Three more things that rate high on the shit list:
- People named “Destiny”
- Comic Sans font
- Handwritten cover letters. Yes, that’s right, HANDWRITTEN.
Three more things that rate high on the shit list:
Ok, who’s the ass now? Yesterday, I witnessed my precious little angel bear crawling along the floor with something in her hand. Oh, well, what do you know? It was a DVD from Netflix! She was scooting it along the floor with possibly a large-ish hunk of debris between it and my hardwood floors.
Naturally, I was concerned about the scratching of my floor and in that instant realized I am the asshole. I am the one who renders DVDs scratchy and likely inoperable for others’ enjoyment.
I openly apologize for interfering with anyone’s viewing of Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic. My one-year-old daughter found it quite entertaining. Us, not so much. It was funny and all, but the overblown media hype gave away all the good jokes so early on. When she actually unfurled her brilliant comedy, it all seemed a little familiar and somewhat stale.
I just started a new job as a director of a bunch of blah blah blah. I am without an assistant and am in the process of hiring one. I went through what seemed like an endless stack of resumes yesterday and am stunned at what people think passes for a “resume.” I mean, sure, it’s a clerical position, so it’s not like rocket science, but c’mon, people, HIT SPELLCHECK.
Here are some examples of the ridiculousness (besides the spellcheck issue, which was rampant, by the way):
I am way too judgmental for this task.
What a great day to wear my new shoes. Not to date myself, but I was so like Monica from Friends in that one episode where she wears her new boots and they cripple her feet. It’s also the episode where Phoebe tries to meet Sting and Joey’s little sister is pregnant.
ANYWAY, new shoes, no hosiery of any kind, and no A/C in my office, and a “heat index” (whatever that is) of 100 degrees outside. So, by 10:30 a.m. my feet are all slippery with sweat. By noon, I am cursing my sweaty feet as I waddle into an equally un-air-conditioned deli to grab a sandwich for lunch. By 1:15 p.m. I am coming back from the bathroom, trying to take long strides so I won’t have to take as many painful steps, all while looking at the clock, knowing I am going to have to wear these shoes for FOUR MORE HOURS. Back at my desk, I plan my desk-leavings for maximum effectiveness. I hold my pee, shout questions and banter from my desk, work with my shoes off, apply band-aids in crucial areas, and only get up if I absolutely have to. Because of my sweaty feet, my shoes also squeaked every time I took a step. So that was cool, too.
Oh, and the big salt-cured corned beef sandwich I inhaled for lunch was delightful as it slowly sucked any moisture left in my body (except for my feet). I started swelling from the salty goodness. So not only were my feet sweaty and blistered, they were now swelling and filling out every crevice of my ill-fitting shoes.
So yeah, that was fun.
Saw a truck today with this emblazoned on the side:
Steel * Erection
Swear. To. God.
Does anyone else feel completely bogged down by your Netflix queue? I mean, really, there is no way in hell I am going to live long enough to watch all those movies. It makes me a bit depressed. It’s like a wish list of things I will never do.
It’s only a mother who finds simple relaxing peace by washing your hands, doing the dishes, throwing a load of laundry in, peeing, etc. Those are the moments I can get away with passing off the baby to Dad, so I can enjoy a second alone. Those excuses are gold. I just changed a poopy diaper, I have to wash my hands. How about I throw some laundry in? Can you guys go horse around while I do the dishes? Only an ass would say no. Sometimes I will just languish in the bathroom, washing my hands maybe two or three times, getting under the fingernails, applying lotion, maybe popping a zit, refilling the soap dispenser, replacing the toilet paper. You get the idea.
It seems ridiculous to even point this out as in our family, Dad is home with the little refrito all summer long. But when I am home from work or off, it’s all me. Am I wrong to feel this way? Maybe I am the ass. Or a bad mom, I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kid. A LOT. You know, it’s just like at the office, when now and then you gotta get up and go pee, refill your water bottle, stop off at someone’s office for a quick chat, make a personal phone call, check your personal email, and then snap-to and get back to work. Is that so wrong?
I’m sure he feels the same way after being with her all-the-live-long-day. I mean, really, that is one long day. But when he goes back to work in a few weeks, I think it will go back to him merely being her chauffeur. And that’s ok, Dads can get away with that. But Moms have THE GUILT. Oh sure, I know if we talked about it he would encourage me to do some extracurricular activity like a yoga class or going out with friends or working out or whatever. And he’s right. But the guilt of working full time and being a mom is BLINDING. Not to mention exhausting. I’m too fucking tired to go out after I get home from work and play, nurse, feed, diaper, and bedtime her. And the thought of going out after work without seeing her off to bed is positively horrifying. Then I would never see my daughter except for 45 minutes in the morning. Then I’m a bad mom and argh! The books tell me I need time to myself to grow and blossom, and we need time as a couple to keep things alive and I’m sorry, I thought there were only 24 hours in a day the last time I checked. Do people not sleep?
Boy that sure as hell turned into a rant.