Tuesday, February 28, 2006

30 Things About Me (in no particular order)

1. I was born in Decatur, GA in 1975.
2. My parents are still married (36 years this March).
3. I am the oldest of two girls. But my sister should have been the older one.
4. Sometimes I laugh so hard I have to sit down. This always happens at particularly inconvenient times.
5. Pistachio is my favorite flavor of pudding.
6. I am afraid of heights.
7. I was borderline anorexic in high school.
8. I also had panic attacks in high school that were so bad I didn't know if I wanted to live anymore. And I never told anyone.
9. I was baptized when I was 10.
10. I came out to my parents when I was 19.
11. Pizza is my favorite food.
12. I didn't start smoking regularly until I was 24. That was stupid.
13. My first girlfriend is still my best friend. She has been for 12 years now.
14. My feet are always stinky.
15. I have a Masters in Literature.
16. I am named after my father (Ken).
17. My atheist girlfriend finally got me to go back to church.
18. I have always believed 30 would be the best year of my life. So far so good.
19. Amy says I have two modes: bouncy or crying. She is pretty much right.
20. I stopped wearing contacts when I was 20. I didn't care for them properly, and they were damaging my eyes.
21. I will go back to contacts when I have a baby. My glasses can barely withstand the abuse Amy puts them through. I don't think they will make it with Amy AND a baby.
22. Amy & I have four different sets of names picked out for the baby that we haven't even conceived yet.
23. On May 28th, my name will become Kendra Gayle Lee Kellogg. No, you may NOT call me K.K.
24. When I get afraid or upset, I say Hail Marys repeatedly until I calm back down.
25. I am afraid of birds.
26. I look very much like my mother.
27. I have absolutely no artistic or musical ability.
28. I do not believe in Hell. Not the fire and brimstone kind, anyway.
29. When I was 6, I wanted to change my name to Jennifer.
30. My nickname is Kik (pronounced Keek). It is short for Kiki. My sister gave me my nickname when she was learning to talk. I still love it.

Monday, February 27, 2006

I Squeezed the Chuzzle!

It is true. I squeezed him. On Saturday. Wanna see? This picture cracks me up. I look thrilled and he looks.... confused.

But, as you can see here, the Chuzzle does have his serious side... pondering the meaning of life and all. Or maybe he is just taking a poo?

I also got to meet Estelle and Jean! What a cute family! Jean even made me cookies. Because she rocks. And my friends scarfed down most of them. Because... well... I mean look at them!

Okay, okay... so I had been dying to meet Estelle for a few weeks. Don't get me wrong, she has always seemed interesting and intelligent. But over the past two weeks or so, we have been corresponding via (gasp) EMAIL! Real conversations. With questions and answers and laughing and joking and storytelling. And it was really fascinating to me, because I started thinking of her as a friend. Not just a girl with a neat blog and a cute kid. But someone I looked forward to hearing from constantly. And I haven't had a new friend in a while. And OH BOY did I start to get excited. A NEW FRIEND!!!

Then. Nervous. What if she didn't like me??? What if we could only converse when we were hiding behind our computer screens? What if we had NOTHING TO SAY TO EACH OTHER?!? Horror.

But, after I almost tackled her to give her a hug, Estelle and I started to chat. A lot. And she was just as fun and intelligent and sincere as I had hoped. And I realized that she wasn't an online friend anymore. Estelle had crossed over into the land of the real life friends.

Welcome Estelle! I am so very glad you are here!

Friday, February 24, 2006

Oh My Amy

Mmm.zwow.ornt.beoint.
That is a quote. From a car ride with Amy. At a point when she is just making weird noises incessantly. For. no. reason.

Sometimes she foregoes the noises to make faces instead. Like this. Or this. She can amuse herself endlessly. So much, in fact, that sometimes I have to remind her that we are in public. And not everyone appreciates her rodent faces as much as she does.

Today, we went to lunch together. On the ride over, she told me her cheeks were so chubby they were effecting her eyesight. Because she couldn't open her eyes all the way. Too chubby. And it must have been the onion rings that she scarfed down last night, because she could open her eyes all the way yesterday. But no, not anymore.

And then she took to holding her eyelids open with her fingers. In the restaurant.

Amy is the quirkiest individual I have ever met. But, believe me, I have learned to love every quirk. Besides, how could you not love this smile?

Who wants to come spend a weekend with us? C'mon, you KNOW you do!

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

A Brief History of Kik & Amy

This story begins as all good romances do... in a bar.

