I know I said that I wasn't going to sing on this blog but it turns out I lied. Singing badly is so much a part of who I am, I can't leave it out of something that's supposed to represent me in all my craziness. Please forgive me, I know not what I do.**

The mama pajama rolled out of bed
And she ran to the police station
When the papa found out he began to shout
And he started the investigation
Its against the law
It was against the law
What the mama saw
It was against the law

The mama looked down and spit on the ground
Everytime my name gets mentioned
The papa said oy if I get that boy
I'm gonna stick him in the house of detention
Well I'm on my way
I don't know where I'm going
I'm on my way

I'm taking my time
But I don't know where
Goodbye to Rosie the Queen of Corona
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
Me and Julio down by the schoolyard

In a couple of days they come and take me away
But the press let the story leak
And when the radical priest
Come to get me released
We was all on the cover of newsweek
And I'm on my way
I don't know where I'm going
I'm on my way

I'm taking my time
But I don't know where
Goodbye to Rosie the Queen of Corona
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
Me and Julio down by the schoolyard

* I know that's not the title of the song but I like that line. Yeah, I'm weird. So sue me.

** This is a complete and total lie.

Also, I wanted to work something in about Running Scared (the 1986 movie, not that piece of crap 2006 movie) because Jimmy Smits' character is named Julio and I totally associate the name Julio with Running Scared. Anyhow, the quote I wanted to use doesn't actually have anything to do with Julio and its comedic value is entirely dependent upon how Billy Crystal says it so it really doesn't translate to a written blog entry at all. That said, I loved Running Scared and think it's really a funny movie. Lastly, I miss Gregory Hines.

That is all.

This past month or two I've been riding this goddamned rocking horse for all I'm worth but these walls, they're still whispering at me.

For the past year or so, the walls have been quiet, leaving me to finally rest after deafening me for most of my life. But when it rains, it fucking pours man. Car repair bills, a nephew wanting to test for his green belt (those tests are not cheap - and he passed! Next is green with a brown stripe), dogs needing vet visits, showers deciding to stop working, blah, blah, blah. Same old shit but we got forcibly relocated to Bandini mountain and I'm just about done in.

Le sigh. Thank for listening. It'll be all right - I can see the light at the end of the tunnel we've bored through the fertilizer. I only wish my horse'd rock forward faster. :-)
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This was written around 1 a.m. this morning when I couldn't sleep because it's been too damned hot here lately. It's insomnia and heat induced melancholia that I'm not completely proud of but when I started writing this blog, and have reasserted to myself many times over the years, I vowed (yes, vowed) to represent all of me here, not just the funniest, most intelligent and coherent parts, but the dumbassed and ridiculous parts as well. So forgive the adolescent seriousness of this post but I wanted to put it out here, 'cause I'm masochistic that way...

The song plays and my thoughts turn to you, as they always do. So many years gone by. Do you remember? Do I occur to you at odd moments, when some random recollection fits itself into the grooves of your brain and dislodges thoughts of so many hours spent writing, talking, hoping, longing. I think of you, wonder how you are as your voice floats through the landscape of my memory. I decide to seek you out, to see if you are within reach. A click here, a search there and you are in front of me. A small smile lifts the corner of my mouth, random memories shuffling through forgotten pathways. Should I try? Dare I send the offer out into the ether to possibly be cast aside? I’m overthinking, as I always do, and so a trivial message is written, the request is sent, electronic pulses traveling across the miles to you. The wonders of this age bring your acceptance so quickly. I eagerly drink up the moments of your life to which I am now privy and I see that you are indeed well. As my hungry eyes pass over your pages, I realize there are many later models of me leaving you their own messages, making their own commentary. Where we began with pen and paper, you now have electronic versions of me casting their bottles onto your shore. My unrealistic, and frankly silly, expectations, as ill-defined as they were, flutter to the floor like dust motes settling onto the forgotten surfaces of an abandoned house. Reality doesn’t always crash into our existence. Sometimes it slyly eases into being, waiting with infinite patience for its true form to be recognized. Reality has cast its harsh light on the foolish ideas of an overly sentimental woman.


