Travel and things

Freshly back from a work trip to London, I hopped on another plane less that 24-hours later and headed to Minnesota.  That’s where I am now–in some motel room off of 494, in between the airport and West St. Paul.

My grandma is ill. Or shall I say, more ill.  She’s been battling multiple myeloma for some years now, but it’s taken a turn for the worse as of late.  We had been afraid (from afar) that she was leaning towards some early stages of dementia. Seeing her now, in person, it’s obvious that she is just as quick-witted as ever but the overwhelming pain and the ensuing meds to battle it are what’s stopping her thought processes short and making her come across as confused. It’s a bittersweet revelation–good to know that she is lucid, sad to know that there is that much pain that shuts her down like that. She’s my last living grandparent.  She’s talking about her last days, trying to give things away so the “right” people get them, yet holding out hope to finally see a great grandbaby out of this side of the family.

Now that we know how’s she’s doing, that she is still “with it”, I think we will spend the next couple of days trying to spoil her a bit…bringing her favorite treats (bismarcks), stocking up on silly decor for her hospice room and visiting as much as we can between the naps and the pain.

Third time’s a charm

I think last I spoke about this, it was March and I was hell bent on buying a stove.  Well I did buy a stove that weekend in March…but it took nearly 12 weeks and two botched delivery attempts before it actually appeared in my kitchen.  But now I can finally say, I have a completely working kitchen…just 15 months after I began my kitchen renovation. Slow and steady wins the race?

Basically this is what happened:
~ Sears sales person #1 = idiot and sends my order through a distribution center that does not deliver to Arlington.
~ Distribution center #1 = asshole and cancels said order from the system completely.
~ Sears system = jacked because the above move means there is now no record that I actually paid nearly $1,000 for a major kitchen appliance.
~ I spend 4 hours on the phone with Sears. Joy.
~ Sears sales person #2 = nice, but inappropriate. He asks me out. I don’t think I sound that cute on the phone. I question whether I should really be spending this kind of money with a group of idiots.
~ Sears sales person #2 knocks the price down over $200. I am no longer seething.
~ Must wait six more weeks for the next available delivery date.
~ Wait patiently. Finally get the delivery confirmation call the day before delivery.
~ Installer #1 shows up! Joy! Real joy this time!
~ But then I see he has brought the wrong stove.
~ Joy dissipates.
~ Installer #1 argues that this is the stove! His papers match for gosh sakes!
~ Politely (no, really) explain papers don’t mean jack and that he doesn’t have my stove so he should probably just be on his way.
~ Installer #1 leaves. Blames fault on Distribution Center #2. I tend to agree.
~ I place a phone call to Sears to tell them about the black stove that showed up instead of the stainless one. They try to tell me that stainless steel appliances are a mix of black and steel. I politely (not really) inform them I am not an idiot.
~ Sears promises to call me back.
~ They don’t.
~ I get mad.
~ Sears manager = jerk and I am forced to call back the store several times over the course of a week to get an answer.
~ They try to give me $50 to appease me.
~ This does not work.
~ Many phone calls later, they add another $90 off to their offer.
~ I accept it with the promise of a delivery within the next two weeks. It’s been 10 weeks now since my initial purchase.
~ Installer #2 calls to confirm installation. I confirm but an off-hand question about the delivery leads me to realize that they are not actually bringing the stove, but rather just coming to install one that has already been delivered.
~ This is a problem seeing as how I do not currently have a stove waiting to be installed. Installer #2 places a call to Distribution Center #3 to see if they can work something out.
~ Installer #2 = awesome and Sears is still sucking.
~ The next day, Installer #2 shows up with my stove and all the appropriate hoses and valves. I almost cannot believe it.
~ But thar she is…

My love

13 miles? No problem!

Think there is a problem that I am going into tomorrow’s race all nonchalant-like — as if I run 13.1 miles all the time?

The truth is that the longest run I’ve had since last October is the 11 miler from two weeks ago. Yet I don’t seem to be fazed by this little fact.

Wonder if my legs will be fazed by it…

Wish me luck.

I’m off again

I am leaving this freezing-cum-snowy-cum-seventy degree weather town for the the Palm Beaches of Florida tomorrow. I should be packing. I hate packing. I am not packing. I have a morning flight and it is approaching 10pm. I am very tired. Yet I am still not packing. In fact I am sitting here in clothing that should be making it’s way into a suitcase at this very moment. But here it is, on my person, not packed. I wish I had a person. Maybe that person would pack for me.