Well, okay, it began a bit before that in Tallahassee. Amy and her girlfriend, Melissa, came up to attend Tracie's graduation. Tracie and Amy have known each other for years. And in any conversation, when speaking of Amy, Tracie would always say, "My good friend AmyKellogg." As if it were all one word. Trust me, this becomes important later. It was also Angie's graduation. And Angie and Tracie were dating. So we were all in the same place at the same time. At Po Boys. Aw, yeah.

So we were celebrating the graduations. And I was creatively trying to escape my recent breakup through the bottom of my glass of beer. (There's a tear, in my beer) At some point, I began flirting with Amy (although Melissa was probably only 5 feet away from her). I know, I know... CLASSY. It was a bad time for me, okay people? Suffice it to say that I told Amy we should keep in touch and she wisely chose to completely ignore me.

Fast forward about two years. I have begun to put my life back together. I have moved to Tampa. And I have found a tiny, hole in the wall lesbian bar called the Rainbow Room. I am sitting there, being a bit lonely, and in walks a girl with a shirt that says KELLOGG.

She walks by, and I coyly say, "Amy Kellogg, right?" (Keep in mind that I never would have known this if Tracie hadn't talked SO MUCH about her friend AmyKellogg) I say, "You don't remember me, do you?" And she said, "No... but I wish I did." Which I thought was the CUTEST thing ever, until she told me a year later that it was just a pick-up line. Gah, Ames! Keep some things to yourself! Geez!

So we chatted and, somehow, she talked me to relocating to The Hub. Now keep in mind that I don't REALLY know her from Adam's house cat. But I go to The Hub anyway with Amy & Michelle. We chat. Laugh. This is great. I am making friends. I met Val (always quite the adventure!). Things are going well. And besides, I think Ames is pretty darn cute.

Amy gets up and motions to me to follow her. She is headed toward the bar, so I assume she needs help carrying another round. No. "Wanna make out?", she says. I kid you not. What is one supposed to SAY to that?!? So we went OUTSIDE THE HUB and she kissed me. Wanna make out??? Oh my.

We head home shortly after that. Michelle was kind enough to drop me off at my house. As I am getting out of the car, I hear Michelle whisper loud enough to wake the dead, "You HAVE to walk her to the door and kiss her good night. Kellogg, get out and walk her to the door. KELLOGG..." So Amy dutifully gets out of the car, walks me to the door and kisses me good night.

And we have now been together for two and a half years. Oh, yes, my Amy. She's got game.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Tuesday Tomfoolery

Warning: I have had TOO much caffeine and shouldn't be allowed ANYWHERE near a computer.

Our Friday night foray into Ybor was fabulously exciting. The club where our friends' band was playing hosted an all ages show that night. Uh... nothing will make you feel older than standing next to a 14 year old who is doing some cracked out version of swing dancing with her best girlfriend while giggling like a hyena the entire time. Old. That's right, folks. I felt old for the first time in my life. But the show was fun. And now I remember why I studiously avoid clubs. Yes, boys & girls... it is bars & pubs for me. So, we headed out to New World Brewery for some fine beer and time spent together where we could actually hear each other speaking. Novel idea, really. Then, because we were OUT in YBOR where we never go, we decided that we MUST go to Boneyard. And stay there until 1:30 a.m. Because that is what the cool kids do. I think. It has been a long time since I was even remotely cool. Wait. That's right. I was NEVER remotely cool. Oh well.

While at Boneyard, Michelle decided that we needed to discuss the evils of statistics. Because statistics are NOT math. Statistics do NOT occur in nature. Uh? Okay, Satan-Michelle. You just go on your tirade about those stupid statistics that are only used to manipulate people. I will just have another beer. Because, statistically speaking... that is what most folks choose to do when one of their best friends has gone off the deep end.

What else, what else do I have for you dear Internet?

Oh! In the past four days, I have discovered that I an NOT immune to PMS. Nope. I can get just as crazy as the next chick. And I did. Oh, yes. I did. Ask Amy. She will tell you. All I will say is... uh... it was kind of like this. Only worse.

In happier news, yesterday I got to work from home. Whee! Can I tell you that I got more work done at home yesterday that I get done in two days at the office?!? And, when I needed to get up and stroll around, I could throw in a load of laundry. Or feed the pups. So THAT is what multi-tasking is. SWEET!

