I got TAGGED

And you'll have to go here to read it, because it's not technically a rant. :)

Things I'd Rather Do:

Inspired by a thread on PlayersAnonymous.org about what kind of relationship you have with your exes, I wrote the list below. I find it rather amusing (say it "rawthuh", because it's more fun) because I imagine how the conversation would go:

"Hey, I see Ex Man is here. You wanna go say hi?"
"Heck no. I'd rather eat a bug."
or
"I ran into Ex Man the other day and he asked about you. Do you want me to say anything?"
"Heck no. I'd rather move to Alaska."

See? Hours of amusement.

This is all part of the grieving process and it's perfectly healthy and perfectly within my ranting rights, so I don't feel guilty about never wanting to see him again. ha.

Things I would rather do, given the choice between them and talking to Ex Man:

Eat a bug.
Shave my head.
Move to Alaska.
Have a mole removed.
Never wear jewelry again.
Read Madame Bovary.
Watch "Cats and Dogs".
Kick an old person.
Get raging drunk.
Remain single and celibate the rest of my life.
Watch "What Not to Wear".
Wear mascara on my bottom lashes every day.
Grow out my nails to a non-functional length.
Wear shoes that hurt my feet.
Burn all my flannel sheets.
Pull out my eyebrows.
Never sew again.
Live in a house with boring white walls.
Denounce Ray Bradbury as the anti-Christ.
Never eat candy again.
Never sing again.
Costume a production of Hamlet with a cast of 70 and a budget of $100.
Give up my Costco membership.
Wear ugly hats.
Touch a spider.
Bungee jump.
Spelunk.
Lose 15 IQ points. Ok, not really.
Bleach my freckles.
Punch someone.
Get a goiter.
Have cankles.
Grow hair on my back.
Poke my eye with a stick.
Break a bone.
Drive my car into a house.
Drink ham juice. (*hwarf*<---that's for you, Taylor. ;) )
Set my fabulous shoes on fire.
Catch a softball with my nose.
Swallow a penny.
Hopelessly tangle up my thread.
Poke needles into my arm.
Be allergic to wheat.
Be allergic to sugar.
Touch a chicken bone.
Jump into a pool full of big ugly fish. *shudder*
Never have a clean kitchen.
Lose a finger.
Act with He Who Shall Not Be Named (hint: he was in The Show That Must Not Be Named).
Read nothing but Buffy or X-Files fanfic for the rest of my life.
Get a tattoo on my forehead.
Be covered in gravy.
Go into early menopause.
Get toenail fungus.

There are probably more, but that gives you a pretty good idea of what I'd rather do.

Not-so-cranky Addendum to the Random Crankiness:

Mr. Mallard, about whom I feared the worst after his collision with the window and subsequent fall to the cement ramp, reappeared a few minutes after I published my last post. I sat there in shock, praying that he was ok, and then I noticed a fat little Mr. Mallard making his way onto the grass of the "amphitheater". He looked around as if he was dazed and disoriented and moved very slowly for a few minutes. I kept looking for signs of a broken wing or foot and when he began to waddle across the grass, I was very afraid that he was limping. Much to my relief, it was only his waddle in the uneven grass. After getting his bearings for a bit, I saw him call out to Mrs. Mallard, who was already in the irrigation/overflow ponds further on. She must have answered him because he waddled further across the grass, checked his angle of flight, spread his wings, and took off--nicely clearing the roof of the Hall of Flags and making it safely to the side of his little ducky wife.

I was quite happy and almost cried again out of sheer relief. I hate to see a happy couple, no matter what the form, break up for any reason.

Miscellanious Crankiness: A List.