Every morning when I finally drag my ass out of bed, I take out The Tofunator. Whilst I wait for her to complete her morning micturition (I just found that on - I so love vocabulary and the internet), I generally try to wake myself up or fall asleep standing up, whichever works best.

The other morning was a "trying to struggle out of a coma" morning and while walking around in a circle and slapping myself upside the head, I observed some writing in chalk on the concrete pad in the backyard. This in itself is not a strange occurrence as living with a 3-year old lends itself to chalk drawings and such on every conceivable outside writing surface in the vicinity of the house. However, on this particular occasion it appeared that her 14-year old brother had been engaged in the aforementioned chalk writing activity with her. I didn't get a picture (I don't own a camera and my cell phone is all but dead) but here is what I saw:

The Nephew's Name
The Niece's Name
{squiggly drawing}

As I had not yet quite managed to fully regain consciousness (I am so not a morning person), I had to blink a few times, look away and then look back to fully absorb that my nephew had chosen to write the longest word in the English language while playing outside with his sister. Not something you see every day.

If you're broke (like me) or you just like Jack in the Box tacos (also like me) or both (yep, like me), they're giving away free tacos tomorrow. Here's the link for the coupon:


When I was about 8 years old, my grandmother (who was also my after school babysitter) was admitted to a nursing home. Thus began my latch-keydom. Luckily I was a well-behaved child (aka a goody-goody) and so I would always walk straight home after school, make the requisite call to mom to let her know I'd walked straight home from school and then I'd do my homework. Once that was done, I'd have time to kill until Mom got off work. It was during this time that Julia Child became my babysitter.

Now, she wasn't physically in my home, taking care of me and making sure I didn't drink the Drano but I would watch television, as children left to their own devices are occasionally wont to do, and her show just so happened to be on PBS at the right time. I became addicted to watching her cook, to her wonderfully milky voice and her genuine enthusiasm for whatever dish she happened to be preparing during each show. That was where my love for cooking shows began. Julia Child has always held a special place in my childhood memories.

So when my friend and hair stylist guru asked me if I'd like to attend an advance screening of Julie and Julia (he's got a friend at Sony who hooks him up with tickets from time to time), I of course enthusiastically said yes. Last night The Nephew and I went and saw the movie and it was absolutely wonderful. I took The Nephew because he loves cooking and watches Food Network a fair bit so I figured he'd enjoy it. He really liked it and said it's now one of his favorite movies.

It's not surprising that the best part of the movie is the storyline involving Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci as Julia and Paul Child. Meryl Streep truly becomes Julia and her voice is dead-on. It was interesting to see the various ways that Meryl (who is 5' 6" tall) was made to appear as tall as Julia had been (6' 2"). But honestly, the way Julia and Paul were portrayed and the incredible support and love they had for each other was truly wonderful to behold. Nora Ephron is a master at this kind of feel good human comedy and she was certainly in her element in this film.

The Amy Adams and Chris Messina storyline was okay but not nearly so engaging. It seemed to me that at times, Amy's portrayal embodied a little too much Meg Ryan at her prime. Many of her gestures, her voice and even her hairstyle are incredibly reminiscient of Meg Ryan. Perhaps it's an unfair comparison seeing as Meg has been in several Nora Ephron movies but I really didn't expect to see the similarities so it was a bit of a surprise.

At any rate, for a beautifully done feel good comedy that doesn't hit you over the head with the romantic parts but instead lets them weave throughout the story of these two couples, definitely check Julie and Julia out when it's in wide release. That said, I haven't been able to stop seeing Julia's Paris whenever I close my eyes.

Did you roll your eyes when you saw those two words "politically correct"? I know that's my knee-jerk reaction when I see something referred to as politically correct (pc - not to be confused with personal computer - I know some of you are techno-geeks out there ). More often than not, a politically correct term is some moron exercising their ability to run off at the mouth and spew nonsense. Despite my cynicism that simmers constantly beneath the surface of my brain, there are some pc terms that actually have some merit. No way!, you exclaim. Yes way!, I reply.

