The Way Things Are



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Stanís minions, all of us.
2006-03-29, 2:39 p.m.

Today, I bring you my O face. Sure, you wish it were the fun kind of O face, but unfortunately, itís my ovulation face.


O my achiní ovary.

I suppose Iím still using my left ovary, the one which seems to really want to hurt me, for whatever handy hormonal functions it still performs, like bone strength, but dude! Chill with the eggs! We have no need for them, and no means to fertilize them anyway, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

It really sucks to gasp with pain every time I bend or twist at the middle. And sometimes I really to bend at the waist a LOT, if you catch my drift.

Middle age is fun! Really! My ovaries, at least the left one Ė the right one is silent - keep chugging along trying valiantly to get me pregnant (good luck, fuckers), and somewhere, somehow, I have some additional testosterone pumping out of something*, breaking out my face like a 14-year-old boy.

My teenage son has prettier skin than I do. He has prettier eyes, eyelashes, and hair than me, too, come to think of it. Hey, no fair!

****

I had a day fraught with frustration yesterday, because I let two really bitchy women on the phone get under my skin. The first was a bill collector, which SHEE-IT these people are trained to be horrid. Thatís their job description, and I even told her that sheís really good at it.

I donít fall for the threats and intimidation that you catch from bill collectors. Who is she, anyway? The police? The TABC? What is she going to do, take away my birthday? Arrest me for drinking a beer in public?

Once we had descended into name-calling and talking loudly over each other, I said, ďGrace (her name is Grace), Iím feeling harassed by the bill collector here. Perhaps itís time for us to pursue a legal means of protection from bill collectors.Ē

Hah. Look up the word ďbackpedalĒ in the dictionary, and you will see a picture of Grace. Well, not really. Youíll see an ad for eBay.

Be that as it may, her job is to harass us here, and my job is to get her to back off by making oblique references to bankruptcy. You say things like ďtake legal steps to protect the asset,Ē and people just shit their pants right there. And for this, I love what my job has taught me, and that is this: when the going gets unpleasant, out-unpleasant everybody else. Iím going to needlepoint something like that on a pillow one of these days.

(I guess I never knew that website really existed until I saw it on Amalah today, and sure sheís a Blog Titan with thrillions of commenters and mincing, simpering minions, but sheís got her haters, and jeez, a really sick mother, and that girl needs some love today.)

The second call was from a property on-site manager, and if anybody out there is in the multifamily real estate bidness, raise your hands in the air, and wave Ďem like you just donít care, first because I know you really do not care, and second because I also know that you know what I mean when I shriek with frustration over the on-site people.

Even if you are an actual on-site staff person, you know what Iím talking about. Itís weird. The corporate people will never understand the on-siters, and the on-siters believe, sometimes correctly, that all of corporate is comprised of the minions of Satan (at first I wrote Stan, so letís go with it, shall we?)-- STAN himself. Stanís minions, all of us.

I love the word ďminionĒ.

I managed to shake off my anger from the first call by snapping the head clean off that on-siter, because hey. Not my fault. She called when my frustration level was at its highest and thatís the chance you take around here, and she was stupid and she deserved it.

What ameliorates a day of frustration? It should be American Idol, but as it turns out, that was a source of frustration, too. Something was wrong. Nobody really impressed me. I woulda fired the lot of them.

To make that show interesting when the singers are sucking, I think that American Idol stage needs a trapdoor, and a guy on the sidelines with a big hook. When you suck, you just hope for the hook, because that trapdoor is a killer.

(One last thing: yesterday in the comments, Donna suggested solar panels. As I am wont to do, I edited the story, because when I tell the whole WHOLE story, I can get really boring and rambly, like I am now, but DW was right on the solar panels idea. Part of my research mission takes me here. And yíall, this is how the west was settled, and I do have that bad boy bookmarked.)

(That sounds dirty, doesnít it? A Bad Boy Bookmark. Perhaps thatís something that can be cross-stitched.)

*There is no footnote. I changed my mind. See? Editing all the time.

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