Google is Once Again Trying to Piss Me Off

Go here for my Search for the Perfect Venue: Part Deux!

(This is really starting to get old, Google Reader!)

Sometimes I Hate Google Reader

Because it makes me think no one likes me or reads my blog anymore (which is probably mostly true). Until I realize that it's most likely because my last post hasn't showed up in the stupid reader! Damn you Google and your manipulative self-esteem crushing ways!

So in case you missed it, check out my latest post here.

Or don't.

(Oh God, now watch. Now that I've reassured myself people actually still care/read this thing no one will even after that blatant plug. Awkwarddddd.)

9 Months from Yesterday...

...I’ll officially be a Mrs. Kind of a crazy, exciting, overwhelming, and surreal thought.

And you know with all of those emotions lumped into one already overly sensitive, anxiety prone person you get…MAJOR PANIC!

I’m panicking over anything and everything. Seriously. (Commence inner monologue) Why won’t the ink dry properly on the sample pages I’ve ordered? Should we invest in a laser printer for all the DIY paper products I plan to tackle or is that unnecessary? Am I even crafty enough to pull all this off? What if no one shows up? What if everyone shows up and we don’t have enough room or food or alcohol. Oh God we can’t run out of alcohol or everyone will think our party’s lame! Maybe we are lame. Maybe we should just head over to the JOP and flee the country for a month afterwards. But then I’d need to get my passport renewed now. And the wrath I’d incur from the rents would so not be worth it. Plus, I want a big-ish, beautiful, memorable wedding surrounded by all our friends and family. But how am I gonna invite them if this damn ink WON’T DRY!!!

(So maybe that’s not so much my “inner monologue” as me rambling like a wild banchee with the Boo doing his best not to club me lifeless out of sheer annoyance.)

Now I know that in the end none of this will matter. In the end he and I will be married. I’ll be his wife and he’ll be my husband and really that’s all that matters.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t teeter dangerously on the brink of sanity for the remaining 9 months.

(Really. Just watch me.)

How in God's Name...??

…Are all these disgusting nasty women on Bridezillas seriously getting married before me?

Seriously? No. SERIOUSLY?!?!?!

Has anyone bothered to watch this show lately?? Or say, EVER??

These women are disgusting, evil, conniving c-bag whores and yet somehow they’ve managed to swindle a ring out of their delusional significant others faster than I have?

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS WORLD????

I pride myself on being sufficiently, nay profoundly persuasive (that is to say pushy and obnoxious) and so you can see why I’m completely perplexed at the good fortune bestowed upon such horrific she-devils while I wait anxiously in the wings.

When’s it gonna be my turn, damnit????

I’ve completely given up waiting for the ring and just started planning everything for what has to happen inevitably. (Right?)

(Ok, who am I kidding. I’ve had this shit planned since our 6 month anniversary. And no, I’m not kidding. I’m slightly deranged like that.)

So as of yesterday I’ve forced the Boo into looking over color palates, venue choices, and sample menus in an attempt to get a head start (and give my beloved an effing clue) and surprisingly he’s humored me with his legitimate input.

I’ve already got most of it planned, budgeted, earmarked, coordinated, and itemized in descending chronological order…but I’ve yet to get the ring.

Something’s wrong with this picture. (And let’s be honest, it’s not me.)

Seriously.

Today I Am Officially One Year Away from My Quarter Life Crisis

....and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Birthdays are kind of sucky once you're past the age where it's socially acceptable to brat it up and insist everyone cater to your every whim for the day.

(Or weekend.)

(I mean not that I totally didn't try to pull that. Cause I so did. But the Boo didn't buy it.)

(Waaaahhh!!)

This Must Be God's Idea of Poetic Justice

So I bitched about not having anything to write about then God was all “Oh really? Life’s too perfect for you now, huh?” and I was all like “yea, I mean it’s great and everything but what am I supposed to write about now?” and he was like “how about the good stuff?” and I was all “ehhhh that’s whack” and he’s like “oh so that’s what’s up?” and I’m like “word” and he’s like “then here take this” and then the Boo and I got in a wreck.

It wasn’t anything life threatening but it was enough drama to make me squeal with glee whilst waiting for the officer to arrive “I CAN SO BLOG ABOUT THIS!!!” The Boo didn’t find that enough silver lining to un-piss him off during the whole situation but then again I wouldn’t expect him to be all too thrilled. (I’m the tortured artist after all. Duh.)

Basically the Boo was trying to turn into a parking garage from a lane that is usually the far left (as the other 2 usually hold oncoming traffic). Well APPARENTLY some streets were blocked off for some whack ass festival and the 2 lanes that are usually coming towards us were going with us. So he checked the “alleged” oncoming traffic (nothing) and proceeded to turn….at the exact same moment that some d-bag came flying by going at least 45 on a 25 mph street and side swiped the shit out of us.

It was a more hilarious observation in social commentary than anything else as no one was hurt and the tool driving the “MSTNG GT” (as we so aptly learned from his way cool personalized license plates) was one of “those guys”. One of those toolish guys who overcompensates for a not so sufficient something else by buying a body kit highly reminiscent of Paul Walker’s “sweet ride” circa Fast and the Furious imported from Japan and an inappropriately obnoxious muffler that did nothing more than highlight the “does-this-make-me-look-man-enough?” aesthetic.

I mean, seriously. This kid wore his neon blue tinted sunglasses hoisted precariously on the greasy forehead that served as a shore for his DEP dipped and carefully spiked head. This car was clearly his WORLD and he was devastated.

At points I almost had to refrain from outright pointing and laughing at his mourning and even more than that I was praying I may even get to witness a full mental breakdown complete with heaving sobs and woeful lamentation. It wasn’t that dramatic but it was damn near close.

