My hiatus ends with this

I haven't posted in a long long time. And there is no good reason for it. Well...there is a reason, but it's not a good one. I got all "I don't have anything good to say" and then I just didn't say anything. It's really just internet pouting. Have I mentioned before that I might just be mentally twelve years old? So I should probably apologize in advance for the possible ADD nature of this post. But I won't. 

Sooo....this past weekend was my birthday. I turned 36 so now I am officially closer to 40 than I am to 30 and that kinda freaks me out. I did the same thing when I turned 29. Most people are all like "Oh my god! I can't believe I am turning 30 (or 40 or 50)!" and I am always "What about turning 33, huh? God that's a total bitch. It's like you aren't even 32 anymore." And for some reason it makes sense to me and people are always trying to figure out the correct response to something like that. They are never sure if they are supposed to agree with me or maybe they are the odd ones because turning 33 never even phased them. 

But even with the internal freak out, it was a really good birthday. My mom and I drove up to Cleveland on Saturday to visit my grandparents for the day. Driving in a car for that long definitely leads to a lot of conversation. With me being a pharmacy tech and my mom being a nurse in a urologist's office, part of our conversation turned a little "shop talk." I never thought that bonding with my mom would include the words "Viagra" and "penile injections" but it totally did. Here's the thing.....I feel I need to share some of this conversation because it is actually a Public Service Announcement. Are you ready for it?

We Do Not Care About Your Personal Penis Activities. 

There are specifics to that. One, we do not care that your Viagra is too expensive. Neither do we care to hear things like "I will just have to be more selective about when I use it." My job is to count out the little pills and put them in a vial and then take your money. I cannot control the pricing for your escapades. Two, we do not care that "it is your anniversary." We do not need a calendar of your special events nor do we really want to know how you will be spending them. We are happy to do our jobs, but please cease making us be professional in the face of such statements. We do not know the proper sympathetic statements to make when presented with them. Nor do we really want to spend time figuring them out. 

Moving on.....

Part of my birthday weekend I spent shopping with my mom searching for the elusive Perfect Pair of Jeans. And get this! I found one such pair! They fit right. They aren't too long or too short. They make my butt look good (and isn't this really the only qualification for Perfect Jeans?). They aren't too dark or too light. They are in a smaller size than I usually wear....and I don't really care if the designer of said jeans does that thing where they call them a different size so the woman buying them is all "Oh my god! I wear a size 6 now! I am TOTALLY buying these!" The tag says "size 6" and that is all that matters to me. But I totally did the thing that all women do when they find the Perfect Jeans. I only bought one pair. Why?! Why did I do this? I have a theory. I think that women and jeans are like those dudes who can never commit to just one chick because they are convinced that someone better/hotter is just around the corner. That is women and jeans. We are commitment-phobic about our pants. 

One more thing....

I spent last evening at a Girl Scout event with my daughter. Three of the women there said to me "Wow! You have lost a lot of weight!" Why is it that in my head I hear that as retroactively calling me fat? Of course the sane part of my brain just thanks them, but the crazy gnome controlling the other half of my brain? He whispers "She just insulted you in the past." I add this to my list of reasons to be wary of Girl Scouts. 

I don't have a good wrap-up for this post. I tried, but I just can't come up with anything that ties this all together. Just roll with me. 

I think I get a Marketing degree for this- or maybe slapped with a restraining order.

I know this guy. And by "know" I mean I stumbled upon his blog a while ago and then became proficient at lurking there. Not because I am some creepy internet stalker (ahem), but because this guy is awesome. I may or may not have developed a tiny blog-crush. And I may or may not have laughed so hard at some of his posts that beverages came out of my nose.

I am going to get all link-y here....at least I am gonna try.

Seriously- go check out Johnny Virgil over at 15 Minute Lunch. He is an amazing storyteller. And it gets better. He wrote a book. A freaking BOOK. You can buy it. I bet he would like that.

I am going to be done gushing now...because there is a distinct possibility that this post will earn me the internet equivalent of a restraining order. But I am totally gonna chance it.

Plastic fumes are not festive. Something you should never learn the hard way.

