Whoa Nelly!

June is kicking my butt, bloggers. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I think I might be losing it.

See? It's in the eyes, I think. And please note that I'm wearing a sundress. There has been much nakey talk about this photo. NOT NAKED.

Besides being an incredibly busy month, as discussed here, it has also been pretty harsh. Saturday night, while enjoying dinner with friends at a little Italian joint, my husband's truck was broken into. The culprits stole my purse, and my makeup bag. *cries*

I loved that big green Target purse, and Etsy Russian nesting doll makeup bag. Something I loved even more than them? All the stuff I keep in them, including my driver's license, social security card, and the keys to my home, office and vehicle! Yeah. Awesome.


I'm still in the process of getting things replaced, warding off credit fraud, identity theft and coping with the loss of the things that I'll never get back again. I kind of feel like I'm missing a limb, so please excuse my lack of posting/reading your loverly blogs. The Busy and The Blah are something I have to work through, but I'll catch up soon. My birthday is this Sunday, and I'm hoping to have worked through a lot of this mess by then.


*mwah*

Window Seat PLEASE?!?!?!?

Okay. I have no time to be blogging right now, but I must vent.

Me + Plane = right as rain

Unless I'm without a window seat. Then you just don't want to be near me, or between me and that ever so luxurious bathroom that everyone's DYING to piddle in.

I flew all the way to Korea by my lonesome and I was fine. Enjoyed the flight. Not the 17 hour one so much, but it was cool. Why was it cool? Because I was by a window. I could see. I could breath.

So, husband person got approved for a convention thingy in San Francisco and that's grand. We just have to pay for my ticket and tada! Awesome mini vacation.

I should be completely stoked. Yes I say stoked. Instead I have to be stressing out because Todd's supervisor has been sitting on this whole getting everything set up thing for like two months!

Since Bossy Poo thought he'd tell us about this trip to Cali, oh I don't know, two and a half WEEKS before our expected departure...deep healing breath...I am going to have an isle seat from Missouri to California. Like 4 hours of me trying to pretend like I can breathe that canned air blissfully.

I will throw up.

Oh, and I don't get to sit by my husband on that flight either!

GLORIOUS!

Maybe someone will be nice and switch seats with me. Maybe.

Heather Primavera

I consider myself to be a pretty understanding person. I don't normally jump to conclusions, or react harshly, but sometimes I want to. Oh, how I want to.

This weekend Todd and I made a mad dash to the grocery store for some much needed items. Among these was pasta sauce for my world famous three cheese ravioli. ^__^

Now, normally we do the whole self check out thing for minimum human interaction. It saves on time and energy, and will eventually eliminate any need for cashiers. Wonderful people, I'm sure. I just have an aversion to them.

On this occasion we went to a manned check out. The lady was nice, but obviously not well. Runny nose, blood shot eyes, coughing...really gross and germy. Definitely in need of some cough syrup and a nap. But no. She's at Walmart, serving Satan!

So, we do the whole stand there, smile, pay and "have a nice night, hope you feel better" thing. Then we escape with our cart. We grab our few bags and out the door we go.

Standing next to the truck, in the cold, I wait for Todd to open the tail gate. All of a sudden the heavy bag I'm resting over my shoulder gets a lot lighter. I hear glass shattering and instantly my leg is cold and I smell the sweet aroma of Prego(with mushrooms).

Check out chick must've been doped up on some NyQuil after all. She put the ginormous jar of spaghetti sauce in a bag with a 2 liter. Smart much?! I realize I could've paid attention to her bagging expertise, but I shouldn't have to!

I laughed it off and went and cleaned up. I looked like I'd been mauled by Theo. From the knee down my right leg was covered in red. It was a gory mess.

Yes. I waltzed up to customer service and told them what happened. Yes. They replaced the pasta sauce. Yes. They apologized whole heartily, and I smiled and said things like: It's fine. It's okay. It's not your fault.

It's not fine. It's not okay. My pants are ruined and it is their fault. I even did magical-get-stain-out stuff, and there are still orange spots on my corduroys. That woman should've been home nursing that cold. Not absent mindedly bagging my groceries.