In fact, I will go so far as to say that if someone is willing to take the time to explain to me why a pc term is valid and their explanation comes from passion and conviction, I will whole heartedly adopt said term. It is a shocking truth that there is some validity in certain pc terms. You can see it coming, can't you? Oh yes, I am going to enlighten you a pc terms that is near and dear to me. So get your coffee, soda, latte, whiskey, cigarette, or whatever your poison of choice is to get you through.

Before I get into the passion and conviction part of this educational essay, let me give you some history about the term harelip. This comes from a wonderful website that now seems to be defunct, which is a terrible shame. From

In the 16th century, it was a French Doctor who, when discussing a patient with a cleft, first coined the phrase that would be translated, "Lip of the Hare". In English it was more comfortably shortened to "HareLip". It was an unfortunate pairing of similes. The good doctor was only reflecting that the lip was split, as is the lip of a Hare (and every other rodent). But unfortunately for those who were born with a cleft, the hare had also long been associated with witchcraft!

It was believed throughout the dark ages and even to relatively recent times that a witch would often take the shape of a hare. And if a hare were to frighten a pregnant woman, she would give birth to a child bearing the mark.

In the 17th century the hysteria surrounding witchcraft rose to a new and frightening level. And it was during that time that the hare had become a symbol of Satan himself. A woman bearing a child with the mark of the hare, or a harelip, at that time,was thought to have had to have had relations with Satan. And thus, the cleft-affected child born of a woman, say, in Salem Massachusetts during the mid 17th century, in the midst of witchcraft hysteria would have condemned his mother to a violent end. That baby would have constituted "irrefutable evidence" of his mother's unnatural liaison with Satan.

Fast forward now to the 20th Century. Many people still use the term, "HareLip" when they mean to say, "Cleft Lip". Do they associate our children with Satanism and witchcraft? No, surely they don't. But it is nonetheless a term that has persevered in our language, long after a more accurate, more appropriate term has been coined.

At the very least, the term, "HareLip" likens our children to a common field rodent. It is not a soft, fluffy bunny. It is just a rodent. At the very most it harkens back to a darker past. A past that would never have happened were it not for massive hysteria on the part of a superstitious and almost militantly religious population. A past that condemned our children as the Devil's Seed, and condemned their mothers to death.

Wide Smiles was a support organization for parents of children with cleft lips and/or palates. Why would these people need a support group? Because their children will end up going through multiple surgeries in their lifetimes. How do I know?

Many of you who know me can already know how I know. This is the person responsible for my education:


That's The Nephew's baby picture. He was born with a unilateral cleft lip and palate. He's had 6 surgeries so far, the first before he was a year old. The first 2 were to close the cleft in his lip. None of them took particularly well. The surgeries healed badly and the scar tissue caused his lip to pull up. Then through Shannon's amazing advocacy, he went to a major university hospital that has special craniofacial teams and they smoothed out his upper lip. The next to last surgery he had was to do the majority of the closure work on his palate.

Today, The Nephew is a gorgeous 14-year old but he's always been a beautiful boy. In fact, after his first surgery, he looked strange to me. I was used to his wonderful open smile. He didn't look like The Nephew with his lip made more "normal". Of course, we all got used to the new lip. The Nephew only has one or two more surgeries to go. The last one was a few years ago and was a bone graft from his hip to completely close the cleft in his palate. The other surgeries he'll have will involve plastic surgery to make his nose more even, more work on his lip, things like that and will only happen if he chooses to undergo them.

Memories of The Nephew with tongue depressors wrapped in foam tape around his arms to keep him from touching his face, sitting up nights with him to help him sleep right after he got home from the hospital, the amazing strength and perserverance this little guy has shown - those are the reasons why I have a problem with the word harelip. It may be said in ignorance these days but it was born out of hatred and fear. To me, it's vile. I am one of those annoying people who will speak to you if you use that word in my presence. But you will hear the passion and the conviction in my voice. I will do my best not to be sanctimonious. You will see pictures of the most amazing little boy to walk the face of this earth. We will part ways smiling and shaking hands. I educate out of love.

*I wrote this in 2004. I've updated it a smidge here and there but left it intact for the most part. It's still relevant today so I didn't want to bury it by posting it under the date it was originally written.