Okay, ya'll. I will stop rambling in your general direction. But don't be sad. Look, I will leave you with this! See, I knew that would make it all better.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition!*

Whew! Sorry for the bout of self-pity yesterday. But wow did ya'll manage to come through with some responses that allowed me pull myself away from my pity party and resume my life. Thanks, ya'll.

Last night, Amy and I went for a bike ride after work. Riding in our neighborhood is about a million times more fun than riding to work (which I have NOT been doing... see where my guilt was coming from yesterday?). In our neighborhood, you can zig and zag and ride real fast and feel like you are 10 years old again. Brilliant fun. Unfortunately, Amy was riding Clarence .... and he was helping her KICK MY BUTT. I actually had to ask her to slow down. Uh... wounded pride anyone? BUT... never fear... Claudia redeemed herself with her super, bad ass reflective powers on our ride home.

Tonight, we are going to have dinner with Amy's folks & Kelli, who is moving to North Carolina this week. Then we are off for some craziness with Mary and Michelle.

Wish ya'll could be here!
* Anyone know where this title came from???

Thursday, February 16, 2006

I Really Do Try...

I really do try not to bitch about things. Especially things that can be changed, if only I take the initiative to change them. But I am going to make an exception this time. I was going to come up for some brilliant reasoning regarding WHY this exception needed to be made... but I don't feel like it. I am making an exception to my no-bitching rule because I want to. And it is my blog. So there.

I weigh too much. And I hate it. There. I said it. Buh.

In high school, I had a mild eating disorder. I had constant anxiety & panic attacks. This resulted in my not being able to eat. And when I did eat, I often threw it right back up. Not on purpose. It was just my body's response to stress. Needless to say, eating wasn't very enjoyable for me. And I weighed only 90 pounds when I graduated high school.

My weight hasn't fluctuated a whole lot since I started college. Weighing 115 was pretty normal for me. My only huge weight loss was after a particularly bad breakup when I went down to 100 pounds. And, yes, I looked ill. It was unfortunate.

When I moved to Tampa, I was back up to 115. That was lovely. I could gain 5 pounds or so and not stress too much. Buffer room. There was buffer room, people.

I have lived in Tampa for 2.75 years. In that time, I have gained 20 pounds. This does NOT make me happy. And I look like crap. Please don't try to be nice & tell me I look fine. I look in the mirror every morning. I DO NOT look fine.

And what really annoys me is now I like food. A LOT. I don't overeat, necessarily. But I do eat a lot more than I used to. And it is obvious. I have had to buy an entirely new wardrobe. Up two sizes from when I moved here. That would be fine if I had... oh... had a child or something. But no. I am just chunky for no good reason. And I am to'ed, let me tell you.

So, I have been pretty bummed all day...

That is my story today. Sorry it isn't funny or sweet or endearing. I will try to be those things tomorrow for you, dear Internet.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Beware! The Cuteness is Intense Over Here.

Since I was two years old, my father has given me flowers for Valentine's Day. The first time happened quite by accident. The flowers that he brought home were actually for my MOTHER. But my two-year old self figured that all presents should always be for me. Flowers included. Needless to say, my mom shared her flowers that year.

And every year since then, Daddy has come through with flowers. When I lived at home, I would come home from school to three bouquets on the dining room table (one for me, one for Mama, and one for Angie). After I left for college, Daddy started actually sending me flowers. And then... my dad found a co-conspirator. One who knows EXACTLY what kind of flowers I love and who will run around and do my father's bidding in the flower department.

So, this Valentine's Day Amy brought me yellow roses. From Doggie. They are beautiful. And I love them. But I love even more that my father would never let me down on this front. And that he trusts Amy enough to have her pick out flowers for his little girl.

Thank you for the roses, Daddy. I love you.

(And thank you, Amy, for being such a fine co-conspirator)

Monday, February 13, 2006

Oh, We Had Adventures. Yes, We Did.

After much debate (during which my phone rang off the hook for approximately two hours with alternating calls from my mother and my sister), Angie and I decided to drive from Tampa to Atlanta for the funeral service. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, that is approximately a seven hour journey. Seven hours in the car with my sister. Eh, not so bad. We needed the time to catch up anyway.

And then she tells me she will be arriving in Tampa (by plane) at EIGHT in the morning. Have I mentioned that I am NOT a morning person? However, I suck it up and dutifully agree to pick her up at 8:00 a.m. on Thursday morning.