Sometimes I wish I could just be mean.

Oh The Weather Outside Is Frightful

The weather is gloomy today, but this has not dampened my spirits. With paycheck in hand I will stop by the store on my way home today, and then I'll be free. I will be bombarded by unwanted Christmas tunes, but that will not dampen my spirits either. It is Friday and I am SO ready for the weekend. What I'm not ready for is the foggy drive to work. You can hardly see your nose out there!

On my way into work the other foggy/rainy day I counted twenty-six people driving without their lights on. Twenty-six!! Obviously I was in a lovely mood. As I drove through town I grew more and more disgruntled. How many morons are driving around in their nice, shiny vehicles that apparently didn't come equipped with head lights!? So I commenced to counting. Twenty-six!!

Subsequently, this must be the age that crotchetiness sets in. It's also the age that my husband decides he wants to master the guitar. My guitar. Yours, mine and ours? Usually, but not this time. It is my electric. While I'm glad he's picked up a hobby I can enjoy and share, I am getting a little peeved at how he compares it to the acoustic he held at the guitar shop ONCE. He's all the time saying things like:

1. The action is weird on this thing.
2. I wish this thing was a little bigger.
3. I need a Dreadnought.

First of all, you be the judge of which is sexier. Mine is an Epiphone Fat 210. Like the one pictured here(the clouds part and the sun shines through). This is your basic Dreadnought. Both wonderful instruments with equally satisfying sound, but please. Don't play my guitar and talk trash about it. She'll get low self esteem.

His obsession is partially my doings, though. I got so excited when I saw he was sticking with this whim that I gave him my Musician's Friend. His eyes glazed over and there he went. Two weeks ago he didn't know what action was. He didn't want a box or a capo. I've created a monster. A cute guitar wielding monster, but a monster. Sigh.

At least he's not playing Christmas music.

What Day Is It?

Why do people put Christmas stuff out before Thanksgiving?!?! I mean, I love Christmas as much as the next person, but why ruin it? Why do I have to be subjected to holly jolly Christmas tunes before I darn well choose?!

I'm convinced that it's a marketing strategy. Someone in some marketing department somewhere really think we're that impressionable. Well, believe me you buddy. I am not that malleable, and I don't care how many times I have to listen to "I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas," I will not get into the holiday spirit until after Thanksgiving! And I will not do it by shopping!

I've made my dorky/noble little pledge to hand make more gifts this year. I'm knitting, painting and crafting like a madwoman. Sure, I'll still buy some Christmas gifts, but it will not be on the biggest shopping day of the year. Nor will it be due to having been pumped full of freaking Christmas cheer for two whole months! You're sneaky little plan failed Mr. Advert Man. Nice try, though.

Now, the city putting lights up is fine. I like twinkle lights at night. It's all magical and whatnot. But the next schmuck I see stringing their house with lights before the day after Thanksgiving is gonna get it from all 5'4" of me. Right in the kisser.

Sweet Memories

Let me preface this post by saying that you've probably noticed frequent referrals to my childhood. I know I mention it every now and again. Okay. Okay. I admit I have some strange fascination with how whacked my childhood was, and how amazed I am that I turned out even semi-functional.

Okay. Deep healing breaths.

This morning I woke up with an itchy bottom lip. *Sigh* For those of you not blessed with this lovely affliction, that means I woke up with a fever blister/cold sore. I like to call them itchy hell bumps. Because, well that's what they truly are.

So, I woke up with an itchy hell bump this morning, which immediately sent me careening back to the second grade. My Mom is an R.N., which regardless of what I thought at age seven, does not mean Real Nurse. As the daughter of a caregiver I had been introduced to a world of knowledge that most young children shouldn't know. Like herpes, for instance.

I can still see Mrs. Greene(G), who always pronounced my name incorrectly, standing in front of my desk. Hands pressed firmly on her hips, she argued with me about the ginormous itchy fever blister on my little pink lip.

G: What happened to your lip, Miss Legg-E?

