Here's a funny thing: I have often wished for a private blog to gripe about my family, but I've never bothered to set one up because of the tedium in thinking of the perfect name that they'll never guess and coming up with a catchy theme for the thing. Since I can't post or write anything cranky about them without them somehow reading it or hearing about it, I just don't.
And, you know, I've discovered that I really don't have gripes about them at all.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Time. Not just an awesome Pink Floyd song.
Tuesdays are my early days, when I have to be awake at 4 AM and out the door at 4:40 at the VERY latest, so I make sure that I get as much done as possible before bed. Lately, because I have rehearsals Monday night and we often don't get done until after 10 PM, I've been turning the bed down, laying out my pajamas and clothes for the next day, making breakfast, and setting alarms before I go to rehearsal so all I have to do when I get home is take off my makeup, brush my teeth, and crawl into pjs and bed and pray for deep oblivion for the next 5 hours.
Last night, I set my two regular alarms and slowly fell asleep, anxious that I wouldn't get enough of it. My radio went off at 3:45, as set, but I was confused because I had set my beeping alarm to go off just before the radio did. My beeping alarm clock is 25 minutes fast, so I always have to do a little groggy math before setting it so it goes off a few minutes before or after my radio. When the beeping alarm goes off, I check the time on the radio to see how much time I really have left, and either turn over for five more minutes or get out of bed. This morning, however, when I checked Mr. Radio against Mr. Beepy at about 4, Mr. Beepy was suddenly 35 minutes slow--it said 3:25 AM, and my confused brain thought "how odd that it's suddenly 35 minutes fast the other way". I looked over to Blue Clock on the dresser, which said it was 3 AM. It took a few seconds to register that something was wrong. Very wrong. How in the world could Mr. Radio be going off at 4, but Mr. Beepy hadn't gone off yet and Blue Clock was still at 3 AM?
It made no sense to me. None. Until I got up and checked my cell phone. Yup. 3 AM. A full hour before I had planned to get up, and only 4 hours of sleep in my brain. I checked my phone twice, just to be sure. Somehow, I had set Mr. Radio an hour ahead. I have no idea how that happened, but I had the alertness to set it back to its normal time, reset the alarm on both Mr. Radio and Mr. Beepy, and go back to a fitful sleep until 4. I was still confused and worried that maybe Mr. Radio was right and the other three were wrong. I almost turned on my computer as well, just to be on the safe side, but I'm glad I didn't because that would have meant another 10 minutes of being awake. I'm barely functional on 6 hours of sleep, let alone less than 5. That extra restless sleep made a difference today, but not much.
I am anxiously awaiting leaving work and hitting the hay as soon as possible, and annoyed with myself for not being able to figure out what was wrong this morning. Let's be honest, I'm also annoyed that I couldn't leave rehearsal early last night...it'll pass. It practically has. But as long as I'm tired and my stupid eye keeps twitching and stinging, I may break out into tears at any given moment today.
Let that be a lesson to you! Always make sure you clocks ALL have the same time! Too bad setting Mr. Beepy to the right time will just be confusing... *sigh*
I'm dead tired.
Last night, I set my two regular alarms and slowly fell asleep, anxious that I wouldn't get enough of it. My radio went off at 3:45, as set, but I was confused because I had set my beeping alarm to go off just before the radio did. My beeping alarm clock is 25 minutes fast, so I always have to do a little groggy math before setting it so it goes off a few minutes before or after my radio. When the beeping alarm goes off, I check the time on the radio to see how much time I really have left, and either turn over for five more minutes or get out of bed. This morning, however, when I checked Mr. Radio against Mr. Beepy at about 4, Mr. Beepy was suddenly 35 minutes slow--it said 3:25 AM, and my confused brain thought "how odd that it's suddenly 35 minutes fast the other way". I looked over to Blue Clock on the dresser, which said it was 3 AM. It took a few seconds to register that something was wrong. Very wrong. How in the world could Mr. Radio be going off at 4, but Mr. Beepy hadn't gone off yet and Blue Clock was still at 3 AM?
