Dilated Driving

A customer drove up to the donation center today, got out of her car and walked over to the door where I was waiting. (We are supposed to greet the customers at their cars.) She was wearing large sunglasses. She said to me (thinking, for some reason, I might care) "I've just had my pupils dilated, I can't see a thing!" and then she goes on to ask the kind of items we accept. Typical questions.

Let me reiterate the part where she drove up to the donation center.

Thank fucking fuck fuck that the people I care about are not on the road right now.

Judging Books by Covers

Although today is Christmas Day, you don't need yet another form of media to tell you about Christmasy things. That's not to say I don't love Christmas- I do- but one can only take so much of anything. So instead, I'll share a thought I had this morning, when my husband mentioned Kronk to my son, and said "If you'd seen The Emperor's New Groove, you'd know who Kronk is." To which I, in the next room, rolled my eyes and thought to myself That's something we won't be watching anytime soon.

I know. I can already hear the gasps from some of you, in disbelief that I don't like this movie. I know your reactions because these are the reactions of my friends. I don't know anyone (aside from myself) who doesn't like this movie. But I haaaaaaate this movie. Just hearing the name of the film for the first time I thought wow, this will be stupid. I don't even want to see it because I don't ever want to like a movie with such an obnoxiously stupid title. And it involves a llama, which made it all the more stupid. They tell you not to judge a book by its cover, but from the cover only did I judge this film.

And you know what? I was right.

I watched it, I tuned out half of it while I was watching it, and I still don't like it. I'll admit there are movies that I disliked initially and learned to love- The Road to El Dorado is a fine example, and much in the same vein as TENG in that it's animated, it's silly, and it came out in the same relative time frame. I didn't think I would like RTED, but  was wrong. I love that film. But I still hate the stupid llama.

Perhaps as a child, it's important to try something you think you might not like, because you're young and you haven't experienced enough of the world.  Even as an adult, try things you might not be sure about. But I'd like to think that, at this stage in my life, I can look at something and say you know, I'm not going to like that, and people might shut up and have faith that maybe, having known myself quite intimately for literally my entire life, I might have some idea as to what I will and will not enjoy. And even if I'm being a stubborn old curmudgeon, what difference does it make to you? So I don't want to watch your horrible llama movie. Leave me alone.

The point is, you very much can judge a book by its cover. The point of the cover is to draw you in, appeal to your senses. If your senses are repulsed, maybe it isn't the book for you. Maybe the publisher ought to have done a better job being more appealing. Or maybe I'm just a killjoy who hates to try anything new.

Ugh, My Husband

My husband is clever. Damned clever. Clever to the point where I loathe him.

One of our cats has stopped using the litter box. Perhaps because she is old, perhaps because she's a bitch, I don't know. We have pee pads in front of the litter box where she goes pee, but she poops on the hardwood floor for some unknown reason. We call the area where the cat boxes are, "Poo Corner".

As I walk to the kitchen, I spy a poo on the floor and I groan, "Augh, there's a turd in poo corner!"

My husband: "Sounds like a real... *pause* poodunnit."

The Life of No Regrets

Inspirational books and Facebook posts would have you believe that it is the decisions you never made, the actions not taken, that bring you the most regret when you grow old. I don't know the kind of life these people assume we're leading- perhaps they feel we are all trapped in  our own personal Nicholas Sparks novel- but I've found the opposite to be true for myself. It's always the actions that I did do, the decisions that I already made, that I end up regretting. I've never had a case of "I wish I had talked to that girl", or "I should have gone on that trip". Usually it is "Ugh why did I fuck that guy?" and "I wasn't really into that person, why did we date?" or, most commonly, "I wish I had never said a word throughout my entire high school and college life".

Maybe it has to be tailored to yourself. I'm not the kind of person who shies away from doing something if I want to do it, so I've never really had a circumstance that seemed important where I missed out. I'm too impulsive for that. Rather, my impulsiveness had made me do plenty of things that I wish I hadn't. Maybe a better saying for those books and blurred pictures of trees with contrasting words over them would be "You will regret not having done the opposite of what you do, so... enjoy your regrets."