Me: It's herpes.

G: My dear, it is most certainly not herpes.

Me: Yes it is. I got it from my dad.

G: Well, don't tell people that!

Me: It is. It's a simplex.

G: Who told you that?

Me: My Mom. She's a Real Nurse. My name is Heather Legge. Not Legg-E. The E is silent(I had to throw that in there).

She got concerned and pinned a note to my shirt, which I was to deliver to my mother unopened. So, I read it on the bus, deemed it babble and threw it out the window. It was the one and ONLY time I ever littered, and it was all that dumb hillbilly woman's fault!

She never even followed up with a phone call! If she was worried I'd been abused, why didn't she call? Of course, at the time, I couldn't have cared less. I knew I was right. My dad had a fever blister and kissed me when he dropped me off at my moms. Two weeks later I had this red itchy bump on my lip, and my mom was tearing my dad a new one for kissing me and/or letting me drink after him. Then she went on and on about herpes simplex one and two, how contagious it was and that it would never go away.

As far as I can remember, Mrs. Greene never asked me another personal question. She still said my name wrong too, which always burnt me up. If I'd known how to spell her name I'd have started referring to her as Mrs. Green-E.

Wench.

Ah, memories.

Dog In The Box

Who here loves animals? Let's see a show of hands. Alright. Who here likes dogs especially? Prepare to be angered.

My office is downtown across the street from the court house. Everyday a gazillion cars whiz by, like giant schools of fishies. It can get pretty noisy. Today, I heard a dog whimper. Then a yelp. I thought perhaps it was a spoiled mutt waiting not-so-patiently for their person. I quickly found a stopping point in my work to go investigate.

To my surprise there was a county worker's truck parked across the street. One of the animal control ones. A big white Chevy with a silver box in the bed. That's where the puppy pleas were coming from. Correction-CAME FROM ALL DAY! That truck was there until 4, and that doggy just cried and cried!

Animals have to be picked up and taken to the pound sometimes. I understand that. Can't they at least make it swift! Chances are this mutt bit someone, which will grant him immediate night-nights, or he's been scrounging for food in someones garbage bin, in an attempt to survive. So, this guy decides to leave the mutt to rot in this big metal box.

Both of my dogs are of the mutt persuasion. I found them hungry, cold and homeless. Now they're family. We were friends in seconds and cuddling on the way to the vet. They are forever grateful for my hospitality and I their love and fuzzy, slobbery goodness. Why can't everyone love animals enough to keep them from these sort of situations?

What possesses people to get critters if they aren't going to love and care for them?! Why do they let them run around without being spayed/neutered?! There are just way too many irresponsible, self-absorbed, desensitized jack-offs that find it necessary to have animals, but not take care of them.

Now, I want to know what was so all-fired important in that court house that a county worker had to leave an unattended, frightened, most likely thirsty/hungry animal in a cold metal box for hours?! Seriously. I guarantee he was in there flirting with a secretary, and didn't give that dog a second thought.

So, there I sat in my office on a beautiful fall Monday afternoon, listening to a pitiful puppy cry for help. I was so waiting for that dude to stroll out of the court house. I wanted to ask him what his business consisted of today. I wanted to know where that doggy came from, where it was going, and unless it bit someone and was acting rabid, which it's was not, why it deserved to sit in a cold metal box with no food or water for all afternoon. I'm really curious.

My husband thinks I'm overreacting. He usually does. He proposes that perhaps the man had a very sound excuse for his neglect. Perhaps the animal was safer in the box than where he was prior to his abduction. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perrrrrrrhaps.

Perhaps that doesn't change the fact that he was whimpering in a box across from my office. Someone was careless somewhere down the line and I am so tired of seeing animals suffer because of inconsiderate people.

Phone Company Harpy

I've been on the phone with the Phone Company Harpy for about 10 minutes now. I took it upon myself to create a sketch derived from her tone of voice and attitude. I can't be too sure, but I think she looks something like this.
Just thought I'd share.

So Much For Old School

Let me first express my distaste for newspapers. I loathe them. I've always disliked them, and here are three reasons why.