It made no sense to me. None. Until I got up and checked my cell phone. Yup. 3 AM. A full hour before I had planned to get up, and only 4 hours of sleep in my brain. I checked my phone twice, just to be sure. Somehow, I had set Mr. Radio an hour ahead. I have no idea how that happened, but I had the alertness to set it back to its normal time, reset the alarm on both Mr. Radio and Mr. Beepy, and go back to a fitful sleep until 4. I was still confused and worried that maybe Mr. Radio was right and the other three were wrong. I almost turned on my computer as well, just to be on the safe side, but I'm glad I didn't because that would have meant another 10 minutes of being awake. I'm barely functional on 6 hours of sleep, let alone less than 5. That extra restless sleep made a difference today, but not much.
I am anxiously awaiting leaving work and hitting the hay as soon as possible, and annoyed with myself for not being able to figure out what was wrong this morning. Let's be honest, I'm also annoyed that I couldn't leave rehearsal early last night...it'll pass. It practically has. But as long as I'm tired and my stupid eye keeps twitching and stinging, I may break out into tears at any given moment today.
Let that be a lesson to you! Always make sure you clocks ALL have the same time! Too bad setting Mr. Beepy to the right time will just be confusing... *sigh*
I'm dead tired.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Baby, it's Cold Outside!
A few things to preface this rant:
I live in Utah.
Winters are cold in this part of Utah.
Right now, it is 36 degrees outside, and snowing.
Snow is made of frozen water--little flakes of ice are falling from the sky.
Last week, temperatures at my house (according to my outside thermometer) were less than 10 degrees some nights.
With those things in mind, can someone please tell me why people (especially girls, it seems) don't dress for the weather and then have the nerve to complain about the cold? I see girls wearing jeans, spiky heels, cute lacey tops, and hoodies, trying to navigate parking lots covered with half an inch of ice. Or they're wearing those obnoxious, ubiquitous, cheap knit skirts with high-heeled boots that look neither warm nor non-slip. They might look good, but they also look cold and in peril of breaking an ankle or wrist. Then there are the guys--some of them still wear shorts and t-shirts and flip-flops. In the snow. When it's 20 degrees outside.
Then, with all of that, they complain that they're cold.
Where is the logical disconnect? Which synapses need repair? It snows in Utah. Snow is essentially frozen water. Frozen water is called ice. Ice is cold. When it's snowing, it's cold. When it's cold, you should probably wear a real coat and perhaps some practical shoes, fashion be damned!
Now, I'm not advocating wearing a grandma coat (although they made good coats back then, and you'd probably be pretty warm), moon boots, and an ugly hat, but sometimes, for your own health and safety, you should do what it takes to stay warm and non-frostbitten. My sister's colleague at BYU-Idaho told her about a girl whose ears got frostbitten during the five minute walk from her apartment to her class because she didn't wear a hat and it was below freezing outside. If water is going to freeze, human tissue will also freeze eventually. You can't just thaw your ears like you can a bag of peas--the damage is usually a little more permanent.
Please, for your own sake, invest in a decent coat and some gloves! There are some really cute coats out there that are not only stylish but WARM. I, for one, wish we hadn't given away the bright pink, knee-length, down-filled coat I had 15 years ago, because it was WARM. I hate wearing socks, but I also hate being cold, so I wear them nearly all the time in winter, just waiting for the average temperature to be above 45 for at least a week before I take them off for summer. My hands get cold, so I wear ski gloves. I don't like wearing a hood because it makes my hair staticky, but I hate it when my ears are cold, so I wear a hood. Sure, my coat isn't all Abercrombie cute, but it keeps me warm. I don't care if people look at me funny because I know I'm warmer than they are and will probably only get the flu once all winter.
And, you know, that makes up for looking a little dumpy in my down coat and practical shoes.
I live in Utah.
Winters are cold in this part of Utah.
Right now, it is 36 degrees outside, and snowing.
Snow is made of frozen water--little flakes of ice are falling from the sky.
Last week, temperatures at my house (according to my outside thermometer) were less than 10 degrees some nights.