I wonder if I will ever discover the true root of my packing aversion.  I mean, there has to be a reason other than laziness. Doesn’t there?   It’s fairly obvious I have nothing to say and I am just using the blog to procrastinate.  As long as I am not just lying on the sofa watching “Desperate Housewives”, doing nothing, I am not a lazy sack of shit that isn’t packing. Right?

Gah! What am I going to wear next week?

Ending the year a pathetic mess

After my last post where I lamented over the depths of my indolence, it seems I felt the need to sink into even deeper levels of worthlessness. Cut to the day of December 31.

Me @ work–approximately 10:30am: At this point I had taken great care to answer all three of the emails I had received that day. I also took great satisfaction with the one that announced that the office would be closing at 1pm.  Making sure the last few hours of work passed by smoothly,  I got up to make myself another cup of coffee.  Thoughts of late afternoon naps danced in my head. I even thought I might go get that long overdue manicure in the hours of free time I had before NYE party plans commenced. Life is good.

Me @ work — approximately 12:50pm: A light lunch and some office gossip had pushed us to closing time.  Woo, my last 4-day weekend was almost here and with an extra half-day thrown in! Gathering up the iPod and leftovers from the office fridge, a random thought pops into my head: it’s the last day of the year. It’s the last day to claim 2008 charitable donations for one’s ‘08 taxes.  Shit. My considerable pile of Goodwill items is still taking up a quarter of my bedroom. Shit! Shittyshiitshit.  I need to get all that crap to Goodwill before they close today!

Me @ home — approximately 3:00pm: I frantically step into the house and head straight to the bedroom, all the while praying Goodwill stays open past four.  Not that Goodwill is far, no no, there is a major donation center and storefront less than a mile from my house. Yes, I am that pathetic (hence the title of this post).  I grab a pad of paper and a pen and start taking inventory of everything heading out of the door for donation. Some  37 t-shirts, 7 small home goods,  10 pieces of outerwear later I have a list and everything bagged.  Four trips back and forth to the car and I am ready to go.   “Please still be open.” I pray.

Me in the car — approximately 4:30pm: I drive the three-quarters of a mile to the donation center and can spot activity in the parking lot from two stop lights away.  Sigh of relief.  I wait in the line of cars with all of the other procrastinators (I am not the only one! I am, however, the only one driving a shitty car!).  Goodwill is on it, they are prepared for this level of ridiculousness on this day, Dec. 31.  They extract my bags from my car and send me to the next station where I list the items I’ve donated and get a receipt.

Me in the car — approximately 5:10pm: I am now heading back home. I would have rather run out to go grab some bubbly for the party later, but in my haste to leave the house I forgot my wallet.

Me @ home — approximately 5:15pm: Heavy errands done, I decide I will work out, shower and then take a nap.  My afternoon is not totally gone.  There are still two+ hours before Jen gets here to whisk me away to DC.  I relax. I sweat. I shower. I freak the fuck out when I think, “did I spend all of my flexible savings account money this year?”. Shit.

Me on the laptop — approximately 6:10pm: Fuck! How much do I have left??  After some serious digging — pay stubs, old cashed checks, credit union accounts — I determine there should be about $202 remaining in my USE OR LOSE FSA account. USE OR LOSE! Money down the drain people!  I immediately go to  www.drugstore.com.

Me on www.drugstore.com — approximately 6:30pm: Band-aids. Neosporin. Motrin. Allergy meds. Oooh, a new heating pad.  Blistex. What’s my total? $85.00. Not enough! Ugh!  More allergy meds. More Motrin. How ’bout some cortisone creme? What else can I buy? Augh! I need to spend almost another $100.  Where can I unload big money? Ah, Sephora.  I immediately head to  www.sephora.com and load up on ridiculously expensive suncreen. My face will thank me?  I hope so.

Me texting Jen — approximately 7:10pm: “Running late, had to spend some $$. Getting ready now. Think maybe 8pm.”

Me finally ready to go out and party — approximately 8:25pm: Nap? no. Manicure? no. Relaxing afternoon? no. Could it all have been avoided? yes.