The Boo didn’t get a ticket (much to the douche’s dismay) and we left the scene to proceed with our birthday celebrations. (Yes, you heard me. The Boo is 30 today…and horrified. [Happy Birthday, sucker!!])

So yea, if this is how God wants to play it from now on then next time I’m totally whining about not being engaged yet. Maybe that will light a fire under the Boo’s ass to get with it.

(Or maybe I should just stop bitching.)

(Ehhhhhhh….we’ll see.)

(Read: Highly unlikely.)

Because I am Nothing if Not Ambitious

As luck would have it my sister arrived on Sunday night and what would you know I had to start work on Tuesday!

Story of my life.

But we managed to cram in some good times when I wasn’t at work. Relaxing on a family friend’s boat on the lake, sipping wine and eating tapas at Press, chowing down on sushi at Nikko, thrift store hunting, American Idol madness, and an eventful Thursday night in uptown involving a champagne filled hookah, lots of booze and late night Jack in the Box.

It was a good (albeit stressful) week.

And I think it goes without saying that my new job (which requires me to work from 3-1130) has left me deprived of things I once took for granted in my slothful days of unemployment.

Among them are…

1. 40s, spicy peanuts and Jeopardy with the Boo

2. A never ending onslaught of mind-numbing reality television

3. Happy hour

4. Cuddle time with the Boo

5. Cooking dinner

6. General debauchery

7. And of course this blog and all my lovely blog friends

I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Yes, the hours aren’t terrific. The drive is a bit taxing. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers yo!

I figure I’ll just grind these first few months out till they have no choice but to promote me to a new tax bracket at which point I’ll promptly request normal people hours, an office with a view, and a revolving door of minions to fawn over me, tell me how glorious I am, and basically do all the real work.

Sounds doable.

If I Didn't Love American Idol So Much My Credit Would Be Atrocious

Is it just me or does anyone else delay the inevitably of paying monthly bills, even when the funds are present, until precipitously close to destitution, eviction, or at the very least, your cable being cut off?

(Actually don’t answer that. I know it’s just me.)

And I have no idea why I do it. Ya see, here’s the thing. I may not have a “job” right now and I may not be pulling in a weekly “paycheck” (I feel the quotes add a certain level of maturity to the situation don’t ya think?) but I always have a way to pay the necessities.

Some way, somehow, every month I turn just enough tricks do just enough freelance work to pull it off. And when the money gets to my account I revel in the illusion of optimism and wealth.

(Delusional? Yes, but I blame that on my parents. Growing up they always told me to use my imagination. They never dreamed it would pave the way for my large capacity for denial.)

Granted I’m more than willing to splurge on happy hour drinks, a night of sushi and Blockbuster or anything else completely irrelevant, unnecessary, and completely ludicrous.

But when it comes to bills? HELL NO. They are NOT getting my money. I greedily horde my meager wages in incarceration until that final day of “grace period” ends. Not until the latest possible day acceptable. Not until that foreboding text from T-Mobile warning me that I am seriously overdue on my balance and will be losing my service in approximately 24 hours.

Only then do I give in. But would it really kill me to just pay it “on time”? Just because I delay paying it doesn’t mean I actually get to KEEP the money. It’s the same as the concept I used to harbor…that if I didn’t SEE the actual bill in my mailbox then I wouldn’t have to PAY it.

(What? Delusional remember? See above.)

I guess there’s just something a little tragic about watching your checking account balance slowly deplete the same day it finally gets past single digits. But apparently this is part of “growing up”? (What is this you speak of? I want no part in it.)

Now excuse me. I’m off to pay my phone bill which is now, coincidentally, 11 days late. I’m such the champion for responsibility, huh?

The Ebb and Flow of My Constant State of Annoyance (Or Why I Should Probably Seek Therapy)

As you all may know by now, I am rarely ever not annoyed.

The dogs and their curious slobbery ways annoy me. The sound of my dishwasher blaring loudly over the TV volume that’s already set to 45 out of 60 annoys me. The fitted mattress that NEVER seems to stay down on my side…EVER but somehow miraculously clings to the Boo’s side all snuggly like night after night. The fact that I live around a bunch of morons who think it’s acceptable to puke chunky Checker’s fries and Goose and Cranberry all over the breezeway and not clean it up for THREE DAYS!!!! (Ok, that’s just disgusting. And yes, for the record, I’ve remained hibernated in doors while it’s been out there. And no, I’m not making this up. I really wish I was. Can you see now why we’re so ready to move already?)

But that brings me to my next and most current annoyance, boxes. Remember how I waxed poetic on loving boxes and tape and the tangibility of finally being able to see our move approaching? How it made me happy and joyous and gleeful for the blessed day?

Well, now…not so much.

I feel like I live in a hobo fort and it is not fun.

You can’t walk anywhere without stubbing your toe on the end of a box or a garbage bag of trash, hangers or clothes to be donated. You can’t see the TV from the couch unless you’re perched at just the right angle craning your neck like a Pepping Tom.

I am literally boxed in.

Pun intended. (Or not. I really hate puns.)

The Boo’s cleverly pushed up his departure time for school ever so slightly to escape this cardboard prison we’ve constructed, meanwhile I’m left knee deep in shitty moving tape that never stays on the little metal thing like you want it to so you end up peeling away 1/3 of the role just to restart it again.

That and Always ultra protection maxi pad boxes. Because nothing says class like boxes that scream “We’re too cheap to buy moving boxes so we stole some feminine hygiene ones from our local Publix. “

“Oh and by the way, we’re your new neighbors!!”