With those things in mind, can someone please tell me why people (especially girls, it seems) don't dress for the weather and then have the nerve to complain about the cold? I see girls wearing jeans, spiky heels, cute lacey tops, and hoodies, trying to navigate parking lots covered with half an inch of ice. Or they're wearing those obnoxious, ubiquitous, cheap knit skirts with high-heeled boots that look neither warm nor non-slip. They might look good, but they also look cold and in peril of breaking an ankle or wrist. Then there are the guys--some of them still wear shorts and t-shirts and flip-flops. In the snow. When it's 20 degrees outside.
Then, with all of that, they complain that they're cold.
Where is the logical disconnect? Which synapses need repair? It snows in Utah. Snow is essentially frozen water. Frozen water is called ice. Ice is cold. When it's snowing, it's cold. When it's cold, you should probably wear a real coat and perhaps some practical shoes, fashion be damned!
Now, I'm not advocating wearing a grandma coat (although they made good coats back then, and you'd probably be pretty warm), moon boots, and an ugly hat, but sometimes, for your own health and safety, you should do what it takes to stay warm and non-frostbitten. My sister's colleague at BYU-Idaho told her about a girl whose ears got frostbitten during the five minute walk from her apartment to her class because she didn't wear a hat and it was below freezing outside. If water is going to freeze, human tissue will also freeze eventually. You can't just thaw your ears like you can a bag of peas--the damage is usually a little more permanent.
Please, for your own sake, invest in a decent coat and some gloves! There are some really cute coats out there that are not only stylish but WARM. I, for one, wish we hadn't given away the bright pink, knee-length, down-filled coat I had 15 years ago, because it was WARM. I hate wearing socks, but I also hate being cold, so I wear them nearly all the time in winter, just waiting for the average temperature to be above 45 for at least a week before I take them off for summer. My hands get cold, so I wear ski gloves. I don't like wearing a hood because it makes my hair staticky, but I hate it when my ears are cold, so I wear a hood. Sure, my coat isn't all Abercrombie cute, but it keeps me warm. I don't care if people look at me funny because I know I'm warmer than they are and will probably only get the flu once all winter.
And, you know, that makes up for looking a little dumpy in my down coat and practical shoes.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Cripple Fight, or How Many Euphamisms for Money Can I Use in One Blog?
Not because I want to see cripples fight, nor because of the South Park episode which I must admit brought me great hilarity, but because every number key across the top of my keyboard except these two--5 6--is broken. BROKEN. I cannot even express my dismay and annoyance at this because I can't type an exclamation point. Nor can I make clever asides, as is often my wont, because the parentheses are equally as broken. Or borked. Depending on what lingo you savvy.
Either I need to cough up the dinero for a new keyboard, or take this one apart and clean the thingies. Contact points. Whatever they are. As it stands, I have a nice Benq flatscreen monitor in black and a bright pink tower and a drab, greyish beige greige keyboard. Perhaps this is a sign to me to spend a few sawbucks on a new keyboard. Or perhaps this is an exercise in saving my bread and learning to express myself without the ubiquitous exclamation point. However, socking away my pesos doesn't necessarily mean I can live without my AMPERSAND. AMPERSAND, people. Ampersand, asterisk, all are useless to me now. I think maybe I can justify spending some hard-earned bread on a keyboard. After all, I shelled out plenty of clams for my new shoes, and those aren't as necessary for my computer travels as a keyboard is, although my feet will probably kill me if I return their lovely new friends.
Is my genius being destroyed for lack of wampum? Am I being inhibited by my miserly hesitance to part with some cabbage? Is my gleeful shout being stifled because I don't really want to spend more beans on a good keyboard? For goodness sake, I got a new computer for Christmas. Well, new components to put in my existing computer. In any case, why shouldn't I just fork over the coinage and get it over with?
I don't know. I have some extra moolah in the bankroll. I just have to decide what color of black to buy...
Either I need to cough up the dinero for a new keyboard, or take this one apart and clean the thingies. Contact points. Whatever they are. As it stands, I have a nice Benq flatscreen monitor in black and a bright pink tower and a drab, greyish beige greige keyboard. Perhaps this is a sign to me to spend a few sawbucks on a new keyboard. Or perhaps this is an exercise in saving my bread and learning to express myself without the ubiquitous exclamation point. However, socking away my pesos doesn't necessarily mean I can live without my AMPERSAND. AMPERSAND, people. Ampersand, asterisk, all are useless to me now. I think maybe I can justify spending some hard-earned bread on a keyboard. After all, I shelled out plenty of clams for my new shoes, and those aren't as necessary for my computer travels as a keyboard is, although my feet will probably kill me if I return their lovely new friends.
