yes!” (That has a nice ring to it, huh?) “Ohhhh… electrical permits for homeowners are issued on the third floor. We can’t help you here.” “WHAT!!?!? But it says ALL PERMITS ISSUED HERE.” “Yes, all permits except for electrical permits issued to homeowners.” (Are you freaking kidding me??? They need some better signage in this place.)

Ugh. Ok, third floor. I can do that.

So I go up to the third floor and say to the lady there, “Hi! I’m here to get an electrical permit! I’m a homeowner!” “Ok, let me just find the necessary paperwork, I’ll be right back.” And with that she disappeared for like 15 minutes. And then she came back to give me a status update that she was still searching for the necessary paperwork… it should be here somewhere… and then she disappeared for another 15 minutes.... Why the necessary paperwork is not stored on her computer for easy printing at the click of a button is BEYOND me. As far as I can tell the SOLE purpose of the office on the third floor is to issue electrical permits to homeowners. But whatever.

So then she FINALLY comes back holding two pieces of paper for me to fill out. (Really – it took you half an hour to find TWO MEASLY pieces of paper?? Ugh.) So she hands me the papers and I start filling them out and then she says, “So, it’s a single family home – right?” “Ummmm, no. It’s a condo. Does that matter?”.... “Ohhhhhh… yeah, we can only issue electrical permits to homeowners of single family homes. Or to contractors. But maybe they can help you on the first floor."

WHAT!?!?!?!?

So I go back to the first floor and talk to the information guy there. “Look, buddy, I need an electrical permit… and he starts to point me to the ALL PERMITS line… and I cut him off and tell him that I’m homeowner… and he starts to point me to the third floor… and I cut him off and tell him that I’m a homeowner of a condo… at which point he stops and thinks about it for a minute and then informs me that I cannot get an electrical permit.

WHAT?!?!

“You’ll have to send your contractor in… we can’t issue electrical permits to homeowners of condos.”

WHAT!?!?!?!?

“But I’m on the building permit as an Owner/Builder… you issued me building permit! Why can’t you issue me an electrical permit?”

“Sorry, we can only issue electrical permits to contractors.”

“So I can tear a structural wall down but I can’t move a light switch?”

“Yes”

Kill me.

So I call my contractor and tell him that *HE* has to go in. And he says, “I don’t think they’ll give me one with your name on the building permit as Owner/Builder.” So I call the city and ask “Is it ok for my contractor to get an electrical permit for me even though MY NAME is on the building permit?” And they say, “Oh sure, that’s no problem… happens all the time.”

So my contractor goes downtown and waits in line and when it’s finally his turn he asks for the electrical permit. And they look up the building permit and see my name on there and they tell him that yes, they indeed they CAN give him an electrical permit (hooray!!)… BUT not without written consent from the Owner/Builder. (WHAT!!!???? Why didn’t you say that when I called and specifically asked!!??? Besides, don’t the two hours I spent there that morning count as consent??!!)

GAGH!

Ok… so *I* can’t get the permit without my contractor. And *my contractor* can’t get the permit without me…. Hmmm. A-HA! I have a plan. We decide that we’ll BOTH go downtown together. Together we’ll be unstoppable.

So we show up at the Permit office bright and early Wednesday morning at 7:30am and go directly to the third floor to the homeowner office. And they promptly send to the first floor. Ugh. Ok. Fine. But of course, on WEDNESDAYS the first floor has their staff meeting… which lasts until 9:30. So now we have 2 hours to kill. Gaaaah!

So we leave and come back at 9:30 and we take a number and we wait. And FINALLY it’s our turn and we get to the front of the line and I say, “Hi! I’m here for an electrical permit.” And she says, “You'll need to go to the third floor...” (Ha! I knew she’d say that) So I say, “It's a condo.” “Oh, then we’re gonna need to talk to the contractor.” (Ha! I’m prepared for this too!) “THIS gentleman here is my contractor.” (What else you got, lady?) “Well according to the building permit this is an Owner/Builder job – so we’re going to need consent from the owner in the form of letter” (and I swear she was about to say written in blood, on gold paper, notarized by the Pope.) And I say, “Look, I’m the owner/builder, he’s the contractor… this is me giving you my consent to issue the permit to him. I’ll sign any piece of paper you need me to but we are not leaving here without an electrical permit!” And so she locates a consent form (Ha! They have a form for this… we need a letter my a$$!) and I sign it and we start to move forward. (Finally!)