She hops in the car, bright-eyed and chipper at 8:10. Do we have to go back by the house?, she asks. I stare at her from under my baseball cap, bleary-eyed, clutching my cup of coffee. Uh, YEAH. We need to go back by the house. So I can... I don't know... PACK. And take a shower. And maybe do something with the mop of hair hiding under my cap, since I really believe wearing a Boston Red Sox cap to a wake is frowned upon. Especially since Aunt Rachel was a Braves fan.

Angie finally scurries me out of the house at 11:00 a.m. After a rather uneventful trip, we arrive in Atlanta at 5:45 p.m. We attempt to find the Days Inn that we are supposed to stay in that evening (please, do not EVEN get me started on my feelings about Days Inn). The Days Inn is nowhere to be found. So we opt to find a restaurant close to the funeral home and grab a bite to eat before the wake. Which means we will have to change in the car. But none of that matters, because I am STARVING by this point. I had been hungry for two hours, but Angie was insistent that we plow through to get to Decatur ASAP. So, all that mattered was food. Except that we couldn't find anything but Indian food. Seriously. On every corner. And an Indian-Pakistani Market. And more Indian cuisine. And everyone we encountered was of Indian decent. Which is lovely... but we didn't WANT Indian food. Not at all.

We finally happened upon a Mexican restaurant adjacent to a strip mall. Hallelujah. We notice upon entering the restaurant that it is GINORMOUS. There were no less than six rooms. Perhaps it was restaurant by day, club by night? Then next thing we notice is that 90% of the clientele appear to be lesbians (not that odd in Decatur, aka Dick-hater, but still). We grab a menu and Angie decides on a taco salad. I go for the enchiladas. These are pretty basic dishes. A sure bet. Or so one would think.

Angie's taco salad comes out first. With no mention of my food. But I let that go. The taco salad could have fit in my hand, shell and all. And there was only one-fourth of a tomato... that wasn't diced. Just chunk o' tomato. And plenty of shredded lettuce. A glop of sour cream. Oh, and mozzarella cheese. Ugh.

The waitress comes over to check on us. Upon realizing that Angie has food (and I use that term loosely) and I do not, she says in an accusatory tone, "Where YOUR food?" Uh, look lady, I don't know. I am just sitting here innocently. Thank the Lord that some other guy came trotting out with my enchiladas just then. She seemed certain that my lack of food was due to some fault of mine, and I don't think at that moment that I could have convinced her otherwise.

So, the enchiladas. Yeah. Tortillas that had the consistency of pasta. Red sauce that tasted suspiciously like marinara. Stuffed with boiled pieces of chicken and mozzarella cheese. Do we all see the problem here? But I just zipped it and ate my enchilada/manicotti. After all, it was a sight better than Angie's taco salad.

We finally made it out of the Mexican restaurant from Hell, just in time to change clothes in the car. Angie and I are relatively small folks. Neither one of us stands above 5' 3". But two people changing in a Honda Civic ... well that is a sight to behold. After much struggling, socking each other in the head as we flailed into our shirts, putting on our skirt (Angie) and pants (Kiker) cockeyed, putting on make-up in the semi-darkness and almost asphyxiating each other with our respective colognes, we were off to the wake.

After the wake, we had to get BACK in the car to pick up Mama at the airport. 45 minutes each way. Thank the good Lord for The Thinking Man Tavern, where there were locally brewed pints to be had by all.

We picked Wanda Gayle up without incident. Of course, by the time we meandered back toward Decatur, I was starving again (are you sensing a theme here?). The Days Inn where we were supposed to stay was behind an Applebee's. So, we decided to stop off at the Applebee's, grab food and inquire about this Days Inn, since we couldn't seem to locate a sign for said Days Inn. We walked into the restaurant and EVERYONE turned around and stared at us. I am going to venture (although one can never be sure) that they were staring because we were the ONLY Caucasian people in the restaurant. And that, my friends, is NOT an exaggeration. My mom, my sister and I get a huge kick out of this and settle in to order food. My mom and I order a chicken sandwich with cheese, bar-b-que sauce and bacon. Then we ask about the Days Inn. Yeah, our waitress said there was no Days Inn anywhere close to us. Hm. About that time, our food arrives and the waitress promises to figure out which Applebee's has a Days Inn across the street. Mom and I settle into our food. Unfortunately, the chicken is an odd shade of grayish/brown. And it is rubbery. And slick. Gross.