1. I've never been able to turn the pages successfully.
2. I'm allergic to the ink.
3. They smell funny.

That being said, I read a newspaper today. I was in search of a specific article. During my unpleasant inky exodus I came across a disturbing fact.

The State Department of Education apparently decided to display their all out distaste for children, and all that is good and right, by sending out the following decree. Partial school days have been banned!!!

You heard me right. Those days we LIVED FOR! Pep rallies. Parades. Anything they'd allow us to attend. It's what kept us going! Partial school days were the solitary reason we trudged along, doing as we were told and never(almost) questioning authority.

This new rule eliminates dismissing school early on the last day before Christmas and Spring Break. What's wrong with these people?! Have they no decency?!

If you thought violence in schools was a problem before. Just wait until this gets into full swing. These little punks are gonna be packin' heat now.

(yoinked from photobucket-Jeb's sister)

Mr. Ogle

While reading Lauren's post about the grabby shopper, I was reminded of a few awkward shopping adventures of my own. Perhaps I'm alone here, but I wonder.

I never shop alone. Like ever. I don't like shopping unless it's an adventure, and adventures require friends. So, trying on clothes is an experience involving running around half dressed from one friend's dressing room to the next, acquiring opinions and laughing. A male in no way balances this equation!

Is it normal for male employees to be stationed in female dressing rooms? Old Navy started it and it's becoming an epidemic! Perhaps this is accepted and I'm strange, but I don't need Mr. Ogle here nonchalantly checking me out-all half zipped and buttoned-for any reason!!

Are you gay? Are you straight? Why exactly are you ogling me sideways/full-on?!?!? I'm sorry, but if you're a member of one sex and you're in the opposite sex's dressing room, I have every right to wonder about your sexual preference! Which, I couldn't care less about otherwise, and am disturbed that I have to even consider!

Is it just me, or is this unacceptable?!

WHO ASKED YOU?!

Read THIS, please.

OK. So, when I read this article I laughed. This man is apparently an expert on all the "low life" folks out there, and their various "primal" forms of self expression. Of course, that's assuming he even thinks we're capable of self expression, since we obviously lack the potential for having an i.q. above 60. I guess you should read his words of wisdom before I verbally bash him into oblivion.

"No one can deny that the heaviest concentrations of tattoos occur in the lowest segments of society -- prostitutes, pimps, pugs, prison inmates, Ku Klux Klansmen and the members of street and motorcycle gangs."

"Aware of how some of these devoted self-mutilators are going to react, I am compelled to emphasize that I do not favor any restrictions on personal behavior. If an idiot wants to get a tattoo, he or she should be free to do so. I just think responsible news media organizations should not glamorize them. What's next? Glamorizing child molesters or kluxers?"

Mad as heck yet?! First of all, no one asked him, or maybe they did, but I sure as heffalumps didn't! Second of all, is it just me, or does his argument seem to scream, "I'm a prejudiced moron!?" Doesn't sound like those of us with tattoos are considered equal in his warped mind. While he allows us "tattooed folk" our self expression, he lumps us into a category not much higher than child molesters/ku klux klan members.

My opinion of these two groups is in no means a high one. I sure as heck wouldn't want to rub elbows with any of them, but they're still people, and MR. HOLIER THAN THOU is not the judge! Besides, there are plenty of individuals with tattoos that don't fit into any of his little categories.

In case you haven't already deduced, while I am not a prostitute, Ku Klux Klan, or gang member, I have a tattoo. It's a small, colorful snail, on my right ankle. I drew it, and decided I needed it permanently scribed onto my person, when I was about seventeen. I consider myself to be a mildly intelligent twenty-six year old. I actually graduated high school with a 3.7 grade point average, attained my bachelor's degree in art/art history, hold a full-time job serving youth and families, and attend church!

I have decided that I don't like marking my skin permanently. I still like my tattoo, but I believe that God made me just perfect, and any additions are unnecessary. MR. BLOWHARD thinks a little too highly of his own opinions, if you ask me.