And we get as far as her asking my contractor for his license number. Which he gives her and she types into the system and then she says…. “Ohhhhhh, it says here that he’s a GENERAL contractor.” “And?” “And…. We can’t issue a single ‘specialized’ permit to a general contractor.” “What!?!?!” “Well, if all you need to do is move a light switch, then you really ought to hire an electrician.” BUT WE’RE NOT JUST MOVING A LIGHT SWITCH WE’RE TEARING DOWN A WHOLE WALL!!!!! “Oh, I see, well... Union rules prohibit us from issuing just an electrical permit to a general contractor. Wouldn’t be fair to the electricians. If you were hiring him for multiple jobs… say re-doing your bathroom AND moving your lightswitch… then THAT would be ok. A general contractor can pull multiple permits from different disciplines, but not just a single permit.” “Doesn’t having him TEAR DOWN MY WALL in addition to moving the light switch count as multiple jobs???” “Well… it WOULD have if it was HIS name on the building permit… but since it’s an Owner/Builder permit, it doesn’t count.” GAGHAHHAGHAGHAGHAGH!!!!!!!

“Ok – so what are my options?”

“Well, you can go find an electrician to move your light switch…. Or you can have your contractor pull multiple permits… to get around the Union rules.”

“Soooo.... you want me to pull a FAKE plumbing permit?”

“Or hire an electrician.”

Kill me.

“Fine. I’d like to add a toilet to my living room… please issue my contractor a plumbing permit in addition to the electrical permit.”

“Ok. No problem. Let’s see that’ll be $160 for the electrical permit, which allows you to install up to 10 electrical outlets/light switches/etc. and includes 1 free electrical inspection. And $160 for the plumbing permit.”

And then my contractor pipes in… “Wait – we need two electrical inspections. You always need two. One to see the interior electrical work, and one to see the finished job. We have to have two inspections.”

And the lady says, “No problem. Additional inspections can be purchased for $170 each.”

WHAT!!!??? I can get the permit AND one inspection for $160… but just an inspection for $170. How does that work? And why – if we NEED two inspections do you only include ONE!?!?!?

“Well, for larger jobs we include two free inspections… but for smaller jobs it just includes one. I’m not sure why… but you’re right, it doesn’t make much sense.”

“How large is a ‘larger’ job?”

“Well… 10-20 electrical outlets, for instance, is considered a larger job and so it includes two free inspections.”

“How much does that cost?”

“$240.”

“Ok – so I can install 1 measly outlet and have to pay for the additional inspection and it’ll cost me $160+$170 = $330. *OR* I can install TWENTY outlets and get two inspections included and it’ll cost me $240.”

“That is correct.”

WHO DOES THE MATH HERE!?!?!??!?!?

“Fine. In addition to my plumbing permit, I would like a permit to install 20 electrical outlets please instead of just 1.”

“Ok. Here you go.”

And with that she handed me the two permits.

Gah - moving this stupid light switch ended up costing me $400 (!!!!) and two days sitting downtown fighting with morons. On the upside, I can now install a toilet and 20 electrical outlets in my living room if I suddenly feel the need.

See! I TOLD You I Don't Look Strong

*title refers to #19 on my 100 Things About Me list.

I've always known that I don't look especially buff - but man! I must have "pathetic weakling" written all over my face.

About a week ago, I broke down and bought a furminator online. (I've heard fantastic!! things about this un-fantastic looking little metal hairbrush for cats... p.s. I used it on one of my three cats last night - my other two were feeling too feisty to be brushed - and it was only for a few minutes (as I wasn't especially prepared to deal with the zillion pounds of cat fur that this hairbrush promises to remove) so I'll refrain from singing the furminator's praises or exposing it as an over-priced fraud just yet.)

ANYway - about a week ago, I broke down and bought a furminator online. But in order to get free shipping, I had to spend at least $50, and since the furminator was only $29.99 (Good gracious - did I just type the word "only" in front of $29.99????? Did I REALLY spend THIRTY dollars on a kitty-cat hair brush???? This better be the best darn hairbrush in the history of hairbrushes!) ANYway - since the furminator was, ahem, *only* $29.99... I had to spend an additional $20. And darn it - food and cat litter don't count towards the free shipping $50 minimum. Boooooooooooooo. So what else do I need for my cats???? $20 worth of fake mice??? I clicked through the pages until - a ha! - a new scratching post! The kitties could TOTALLY use a new scratching post. (Heaven knows I am NOT moving the heinous looking eye-sore that they currently sharpen their claws on to our new house.) And looky-here: they had an uber fancy scratching post ON SALE!!!! Originally $69.99... marked down to $49.99! (Such a DEAL! How could I NOT buy it??? Right?) So... in order to save $8 in shipping and handling (which really is WAY too much money to ship a freakin' hairbrush!) I spent an additional $50 on an over the top fancy-shmancy scratching post. Am I their sales team's dream customer or what?? Ugh.