So I just baked some Christmas cookies. Okay- to be more truthful they were just normal chocolate chip cookies, but I put in red and green M&Ms. So that makes them all festive, right? Here's the thing...... When I went to put the first ones on the cookie sheet I had a moment of "oh hell, I am going to hate this because I only have one cookie sheet and I am going to have to wash this in between each batch that I bake so they don't get all burn-y on the bottom uuuuggghhh why did I start this...."

And then I had an idea.

I remembered I have this rubbery mat-thing that is supposed to be super great for baking. Your baked goods will just slide right off and unicorns will sneeze glitter right in your very own kitchen! At least I think that is how the advertisement goes. So I pulled it out of the cabinet and got everything ready. Blopped the cookie dough onto it and put it in the oven where I imagined little imperfect circles of deliciousness would soon be created. But I think something went terribly wrong.

My first clue was the horrible horrible smell of burning plastic and hair. I can't even explain the hair smell. My only guess is that I used a new recipe and "bread flour" is actually made out of "old unwashed hobo hair."

And then the smoke alarm went off. But there was no smoke in the house. Weird, right? I think my smoke detector has a "your cookies are gonna taste like shit" alert. But I can't be sure. So I opened the oven door and the cookies were all half baked melty blobules and I was all "They aren't even DONE." So I had a debate with myself about whether or not I should just take them out because they were creating meth fumes or something, or let them finish baking because they weren't even real cookies yet.

I opted to let them finish baking. (You can't eat hot, runny cookie dough. Even I know that's not right. And throwing them away would be wasteful. Probably.)

In my defense, the only cooking lesson I ever got from my mom was when I was in college and decided one night to make dinner. I wanted to make roast beef (?). So I asked her how I would know when it was done and she said "Does it look like you want to eat it?" (And in her defense, that is actually true for beef.) The rest of my cooking knowledge I got from the Food Network and they let people like Guy Fieri have a show.

So I let them finish. And then I wrestled them off the silicon-baking-mat thing. And then I ate one.

They were pretty good. If you like plastic flavored M&Ms. Personally, I like the coconut ones better.

Ten reasons the hamster that lives in my house should cease to exist

1. It's a hamster.

2. It runs in a wheel. All night long. It doesn't have a metal wheel, but a plastic one attached to the side of its cage. You would think that might be better, but it's not. Instead of SQUEEEEK SQUEEKA SCREECH SQUEEEEK all night, you hear THUMP THUMP WHUMP THUMP THU-THUMP. All night.

3. It refuses to learn to do any tricks.

4. The guy who sat with me to "learn the company's computer system" but who I was really "training to replace me" at my old job gave me the hamster (from his own personal hamster stash I'm guessing). Brought it to me. At work. On the day I was fired.

My boss called me into his office and was all like "We don't need your services anymore" and I was all like "Okay. I'll just stop by my desk and get my hamster and be on my way."

5. It openly mocks my non-pet-lover status by being a pet.

6. I got it for the kids. It is nocturnal. The kids are not. (Yes, I was aware of this fact when I got it.)

7. It is a constant reminder of my decision-making skills. (see reason number 6)

8. When I take it out of its cage and hold it for the kids to pet/poke it, the thing shoves its rodent face so far forward it looks like its eyeballs are going to pop out of its head. That's just creepy. And I have no idea what the protocol would be if ever tiny eyeballs suddenly fell on my floor.

9. It bites me when I feed it. That's just bad form.

10. It has chewed nearly all the way through one of the bars on its cage. Metal bars. I fear animals that can both eat metal and hide in a shoe. The potential for some sort of horrifying attack/embarrassing death is simply too high for my comfort level.

A question possibly not worth this much thought

This weekend I walked into the bathroom after the youngest got done using it and immediately yelled for him.

"Get back in here and put the toilet seat down!" I was exasperated. I know I have said these instructions before. I know it's not a hard task to accomplish. To be fair, he is only five, but still....

He came wandering into the bathroom, drawn by my tone rather than the actual instructions I had given. He said "What?" and sounded just as exasperated as I had. "Put the seat down," I told him. He looked at me funny, but complied. And in that look I saw the thought that had hit my brain as I was repeating my command.

Why?