About a month or so ago, The Niece and I were playing in the backyard and I thought it'd be cool to introduce her to the grand childhood pasttime of making a pill bug curl up into a mini-armadillo ball. We hunkered down and peered into the grass in search of pill bugs.

In short order, one of those little insects was crawling toward us. I gently touched it's back and we watched as its survival instincts kicked in and it became a little pill bug ball. The Niece was fascinated by this and had to touch it herself. It was a close call but she didn't actually succeed in making pill bug paste.

It was then she decided that this particular pill bug's name was Harry. Nothing like anthropomorphizing itty bitty bugs, right?

After being rolled around the cement pad outside our back door, Harry figured out that he need to get the hell out of Dodge and trundled himself back to the grass. The Niece now had to find more pill bugs.

This is when we met Raspberry. And I'll have you know that I did not influence The Niece's choice of name for this bug at all. She must already associate blue with raspberry on her own (the blue raspberry Icees/candy/other things that are bad for you I've bought her on occasion I'm sure have nothing to do with it). Raspberry was a bit smarter than Harry and stayed in the grass where she (The Niece insisted Raspberry was a she) was safe(r) from poking and prodding. I had never seen a bright blue pill bug before so this was a new experience for both of us.

The Niece was in full pill bug mode by now. She found another one and proclaimed that its(her) name was Lipstick. Yes, Lipstick. The Niece is a girly-girl 3-year old who loves lipstick, all forms of make-up and all the glitteriness that goes with it. Hence, there is now a pill bug living in the backyard with the moniker Lipstick. Lipstick, however, is a shy pill bug and stayed in the safe zone in between the concrete pad and the yard. She dug herself under some loose grass and when encouraged (read: poked with a twig), just burrowed in deeper. You might say she's a tad anti-social.

We've since visited the pill bug enclave several times and added baby Owie to the fold. There's even been a pill bug family reunion at Nojoqui Falls a couple weeks ago. Considering my love of bugs (please note intense sarcasm), I am so thrilled that I fostered this love of pill bugs in my niece.

After my dad died, I developed this pervasive need to make sure the people I love know that I love them. Not too hard to figure out, right? This compulsion has metastasized into letting people know if they're doing a good job or they look good on a particular day or basically anything that might make someone's day a little brighter or cause them to feel that they matter.

Real life example - Shannon took The Niece to get her ears pierced the other weekend. We'd gone to see "Up" and stopped at Claire's after leaving the theater. The girl there was handling the busy store by herself. She was incredibly nice and professional, competently handling the many different customers and their requests with aplomb. So I told her I was impressed with her ability in running the store. I don't know if it made her day or if she's used to being complimented on her work efforts but I felt better for having said something and acknowledging her.

It's as though if I don't seize that one particular ephemeral opportunity to say a nice thing or let a person know I care, I'll never get that chance again. I have to reach out and grasp it, add my spin and then release it into the neverwhere, hoping that I've made the impact my heart so desperately needs to achieve. Perhaps my motivation is truly selfish in that regard. I do these things because they make me feel better about myself.

All I know is whenever I don't give in to this compulsive need, I flagellate myself with "what if" and "why didn't you say something". These repeated affirmations of love and caring have to be annoying to the people closest to me. To paraphrase James Taylor, "smother the people you love with love/show them the way that you feel". It's okay, Lil, we know you care now just back the fuck off!

Eh. I've totally lost control of this post and have no idea how to compose/re-arrange/detonate it so that it makes sense. These thoughts were tumbling around my brain and spewed themselves out into a blog entry. It is what it is, I suppose.
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Over the weekend, The Nephew, The Niece and I took our two dogs for a walk. The dogs' names are Tofu and Betsey. The Nephew pushed The Niece in her stroller and I walked the two dogs.

Tofu is an older, more mature (at least when not in the presence of food or when you haven't been out of her sight for more than two nanoseconds) dog. Betsey is still in puppyhood, being only about two years old. Betsey kept trying to run around The 'Fu and would get their leashes entwined.