At least I can sweep this under the rug of 2008 and swear it off for ‘09, ya?

There must be something in the rubber

My car is old, a 1995 Nissan, that I bought in a nice, oxidized blackish color.  Actually I didn’t buy it that way, it’s sort of developed overtime, it’s tre original. I talk shit about my car all the time, but truth is I bought it way back when so that I would have a car that would last me a good ten years (check) and not be the bane of my existence (check).  I paid it off more than five years ago and since then have been hell bent on not sinking money into repairs that would off-set the cost savings of not having car payment.  So my engine leaks an almost obscene amount of oil, I battle that by getting more-than-regular oil changes and keeping a fresh quart in the trunk at all times.  So my air conditioner doesn’t work, I just try not to go anywhere in the dead of summer w/o  a bucket of ice or a fierce breeze.  Basically unless the car won’t run or unless the safety inspectors won’t release it without certain “fixes”, I leave everything as is.

This mantra also applies to my tires, in that they are the same tires I drove off the lot with ten+ years ago.  In addition to the inherent safety issues with this scenario, they have also taken to developing slow leaks which I like to combat with regular visits to Free Air stations and to my local repair shop for tire patches.  After my third patch in as many months, on the same tire (don’t judge), I began to feel nervous about driving the car any distance greater than four miles.  The last patch came about after returning home from this month’s business trip to find the rear, driver’s side tire flat–again.  Usually I can get to the deflating tire before it goes flat, but being out of town I missed my window.  So Jen drove me over to Cherrydale Hardware on the Sunday of my return to buy a can of Fix-A-Flat.  Applying Reddi Whip for tire holes was easy as pie, and it inflated well enough for me to tool around town running errands.  However laziness soon took over and a week had gone by and I was still tooling around on fixed flat tire.  Then on my way to go visit the illustrious Jen, I get a text from her that SHE had a flat on her way home.  She who took me to the hardware store.  Eesh!  So I am now I am just tempting fate.  I push it out of my head as I get up in the morning to drive to Springfield to meet these two chicks for coffee.  However concern morphs to apprehension when I hear than Jen has gotten another flat…Jen, not me with the crappy tires. Not me who has to get in the car and drive to Fredericksburg in a matter of minutes.

The whole way down I-95 I had visions of spiraling out of control on a blown out tire, so after completing my errand and happening upon a little tire shop I did the responsible thing and had them change my tires on the spot.  All four of them, not just the one that had gone flat three times.  I felt all good about being responsible as I headed back north.  I swear I even felt the nicer ride, chugging along on the un-bald rubber.  The ride felt nicer that is until I was fighting with my steering wheel to keep the car moving in a straight line.  The more I fought, the more I cursed the tiny tire shop for messing with my alignment until it got so bad I decided to get off at the next exit.  Some horrendous sounds and a visual proof finally confirmed that my tire was flat.  Like way flat, like soooo not a slow leak flat.  Bastards.

Forty-five minutes of tearing up my trunk turned up a spare tire, a tire iron, and a jack’s hand crank…and no jack.  So what do I do?  Taking stock of my surroundings I call the closest and strongest person I know, Harmony.  She brings a jack but within two minutes she also finds my jack that was in my trunk in some secret squirrel trunk compartment.  Brilliant.  We get the jack in place and set about loosening some lug nuts.  Some lug nuts that were just professionally ratcheted on a mere hour ago.  Yeah. You can imagine how that went.  We did actually get one loose before someone came by to help.  Some hulk-man that had more strength in his pinky finger than two, non-waifish chicks could muster even while STANDING  on a tire iron and jumping down on it with full body weight.

So some hours later I was home with four, inflated tires and not at all worried about my drive to Stafford the following day.  Stafford came and went without incident. But what did I wake up to this morning?  A lovely, new, slow, effing leak.   Beautiful.

My dirty tire changing hand.