So - yesterday my furminator and scratching post arrived. Hooray! I had them both shipped to my office because it's just WAY easier to get packages there. Anyway, when I left for the day I picked up my two boxes and started to walk out of the office. Now, while the boxes weren't exactly heavy, they were a bit unwieldy - the scratching post, for example, is almost 3 feet tall and the furminator comes wrapped in way too much packaging in order to make it seem worth thirty whole dollars. Well, I guess I looked a bit pathetic trying to carry the two boxes out of my office because one of my co-workers saw me walking towards him and immediately dropped what he was doing and offered to help.

Co-Worker: Oh wow - do you need some help with those?
Me: Huh? Oh, no. I got it. But thanks.
Co-Worker: Are you sure? I'm happy to help.
Me: No, thanks for the offer, but I got it. It's not as heavy as it looks.
Co-Worker: Really? Are you sure? It's no problem for me.
Me: I know - and thank you - but I got it. There's no need for you walk ALLLLLLL the way down to my car with me. I'll be fine. Seriously. Thank you.
C0-Worker: Um. Ok.

And with that he let me go. Although he looked very uncomfortable about the whole thing.

Then I get out to the street and start walking to my car. (note: I park about a block away from my office.) As I'm walking, a man in a car driving by suddenly slows down, rolls down his window and begins to offer me help.

Man: Excuse me. Do you need some help with those boxes?
Me: Huh? Um, no. Thanks. I'm fine.
Man: Are you sure? They look really heavy.
Me: I got it. Really. They're not heavy. Just awkward. Thank you though.
Man: Are you sure?
Me: Yes. I'm sure. Thank you.

And with that he drove away... about 100 yards.... and then he turned around and drove BACK to me to once again offer assistance.

Man: Are you SURE you don't need any help? How far are you walking with those?
Me: Just to my car. It's right there. I'm fine. Really. Thanks. I'm fine.
Man: I can carry them for you.
Me: I know. But really. They're not heavy - they're just bulky. Really. I appreciate it. I'm Ok. I don't need help. Thank you, though.
Man: Um. Ok.

And then, looking very uncomfortable with the situation, the man slowly drove away.

Dear Me! How pathetic do I look??? I think to myself as I approach my car, glad to finally almost be there. When I'm about 20 feet away, a homeless man across the street, pushing a shopping cart filled with all of his worldly possessions, notices me and my boxes.

Homeless Man: Excuse me, Miss, do you need some help with those?
Me: (Really???) Nope. Thanks though. I got it.
Homeless Man: I can help you carry them.
Me: I really got them. It's fine. This is my car right here. Thanks anyway.
Homeless Man: Are you sure?
Me: Yep. This is me. Right here. I'm done carrying them now. But thank you.

And with that I placed my boxes on top of the trunk and got my keys out of my purse.

Just as I was about to pick the boxes up and place them in my car, the homeless man came over.

Homeless Man: Please let me help you. Let me put them in your car for you. Where do want the boxes?
Me: (defeated) *sigh* In the back seat would be lovely.

And so, apparently happy to be of service, the man smiled, picked the boxes up off my trunk and placed them into my backseat. I thanked him. He said it was no problem and wished me a good evening. And then he went back to his shopping cart and walked away. And I got in my car and drove home.

When I got home I informed Kyle of the boxes in my car and I asked if he could please carry them upstairs for me. Mostly because I like it when he does manly things like carry boxes for me, but also because I feared the entire neighborhood might otherwise come rushing out out of their homes to offer me assistance.

House Details...

... will have to wait. Because first I need to laugh at myself.

Last night I went to happy hour after work and played wing-woman for a girlfriend of mine. We sat at the bar sipping Pinot Nior chatting about men and commenting on the handsome bar tender's cute butt. And then it hit me. "Huh" I thought to myself. "When did I start finding old men handsome?" I'm not just talking about older men here... but like actual, objectively OLD men. This bar tender was cute, but you know, he was old. (Sorta like George Clooney) He had the salt and pepper hair, the worn in "man-hands", and an air about him that said I may be old, but I'm sitll dashing, no?. And he was dashing, but that's beside the point. He was OLD! And I thought he was cute! Weird.

Well, fast forward to the end of the night and it turns out that I accidentally left my wallet at the bar. (If my head weren't firmly attached to my body, I swear...) So I called, and spoke to some kind soul, and was SUPER relieved to find out that they had in fact found my wallet and were keeping it safely behind the bar. Whew! (Insert "kindness of strangers remark" here.) The kind soul then pointed out that he, having seen the birth date on my driver's liscense, was exactly 1 day older than me. Neat!