While separating their leashes for the trillionth time, I say to The Nephew, "you know that Bob Dylan song, 'Tangled Up in Blue'?"

He cautiously replies, "Yeah".

I then say (you can hear it already, can't you?), "Well, Betsey's song would be 'Tangled Up with 'Fu'".

Oddly enough, The Nephew didn't laugh but chose to look at me like I was mentally deranged. I mean really, that was pretty darned funny.

Okay, so at least I crack myself up, right? I've gotta make someone laugh.

Before I begin this well thought out and enlightening bullet list (which is not a cop out for a blog entry in any way, shape or form), I have to wonder if I spelled consciousness correctly. Excuse me while I consult spell check...okay, good on me. I hate when I look at a word and think, that's got to be wrong. Now, for the main event (which makes me think of the Barbara Streisand movie and I now hear Enough is Enough in my head, the duet she did with Donna Summer but oddly is not on The Main Event soundtrack - this is how my brain works):

  • We have a client whose first name is Tom and last name sort of but not really sounds like Dooley. Whenever I type him a letter or e-mail, the song Tom Dooley goes through my head -

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down
your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you're bound to die

Not exactly a lighthearted thing to have going through one's brain but it is what it is.

  • While this is not universal, I am coming to the conclusion that extreme wealth is directly related to extreme arrogance, particularly in attorneys.
  • I am so freaking grateful to have secure, full-time employment. I really wish I could help those friends who don't.
  • Also, I'm beyond grateful to have big bosses at both jobs who are nice, friendly and appreciative. This is a rarity, in my experience, and it's those Big Bad Bosses who make me so appreciative now.
  • Thanks to my 2nd job, I now type "ok" as "okay" since most clients want it spelled out in that manner. This is not conducive to Twitter, however, and their 140 character limit.
  • I have so much filing to do, I'm thinking of arranging the towering stacks of file folders so that they at least have some aesthetic purpose as opposed to stressing me out, as they are now.
  • Still haven't put away the office supply order yet. Is it the 15th yet? Damn quarterly estimates. #!*%&@*$"#!*%
  • The phone will not stop ringing. I may end up speaking permanently in my telephone voice.
  • Is it 5 o'clock yet?

It's really not so bad (evidenced by there being time for me to squeeze out this lame-ass excuse of a blog entry) but this has been my day so far for what it's worth.

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The office supply order came in today. To evidence how much of a geek I am, it always feels like Christmas to me when I open that delivery box and can unpack all of the goodies we’ve received.

I have always loved ordering office supplies. It was when I was working as an office manager at a brand-new-yet-to-be-opened nursing home that I experienced office supply nirvana. I was tasked with ordering all of the office supplies to get the facility set up. We had a contract with Viking Office Supplies (now owned by Office Depot) and since I didn’t have a catalog yet, I got to spend gloriously fun filled hours (yes, more than one hour) ordering the office supplies with the poor customer service person, telling him what I needed to order and him looking up the information in their database. While that in itself was nearly pure bliss, it didn’t hold a candle to the day the order arrived. My entire office was filled with boxes. Cardboard encased Valhalla. It was one of the single best moments of my professional life.

Currently there are no less than two drawers, three bags and a couple plastic storage containers full of office supplies at my house. Not just the usual stuff like sticky notes or pens but also stationery type things such as cool postcards or funky stationery. Going to an office supply store causes me to experience a contact high from all the paper products and cool scissors and rainbow hued pens. I am truly a geek of the lowest order.

While I’m perfectly content at the mega-stores like Staples, it is the small local stationery store where I am happiest. They always have the interesting office supplies like colored staples, strangely patterned paper and oddball greeting cards.