My only real answer could have been "Because I said so." Because seriously, why? Why do girls get to have everything all ready for us to (ahem) go? When did girls get so complacent that they cannot look before they sit? One wet derriere and I guarantee it will be lesson learned. And do we do this in other places- just sit all willy-nilly, never looking to see if there is something already parked in our potential butt-space or that will possibly hinder our enjoyment of the whole sitting experience? I know for a fact that at the park, or the movies, or hell, even on my own couch, I definitely check my landing zone.

The truth is that I have a hard time telling my kids to do things for the "I told you so" reason. Unless it's an emergency or dangerous situation. And I can't put a toilet seat in either of those categories. I have a hard time telling them to do things just because that's the way it's always been- some sort of weird tradition. And I wonder if seat-position injuries are really the epidemic we make it out to be.

The only accident I ever remember having happened when I was about five years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night and desperately needed a drink. So I wandered, jammied and sock-footed, into the bathroom and reached for the cup on the counter. And being the dinky person I am, couldn't reach. So I did the logical thing. I used the toilet seat for a step stool. Only the lid was up. And I was bleary-eyed and five. And so I slipped in. In my socks.  But I am almost 62.3% sure that the problem there had nothing to do with seat up or seat down, but more to do with the fact that five year old feet are smaller (in general) than the opening of the bowl. And I wasn't injured except for maybe my pride. Just really soggy.

Maybe it just boils down to simple politeness. A be-nice-to-ladies mentality. But honestly....if this is what chivalry has come to, kill it. Kill it, now.

My best argument for why Ohio trumps California

Okay. So I am in the grocery store last week buying a stash of personal-use Halloween candy. I have the youngest Monkey with me, which means that I am spending about a bajillion dollars over my fun-sized budget. It also means that I have spent the entire trip to the store saying things like "don't touch that" and "you don't need a toy" and "quit poking me in the butt." On Repeat. To Infinity.

Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.

So I get in line to check out.

I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:

1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.

But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.

I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.

"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."

This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."

She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.

"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."

NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.

VIVA LA OHIO!!!*

There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?

*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.

Worst. Job-Seeker. Ever.

"Do you have a high school diploma?! Do you want to be trained not to kill people?!"

Why yes!! That is me! I definitely would like to not kill people and I for sure have a high school diploma. In fact, that is the only diploma I have because that was the last time people weren't all like "Eh, we don't care if you come to class or not..." (Turns out they care enough to do things like "not accept late work" or "fail you." They are all like "You are an adult now." and you are all like "No way! I still think 10 a.m. is early and my mom still buys my shampoo." But whatever.)

So that's kinda how it went when I decided to take my summer program to become a Pharmacy Technician. And after a summer of finding answers to questions like.....

"If a doctor orders a 12.6% solution of dextrose to be administered to a patient by baby spider fangs at a rate of 900 drops per second and all you have on hand in the pharmacy is 700 mL of a 32% solution, how much sterile water and  unicorn sweat will you have to add to fill the required prescription?"
(And, by the way, the answer is NOT "Punch the doctor in the throat and then bitch incessantly because your pharmacy does not carry unicorn sweat.")

....I figured I would have a job by now. But I don't. I have applied and applied and applied- for all kinds of positions, including ones called Pharmacy Technician Trainees. But I haven't even gotten those, which really does nothing for my self-esteem. In fact, I may take to wearing a big sign that says "Untrainable" on it. Maybe. But what is really happening is that I am becoming a Human Resource Department Stalker. I get the idea in my head that instead of checking my application status online (again) I will call and maybe get to talk to a live human being and then maybe they will take pity on me or really like my go-getter attitude.

And so I call.

And they tell me to check my application status online.

And so I say thank you and hang up.

And then I call back and pretend I don't have internet access.

And so they say that if I haven't been called then they aren't ready to talk to anyone regarding the job.

And so I say thank you and hang up.

And then I call back. Only this time I get a little panicked because I figure they can recognize my voice. So I use a fake accent.

And they say that they haven't gotten through all the applications yet.

And so I say thank you and hang up. Only it sounds more like "theeenk yuh." (Yeah- I don't know what that accent is either.)

And so I call back. Only this time I panic because what if they have caller ID and know its me calling back and are just going to answer the phone to see what kind of other crappy voice I am going to do this time and then totally laugh at me over their lunch break......

I think my next step is to actually go to these establishments and hang out with my face pressed against their windows and shout out drug names like some sort of Pharmaceutical Tourette's. I think it will totally work.