So I head back to the bar and, upon entering, get the attention of Mr. Salt-and-Pepper OldieVonCute himself and inform him that I just called and spoke with someone who found my wallet and could he please retreive it for me from behind the bar. "Hey!" he smiles "It's the girl who is exactly one day younger than me!!" And then he said some other stuff while handing me my wallet that I didn't really pay any attention to because all I could think was:

WHAT!!!????? I am the SAME AGE as Mr. OldieVonCute????? GAH!

D'oh.

Proof

Sweet! I've got proof that I made the right decision when I chose to leave my current job. This is an email I sent to a some co-workers a few days ago, in which I express my outrage at the latest law flowed down from our evil overlords. I'm becoming increasingly convinced that these rules and regulations are designed to maximize futility and minimize employee morale. Enjoy.

From: me
To: my co-workers
Sent: Friday, November 7, 2008 5:48:04 PM
Subject: I'll miss this place

Just in case there was any doubt in my mind that I made the right decision when I chose to leave [Big&Evil Inc.], today I received indisputable proof: I got reprimanded for using scissors. Apparently there is a new [B&E Law] out that scissors are no longer allowed – because they’re sharp, and people can cut themselves.

I kid you not.

Forget that kindergarteners use scissors all the time, [Big & Evil] employees apparently can’t be trusted to use them properly.

Reprimander: I’m sorry, sharps aren’t allowed anymore.
Me: Oh, these are just scissors. Safety scissors, no less. They barely cut paper.
Reprimader: Sorry, [B&E law] states that scissors are no longer allowed.
Me: But I have to cut this.
Reprimander: You’ll have to find another way.
Me: Another way to cut something? But that’s what scissors are for!
Reprimander: Sorry, we’ve had a lot of injuries with scissors. People cut themselves.
Me: Well maybe you should hire smarter people.

When I pressed him on how exactly he plans BUILD HARDWARE without ever using a sharp tool, he finally conceded that, ON OCCASION a sharp tool may be necessary, and if that was the case a detailed procedure would have to be written – complete with appropriate caution statements and warnings – stating exactly how the tool should be used. (“Insert thumb and middle finger into the loops on the base of the scissors; gently move thumb away from middle finger thus causing the blades of the scissors to become exposed. WARNING SCISSOR BLADES MAY BE SHARP!!!!!” ???)

Just kill me.

I expect pens to be outlawed next (you could stab your eye out!) Then we won’t be allowed to leave our cubicles (lest someone trip and fall while walking!) And don’t get me started on push-pins!!

In fact, if it wasn’t for this company’s LOVE AFFAIR with paper, I could definitely see them pulling the plug on that too (can you imagine the number of paper cuts people must get every year? Yikes!)

I’m a bit tempted to demand that we all be able to work from home everyday, as I’m sure just getting out of bed greatly increases your chance of injuring yourself, but instead I think I’ll just walk away from this madness. Slowly. Looking both ways before I cross the street, of course.

-Courtney

It's nice when life makes the decision easy for you, no?

Oh Come On!

The saga with the hotel continues... what saga you ask? Oh right. I wrote (and then deleted) a whole long pity post about how the San Mateo Marriott RUINED my wedding by allowing some stupid convention to swoop in and book EVERY SINGLE AVAILABLE ROOM in the entire hotel (all 325 of them!) that my guests were supposed to be staying at. Leaving me with just the original 25 rooms I reserved. I specifically ASKED if I should reserve more rooms, but the stupid lady handling my block ASSURED me that they were not even close to selling out and that they certainly didn't predict a sell-out and that she would call me if anything changed. Well, they did sell out, and she didn't call me. In fact, she didn't even KNOW that her entire hotel was being taken over by a convention. She's absolutely terrible at her job and hate her with a white hot passion. Basically, half my bridal party doesn't have hotel rooms at my hotel now, and they're having to stay 2 miles away, and they'll have to take cabs back and forth all weekend. So annoying. This 90% the fault of the stupid-stupid hotel... but also 10% the fault of my dear friends who procrastinated like crazy and didn't even TRY to book a hotel until the very last second. (p.s. had they booked just a few days earlier all of this heart-ache would have been avoided.) Anyway - so yeah, I spent about week in woe-is-me land basically moping around saying nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms. And I wrote a big "why does everything terrible happen to me!!!????" post. And, upon finishing it, I realized I was being a whiny self-absorbed brat. So I deleted it. I'm (mostly) over the whole situation now. But ANYWAY - there is a reason I'm telling you all this back story...

