A tightwad's worst nightmare

I sort of thought about wedding planning this weekend. This whole industry is such a scam. My parents got married at a church and had punch and finger foods at grandma's house. Now, we have somehow been brainwashed into thinking that you just simply can't do it right for under $20,000 ($40,000 on the coasts). I must admit, it's brilliant that the players in the industry have managed to do for the wedding what DeBeers has done for diamonds. I visited theknot.com, a website that's just not for people like me. When I searched for "casual" or "inexpensive" or something like that, there was some article about how smaller weddings have to be even more perfect since a smaller group means more chances for people to notice all the little ways your wedding sucks. I was sitting there trying to think if, out of all the weddings I've been to, anything actually horrified me. Deciding that, no, nothing ever had horrified me, I determined that my friends and I are either really laid back or just total white trash. Either way, it's cool with me.

I found a place where I could probably get in and out for under $10,000 for maybe 60 guests. Then I laughed at the fact that I was sitting there thinking, "hmmm, not a bad deal." And then I wanted to cry. But I did find a nicer version of the classic party barge and thought to myself, "this is perfect." So we'll see. If the party barge idea is a no-go, I might end up on an island somewhere. The only thing keeping me from eloping is the fact that I want an awesome dress that I look great in, and I want people to see me in said dress. A little self-centered? Absolutely. But my shrink said that the twenties is a totally appropriate time to be a little selfish. As soon as I have kids, I can see this being a problem.

A random parting thought. Okay, so I understand that there are some sickly looking ladies walking the catwalk. And it's pretty disturbing to think of someone being 5' 9'' and weighing like 110 pounds. But why is the phrase "size 0" code for anorexic bitch? I think it was Spain that's telling stores that window displays shouldn't have small sizes in the windows. Um, what about those of us who are just small? Like for real - just eating normally and not working out (or hell, eating healthy and working out in normal doses). I realize that no one is shedding tears for the hurt feelings of the naturally small. But, still...

Randomness

OK, so it's not like I live in Alaska, but the wind chill is zero and it's snowing. When I moved here, I was sort of excited about a winter experience different than that of Austin. Turns out, I don't like snow. When I have to walk in it, it feels like I'm walking through cobwebs or something. Snow getting all in my eyes and mouth. Ick.

Too lazy to make green chile sauce. Bought it in a can. Really, really bad idea. Who new that green chiles can be made to taste like liquid cardboard.

I realize that pharmaceutical companies are required to put all the disclaimer language into their commercials. But why do they try to integrate it into the conversation happening in the commercial? Like the ladies sitting around talking about birth control and the one's all "Yaz can increase the risk of blood clots or stroke, so women, especially women over 35, shouldn't smoke." It's not like I'm generally blown away by the acting happening in commercials, but this is a new low. Why not just say it really fast at the end like everyone else who has to include required language?

Sleepsurfing

I posted something last night about some dillweed who sent a nasty e-mail criticizing my citation manual. I basically called this guy an an idiot because his complaints clearly showed that he didn't know what he was talking about, despite referring to himself as something of a citation guru. I even called his law school fifth-tier.

I deleted that post at around 3:30 or 4 this morning. All week long, I have been waking up at around 2 or 3 a.m. obsessing about something that I otherwise don't think about. And I mean like straight-up awake. Not tossing and turning. Awake. And it's a new topic every night. Last night/this morning I was convinced that my karma would be tarnished if I totally made fun of this asshat, so I deleted the post. I was compelled to get out of bed, put on my glasses, walk into the living room, and get online to delete a blog post that five people would read. So weird. But you don't fuck with karma, especially when it's keeping you awake in the middle of the night. Of course, the other weird stuff that keeps me up has nothing to do with the state of my state. But you still don't fuck with karma; better safe than sorry.

I hate living in a state with an income tax. I must admit that I'm a little baffled. Although the state claims to allow e-filing, TurboTax told me that I couldn't e-file my return because there's attachments and schedules involved. My returns aren't complicated; if I can't e-file, I don't know who could. And I'm not even embarrassed to say that some of the instructions on how to calculate my deductions and credits when I've only been here part of the year are totally nonsensical.

Hazard pay?

Sometimes oral argument has the same effect that taking a handful of sleeping pills would. Especially when you're freezing your ass off. And then you have to get in the car and drive home, which strikes me as dangerous.

And lawyers from Tennessee have an interesting habit of noting for the court that they are either a member of the Tennessee bar or, more specifically, what city's bar association they are a member of. I think I have seen one lawyer from Ohio do this, and I think it was because he argued after the Tennessee people and maybe thought he was supposed to tell the court that he is in fact a member of a bar somewhere. Fascinating.

I have been watching the new salary pissing match taking place in New York. Crossing my fingers for a little spillover. But not holding my breath. Since I don't want to die.

I heard Wilson Phillips today. I sang along and it was awesome. Hold on for one more day. Werd.

New Year's Resolution, Take Two

Apparently, I am a difficult person. "Dr. Bramson lists seven difficult behavior types: Hostile-Aggressives, Complainers, Silent and Unresponsives, Super-Agreeables, Know-It-All Experts, Negativists and Indecisives." These categories seem pretty broad - you're "difficult" either because you're super-agreeable or because you're a complainer. So, basically, you're difficult if you talk? But then if you don't talk, I guess you're a Silent and Unresponsive. Nonetheless, I think I may fit into like six of them, depending on the day. So I guess I'll try to be less of a difficult person; like every day, I'll be sure not to be at least two of the types at once. Tomorrow I'll probably be a Complainer since I have to work. But at least I won't be a Super-Agreeable.

Monday I get to drive the boss's minivan. Sweet.

Thanks, mom!