Alas, these stores have been slowly going by the wayside under the onslaught of the aforementioned mega-stores. It’s become increasingly difficult to find a smaller stationery store anymore. Time and time again, I am bereft when I drive by places where I used to find the most fascinating things only to see the signs changed or the doors shuttered. But I shall persevere. Someone has to seek out unique office supplies and keep office supply geekdom alive. Might as well be me.
It will be six years this July that I’ve been blogging. I started writing at Xanga back in July of 2003 because a friend of mine on a message board told me about it. It was like coming home. I had somewhere to write where I got feedback and was able to form friendships with so many of the other writers over there. It’s really more of an insular community, these people who know me there and whose blogs I’ve been reading for so long. The majority of people at Xanga now are much younger than I, a lot of times incapable of writing a coherent sentence or spelling words correctly (not that any of those things are mutually inclusive). I wrote there regularly for about three years and then life spun me into a 180 and I stopped writing for two years. Once I got my shit back together, I wandered back into my blog and lo and behold, many of my friends were still there. I’d checked in from time to time but not on any kind of regular basis. It’s a testament to our close-knit little community that many of them were still subscribed to me, even though I had been absent for so long. That’s the way it is with us there. We’ll stay subscribed to people who haven’t written in ages on the off chance they show up again. I’ve reconnected with a few people that way or found my way to their new digs elsewhere on the internet. I’m sure that’s not endemic to Xanga but it’s what I’ve known up until now.

So why am I starting a blog here at Blogger? I started using Google Reader last year because I found out there’s a whole lot of fascinating blogs outside of Xangaworld. As I’ve read these blogs over this past year and have now gotten confident enough to comment on some of them (it’s a big world out here and can be kind of intimidating at times), it’s just become something I wanted to do. My Xanga account has a content block on it so if you’re not a Xanga member, you can’t access my blog. That’s well and good for certain entries I write but it makes it difficult when I want to share my writing with the rest of the internet at large. Hence, this blog. I’m moving some of my older entries here that aren’t horrifically annoying (I’m leaving out the memes, the Andy Gibb photo essays, stuff like that).

My extremely well thought out plan (read: half-assed effort) is to cross post most of the entries I write both here and at Xanga. Anything else that’s goofy or stupid or basically acceptable only to those who know me (i.e., singing songs – which I do a LOT, writing bad haikus, work related ranting, etc), I think I’ll just keep over there. We’ll see how it goes. So for now, here’s me and the shit that floats around the toilet of my brain. Oooh, that was really bad imagery. Sorry.

  • Violator by Depeche Mode was a great album.
  • I love that Dave Gahan sings with an English accent because if he pronounced laughing any differently in Blasphemous Rumours, it just wouldn't be the same song.
  • I know Blasphemous Rumours wasn't on Violator.
  • Admission of Guilt: I LIKE ZZ Top. There, I said it.
  • In Hot for Teacher, Van Halen totally ripped of the drum part of ZZ Top's La Grange to the point that hopefully they gave them credit on the album.
  • I always wanted ZZ Top's car in those videos they did where they were fairy god-musicians and made the lives of the geeky guy and downtrodden girl so much better by giving them the way cool ZZ Top key chain.

That is all. Oh wait, just to scare the crap out of you:


It's me! Hadn't posted an updated picture of me in ages so, me being the kind person that I am, am posting this picture taken the day I got my hair done. Rest assured, it has not looked anything like this since.

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I do typing for a local company as a second job. I just finished doing a transcription of a polygraph interview/test for a rape case.I’ve never done a polygraph transcription before and to say this was extremely difficult would be a severe understatement. From a technical standpoint, the player on which I had to listen to the video was simplistic to a fault and very hard to rewind if I missed something. The actual quality of the audio was not a problem so that at least wasn’t a trial.

The interview was with the alleged rapist and he had to go into detail about his relationship with the girl he’s being accused of attacking.What I find most bothersome is that he’s so clueless. He very well may have raped the girl but if he did, he has no idea that’s what happened. To his mind, he was engaging in consensual sex. She never said no, stop or don’t. But what’s sticking with me, and believe me I wish it wasn’t, is that I got this insight and extremely graphic re-telling of this couple’s sexual encounter, which was at the very least unsatisfying for either of them and terribly awkward.

He also was questioned about his past sexual behaviors and habits as well as previous relationships. I know way more about this guy than I would ever want to or even have any business knowing. He actually seems like he might be a decent individual on some level but for the fact that he has no idea how to communicate with a woman, on anything, and he’s utterly clueless as to non-verbal cues as to how a woman is feeling. He sincerely seems to want to understand and love someone and be loved in return.It’s just that he’s completely incapable, seemingly because he’s emotionally that stupid. It’s sad and pathetic and I could really do without ever having typed up the interview.