• I am scared to death of the GRE. I really am. I know I'll probably do pretty darn well on every part of the GRE except Algebra, which is annoying. I can feel the walls closing in when I think about it and I want to curl up and eat ice cream until it goes away.
• On a related note, the whole grad school thing has me freaked out. I know I'm smart enough to do it, but my GPA is not so hot, so why even apply? Sure, I have an awesome writing sample and I can get some killer letters of recommendation, but they'll take one look at my B- in stats and write me off immediately. Even if the program has nothing to do with statistics.
• I have too much crap and not enough space to put it in. When I moved back home, I did not think for one minute that I'd be there as long as I have. It's a weird situation that works well for all of us, but I'm often frustrated beyond reason that I don't remember what's in my boxes and that I have no idea where my muffin tins are and that I never bought flatware and that I have no place to display my beautiful music boxes or my collection of useless decorative tins or tiny shoes and then my dollhouse isn't finished and I can't work on it because where will I put it because the sewing room is already 80% full of my stuff and there's no room for ANYTHING ANYWHERE.
• I have something like 38 pairs of shoes. Some of which need to go in a plastic bin marked "costume shoes", but where will I put the bin? I do not know.
• I hate my bed. It is old and a little saggy, but I can't decide if I want a full or a twin bed when I buy a new one. I don't have room for a queen (I know it's only another few inches, but a few inches makes a lot of difference when you're wall-to-wall furniture) and I don't know if I can sleep on a twin, so I've avoided even thinking about buying a new one. Except when I go to Ikea or something and fall in love with half the stuff there. *insert eyeroll here*
• I got rear-ended on Saturday, and it's taken five stupid days to even get a claim filed, let alone get any response from the insured. I just want my bumper straightened out and it would be most convenient to have my car in the shop next week when I will have free access to two other cars at any given time. How hard can it be to return a phone call?! I ask you.
• There is no satellite receiver for the TV in the sewing room and I am bored with all my movies and I can't sew in a vacuum. I need some kind of background noise.
• I listened to the first two parts of The Count of Monte Cristo on my trip to visit Lisa in Tucson a few weeks ago, and then I found out that there is a third part that didn't fit on my MP3 player, so I am left HANGING with Albert and his stupid friend Franz in stupid Rome watching the stupid execution from the stupid vantage point of the stupid Count's carriage or whatever. Or maybe it was the stupid Countess being afraid of the Count at the stupid ballet during which every stupid person talked instead of watching the stupid thing.
• Pressed, thin-sliced, chicken loaf is nasty and I ate some for lunch because nothing else looked remotely appetizing. *hwarf*
• I just looked out the window at the cute little mallard couple keeping house in the fountain, only to see the Mrs. take off followed by the Mr, who didn't have enough clearance and hit the windows of the Hall of Flags and fall down. I am completely freaked out that he's dead and I can't cry at work or I will make a spectacle of myself. Now I have to go out there and see if he's alive because I can't handle something dying and leaving his mate all sad and alone.
  

I am not a fan of this week.

Ah, Spring!

I love Spring. I love everything about it except the weather vagaries, the mud, the threat of flooding from the snow melting, and all the cute clothes in the stores.

Let me explain:

There are usually a multitude of pretty, airy dresses in lovely colors and fabrics that I really want and (now) can afford. However, most of these pretty, airy dresses are sleeveless, low-cut, and too short. It doesn't help that I have to buy longer lengths in most skirts and dresses, or that I need to have some kind of lining in sheer sleeves. I went outlet shopping over the weekend and found some dresses I just loved, but I knew that most of them would be too short so I didn't even give them a third glance. A second glance I couldn't help, because they were so pretty, but I had to look away after that. I found one that was long enough and light purple and had a decently high neckline, but the sleeves were sheer and there was no good way to fix them. My sister said "Heidi, is there anything here that you like that you DON'T have to alter in some way?" The answer was, of course, no. Unfortunately. I don't want to have to spend good money on a dress and then have to spend another $40-50 on a cardigan and a camisole just to make it wearable.

The obvious answer to this dilemma is to make my own dresses. Well, let me tell you, I'd love to! But finding fabric I like is hard around here (stupid fabric stores full of ugly fleece!), and finding patterns I like (and don't have) is also hard. Finding both patterns and fabric at the same time? Highly improbable!

The less obvious answer to this dilemma is to print my own fabric, learn draping and pattern drafting, and not be quite as picky about what I put on my body. ha.

The most logical answer is to just move to LA or New York--anywhere with better fabric stores.

I want pretty things, and I do get inspired, but then I get discouraged because I hate the fabric selection, the pattern styles, or the prices. So what happens is that I buy patterns that sit there just waiting for the right fabric, or I buy fabric that goes into storage for 10 years to wait for the right pattern. Either way, it's getting ridiculous and something must be done!

*sigh*

Etymology, or How My Train Wreck of Thought Works

Why must I have the urge to disprove "common knowledge" stuff like where "hysteria" comes from? Ok, in this case, it's not so much to disprove it (because I know it's right) as to justify it. Amanda says it's because I'm a snob.

Yeah. I kind of am.

But really, it makes SENSE to call it "hysteria" when you think about what the Greeks were coming from. Look at it. Once a month, women get all weird. And then, after having babies, they get depressed. THEN, when they get older, they get all hormonal and weird again.

Not to mention libido changes and being classified as the more emotional sex, which, let's face it, they are. So of COURSE the ancient Greeks are going to say "hey, so these women are different from us. What could be the reason? Oh right. They have uteri."

DING! Fries are done, and you get "hysteria", which wasn't actually coined until something like 1801.

This is what my brain does when confronted with things like this. It's just the process of my brain. Which isn't always logical, but I don't want to offend anyone. "No, I really DO know more about history than you!" sounds a little immature...

PS: While I agree that much of Freud's research was intrinsically flawed, I will still defend the man. Go ahead. Guess how I arrived at that sentence from the previous rant. I dare you!

FINE. Be that way!

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.