I love the beginning of every new season of American Idol. It makes me want to thank my mother for always telling us kids that we could be whatever we wanted,* except singers, since no one in my family can sing. Oh yeah, and once we found out that I was bad at math, I think she said that maybe astronaut was out of the picture (and mathematician). Sometimes I feel bad for these people, but not like bad enough to stop watching or to avoid laughing. I am not as horrified by the people who can't sing as those who tell them that they can. Why would you do that to your kid or your friend? Why tell them they're good when it's clear that they're not? I mean, I think Britney Spears has shown us the magic of digital, but the people who suck on American Idol aren't as hot as Brit was like 10 years ago.

Shout out to my sister for running her first marathon! And to Ellen for running the half! The pride I feel is like what I felt when took the stairs leaving work the other day. Big milestones all around.

And to every asshat who thinks a super-loud car is awesome, you're a douchebag. If you drive a Geo or a Sentra or a Kia, you're a double-douchebag.

*I was having a conversation with my mom back when I waited tables and I mentioned the good money that a friend of mine made cocktailing at a strip club (one of the "nice" ones). I joked about working in a strip club. Clearly not connecting the waiting tables part of the conversation with the strip club part, my ever-supportive mother said, "Honey, I'm sure you'd be good at the dancing [she clearly has never seen me dance], but aren't you a little small on top?" Now that's love. Pure love.

Happy day off! What do I do?

I always look forward to holidays until the holiday actually arrives. Then I realize that I don't have much to do and there's nothing good on television. I did buy some books this weekend, so I guess I'll read. I finally finished Anna Karenina. I feel smarter now that I can say I've read Tolstoy. Maybe I'll tackle War & Peace when I retire. The weather here has been crappy for the past few days, which I think has been contributing to a funk I've been experiencing all weekend. I wasn't sad or in a bad mood. I was just existing. Which got me a little worried. Then I realized that two days of feeling blah probably doesn't mean anything about the state of my mental state. Besides, I'm guessing that it's not normal for people to be actually happy like all the time. That would be creepy.

I did experience a moment of happiness on Friday when the airline, after keeping me on hold for like 45 minutes trying to find a dinky $20 credit I have, asked me about a $200 credit from last summer. I was told back in November that this credit was lost to me and that I couldn't use it. Naturally I was pissed at the time since I was essentially giving $200 to the airline. But now I can use it, so I'm happy because I feel like I beat the airline. Maybe the person that told me I couldn't use the credit before was just lying, who knows. But I felt like I stuck it to the man on Friday, which made me smile (even if I am the man, in a skirt). Despite my happiness, I am a little mystified at the fact that the airline has to mail me the voucher and then I can call to use it. Um, you know I have a credit, you know the amount, you know I can use it for the flight I am trying to book. I know, let's add a layer of incredible inefficiency to this process by using snail mail. I'll admit that I don't know enough about the economics of the airline industry to really understand why airlines can't seem to make any money even though they're good at ripping people off. But if my experience is an indication of the inefficiencies in this industry, then I think I may get why it totally blows.

Austin, here I come!

Maybe for good in 2007. I still don't know what I am doing after my current gig ends, but I don't think I can handle a big production involving trying to replace what I lost. Besides, I am clearly tainted with bad ju-ju. Which is weird because I consider myself to be karmically sound: I don't litter, I'm polite, I almost always offer to push the elevator button for someone else even though I think pushing the button is totally unnecessary, I give to any charity that sends me free address labels, I give really nice clothes to Goodwill. Have I pissed off some higher power? Is it because I so enjoy the gossip mongering of celebrity tabloids? Is it because I spend too much time concerned with inane things like my highlights or the fact that I am an assless wonder whose pants tend to be ill-fitting? Of course, there's the possibility that this is one of those things where a door closes and a window opens, blah, blah, blah. I shouldn't be so quick to take stock.

I will have feelers out in a limited area and if nothing pans out in that area, then I'm headed back to Austin to become a Crackberry addict a year earlier than planned. I have started to look at the bright side (three words: nice ass television; and my other half). Will a firm that pays relocation expenses pay to move you from your crappy law school apartment into a nicer one in the same city? I figure the firm should accommodate such a request. It's not like I'm some Harvard punk costing them thousands of dollars to haul my stuff from Cambridge.

Onward and upward.

The travails of living alone

I cooked tonight. It took me like 30 minutes to get the lid of the jar of salsa and I got so frustrated that I cried. I normally don't like to to do the whole weak woman thing asking her neighbor to open her jar, but tonight it was necessary. Of course, no one was home. So, I cried. But then I remembered the leather gloves (thanks, Barbara!) and that was the key.

I cooked enchiladas and I have a shit ton of leftovers. Looks like it's Mexican for the foreseeable future. Yet another reason that living alone sucks - no decent way to make enchiladas for one that I have discovered. I guess I could freeze the leftovers, but I don't like post-frozen food. It's never quite right to me.

Still no word on what I'm doing next year. I'm not looking on the bright side. I know it's there, I just don't want to hear about it.

Better now

Not like good, as in "I know what's going on," but better. I have decided to lay all the blame on a certain evil prof who has cursed me with some bad ju-ju. But I shall march forward and figure it out. It's all I can do.

Fuck you, 2007

I am tossing the resolution to be happier until this weekend. My life just blew up in my face. This, I could handle. But the explosion has also affected the plans of my other half, which breaks my heart. I believe that when something bad happens, people should get at least a day or two to mope and bitch. Then you have to get out of your funk, start looking at the bright side, figuring out next steps, blah, blah, blah. I'll think about the bright side this weekend. For now, I'd like to thank 2007 for starting off in an extremely shitty manner.