Sarah Gone Wild

Archive for December, 2008

First, the other crap. Christmas was tolerable, I love my family and Mr. T’s, but it was still sad. Obviously. Moving on.

I got Raving Rabbids TV Party and can’t wait to play it all night tonight while drinking gin punch and eating spinach dip and cheese fondue from my new fondue pot. I call dibs on the pink food stabber! Obviously. Moving on.

The government is stupid ridiculous. I didn’t realized until today, when my coworkers were discussing it, that I never received my 2008 personal property bill. Why? As I found out, when I moved to STL county last year, I informed St. Charles of the move (so they didn’t send a bill) and then registered my car with my new addy at the DMV and with the city in which I live…but NONE OF THOSE DEPARTMENTS COMMUNICATE WITH STL COUNTY. Not a one. I didn’t know that I had to do something else to get my bill issued from the new county, but I was told today that, since none of the county, city or state government agencies communicate with each other, I have to write a letter to the county requesting my bill. So I did, and it was no big thing, but it’s still irritating that the agencies to whom we pay taxes every pay period can’t even manage to communicate. Government is wasteful and an unfortunately necessary evil. Obviously. Moving on.

The cops came to my house on Saturday. Not so obvious, not moving on. Here’s how it all went down:

Mr. T left around 4:30 to go help a friend with some stuff. That means I am home alone at night. As discussed in previous blog entries, I am scared of the dark and I believe that there is a serial killer living in our attic. These are important facts to remember.

So, I’m chilling in our bedroom, playing on the internet and watching TV at a ridiculously high volume in order to block out all the creepy settling noises our house makes. I have no idea that the winds have picked up to about 40-50 MPH outside. About a half hour after he leaves, I hear a noise in the kitchen that sounds like someone dropped something. Even Tedders heard it. But he’s a wuss like me and neither one of us investigated it. I assumed it was something weird (the cat was with me, too, so I couldn’t blame the animals), talked myself back to calm and continued with my evening.

About 20 minutes later, I hear a noise like nothing I have ever heard in my house before. It sounds like someone is in the house, sawing something. You know, like the killer in the attic was sawing through the floorboards for a surprise attack. We leave the TV on for the animals when we leave, and I’m pretty quiet, so he might have thought we were gone. Regardless, I freak out and begin to sweat with fear and panic. It happens again a few minutes later, and I grow balls big enough to allow me to check the back door and run to the front door to lock it (note to Mr. T: LOCK ME IN, FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!).

As I head back to the bedroom from the front door, I hear it again. It’s much louder in the kitchen and sounds like it is either coming from right below the kitchen window (from the outside), or from the attic. It’s dark outside and I’m alone, so I call Mr. T. No answer. I call about ten more times before I am sure that he doesn’t have his phone nearby. So I call the next person on my panic list – my mom. My mom who is way worse than me.

She answers and I tell her that I’m scared but don’t know what to do because I can’t reach T and am too scared to check it out myself. She insists I call the cops. NO WAY. That’s crazy talk. I mean, I’m probably being crazy anyway, so there’s no need to bring the law into this. She tells me if I don’t, she will and she’ll call 911 instead of the non-emergency line. I tell her I’ll call and hang up.

I call the non-emergency line and the following conversation ensues:

- St. John Police Department.

- Hi. I have a little issue. I am home alone, can’t reach my husband and hear a loud noise that sounds like a saw coming from somewhere in or around the house. It’s really probably nothing, and it’s definitely not an emergency, but I’m too scared to investigate myself. What do you suggest?

- Well, it might be the wind, but I’ll send someone to you to double check. What’s your name? [I give it.] Address? [I give it.] Date of birth? [I give it.] Okay, someone will be by in a few minutes.

- Okay, thanks. I feel stupid, but I appreciate it.

- No problem. Have a good night.