As I said, the saga with the hotel continues. I was talking to the lady at the hotel (whose eyeballs I'd like to stab out) the other day and she says, "So I should probably warn you about the convention that is taking over the hotel" And I'm like, "k....." And she's like "Well... it's sort of like a comic book convention and a star trek convention mixed together... the convention goers are fans of these comics and they are VERY dedicated, and they tend to dress up in very elaborate costumes, and really get in to character. So I just wanted to warn you, so you weren't caught off guard." And I'm thinking, "Great, so while I'm taking wedding pictures, some dude dressed as batman will be sitting in the hotel bar. Awesome."

Oh well - it'll make for some good stories at the reception, right?

Well - I looked it up online today, and it turns out that the convention is actually none other than the west coast's one and only Y.aoi-Con - "a celebration of male beauty and passion in A.nime and M.anga."

*blink blink*

Seriously?

SERIOUSLY!!!???

Beautiful cartoon men, being celebrated... by people in elaborate costumes? WHAT???

Note that there is a whole section on the website that specifically points out that Yaoi, "which has become a catchall term to indicate any story that includes a male/male relationship and is linked to Japan", is not porn. Uhhhhh, the fact that they have to point this out, to me means that it is, in fact, PORN!! The website also points out that the convention is strictly 18 and over and that much of the material is very sexually explicit. Hello - PORN!!!!

Yes. On my wedding day, I will be sharing a hotel with 325 rooms worth of people (probably like 600+ people!!!) in elaborate costumes, coming together to celebrate sexually explicit cartoon Porn.

Kill me. Kill me right now.

You can read all about it right here: http://www.yaoicon.com/what-is-yaoi-/

Did you read it? Did you note the part about it being made by women, for women? Really? Guy on guy, by women for women? Really?

My wedding is in 9 days.... and my hotel is going to be filled devout female fans of Japanese, male on male, cartoon porn. And they're going to be dressed in elaborate costumes.

I couldn't make my life up if I tried.

It's The Little Things

I wonder if he noticed the look of joy on face, the way my eyes brightened or the sudden breathlessness in my voice. I wonder if he could see the glee.

He told me he was leaving. My heart skipped. Would be taking off this afternoon. I smiled. Would be gone till next Wednesday. It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and shouting "Woo-Hoo!"

A whole week without my tyrant of a boss calling me, on speaker phone, from his desk 12 feet away. A whole week without, "Well, that's not I how *I* would have done it" or "Just make it happen, ok?" A whole week where I don't have to hide in my cube every time I hear his thunderous footsteps approaching, praying that he's not coming for me.

A whole week! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Mental note: it may be time for a new job.

Is THIS What Little Girls Dream About?

Well, we're down to 46 days and I must say that I do not understand how some brides go through a sort of post partum depression after their wedding is over. Are those girls nuts??? I have officially begun the countdown to the sheer joy and jubilation that will be the day AFTER my wedding. The day that I will be married and all of this planning garbage will be done. The day that I don't have to stress about bridesmaid dresses, and makeup artists, and seating charts, and how many people want lamb or chicken, and the wedding cake, and the DJ, and what the ceremony decor should look like, and how the ceremony should flow, and the overall timeline, and what wine to get, and who should be allowed to bring a date, and how much more money we should spend, and on and on and on and on and ON.

I cry daily. Every single day. I stress about things that I didn't even know a person could stress about (most recently - what if my wedding band goes out of style in 5 years??? I can't very well get a new one, because HELLO it's my wedding band and it'll have infinite sentimental value. So do I just walk around with an out of style ring on my hand??? And mind you, I picked out THE PLAINEST ring I could find - ESPECIALLY for this reason. But what if plain goes out of style??? What if plain is ALREADY out of style!?!?!? Seriously, there are children starving in a desert somewhere and I'm worried about the trendiness of my wedding band. What has become of me?)

It's ridiculous. I don't know why anyone puts themselves through this nightmarish process.

First of all, it's expensive. OUTRAGEOUSLY expensive. And no matter how much money I spend, someone else will spend more. Someone's food will be tastier, their linens will be finer, their flowers will be more extravagant, their guests will be better taken care of. So why am I even bothering? I should have just had a picnic in the park and bought a house with the left over cash.

Second of all, I don't know how anyone has the time to plan a wedding without quitting their day-job. Meeting with vendors, getting invitations out, shopping for attire, getting alterations done, tasting cakes and food and wine, making reservations, booking the venue, the hotel, the rehearsal dinner, the morning after brunch. GAH! It's enough to make a girl scream. I don't have time for all this!!!! And who does? How do other brides do this?

Third, the stress. I'm in a constant state of panic. A giant ball of stress. Did I pick the right venue, what flowers should I go with, should I get a shuttle for my guests, what was I thinking with those bridesmaids dresses, why can't I find a single freakin bra that works? Should I throw another $1000 at the latest problem that's crept up??? My head is forever spinning, and worrying, and over-analyzing. I would give my arm for a single decent night's sleep.

