Things I Don't Want To Talk About
July 06, 2004
So I don’t really want to talk about my weekend. It rained a lot. Plans changed and fell through and then last-minute houseguests left me more stressed out than I felt on Friday. Do you know that the itty bitty bathroom in last week’s post is our ONLY bathroom? And that we still have our old n’ busted couch sitting in the middle of our living room? And that it blocks the walkway to our dining room and kitchen and has surprisingly sharp corners for a big puffy couch?
And I didn’t get to see any fireworks except for some smoky crackly thing some guy set off near my car in the parking lot outside the liquor store. Which was CLOSED because buying booze is downright un-American, even if you are trapped with one bathroom and two couches and your in-laws in a crowded apartment and OH MY GOD WE ARE OUT OF WINE.
And I really don’t want to talk about the drive we took my poor in-laws on around the D.C. neighborhoods we are thinking of moving to because we could actually afford a second bathroom there, even though those neighborhoods are all in, around, and through the ghetto. It doesn’t matter how great of an investment it may be or how much potential Northeast DC has, your parents do not want to know that you are thinking of raising their future grandchildren next door to a crack house. This does not make for happy holiday family fun.
I also don’t want to talk about the new design. Because I still don’t like it. Because it looks nothing like the absolutely amazing design I sketched out on a cocktail napkin a couple weeks ago. It looked awesome. All clean and Zen-like and shit. Then I lost the napkin. Then I realized that my Web design skills are actually worse than my programming skills, which are roughly on-par with the programming skills of your average monkey.
And we certainly won’t talk about how I didn’t realize I’d accidentally published the new template on Saturday which was way earlier than I wanted because it looked even more like shit and I had a complete and utter meltdown because of it and Jason suggested that maybe it’s time to call the shrink again because damn, woman.
And I don’t really want to talk about my day so far. Last week’s sick days and general uselessness have left me completely and utterly screwed for the next two weeks. Much editing and writing and print deadlines and such. And all of it for an author who puts apostrophe’s on plural’s instead of on possessive’s, which hurt’s Amys head. He also likes to write stuff like $4 million dollars or 10-20% percent which drives me so crazy I cannot express it.
Tomorrows headline’s: “Young Woman Who Was Always a Tad Unbalanced Driven Completely Over the Edge By Poor Punctuation. Kills Self With Letter Opener; Innocent Desk Lamp Remains In Critical Condition.”
Oh, and Gmail? I love you and all, but maybe you could try sort of actually delivering my email today? Like in my Inbox? Where I could read it? That would be peachy.
Yeah, I don’t want to talk about Gmail either.
So what else is there to say? Well, there’s cheesecake in the kitchen here at work. That’s yummy news. But I probably shouldn’t talk about the cheesecake either because all I can say about it is that I would very much like to stick my whole face in it and gobble the entire thing up and growl at anyone who approached me. So I guess the less said about the cheesecake, the better.
So in summary: Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t touch me and don’t you dare come between me and that cheesecake.