The waitress returns with directions to the correct Days Inn. We are about 10 miles away. So we head off in search of our hotel. It is about 11:00 p.m. at this point. We are all VERY tired. At 11:30 p.m., we still had not found the hotel. We call the Days Inn. They are located across the street from Applebee's, the friendly receptionist informs us. Okay, but we can't FIND the Applebee's. What else is the hotel close to? Applebee's. Okay, moron, we will get directions elsewhere. After another half a hour of driving back and forth, we stop at a gas station. To ask directions. The attendant tells us it is 8 miles in the opposite direction ACROSS THE STREET FROM APPLEBEE'S. Seriously? So we call my grandparents, who are already at this hotel snoozing soundly. Because it is now after midnight. You know what my grandfather tells my mom? That the hotel is ACROSS THE STREET FROM APPLEBEE'S. My mom is about to lose it. My uncle then grabs the phone from my grandfather to inform my mother that the hotel is by McDonald's and Taco Bell, but it is in a hole so we won't be able to see it from the road. Perfect.

At 12:45 a.m., we find the Days Inn. Located right behind Krystal. The SAME Krystal that my mom had looked at an HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE minutes before and joked that we should have grabbed Krystal burgers instead of the slimy, gray chicken we had for dinner. But we never saw the hotel. No. Because we were looking for the Applebee's that we had driven by THREE times by that point.

My mom stumbles into the lobby to check in, at which point they inform her that they have no record of her reservation. To which all she can say is You have GOT to be kidding me. I think the reservations clerk sensed that Mama was on the brink of a homicidal rampage, so she found our reservation.

The first thing that Angie does when we enter our luxurious hotel room is turn on the heater. And the thermostat promptly comes off in her hand. Again, perfect.

Let's summarize my day: Up at 6:30 a.m. to pick Ang up at the airport. Seven hours in the car. Mexican/Italian enchiladas/manicotti with boiled chicken. Another hour and a half trip to the airport. Rubber chicken sandwich. And the ever elusive hotel across the street from Applebee's. A total of 17 hours of quality time with my sister. Ah, yes. Road trip anyone?

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Angels

Last night my mom called me at 8:45 p.m. I was on my way home from Bible study when my cell phone rang. I think one sure sign of adulthood is realizing immediately that if the woman that turns into a pumpkin at 8 p.m. is calling at 8:45 p.m., something is amiss. She first asked me how Bible study was ... 'A' for effort on segue, but I was sure she did not call to discuss my revelations regarding my faith at 8:45. In a brilliant display my ever intuitive nature, I asked what was wrong. And held my breath.

Aunt Rachel was in the hospital. Mom wanted to tell me. You know, in case something happened. She didn't want to blindside me with VERY bad news. (An effort I very much appreciated on my mom's part. She never wants to worry me with what COULD be bad news, preferring instead to just let me know when I need to worry. I, though, strongly dislike the wait-and-see approach. I want to know what is going on. And this time she acted on my wishes, even though it is contrary to what she would intuitively do. I am grateful to her for hearing me. And for listening & acting on my request)

Aunt Rachel being in the hospital was, indeed, bad news enough in and of itself. I asked her the obligatory questions. It seemed as though she may have had a stroke. She was unconscious. No prognosis. I thanked her for telling me, told her to call when she had any news (good or bad) no matter what time of night.

Aunt Rachel is my grandmother's oldest sister. She is a woman of endless compassion and boundless faith. And she is my role-model for truly living out the Christian faith. Two years ago, when I had first begun attending church again after many, many years away, the pastor asked if we could name someone who reflected the love of Christ for us. My first thought was my Aunt Rachel. She really was an angel to me.

When I got the news that she was in the hospital, I prayed that she not suffer. Or be afraid. And that, if it was her time to go, God would take her to heaven. Where there would be much rejoicing for the angel that had come home.

My mom called about an hour later to tell me that Aunt Rachel had passed away. I know that she believed that when she died she would finally meet Jesus face to face. And I am confident that she went, without fear, to heaven. Because if anyone deserves heaven, it is my Aunt Rachel.

And there is much rejoicing for the angel that has come home.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

In an Attempt to Spare My Toenails an Agonizing Demise...

Each morning, I walk to Einsteins on campus to get a bagel with reduced-fat cream cheese and a Chug of 2% milk. Mornings on campus are quiet. The kids aren't too chipper at 9:15 a.m. In fact, most of them look as if they slept on their faces all night. Almost everyone has a cup of coffee in hand. People nod hello, but not many people speak. Let's face it: this IS college. There are keg parties, all night cram sessions and various amorous affairs to tend to. Sleep is secondary. At least it was for me in college.