Is this really what little girls dream about when they put tissue paper on their heads and hum "here comes the bride" while marching down a hallway holding a fake bouquet of flowers? Is it supposed to be this hard? I just feel like I'm such an idiot when it comes to all this stuff. I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm just throwing thousands of dollars around like a blind chimp. I'm depressed and anxious and I fret mostly non-stop. It has long since ceased to be fun. And if one more person tells me to enjoy my engagement because it's such a special time and it goes by so fast I may punch them. This whole process sucks. Are we done yet?

Proof I've Lived With Modern Technology For Too Long

I received an email this morning from Kyle's sister (who p.s. is getting married in 2 weeks) asking me to please call someone named Jeannie to RSVP for the rehearsal dinner.

So I called.

Of course, I assumed the number she gave me was Jeannie’s cell phone number, mostly because I assume ALL phone numbers are cell phone numbers these days.

Well, imagine my surprise when a male voice answered and said, “Smiths*”… I stumbled for a minute trying to figure out what do to, as I was obviously not speaking with Jeannie, and then finally just said, “Hi! My name’s Courtney, I’m Erica’s brother’s fiancé and I’m calling to RSVP for the rehearsal dinner.” Then the man on the line stumbled for a bit and I could tell that he was not quite prepared for an RSVP from some stranger on the phone, clearly this phone call was meant for someone else. But he composed himself and took down my name and how many I would be coming with and, in the end, the phone call accomplished what it needed to. After I hung up it occurred to me that I had probably just called their HOUSE phone (as opposed to a cell phone) and that I probably should have just *asked* for Jeannie when the man picked up.

Doh.

It’s been so long since I’ve called someone on a land line (and had someone other than the person I was trying to reach pickup) that I COMPLETELY forgot what to do. With cell phones, you call Jeannie and you either get Jeannie or you get Jeannie’s voice mail. And that's that. With house phones there’s no telling who you’re going to get! It’s weird to remember a time when you had to verify who you were speaking with when you placed a phone call. (“Hi, is this Becky? Hi Becky, this is Courtney.”)

Sheesh, how did I ever manage?


----
*Name changed

Never Trust A Bug

Yesterday, as I was shutting the lights off in the bathroom, running late for work as usual, I came a across a rather large spider crawling on the wall near the light switch. Normally, in a situation such as this, I drop whatever it is I'm doing, run flailing to the kitchen, grab a cup, run flailing back to the spider (the flailing is key, mind you), scoop/will the creepy crawly into the cup, and then take him outside and gently deposit him on a bush or on the ground... and sometimes, if he's especially icky (or if it's cold out), I just just fling him as far as I can from my front door.

But yesterday, running late, I stopped, looked the spider, pointed my finger in his general direction, and said, "Hey Buddy! Normally I'd fling you but today I'm running late. You look like an upstanding spider, maybe we can work out a deal. I'll let you stay if you promise to eat those darn ants that keep infiltrating my bathroom. WHAT COULD THEY POSSIBLY WANT IN THE BATHROOM!? You're a pretty big spider, I bet you can also keep the other smaller, riff-raff spiders away. Keep it a one spider bathroom, you know? You don't bother me, I won't bother you. Each of us will let the other go about their business. But I don't want to be running into you like this on my wall next to my light switch. You stay outta sight. You hear me? Oh and I can't make any promises about the cats... if they catch you they'll eat you, and that's between you and them. But I promise that if you stay outta my way, I won't fling you, Deal?"

And he shook his creepy crawly fangs at me and I THOUGHT we had an understanding.

Boy was I wrong.

This morning... standing in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, wearing nothing but my undies, I felt a tickle on the small of my back. I assumed a hair had fallen from my head and was just sort of dancing there on its way down. But then it tickled again. I wonder what that is, I thought as I spit toothpaste into the sink and then turned to catch a glimpse of my back in the mirror.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Apparently, what *I* thought was an understanding, *Mr Spider* thought was a date! And I think he was headed for 2nd base.

In a bold move, I brushed him off me, WITH MY BARE HAND (ick!) And I continued to shriek. Kyle came in to make sure I wasn't dying, and I, still shrieking, showed him the beast that dared to set his grimy spider-feet on me. I then ran flailing off to the kitchen.

Kyle calmly called after me, "Sweetie, don't forget you're naked... and we have neighbors... and windows... and you're screaming, loudly."

EEK! I crouched down and then scuttled back to the bathroom, cup in hand.

With puppy dog eyes I asked, "Kyle, will you fling him outside for me? He broke his promise, but I'm too naked to do anything about it."

Excuse Me, May I Borrow Your Cat?

