An Open Letter/Question to Republicans Under 40

This is the first election year I've both been old enough to vote, and had any inkling of what's going on regarding the stances of the different candidates.  I should also say that this is the first time that I've been sober when talking politics.  My last fervent discussion was with my ex father in law.  I needed those margaritas to stomach him in my house, much less to talk about the election.  Previously, I just did my best ostrich impression; head in the sand.

This year, I'm just...  Well, I'm waiting for Ashton Kutcher to show up on some national news program and say that we've all been pretty good sports about it, but the Republicans just can't stand it anymore.

Help Desk Dafuqu?

As my time at my current employer winds down, it has gotten me thinking about all of the interesting times I've had doing this sort of thing over the years.  Working in a job that requires you to talk to End Users all day frequently offers up a platter full of confusion, comedy, frustration, and non-recreational hair pulling.  Usually.  It’s not always the callers though.  Sometimes it’s the management.  Let me tell you about the time I worked for a large purveyor of data in the area.  You know, the people who you buy your mailing lists from.  

My boss was an ex-marine.   He staffed his help desk entirely with young, busty, virile women.  Think about that for a moment.  When you picture help desk employees, what comes to mind?  My best guess is that it doesn’t include attractive, 20 something women, does it?  And yet, that was what all 6 of us were, to varying degrees.

Fat Girl Colors (Represent!)

It’s become a routine that after Thunderhead gets off work, he heads over to my place to snuggle up and spend the night.  For the first couple of months, I’d be awake as soon as I heard the key in the lock.  Moxie, my mixed breed dog, would thump her tail on the bed and give a slow and muffled woof in greeting.  As time went on, I’d still wake up, but not as quickly.   I often let myself slowly drift up from deep sleep to crack one eye open just in time to see him walking out of the bathroom, or taking off his shirt.  These days, I’m either really tired, or I’m used to the timing of his late night arrivals.  It’s not uncommon for me to wake up to him already stroking my hair, matching the odd curve in my back with his body,  or stealing all the covers.  But, last night, I was apparently in a sort of coma.  Though, I wasn’t “motorboating” as he likes to call it.

The First Three Words

After looking for something disgustingly upbeat music in my playlist, I managed to rediscover Sugar Lee Hooper.  She's a Dutch performer known for her bald head, flamboyant style of dress, room-filling voice, and quirky beats.   She was also the Netherlands' first openly gay woman to marry her longtime partner.  I was saddened to learn that she passed away in 2010 after developing complications from hip surgery.  Though there wasn't an awful lot written about her in the English language searches I was doing, one thing remained consistent.  Somewhere in the very first sentence, usually within the first three words, was a description of her sexuality used as part of her identity.  That pattern caught my eye for a moment.  Then it occurred to me that this sort of thing isn't exactly uncommon.

Pain, Pain, Go Away

OK, I promise that I won't bang this drum too much.  But, I just came to the realization last night that since putting in my 2 weeks notice, my body hurts less.  I'm not talking just a little.  I'm talking I'm no longer hunched over for the first 10 minutes after getting out of bed, and I got a joint to release just today that I've been fighting with for almost a year.  I wasn't even trying for it either.  I was merely slouching in the chair, and *pop*.  Suddenly, I had more range of motion.  That made me sit up and think.

The Job Swap Yardstick

I think I’d like to thank the health insurance company where I worked prior to my current gig.  They helped me by teaching me about the yardstick to use when you suspect you’re in the wrong job.  Having only been there a little over a year, it was a crash course.  To me, it was a bit like taking that 5 credit hour combined macro and micro economics class in college during summer school.  It was hell.  During that time, I started noticing myself slipping deeper and deeper into an episode of anxiety and depression.  I had had that controlled for a couple of years, and was off medication so I was disappointed to see it back.  The most telling (and at the time, most frightening) sign that it wasn’t right for me to work there was when I started to dry heave into the sink while getting ready for work.  When you’re a woman who’s trying not to be pregnant, that whole “Is this morning sickness?” voice in the back of your head is persona non grata. During the worst of my madness in college, my anxiety had manifested as a tightening of my chest.  Not like a heart attack, but more like someone set a stray shot-put on my sternum.  So, to be nauseated to the point of my body trying to bring something up made me sit up and take notice.  

Live, From the Beardverse!

Last night was a friend of mine's birthday party, and it was a celebration of all beards, great and small.  Being that this friend is a fellow Samurai, and an all around great guy, Thunderhead and I couldn't miss the event.  Late yesterday afternoon, we headed out to shop for facial hair.  He decided on a fancy handlebar mustache, and I went with the douchebag villain model.  Should you need an image to keep you up at night, here are the two of us, with me feeding him freshly smashed hulk pinata leg.