So I get to plod along, pondering my life, my day, what bagel I might chose today. All the important things. And I get to ponder in the quiet softness of morning.

Until I step into the Student Center. Holy crap. Everyone is talking. Well, if they aren't standing sullenly in line as if this bagel is the pinnacle of their existence and it lies is just beyond their grasp. The sullen ones glare at the chatty ones as if they wish they could snuff out their presence by the sheer weight of their disdain. The chatty ones are... well... chatty. And oblivious to the angst ridden glares being shot at them from various directions.

But there are two chatty ones that even make me feel a bit ... hostile. Dancers, these two are. They wear dance clothes and flip flops. Perfectly manicured toenails. The brunette wears WAY too much makeup. The blonde always has a ponytail. Keep in mind that these are kids. They look to be freshmen. So 18 or 19. Oh, and they toss their heads and l a u g h. And say things like... Oh my God, I am so exCITED. (voice going up on the end as if they are asking a question. they are not. not asking a question at all) And the talking is LOUD. As if they need everyone to know the details of their social lives.

"So, he CALLED me on my birthday. He, like, had ALL of his friends there... and, like, even people I didn't know sang happy BIRTHDAY to me. I could have KILLED him. (head tossing laughter)"

By the time I get to this point, I have completely lost my Zen vibe and I want to pull my toenails out one by one to dull the agony of listening their self-conscious self-promotion. I might have to actually get to work 15 minutes earlier to avoid these two in line. They are frazzling the last nerve I have left at work.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Sunday Morning

I woke up late for church yesterday. Not even because I did anything noteworthy on Saturday night. Just because I was tired and the covers were warm. And mornings are not so much my thing.

Normally when I wake up late for church that means that I missed my favorite service at church. Not that I have missed church entirely. But, alas, I am in the process of joining Hyde Park United Methodist. Which means I must take a class. Where they indoctrinate me in their ways and program me to believe that the answer to ALL questions is "Jesus."

Okay, okay... not really. I have to take a seven week class that discusses the mission and focus of our congregation. And it is from 11:00 a.m to noon on Sundays. Which means that, since I couldn't drag my sorry butt out of bed yesterday, I missed my favorite service AND I missed the last service at church because I was in said class.

Cranky. That's how all this made me feel. Cranky. I look forward to church all week. The worship service makes me feel renewed, purified... and connected to God. OF COURSE missing that makes me cranky.

But I was a trooper (albeit a whiney trooper) and I went to my class instead of to worship service. The class was about volunteer service. Volunteer opportunities abound at my church. And I am of the belief that Christianity that lacks a commitment to serving those in need is hollow at best. I never wanted to simply go to church on Sunday for an hour, call myself a Christian and call it a day. In my heart, that is a mockery of everything Christ taught and all that He did.

And my class yesterday morning was the perfect reminder the centrality of this belief to my faith. A reminder of why, in part, I am so drawn to this congregation. And a not so subtle push toward finding a meaningful place to spend my time and energy giving to others.

Not a bad way to spend a Sunday morning at all.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Oh My Bad Attitude

Do you know what I am supposed to be doing right now? Right now I am tasked with writing a one page paper detailing why I should be allowed to keep my job. And, lest you fear that I have done something terribly untoward, this is something the entire staff at my office must do. That being said... do you have any idea how demeaning it is to have to justify your existence in an organization? Look, I am the communications girl. I write things. I edit things. Either you want that or you want your staff to sound like bumbling fools when they communicate with the Florida legislature and the Commissioner of Education. I don't really give a crap either way at this point. Seriously. Either tell me that my job is secure until my contract runs out in September or tell me I need to move along now. I just want to get on with my life. Yes, I need another job. Yes, this one isn't fun for me. Yes, so many asinine things have happened here that I have lost count. But I also need a paycheck. So tell me that I can continue to collect one here or I will go work at Borders. I DON'T CARE ANYMORE. But don't ask me to justify my position here.

Does anyone know where I can get an attitude adjustment? Seems I am sorely in need of one. Stat.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

How to Give Your Girlfriend Heart Failure

Watch an episode of House which is about one spouse cheating on another and consequences of said indiscretion. Then look at your girlfriend and say, "There is a secret I have been keeping from you for a week."

Watch all the blood drain out of your girlfriend's face. Then tell her that you have had a toothache for a week. And you didn't want to go to the dentist. So you kept it a secret.

Then be prepared to have something thrown at your head.

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