Is my genius being destroyed for lack of wampum? Am I being inhibited by my miserly hesitance to part with some cabbage? Is my gleeful shout being stifled because I don't really want to spend more beans on a good keyboard? For goodness sake, I got a new computer for Christmas. Well, new components to put in my existing computer. In any case, why shouldn't I just fork over the coinage and get it over with?
I don't know. I have some extra moolah in the bankroll. I just have to decide what color of black to buy...
Monday, December 17, 2007
I'm old enough to be your mother!
It is both flattering and disturbing to have a 14-year-old boy tell you that he thinks you're hot. Really hot. Flattering because it's nice to know that you're desirable, disturbing because he's FOURTEEN. 14! Four. Teen. In fact, it's more disturbing than flattering, which is why I won't touch him, if I ever did. I just can't do that. It's kind of cute, but I want to say "um, sweetie? Please don't. I'm old enough to be your mother! Save it for the girls your age!"
Bless his heart.
The youngest I can go with any seriousness is 21, and that's entirely dependent on the personality and maturity of the guy. I know men in their 30s who are morons, and men in their early 20s who have all the qualities I look for. I sometimes feel, however, that I've been relegated, through no conscious effort on my part, to sister, best friend, or admired-from-a-distance status. It's kind of obnoxious, but there it is.
Maybe there are good reasons I didn't end up being a high school teacher... Not that I'd ever DO anything, because I definitely wouldn't, but it's difficult knowing that teenagers are attracted to you.
Bless his heart.
The youngest I can go with any seriousness is 21, and that's entirely dependent on the personality and maturity of the guy. I know men in their 30s who are morons, and men in their early 20s who have all the qualities I look for. I sometimes feel, however, that I've been relegated, through no conscious effort on my part, to sister, best friend, or admired-from-a-distance status. It's kind of obnoxious, but there it is.
Maybe there are good reasons I didn't end up being a high school teacher... Not that I'd ever DO anything, because I definitely wouldn't, but it's difficult knowing that teenagers are attracted to you.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
*grumble*
I don't want to go to work tomorrow, because I know it will be more of the same: People telling others they'll do something that is my job, and then not telling me until much later that I need to do the thing they just told someone they'd take care of; really terribly poor communication department-wide; no word on the department reorganization, or no word that they'll pass down to the paeons; freaky Points Woman who is always talking about how many Weight Watchers points her rice has or whatever; facilitators not listening to me and then complaining that their jobs are hard; facilitators freaking out because we're taking their site clearance from them because one or two of them have rearranged things in the past; the mess that is currently the state of the history quizzes; and, to top it all off, people assuming I know everything about the copier because I happen to share space with it.
GAH.
Ok, yeah, it's a decent job. But I need to be done. DONE. I've been on that campus either as a student or an employee for the better part of the last 14 years and I need to break that relationship off. 14 years is too long to be getting paid what they pay me.
GAH.
Ok, yeah, it's a decent job. But I need to be done. DONE. I've been on that campus either as a student or an employee for the better part of the last 14 years and I need to break that relationship off. 14 years is too long to be getting paid what they pay me.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
"Men only"? I think not!
My coworker (who shall be called Repo Boy) just mentioned (because he's in charge of food for our staff meeting today) that he doesn't cook--"if it's not steak or pop-tarts, you won't catch me touching it. If it comes in a box, I can cook it." My other coworker teased him about making us some grilled salmon, and Repo Boy said "oh, if it's grilled, I can totally cook! I'm all over that! Makes me manly."
That bugs me. Why should grilling be just for men? Why differentiate grilling and cooking? The only practical difference is the heat source. Does this take us back to the time when women were confined to the kitchen and couldn't touch anything as masculine as a barbeque grill? Spare the thought.