Also, if I were to have my life written by someone, Nicholas Sparks is the last person I'd want. That sounds like glorious raging Hell. I'd fare better in a Chuck Palaniuk novel. I can understand those people, regardless of their warped personalities. I simply cannot understand, get behind or appreciate the 'love conquers all' mentality.

Christmas in the Lower Income Bracket

Christmas is coming and I am partly very excited about it, and partly exhausted already. People in the lower income bracket can appreciate how the holidays seem bleaker than usual, especially when you have a child that you want to make a special holiday for. Already I've had to make some changes to our usual holiday festivities, including a decided lack of a tree, as we have no floor space for one and the cats will eat the fake one we could put on the table. But mama is nothing if not resourceful.

That is wreath garland in a zig-zag tree shape on the wall of mommy's "office", or rather the corner of the living room where her desk is. Only a few of our ornaments were hung on it, with thumb tacks and 3M hooks. Those are our stockings, hanging in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. 

There is something sad, but also kind of lovely, about where we are now. We have no space and most of our things haven't been unpacked and quite frankly the apartment sucks, but it allows me creativity I couldn't have before. In our previous place, we weren't allowed to paint the walls, put up shelves, or even screws to hang pictures. We weren't even allowed to use 3M hooks, though I did it anyway.  But here, in this place, I can pretty much do whatever I like. I don't even ask permission, because I don't care at all about the space and the landlord is all but absent from our lives, and he does the bare minimum to sustain our living. I feel I owe him nothing. 

This isn't meant to be a depressing post. It just is what it is, and those who will be having a thin Christmas this year will appreciate how, sometimes, just making do with what you can is enough not to give up. So on a happier note, here are my wintry nails and my husband repellant hand lotion. (He hates the smell of the cinnamon pine cones in craft stores, and this is what it smells like. I love it.)

You're Supposed to Care Less With Age

Most people I know give up insecurities, the paranoia that makes you self conscious in the face of society. They look back at themselves and laugh, and say "Boy, I sure was stupid for being so worried about what other people thought!" And then they go about their lives and exist how they want. I am following the opposite pattern. When I was younger I think I was oblivious, or just completely wrong, about the way I was viewed in the world. But in the age of the internet where you can easily archive your youth and pull it up to be read again, I revisit my former self and I'm just embarrassed for myself. I don't feel much, if any, endearment for my youth. It bothers me how stupid I was, how ridiculous I seemed, how completely off the mark my perceptions of self had been.

So now, instead of throwing off the shackles of my uptight youth, I compensate for it. I don't want to be in my forties and realize that I was late in my twenties and I still looked like an idiot. Maybe that will be the time. Maybe, in my forties, I will throw off the shackles of self-conscious 28 and act like I don't care.

Morbid Thanksgiving

My family and I have a strange sense of humor that not everyone can appreciate. For instance, "Go die in a fire" is akin to "I love and appreciate you". It's just how we communicate. There isn't malice in our threats, and most of the time the more horrific the visual, the better it is appreciated.

That being said, my husband and I have always had a long running joke that he would have a heart attack before reaching age 30. (This is a joke because he eats lots of junk food and isn't very active, so it's a sort of tongue in cheek prod that he worries me.) Well, he is now age 32, still alive, heart doing well. On Thanksgiving I was feeling a bit amorous, and so I gave him a hug and nuzzled against his neck and said "I'm thankful that you lived past 30."

His sweet, romantic reply? "I'm thankful you won't."

My husband is one of the smartest people with the quickest, razor sharp wit that I have ever known. This was a major reason why I married him. Our conversations are never dull, and he often comes out with a few hilarious gems. Most of these gems result in a flurry of fists against his chest while he laughs and laughs and looks at me as though he has no idea why I'm pummeling him.

But he knows. Oh, he knows.

The Greatest Snack for Lunch!

I'm painting the bathroom today, which seems like a very adult thing to do, so to counteract the effects of responsibility, I'm having a snack for lunch.