I glance at my watch... 4 pm... the guests will be there in an hour. I'm in my wedding dress. Barefoot. No makeup. My hair is down and unstyled and ugly. I have no jewelry on.

First things first, I think. I HAVE to find to some earrings. No one around me seems to have any that will suffice. There's a Macy's a few miles from my house, I decide I can run there really quick and pick some up, and maybe a necklace. I drive to the mall... still in the wedding dress, mind you. And I'm barefoot. Ewe. I whoosh through the store and find a pair of earrings, but no necklace... I decide to make do with just the earrings. I wonder if people think it's weird that I'm shopping in a wedding dress. Maybe they don't know it's a wedding dress. Maybe they think I just like white. I purchase the earrings and head home. Once there, I try the earrings on... they are SOOOOO heavy. Seriously WAY too heavy. What are these things made of??? Fearing for my earlobes, I decide to forgo jewelry all together. Makeup! I need make-up. And Hair! What on earth am I going to do with my hair? How is my hair not done yet??? What was I thinking?

It's 4:30. I'm almost out of time. Quick! Something borrowed!!! I need something borrowed!!!!! A friend hands me her cat. "Here take this", she tells me. The cat is uncooperative at best, but he's all I've got, so I start heading down the aisle with poorly applied make-up and messy hair, clutching an awkward ball of claws and fur. It's disastrous.

And then I wake up. Sweating. Heart pounding. Anxious and then relieved. I've got 5 months and 2 days left. It's plenty of time. I will find earrings... not to mention a caterer and a florist and a DJ and invitations. Everything will be ok. I will not walk down the aisle holding someone's cat. Deep breaths, Courtney.

Pre-Wedding Diet... Or Something

With the wedding day approaching at what appears to be the speed of light, I've decided to take DRASTIC measures... I'm going on a diet. (Gasp.)

Anyone who knows me knows I don't *do* the whole diet thing. (Thank goodness I love vegetables... because if I had to eat them solely because some *diet* said I had to, they would NEVER get eaten. Sometimes I'm kind of a rebel.)

Anyway, to ensure success, I'm implementing some special diet tools. You know, like telling my friends about it so they can cheer me on, and posting my goal weight on the fridge, oh and having four teeth pulled so I can't eat anything. You know, the usual stuff. I'm gonna be SO SKINNY. Woo-hoo!!

...

Ok, so maybe I'm NOT having my teeth pulled in order to lose weight. Maybe there is no diet. Maybe I'm just finally having my wisdom teeth taken out (tomorrow!!!) and I'm TERRIFIED about it and I'm trying to convince myself that it'll be awesome instead of horrifying because I'll no doubt be all svelte and stuff after living on soup for a week and who cares! about the blood and the pain and the swelling and the gauze and the GIANT HOLES IN MY MOUTH! You know, kinda how you convince yourself that having the flu rocks because at least you fit into your skinny jeans for a few days afterwards?

Getting teeth pulled rocks too, right?

My dentist gave me a Valium to take right before the surgery... I think I might just take it now.

Mmmmmm Pi

Yes, everyone's favorite holiday is here again... Pi Day! (3.14)

Happy Pi Day!!!!

I know I've been a terrible blogger as of late... I have stories to tell, I do, I swear!!! I've picked wedding colors, and bridesmaid dresses. I've got stories of skiing, and wigs, and surgery. (oh my!) And then there's Kitchen Dream 2 that I've been meaning to share. And there are pictures! So many fun pictures to post!!! But I seem to have lost the cord for my camera, so they're currently trapped in my camera... but I swear, they're coming! Ugh. Things are a bit hectic right now... but they'll calm down after Monday, which by the way, is the day I take my very last final exam EVER for my Master's Degree!!! Woo-hoo! So please bear with me just a bit longer.

And in the mean time... Enjoy Pi Day!!

p.s. In 2015, Pi Day is going to be OFF THE HOOK!

Dude! We Can All Hear You

So I'm standing in line in the cafeteria at work (have I mentioned that I have soup and salad from our cafeteria almost EVERY SINGLE DAY!? I bore myself to tears just thinking about it...) But anyway, I'm standing in line and this guy gets in line right behind me. He's on his cell phone (which I find pretty rude to begin with, can't he just wait till AFTER he's paid for his food... is his call THAT important that he has to share it with the whole line?)

In a perfectly audible voice, with no apparent regard for the rest of the people in line, dude has the following (half of a) conversation:

Well, we're both crazy. (...pause...) crazy about each other. (Wait what? Did I just hear that right?)

This whole thing is crazy. (Yes, and you, sir, are crazy for having a mushy conversation in the lunch line.)