A few weeks ago, as I was helping get dinner ready, my dad called me to see how I was. I was standing over the grill, brushing more marinade on some chicken, checking the potatoes, and enjoying the smell of propane, flame, and cooking meat. I said, in response to his question, "I smell like a grill! I'm great!" He said "of course you are! That's a good smell!" We agreed that the only smell better than the smell of a grill is the smell of a campfire.
Now, I don't like smelling like what I'm cooking, most of the time. I have been known to hide in my room whenever someone is deep-frying something, because I don't like smelling like French fries. I don't mind smelling like whatever I'm BAKING, but cooking is a whole different matter...unless it's a grill or a campfire. Not that I'm going to wear a silk shirt while grilling, but it's a smell I really like and I'm always a little disappointed when it goes away.
I like to grill. I like playing with the different temperatures and marinades and sauces. I like knowing, almost by instinct, when a piece of meat is just about perfect. I like the grill marks. I like how a sweet marinade crusts over and sears. I like turning meat over and seeing the flames leap up. I like seeing the juice drip onto the heat source. I love the smell.
I'm also very female. And there's nothing wrong with me for liking to grill. Why should there be that kind of differentiation? Is it that men have been told for so long that women are the kitchen inhabitants and men will only break things or make a mess? Is it that women are told that grills are the specific domain of men and that we don't know what we're doing around them? Why do we put up with this? Ok, I'm not going to go off on a feminist rant, but it's a question that bothers me. Just because grills are so aggressively marketed toward men doesn't mean I should get weird looks when I want to check them out at the store. Just because kitchens are so aggressively marketed toward women doesn't mean that I'm going to give weird looks to a man who waxes profound about convection ovens. I say cooking is fun! I say EVERYONE should be invited! If I'm working the grill, so what? I'm not any worse a cook than any guy who likes to play with fire.
Now I'm hungry. Bring on the raspberry vinaigrette marinated chicken! Get out the zucchini! Unwrap the bratwurst! Let's throw some pineapple on there, too! Grilling for all! Bring your own tongs, though. I don't like to share. ;)
That bugs me. Why should grilling be just for men? Why differentiate grilling and cooking? The only practical difference is the heat source. Does this take us back to the time when women were confined to the kitchen and couldn't touch anything as masculine as a barbeque grill? Spare the thought.
A few weeks ago, as I was helping get dinner ready, my dad called me to see how I was. I was standing over the grill, brushing more marinade on some chicken, checking the potatoes, and enjoying the smell of propane, flame, and cooking meat. I said, in response to his question, "I smell like a grill! I'm great!" He said "of course you are! That's a good smell!" We agreed that the only smell better than the smell of a grill is the smell of a campfire.
Now, I don't like smelling like what I'm cooking, most of the time. I have been known to hide in my room whenever someone is deep-frying something, because I don't like smelling like French fries. I don't mind smelling like whatever I'm BAKING, but cooking is a whole different matter...unless it's a grill or a campfire. Not that I'm going to wear a silk shirt while grilling, but it's a smell I really like and I'm always a little disappointed when it goes away.
I like to grill. I like playing with the different temperatures and marinades and sauces. I like knowing, almost by instinct, when a piece of meat is just about perfect. I like the grill marks. I like how a sweet marinade crusts over and sears. I like turning meat over and seeing the flames leap up. I like seeing the juice drip onto the heat source. I love the smell.
I'm also very female. And there's nothing wrong with me for liking to grill. Why should there be that kind of differentiation? Is it that men have been told for so long that women are the kitchen inhabitants and men will only break things or make a mess? Is it that women are told that grills are the specific domain of men and that we don't know what we're doing around them? Why do we put up with this? Ok, I'm not going to go off on a feminist rant, but it's a question that bothers me. Just because grills are so aggressively marketed toward men doesn't mean I should get weird looks when I want to check them out at the store. Just because kitchens are so aggressively marketed toward women doesn't mean that I'm going to give weird looks to a man who waxes profound about convection ovens. I say cooking is fun! I say EVERYONE should be invited! If I'm working the grill, so what? I'm not any worse a cook than any guy who likes to play with fire.
Now I'm hungry. Bring on the raspberry vinaigrette marinated chicken! Get out the zucchini! Unwrap the bratwurst! Let's throw some pineapple on there, too! Grilling for all! Bring your own tongs, though. I don't like to share. ;)
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