Okay, so I call mom back and tell her someone is on the way. She can hear the noise from her end of the phone and she understands why it is freaking me out. She stays on the line with me until the cops pull up. When they get to my door, they ask if Teddy is friendly and then come in. Before that even happens, I am aplogizing profusely for bothering them as it’s probably nothing. Keep in mind, the noise has happened intermittently for the past half hour. As soon as they pull up, the sound stops and never repeats while they are there. Just like taking your car to the shop. Figures. The next few minutes go like this:

- Good evening, ma’am. You are hearing something in the basement?

- No, now I think it’s either outside or in the attic. I’m so sorry, it’s probably nothing. I’m just a chicken.

- And what does it sound like?

At this point, I figure a good description is worth more than my guess as to what it is. So I say:

- It sounds like a giant bumblebee. I know, that sounds crazy. I’m not saying it IS a giant bumblebee, just that that’s an accurate description of the sound. That, or a saw.

- A chain saw?

- Well, more like a circular saw. A circular saw cutting wood.

- Okay. We’ll check out the attic.

Keep in mind that I NEVER go into the attic. It’s a walk-up attic and the stairs are covered with grocery bags that need to be recycled and our bags of dog food. And one of the handrails is broken. So they practically break their necks getting up there and I feel even worse. Obviously, they get up there and say that no one is there. They come back down, take my name and date of birth again and head to the front door. I apologize even more, insist that I’m not crazy and apologize again. They brush it off and tell me that if I get worried again, to just call and they’ll come back – that’s their job. But then, as they’re walking out, I hear the older cop say:

- It’s going to be one of those nights. *sigh*

Well, crap. So now there’s a file at the local police office showing that I’m a crazy person who hears things and is afraid of the dark. Not two minutes after they leave, the sound starts up again. No shit. So I lock the door, grab a butcher knife and a beer and head to the living room to watch TV. I called Mr. T and left a message telling him he was in SOOOO much trouble and the cops just left our house because he didn’t answer the phone to calm his crazy wife down. Then I saw that P.S., I Love You was on HBO. I’d not seen it yet, so I turned it on.

When T got home, he walked in to find me on the couch with a beer in one hand, a giant knife in the other, crying like a baby.

Good times, good times.

Happy freaking new year, everybody. Here’s hoping 2009 comes and goes with no one dying, calling the cops or telling anyone that a giant bumblebee with a saw is trying to get in her house. Good luck with the last one…

So, I’m not big on posting pictures of myself. Not that I think I’m so important that someone might want to stalk me, but it’s a little weird for me to blog a bunch of random crap and then put a face to it. However, I’m actually quite proud of my wedding and figured I would cleverly post some non-incriminating pictures from the big day. A few of you will be especially enamored with some of these (*ahem* Schneider Doodle, Pamster, RhoJo and Coree). Besides, most of my Xmas gifts involve wedding pictures, so you know. Happy holidays and all that crap.

Without further ado, may I present the highlights (and what some might consider lowlights) of the Mr. T-Sassy wedding (all but one of the following are courtesy of the amazing Clary Pfeiffer)…

Getting ready:

My amazing necklace, handmade by my fabulous sister:

The unity candle – there is ribbon at the top of the tapers that you can’t see – and it almost caused a fire during the ceremony. Ahhh, memories:

My flowers and vow pillow:

Superman!

My best friend tying me up:

The church – I love this perspective shot:

Finally married!

On to the fun reception details:

Yep, those are Smurfs on top of my cake:

Cheers! This is a good shot of my wedding gift, one of two right hand rings:

This picture is from Ame of Dickey Designs – my waist looks TEENY and I love it:

Our first dance – I ADORE this shot:

Party time! Here are some of my favorite dance shots from the night…and remember, full open bar:

 

I know this happened more than once, but between the slippers and dress, I don’t know how:

 

So there you have it. Lots of time-consuming details and mild breakdowns, but a gorgeous day with lots of happy memories to help offset the sad ones.

 

But if Mr. T ever divorces my ass, I will never, EVER get married again. Ever. Maybe I should start being nicer…

 

Nah. He knew what he was asking for when he proposed.

 

You are in big trouble, missy!