My Wheezy Impression

Just a short update.  I was offered and have accepted a new job with another company yesterday.  I have submitted my new hire forms, peed in a cup, and notified my current employer that I'll be leaving at the end of the month.  The commute is shorter (if you can believe that it's less than the mile and a half I drive now) the pay is better, and the desk is above ground.  I didn't know how much working 60 feet down would bother me till it happened.  I'm not a sun worshiper, but a good window as a reassurance that the Zombie Apocalypse hasn't actually happened helps me make it through the day.  Beyond that, I just felt like I'd reached a sort of dead end, and it was time to move on before all of my skills and knowledge withered too much.  So, when this new opportunity came up, I pounced.  Unless they're exaggerating, it sounds like they're happy to have me.  That feels pretty good.

So yeah.  Call me Wheezy, since I'm movin' on up!

Reviewing White Gloves and Party Manners - Childhood Throwback

Skepticism in Pigtails.

In my recent bid to use my bossy (instead of greasy) elbow and push my crap around my apartment, I came across the textbook we used in charm school all those years ago.  Originally published in 1965, White Gloves and Party Manners is a yellow, hardcover manual about how to white wash your kid into being socially acceptable.  And the thing is, it's written in a voice that's speaking directly to the child.

Let me first say that I'm not anti-manners.  There are more than a few people in this world that don't know how to behave in a way that won't get them punched in the face, eventually.  Politeness, knowing your place, balance, and behavior that doesn't inspire violence goes in the pro column.  But, there are times when you've got to break or ignore the rules to get something accomplished.  The real lesson (that's hard to teach) is knowing when.  I'm afraid this book doesn't really help with that.  The tone is such that this is the be-all end-all source for every social situation.  My opinion is that there's still room for a "but" and a "why?", and there's no allowances made for that.  It's written in absolutes.

Klutz in a Cup

Dear Dole, and companies that make delicious, lunch sized fruit in a cup.  I am both a grown woman, and the kind of person that warrants a few stupid warning labels.  Your packaging, while probably efficient in their use of materials, makes me look like an extra in bukake porn before I even finish consuming them.

Time Out For Grownups

It's about 4:30 in the afternoon on Saturday, August 11th and I have done absolutely fuckall today.  That's the technical term for nothing.  The day certainly had potential.  I mean, I woke up (the first time) to an eager boyfriend poking me in the ass with the sort of insistence that says "I'm horny, you should be horny too.  Forget happy ending, let's make this a sloppy beginning."  Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it.  I kinda get off on his eagerness like that.  But, in the end, I wasn't ready to be awake yet, and drifted back to sleep.  An hour later, he woke me up again to let me know he had to get going so he could  make it to his company summer event early enough to get parking in the same zip code.  I grunted a response, gave a feeble wave, hugged the dog, and went *back* to sleep. 

Some hours later, I woke up, decided it was not the kind of day to spend unconscious, and got up.  I took a bath, downed my medication (34 years old, and I'm *still* on a pill for acne.  Ain't that a bitch.) and decided to kick this sore shoulder of mine in the . . .  well, it looks like back tits, but I'm gonna call it an ass to make the reference work.  I took one of my heavy duty muscle relaxants.  To the surprise of nobody, that put me back to sleep no sooner than my head hit the couch cushions about 45 minutes later.  So, today, you wanna know what I've done?  Laundry.  That's what I've done.  I don't count letting the dog out, since that was about 45 seconds of me standing on the porch in my bathrobe, squinting in the half-light of a strangely temperate day, and urging the dog to pee rather than eat the grass. 

Don't get me wrong.  I've been off work for the entire week, and I am at the tail end of it having accomplished an awful lot.  I had help.  Not gonna lie.  Thunderhead was instrumental in getting my kitchen floor re-tiled, as well as reorganizing my kitchen and nerd cave. He's got an eye for saving space and detail that I just don't have.  I was all about getting my crap out of boxes and put away *somewhere* when I moved in.  He was very helpful in getting the stuff put where it just makes sense.  But, I'd also taken plenty of naps and just forgotten about keeping a schedule.  I slept when I wanted to, I ate when I felt like it, and pretty much lived the week in a way that would give a left-brainer hives. 

Has it refreshed me enough to head back to work on Monday?  Only time will tell.  If it hasn't, well I'm always looking for new material for the spoken word events.  Either way, you could call it a week well spent in time out.