To add salt to the wound, I didn’t get the entire file finished.I got all but the last 20 minutes or so done (2 hour and 20 minute total file length). I’ve got a cold that’s settled in my ear and add to that the problems with the video player program (I tried to find an alternate player program but it seems that sheriff station security camera files only work on certain players) along with the general discomfort and unease the subject matter gave me and just plain working around my regular work schedule, technical difficulties resulting in deletion of a about half of the Word file necessitating me to listen to the interview again and vital time spent with my wonderful nephew and niece, it took me almost a week to get as far as I did. I was up until 3:30 a.m. this morning trying to get it done but in the end just couldn’t do it. I hate that. I hate turning in shoddy work. I cut my hour count down but wouldn’t even argue if the lady I do this contract work for decided not to pay me at all. I’m that glad to be shut of the file.

I feel like I need an internal psychological shower complete with loofah scrubdown of my brain.

Thank you for listening. I needed to get this out somehow.
I just wanted to let you know that in the depths of tax return letter typing despair yesterday, I felt compelled to write tax related haikus to express my, well, despair.

In a rare moment of sanity, I deleted them and did not share them here.

This is what my brain has been reduced to, writing tax return letter related haikus.

Then I began re-writing some dumb song that I now can't remember and inserting tax letter typing related lyrics. But luckily for you, I didn't write any of it down and now I can't remember (see aforementioned memory loss).

Please withhold your pity as I am not the accountant in this office (actually I'm not either of them seeing as there are two) and they are working far more and harder than I. However, they also get paid far more than I but they certainly earn it.

Also, please take my complaining as what it is - half-assed venting. I am beyond grateful to have a stable job working with nice people. Thank you employment gods. Amen.

And with that, I return to my self-imposed typing prison. Only 4 more days. Yay! And I don't have to work tomorrow (it is Easter, after all).
Over the past few weeks, the moon has not been visible in our part of the world (lovely OC, CA). This has bothered my 2 1/2 year old niece, The Niece, greatly. She is very attuned to "my moon" and is deeply troubled when she can't see it. When she first noticed it wasn't in sight, she asked me where it was. Figuring we were in a new moon, I told her it was sleeping. She's 2 1/2, ok? While she's exceptionally intelligent (not biased AT ALL), I don't particularly think she'll fully understand that the earth is blocking the light from the sun and so we can't see the moon, blah, blah, blah. Sleeping is a much more toddler friendly explanation.

Well the weeks have gone by and still no moon. I've even considered Googling "Why can't I see the moon" but then realized I'd get search results along the lines of "it's on the other side of the world, dumbass", which would cause irreperable damage to my already fragile psyche. Can't have that. So last night, when the inevitable questions arose about the absence of the moon, thank goodness it was cloudy so I could say the moon was hiding because for the moon to be sleeping this long would indicate death in all likelihood, which would not be a good thing. Nope, not at all.

Anyway, my point is that given The Niece is so freaking obsessed with the moon, I'm figuring she must be a werewolf. Yep, she's contracted lycanthropy. It must have been that little girl in The Niece's pre-school class who's bitten The Niece at least twice in the past. It's the only time I can remember where The Niece has been bitten by something other than an insect. I mean, I've never heard of a lycanthropic mosquito, have you?

Now there's an idea....mosquitoes turning into werewolves. Hmmm....

But I digress. I am convinced this must be the answer. I am also in no way influenced by the fact that the new Underworld: Rise of the Lycans movie came out today and that I really want to see it so I have werewolves on the brain.

There is also the possibility that I'm a looney.

LUNAR UPDATE: Last night the moon made a reappearance just above the urban horizon (aka right above all the houses) and The Niece was, well, over the moon about it. She howled in glee and was appropriately thrilled as to the moon's presence, as all who share her condition (please see the aforementioned lycanthropy) do. Well, she may not have howled so much as giggled and said "my moon back" repeatedly. Either way, it was pretty damn cute.