Look what she did to me!

After I blogged about being a scrooge, this is what I get, huh? A tag for holiday traditions??? Well, this is an easy one.

My holiday traditions revolve around being stressed out, too poor to buy the cool gifts I want to buy for my family and friends and really cranky. So why should this post be any different?

Christmas Eve belongs to my mom, stepdad and siblings. We open all our gifts and have a huge dinner, and once again, I am NOT getting Christmas pizza. Christmas day is a stressful clusterfuck that includes spending a few hours at T’s parents’ house with his family (I love them all except two, and those two never fail to make it a miserable experience…”Oh, my diabetes! I can’t make the crying kids a plate because I have diabetes!” Funny, your diabetes didn’t keep you from bowling until 2 AM! ”Oh, you did [enter some trivial piece of conversation of which the culprit was not involved here], did you? Well, I [enter some overexaggerated, lie-filled one-uppance here].”) Then we head over to see someone on my biodad’s side. This year, we’re going to Festus. No offense to those who live there, but that’s just miserable sounding. How can anyone get excited about visiting a city that sounds like a pus-filled wound?? A few days after Christmas, I go see whomever got screwed on Christmas day. So it NEVER ENDS.

I want to be rich. I want to be off work entirely for the holidays. I want Christmas pizza, dammit!

Since I’m such a miser, I won’t be tagging anyone. Take that, my lovely Pamster. Yeah, I bet that hurts. It burns, just like the coal in my stocking (which happens to packed away in the attic). But you know I still love you.

I’m a total scrooge. I despise the holidays, especially this year. There is nothing relaxing or enjoyable about rushing around to hit as many family gatherings as possible in two days. I hate the guilt that comes from missing a gathering due to schedule conflicts. I hate the multiple calls trying to arrange everything. I hate drawing names and then buying a gift card – it’s pointless and retarded. I could have just spent that $50 on my own gift card, as could have the other person with whom I am exchanging. I hate plastering on a smile and pretending to love the family members I really despise. *cough*S&M*cough* I’m not a churchgoer, so in the end, it’s really pointless for me to celebrate the holiday. It’s based on religion, and I’m not comfortable with organized religion, so I hate being a hypocrite and celebrating something that I don’t fully believe in. I hate getting presents, and opening them in front of cameras is just plain uncomfortable.

Don’t get me wrong, I love family time. I just hate that it has to be clustered into two short days and that everyone from my crazy divorced family is pulling at me to be at their gatherings. I love giving the gifts that I spent so much time thinking about and creating and watching the recipients’ reactions.

But this has been a rough year. It’s going to be weird without my two grandmothers and that makes me so sad. Given the crazy schedule, I probably won’t even see my uncle, and that makes it even harder. Our schedule has allowed zero time for my husband and I to enjoy the holiday alone. Mr. T is totally strapped this year, so he couldn’t buy his family gifts and I couldn’t afford to carry the financial burden of both families, so that’s extremely awkward.

I’m even weird about phone calls and texts. I think it’s exhausting to field so many holiday wishes, especially when the return sentiment I offer is strained and without genuine enthusiasm. I don’t even like Christmas carols.

So there you have it. I’m a holiday scrooge and I don’t care who knows it. I think other people with divorced families probably feel the same way about some of this. Even if they don’t, I don’t care. Nothing’s going to change my outlook. At least, not this year.

Here’s to a better 2009. 2008 can go fuck itself.

I am currently attempting to clean out my work inbox – waiting for 2,423 archived messages to load every morning is just getting old (to say nothing of the countless emails sitting in inbox folders…). In the process, I am rediscovering the true level of incompetence with which I work on a daily basis. I am completely blown away. Every job description I’ve ever read has emphasized the importance of solid communications skills, both written and verbal. I would hope that would be one requirement that is strongly enforced, but, alas, my hopes are apparently unfounded.