Peanut butter, banana, garlic butter Ritz crackers and sharp Vermont cheddar. 

*nom nom*

Calls From School

I ended a phone conversation with my son's teacher, and my son, literally less than ten minutes ago. [I had to call daddy first to tell him about it and ruin his lunch break, and then I had time to blog about it.] She called me while class was going on in the background to tell me that my son is having a very, very bad day. He isn't listening, he's drawing on the carpet and crawling beneath the tables and chairs (he hides when he's upset), so I suppose it came to the point where she needed to call me and have me speak to him. I don't know what she expected me to say to him, but I guess parents tend to be heeded more than teachers... in whatever alternate universe the school is in. In my experiences, children listen to any form of authority before their own parents.

Part of me thinks perhaps his teacher is weird, since she only wanted me to give my son a talking to and then she pretty much hung up on me. And part of me thinks my son's teacher might be a total badass. Think about it; It might have been one of those circumstances in which she told my child, repeatedly, that "If you don't settle down and behave, I'm going to call your mother". And then she did. This was not an idle threat made. The woman phoned me up and put my son on the phone and involved me into his school day, which must plant in his brain that it's only going to get worse when he gets home.

I think my son might need to see a counselor. His behavior isn't intentionally disruptive, I think he just has a hard time processing emotion and boredom and resentment. Plus, autism runs heavy in my bloodline, especially in the boys,

New England Winters, and Where I Work is Spooky (After Dark)

I love New England winters. Sure, they're cold, but the scenery is beautiful and when it snows, you could be any time in history and it would always be just as beautiful.

One thing I hate, though, are New England winters! It gets so dark at such an unreasonably early time, how am I supposed to stay awake throughout the entirety of winter?? It's insanity and I think the world is asking too much of me.

I work in a donation center. Basically, I sit in a big room and wait for people to drop off their donated goods- clothes, household goods, small furniture items, etc. [We have specific dos and don'ts of donation, but those are other posts for other times.] The lovely thing about my job is that it is the perfect slacker job, and I am quite the slacker. Sometimes, there will be hours between donors, and often my interaction with people is limited to two minute increments. This is awesome, since I'm not such a fan of social interaction. Plus I have internet.

A very big downside, especially in the winter, is that the location the DC (donation center) is around the back of the building where we're located.

This means that once all the other stores close, which is around 4:30, I'm the only person left. And I'm around back. And there are no lights back there, there is only a field and darkness and a prime location for a drug deal to go down. [Note: I have yet to witness a drug deal go down out there, but then I can't see further than five feet past the door into the parking lot.] This makes my work very spooky after dark. I'm like a glowing beacon for serial killers, and moths to cling to the glass door. Mostly just the moth thing. But in my mind, serial killers are eminent. That is why I have a baseball bat sitting next to the desk up front. No, seriously. I have a bat. And the spookiness isn't a gradual thing, either. It's not as though I'm sorting through boxes for hours and then I look up and go "Oh my, when did it get so dark?" It's immediate. It is like someone dropped a huge black cloak over the world. I documented the transition to show you.

The front window (from inside), at 3:30pm

At 4:00

 At 4:15

 At 4:30

At 4:45

At 5:00

As you can see, by 5 o'clock, the world is pitch black and I can't see out past the window unless I either turn off all the lights inside (which I can't do because then the monsters will get me) or I squish my face up against the glass and cup my hands around my eyes to block out the light. When a car pulls up, all I see are headlights, and all I can do is hope that it's a customer coming to give me donations and not a serial killer looking to hide from the police and/or chop my limbs off.

I guess the point of this story is to let you know that, if some day I vanish forever, I'm probably hacked to pieces because my place of work is the prime location for a murder scene. 

And so it begins...

There are many, many, many funny blogs in the world, written by many, many, many interesting people. Sometimes I read their work and I think Hmm, maybe I'm interesting enough to have a blog people might want to see.

I'm sure that I'm not. However, I am a big fan of keeping myself amused, so I'm writing one anyway. Here goes!

[In case it isn't obvious, I'm pretty terrible at introductions.]