I miss you so much... I just miss you all the time. (Oh gag, if he starts in with 'no I love *you* more' I'm ripping that phone out if his hands.)

Yeah, it's hard. It's really hard. (...pause...) You have no idea how hard it is. (Please God let him be referring to a level of difficulty and not sometime ENTIRELY inappropriate for a LUNCH LINE!!!!)

I know, I know... I just wish you were here right now. (Funny, I wish I were ANYwhere else.)

I just want to put my arms around you and hold you and... you know. (NO NO NO!!! I don't know. Please stop talking.)

You know, my friends think I'm nuts. Maybe I am nuts. This whole thing is just so nuts. (YES! You are most definitely nuts! Please please get off the phone!)

You're all I can think about these days. (Obviously...)

Luckily it was then my turn to pay. So I paid and I ran away and I was thus spared the remainder of the conversation, which, as I glanced over my shoulder as I left the cafeteria, appeared to still be going on several minutes later. Seriously, what the heck was wrong with that guy?????

Sometimes I Think I Might Actually Be Five Years Old

Kyle's dad sent us some random pics of my FIRST EVER sledding adventure! The pics were taken when we were back in Michigan for Christmas. Thought I'd share.

(Check out the jubilation in my face. I'm like a little kid!)









I'm nothing if not easily entertained.

Stupid American Independent Party

I think it's a conspiracy. I can't be the only person to have made this mistake.

14 days ago I RUSHED, frantic, to the post office, on the very last possible day, making myself very late for school, so that I could re-register to vote. (Having moved and whatnot.) Being the hip chick that I am, and wanting be a part of that "very sought after" chunk of the voting population, I decided to go the independent route this time around. No official party for me, thank you very much. Go ahead candidates, fight over me. My vote could either way! I was ready to relish the tug-of-war.

So I filled out my name, address, birthday, blah blah blah... and then I got to the little section of the form where you state your political party... Republican? No. Democrat? No. Green? No. Independent? A-ha! Yes! I colored in the bubble, signed my name, and ta-dah! I was registered to vote. Woo-hoo!

I got my little yellow voter registation card in the mail today. Next to my name it said "AIP". AIP? What the heck is AIP??? According to wikipedia... AIP is American Independent Party! Which is not at all "independent". Rather, it's a whole other official political party that exists in California. Gahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! So now the only primary I can vote in is some worthless American Independent Party one.

This is like the BIGGEST PRIMARY EVER!!!!! And I'm totally missing it. >:

Consider me so annoyed.

At the very least, I will share this. If you haven't made up your mind yet, please feel free to vote for this candidate in my honor. I'll be sitting at home, missing out.

California School System

I'm terrible at geography. Terrible. Like, I actually thought the body of water that Boston Harbor sits in was Lake Michigan. Yeah. The Boston Tea Party? Totally in a lake. And not even on the East side of the lake. No no... I thought Massechuesettes was on the WEST side. You know, where... ummmm.... that one state is.... you know... shoot. I don't actually know what state *IS* on the West side of Lake Michigan. Are we sure it's not Massechuettes?

Anyway. Like I said, terrible at geography. I blame the schools. I'm pretty sure my geography classes went something like this:

Teacher: See, there's Los Angeles... and then there's more Los Angeles... and then there's some desert... and some mountainy things... and then there's this mystery area in the middle of the country that no one's really explored yet, I think the Bermuda triangle might be there... and anyway, if you just keep going East you eventually hit New York, which I've heard is really cold in the Winter, so you should never go there. In fact, you should really just never leave LA. Trust me. The rest of the country doesn't even have flush toilets or paved roads or movie stars.

So, see, I was doomed from the start!

I kid you not, when I went away to college (a whopping 5 hours north of Los Angeles) I wondered where I would do my shopping, because certainly malls don't exist outside Los Angeles... and also, where would I find hip new music to listen to, because certainly they don't have radio stations outside Los Angeles, and if they do they probably play nothing but top 40s music and think it's AWESOME.

The first time I went to Michigan, I actually WAS shocked to see that the roads were paved and the bathroom facilities were both indoor and flushable. Yeah. Let's just say I grew up a little sheltered.

But anyway, I digress. Back to geography! And my non-existent skillz.

So I'm going to a conference in April in Bethesda. Which, people tell me, is in Maryland. And when I heard Maryland I thought, "!! Oh !! I have a friend in Washington DC... I wonder if Washington DC is anywhere close to Bethesda, Maryland?" Turns out it is!! Hooray! And then I thought of my blog friend, Julie, who lives in Delaware. And I thought, "Hmmmmmmm I wonder if Delaware is anywhere close to Bethesda, Maryland?" And then I spent a non-zero amount of time trying to figure out which state Delaware was in.

Yeah.