THIS is my reality (please note, these are all excerpts from actual emails I have received, either from coworkers or clients…identities have been concealed to protect the guilty):

• I can’t administrate our site; something comes up saying the site is under maintenance or that there’s a programming error. I’m doing xxxxxx for username and xxxx for password.
• I know [name]‘s slammed therefore will you be sure I didn’t misspeak in the attached contact report. Also, what’s the other dudes name? I totally can’t think of it, for some reason [name] is coming to mind but I might be on crack.
• I stopped by today to pick up the disk with our selections from the initial disk & it was not there. I will check on tat disk again tomorrow.
• These look good. I saw go with it.
• Okay with me. Much better. Shat about the inserts?
• Later this work is totally cool.
• Your absolutely right…I want to make sure the piece is bright creating a more positive spin to everything visually…
• Here is a couple of suggestions to add…
• Was your ears ringing?

Oh, and there are so many more! It makes my brain ache to think about all the simple grammar and punctuation rules that are abused so badly every single day. Improper capitalization drives me INSANE, and why don’t people understand how to use quotation marks and apostrophes???? It’s really not that hard, people. Also, stop making up words – I’m the only one allowed to do that here. And WHY DOESN’T EVERY SINGLE OUTLOOK USER HAVE SPELL CHECK ACTIVATED??? It takes two seconds to make sure your emails don’t go out without a brief spell check. Sure, simple mistakes are easy to make, but at some point, shouldn’t you proof your emails before they go to the client? Professionalism, people!

Woe is me.

Or some shit like that. I went to a seminar about grieving awhile back and the guy giving the lecture has a book out about the wilderness of grief (I would know, I won a copy of the audio book…seriously, who goes to a grief seminar and WINS something???? Me, that’s who…). The main gist is that grief is unique to each person, and it’s similar to the wilderness in that there are many unexpected obstacles and twists that arise in the process. Sure, whatever. This guy needs to keep out of my “wilderness” – it’s cluttered, dangerous and inhospitable to children.

Anyway, the only reason I even thought of this was because of something weird that happened this weekend. Mr. T and I went to get our herrrrs did (I’m now a reddish brunette, thank you very much) and then went to the Bandanas in Florissant for lunch. I was totally fine until I got up to use the restroom and saw the electrical outlet by the waitress station. I had to hold back tears until I got in the bathroom stall and then I cried like a baby. Because of an electrical outlet.

The reason? Shortly before Grandma V died, we took her there for lunch one Saturday. She was having difficulty breathing and had a breathing machine with her for emergencies. We had to ask for a table that was pretty close to an outlet in case she had an attack and needed to use the machine, which had to be plugged in. For whatever reason, walking past that outlet triggered the memory and made me incredibly sad. We left and I told T that we couldn’t eat there anymore because the memories just hurt too much.

I have been doing much better lately with the whole coping thing, so this took me by surprise. I immediately thought of the seminar and how the guy said that these things happen, and will continue to happen for the rest of my life. Great. I can’t wait to go to the grocery store and start weeping in front of a box of Melba toast (my other grandmother’s name was Melba and we always joked about “her” toast). Perhaps my next list should be “List of stuff that may or may not trigger uncontrollable weeping in public.” Nah, that’d take far too long.

On another, more lighthearted note, I baked holiday cookies with my mom yesterday. In my attempt to break from all things stereotypically classified as Christmas, I strayed from her pre-approved holiday cookie cutters. The resulting batches included an evil holiday unicorn (complete with red eye), a holiday axe, a Christmas 3 (Oh, Christmas three, oh Christmas three…), a 4 for my sister obsessed with even numbers, a holiday rooster (or Christmas cock, if you’re so inclined), a tatooed snowman, a bunny, a questionable turkey and, of course, Christmas pizza. If this isn’t the year for Christmas pizza, I’m boycotting completely. Thanksgiving pizza didn’t happen, wedding pizza didn’t happen…what’s a girl got to do to get a special occassion pizza pie around here????