You, again

Two years ago we hooked up. To be honest I was looking to you to fill a void in my life. I spent a little time trying to repair that void myself, but without much luck I ended up turning to you. We started out fast–upgraded, international flights here and there and even though things were shiny and new we were content to spend most of our days together at home. Granted, we each had our own space but aren’t the best relationships like that? I really thought we’d go far together, so I am sure you can at least try to imagine my astonishment when you ran out on me last month. Even more so to do it at the airport, as we were about to get on the plane! I mean what did I ever do to you to deserve that? Sure, longing for the one before you may have caused a strain, but I was getting over that. It had been two years for God’s sake, I was committed to YOU! What’s even worse is that I can’t even pinpoint the vaguest reason why you’d wait until we were at the airport to jet out on me…just after security, before I put my shoes back on? Why? Why then? Was it the hint of superiority I exuded after skipping all of the long lines at Dulles, using my Premiere flight status to my full advantage? Minor infraction if you ask me. Plus I know deep down you enjoyed that perk too. Hell, were you offended by the odor of my feet as I removed my shoes to step through the metal detector? It’s not like we hadn’t done that together a handful of times before. I just don’t understand. I saw the older gentlemen behind me, and I saw they way he looked at you. Was it him? Was the thought of staying with me so atrocious that you decided to just leap into his arms, leaving me stranded?

You, of all people, leaving me at the airport before our trip to London. It’s…it’s unacceptable!

And do you know how much trouble you’ve gotten me into with the State Department, my job, TSA????

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip

I am wearing my favorite, decades old jeans today.

I, just minutes ago, did my signature, half-swivel with a turn into my office chair where I come in landing (sitting) on one folded-underneath-me leg, facing my computer screen.

Upon completion of the half-swivel with a turn office chair mount, I noticed that something felt different.

The different feeling was in my backside rrea, so I instinctively reached around to explore this something that felt different.

The exploring stopped when my fingers met with my very upper thigh flesh and my very upper thigh flesh felt some cold fingers upon it.

Odd, why am I feeling very upper thigh flesh at just after 2 in the afternoon?

A spine-twisting visual confirmation revealed that a rip in the very upper thigh, gluteal region of my jeans is the reason why my very upper thigh flesh can feel my cold fingers poking around there.

I am at work.

I am at work with three hours left in the day.

I am at work with three hours left in the day with a tear in the very upper thigh/ gluteal region of my jeans.

I don’t think butt cheek/hamstring exposure is what’s considered approprite office attire, even for Casual Friday.

I think I might be coming down with something.

33 minutes from bed to work

Yeah, I woke up a little late this morning. I am SURE it had nothing to do with the one glass of pinot noir I imbibed last night. The one glass that was never empty. You know the one. The kind of glass where it’s impossible to tell how much wine you actually drank because you never seemed to get to the end of it, nor did you ever ask for a refill. Anyway, back to bed…so as I woke from my slumber I did so in that I’m-not-opening-my eyes-because-it’s-just-so-glorious-lying-here-in-the-warm-bed fashion. Which is not how I usually wake on workdays. Usually there is an alarm and snoozing involved. This is when calendar starts in my head. Is it the weekend? What day is it? (important to note that my eyes are still closed at this point) I don’t know. Ok what did I do last night? Bug. She dropped me off. Wine. Weekday wine. Shit. It’s Thursday. My eyes open and dart to the clock. Double shit. It’s 8:28 am. Shit again because now I have to do math to try and figure out how much time I have. Shit gets upgraded to fuck. I don’t have ANY time at all, I was supposed to leave my house 15 minutes ago. Fuckitty fuckfuck. Now the adrenaline rush comes, which makes me feel sick and shaky. But, it is semi-quelled by the realization that the only person who cares if I am on time, my boss, is out of town. So I relax a bit knowing I can call on my way to just say that I am running late. I wash up, dress and throw a can of tuna, a v8 and some cottage cheese in my bag with some running clothes. I go for my cell phone to call work and then realize that I couldn’t find it last night when I got in. Thinking maybe I was too stupid too drunk to find it last night, I search again. Nope. No cell phone. Augh. And this girl doesn’t have a landline. So now the adrenaline icky feeling comes back and I grab my coat and run out the door. I am contemplating the time in my head, a 15 minute walk to the Metro and then a 15 minute ride if I’m lucky and there are no delays will put me in the office well after 9. With no phone call. I hate being late to work. The sick feeling comes back. I cross the street and see a bus waiting at the light. Hope. Oh it’s going to Rosslyn station. Woo! I am saved. Stroll into work at 9:01. Maybe looking a little like death on a triscuit thank god for blush and lipgloss and feeling like I got run over by a bus instead of just taking one (I think coming off the adrenaline rush is worse than the actual rush itself), but here on time! nonetheless.