Although I despise children, I think this sums up the theme for the day…

Mr. T tells me all the time that I stifle his cooking creativity with my picky eating habits. My coworkers are constantly astounded by the sheer amount of things I don’t eat – and this was the first list they attempted to start, but gave up when the board was full. I will continue with their format here – the food and a brief description of why I don’t like it. With no further ado, I give you:

List of stuff that I won’t eat

• Cooked onions. Too slimy. I will eat onion rings, but if the actual onion comes out of the breading, it makes me want to ralph.
• Raw onions. Bad taste with bad crunch.
• Peppers. Ew. I tried them with cottage cheese once and that made it worse.
• Raw tomatoes. Too slimy and weird tasting.
• Meat on the bone. Too neanderthal-like. Can’t stand the sensation of my teeth touching bone. Looks too much like the animal it was cut from – can’t eat anything that resembles something living.
• Venison. Too pretty.
• Lamb, rabbit, veal. Too cute.
• Avocadoes. Weird texture and after taste.
• Raw blueberries. The weird tops gross me out. Put them in a poptart or muffin, though, and I’m in.
• Spicy stuff. I’m a wimp.
• Mashed cauliflower. Not even CLOSE to mashed potatoes. *Shudder*
• Pork. Okay, I eat sausage. But the rest of it, even bacon, I’ll pass on…unless it’s bacon on a BBQ burger…don’t ask, it doesn’t make sense.
• Radishes. Taste like burned taste buds.
• Eggplant. Okay, I’ve never actually eaten it, but I have no desire to try it.
• Capers. Look like rabbit poop. But if you cook with them and tell me they’re peas, I’ll probably eat them.
• Animal organs. Just gross. No brains, livers, gizzards or other innards need apply.
• Lobster. Too chewy/dense.
• Octopus, squid. Never tried them, heard they’re like lobster. I’m out!
• Mahi mahi. Sure, it’s the dumber, uglier dolphin, but it is dolphin.
• Tapioca. I don’t feel compelled to eat teeny, slimy balls. Ick.
• Cabbage. Unless it’s in slaw dressing, it’s not for me. It smells bad, too.
• Corned beef. It sounds gross and it tastes even more gross than it sounds. Good thing I’m not Irish, eh?
• Sweet potatoes. I don’t even like ‘em with marshmallows…
• Cornish game hen. I think it has more to do with the fact that the first time I encountered them, I thought my ex’s mom was saying they were “little cornish gay men.”
• Muenster cheese. Cheese is a food group to me, but this one is an outsider. I tend to not eat things that smell like feet…
• Meatloaf. I see no need for meat to come in loaf form.
• Squash. I’ll eat it, but I don’t enjoy it. Sure, butter helps, but that kind of defeats the purpose…
• Okra. Even frying it doesn’t help.
• Beets. Only good as visual garnish.
• Brussel sprouts. Something else I’ve never eaten and never will.
• Mushrooms. I don’t eat fungus.
• Turnips. Just icky.
• Duck. I want one as a pet, not an entree.
• Steak. Even off the bone…if it’s not ground up, I won’t eat it.
• Oysters. I don’t eat boogers, so why would I eat an oyster?
• Sashimi. I’m starting to enjoy some very basic sushi, but sashimi is asking a bit too much.
• Vegetable juice. That goes against my definition of juice.
• Fruit dip. Fruit is perfect. It does NOT need dip.
• Store-bought icing. I eat it and use it when absolutely necessary, but it makes my soul hurt a little. Homemade buttercream and decorator’s icing is so simple and delicious.
• Black licorice. Gross.
• Black coffee. Too bitter. Need sweetener at the least, prefer some half and half, too.
• Fruitcake. But really, who likes fruitcake?
• Anchovies. Small but whole salty fish? Nope. I puked an anchovy-based dressing once and it was the worst puke ever. Oddly enough, Caesar salad is still my favorite…
• Ham. I just can’t eat it. Alone, on something, in something, I’ll pass.
• Warm pineapple. I don’t like pineapple upside down cake unless it is completely cooled, and the idea of pineapple on pizza or part of a hot dish makes me uncomfortable – I pick it out of my sweet and sour chicken.

Well, I won’t say that this is an exhaustive list (I’ll think of 20 more things after I hit “Publish”), but I’m bored of this and feel the need to go pee for the fifth time today to see if the ring falls out…so I’ll leave you with a picture of squirrels weilding light sabers.

Well, I’m not entirely sure how I let this happen, but I officially have a 2-inch ring o’baby-preventing hormones chilling in my hooha. Let’s reflect on my annual GYN appointment yesterday…

I arrive about 20 minutes early because I know there will be issues with my lack of insurance card, even though I have called the office twice about the letter I have. After fighting with a crabby receptionist about accepting the letter from Anthem as proof of insurance until my card comes in, I continue to the lobby where I wait for a good 25 minutes for my turn. Once in the room, I find myself bored, nekkid and covered in pink paper. A solid 20 minutes later, my nurse practitioner comes breezing in the room and I hang up on Mr. T (he was keeping me entertained). At this point, I’ve been at the office for about an hour…

The events that follow transpired within no more than FIVE MINUTES. 

NP: How are you? Any problems? Anything new?

S: Well, define “problems.”

NP: Anything wrong with your boobs or vagina?

S: Not really, but I do hate my birth control. I want to change it.

NP: What do you hate about it?

S: I hate taking a pill everyday. I’m forgetful and I hate babies.

NP: Oh, what about the NuvaRing? Once it’s in, you don’t have to think about it for 3 weeks.

S: Oh, no. I can’t do it. That thing freaks me out.

NP: Why?

S: It’s just weird. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get it out. It’ll get stuck. I can’t do it.

NP: Why don’t we just try it? It’s easy, I’ll just go grab one and pop it in during your exam.

S: Um, okay…

[She leaves the room briefly and returns with a foil package. She proceeds with the quick exam, chatting about why I hate babies, and then...]

NP: There, it’s in. If you can’t get it out in three weeks, come back in and I’ll remove it. We can chat more about it then. Either way, call me in three weeks – I may have more samples for you. I’ll go grab some literature for you. If it pops out, just stick it back in.

S: Wait, does that happen often???

NP: Some people have more trouble than others. If it bothers you during sex, take it out and put it back in – just don’t leave it out for more than three hours. I’ll go grab your literature while you get dressed.

Then she was gone. A nurse brought me the literature and I left, feeling like I’d been sold a lemon at a used car lot. Ring around the hooha in 2 seconds flat. I immediately called Mr. T and told him we had to have sex when I got home…you know, in the name of science.

So I guess we’ll see what the next three weeks hold. I’m a little grossed out by the whole thing. What if it falls out while I’m going to the bathroom??? You can’t use hot water on it, and the idea of jamming a pee-coated mini-bracelet back up my girlie bits just bothers the hell out of me. And if I can’t get it out, I have to call her office to make an appointment for HER to do it?? That’ll be a fun call…What do you need to see the doctor for this time? Oh, I can’t get this damn ring out of my vag…

Anybody use this thing? Thoughts? It all happened so fast. I think my ovaries have whiplash. I wish Mr. T would get over his indecision about babies and let me get sterilized already…I’m totally weirded out by this whole thing. Honestly, if my primary care doc hadn’t already recommended the ring to help me with some other issues, I would have refused the thing entirely. But anyone who knows me knows how easily swayed I can be at times. This is exactly why Mr. T wouldn’t let me talk to the vendors in Jamaica…

Another MSN homepage headline gem: Ricky Martin shows off his twins.

No, thanks. I’ll pass. He shook his bon-bon, wasn’t that enough??

In advance, you are welcome…

 

 

 

So, it’s probably not even going to pan out, but last night I took the plunge on something I’ve been indecisive about for a while. I’m not even going to jinx it by providing details, but I wanted to put out a request in the blogosphere for some much-needed good luck vibes, thoughts, fairy dust, whatever you got. If, against all odds, this would work out, I really think it would be a change I desperately need.

And this has nothing to do with Prego or Ragu.