Pet Peeve #3,459,289,231

The Olympics commercial that says, "If you've had a Coke(tm) in the last eighty years, you've contributed to the Special Olympics." I don't drink pop ever, under any circumstance. I haven't had a Coke in the last eight years. I haven't had a whole Coke ever.

Know what that means? I didn't contribute to the Special Olympics.

Way to make me feel shitty about myself, Coke.

Sore Titty

Mandy's last entry at Life's About a Dream reminded me of a quickie from the vaults:

When I was a junior in college and making a living earning beer & pizza money working for $8.50/hour as a lifeguard/swimming instructor, I showed up to work one day--late, per usual--and ran into the locker room to change. I hustled into the locker room and politely acknowledged a mother and her son (who was far too old--about 6--to be in the women's locker room IMHO, but who was I to parent another's child?) who had shown up for a private swim lesson--early--from my then-boss.

This kid was kind of notorious for being a bit of a brat and his mother was no better, so I did not engage her in conversation, just merely said my hellos, and started stripping so that I could change into a swim suit for work. The kid was doing his kid-thing, rolling around on the floor and causing his mother to chase after him while they waited to go out on deck, with a very benign, "No, dear, stop that." Like that ever works.

Anyway, I had my swimsuit up to my waist when the kid rolled over to me and said, "I can see your breath."

He was still young enough that he was difficult to understand if you weren't engaging him in conversation so I said with a smile as I finished pulling up my suit, "My breath? How do you see my breath?"

Then his mother corrected me: "Your breasts."

Uh, what? "Excuse me?" I asked.

"Your breath!" he said. "You have one there and one there!" I did indeed have a breast where he poked me.

I was caught somewhere between anger and horror when I next opened my mouth, but his mother found words first: "We've been learning about the differences between boys and girls. We have to work on appropriateness now."

Clearly! "I would think that would be one of the very first lessons." I was now fully dressed for work and very protective of my breasts. Moreover, I was aggravated that I had been molested by a six year old whose mother hadn't bothered apologizing.

By the time I had gotten up the stairs and walked up to work, it was more funny than irritating. My coworkers--lovely people, all of them--referred to this particular kid as my "Boyfriend" as long as I worked there. The best part? And I promise you, I couldn't make this up if I tried! The kid's name was pronounced "Sore Titty."

My Weekend Away

Try not to hate me too much.

Do YOU have any fabulous weekend plans?

Hero Sandwich

I think that around 8th grade, everyone had to write the same essay for the first time: who is your hero and why? I remember having to do it. I also remember not really having an answer. While my contemporaries followed enough TV to talk coherently about sports figures and celebrities ("My hero is DJ from Full House because when she played 'Spin the Bottle' she didn't kiss that yucky guy"), I was always thrown for a loop on this question. Surely, celebrities were too transient to be my hero. Sports? Well, who cared?

My mother--ever helpful--suggested herself. I didn't realize it then, but she had a full time job in the inner city during a time when her white, suburbanite counterparts sat around eating bon bons at home and talking about the PTA, and while I get it now, and it's damn admirable, I didn't then and always ended up taking someone else's lame idea. Whose hero is their mom, anyway? LAME.

I must have been assigned this essay five times over my educational career, and, in order, the candidates were: Batman (my awesome phase), Kirk Cameron (pre Christian rebirth, wherein he became a douchebag, albeit a douchebag with an immortal soul), the Lunch Lady (my nasty, sarcastic phase), I am My Own Hero (because I'm good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, people like me), and the ever-popular Why Do I Have To Have a Hero Anyway? (because I'm sick and tired of writing this essay, that's why). Heroism just wasn't something I had in me, I guess.

But Bones--of all people, skinny Bones--has proven to be more hero-worthy than even Kirk Cameron. I admired him when I watched him get back on his feet again and again during his struggle to get in to medical school. I admired him when he made the decision to go, when it meant 9 years of hardship and financial struggle. I watched in awe as he took a thesis he hadn't started and not only completed it but successfully defended it in six weeks. And yesterday, after two days of Medical School orientation, when he decided he didn't want to waste the next nine years of his life and it no longer mattered to him if he was a Radiologist, I admired him as he withdrew from his classes, called his parents, called his professors, called his mentors, and even called the Dean of the Medical College to explain his decision.

I watched as he had the same conversation seven times, as he dropped all of his classes, as he requested deferment. I watched him look his dream of being a Radiologist in the eyes and say, "No, thank you. I don't want this." The only thing I could think last night was, That takes balls.

The Calendar that Only Went Up to February

If I know you IRL, I know you've heard this story. However, I beg you to sit through it one more time. I took pictures.

The first Christmas Eeyore and I were together, we had been together for nearly 5 months and we hadn't been together so long that I could drop oodles of cash on him, but we'd been together long enough that I had to get him something nice. I shopped my little butt off and bought him a relatively nice no-name pocket watch for Christmas.

Eeyore, who hadn't seen me purchase anything and assumed I'd not gotten him a present, MADE ME out of RESUME PAPER AND ELECTRICAL TAPE, a calendar for Christmas.

On the front of the calendar, in his best handwriting, he had written, "I love you because..."

Inside, the calendar was a day-by-day. Each day had the month at the top, the day of the week (written out in a font called "group sex" wherein the letters and numbers are composed of stick figures in sexual positions), the date and a reason why he loved me.

When the reasons weren't trite ("You're so fun to be with!" or "You go to museums with me!"), they were physical attributes ("You have nice legs"). If they didn't fall into those two categories, they were ALL ABOUT HIM ("You know me the best.").

(note: this is the part of the story when I lose the ability to speak and start gulping for air as I try to tell the punchline.) The best part about the calendar, though, was that it wasn't 365 days. No, this calendar only went up through February 28th.

He couldn't think of reasons he loved me after February 28th!

Apples and Oranges

Have I ever told you guys that I'm a tried and true commitment phobe? I can make executive decisions all day long and purchase furniture without too much of a hassle, but MAN, get me anywhere near anything that has a contract and I FREAK THE FUCK OUT.

Don't believe me? You should have seen me when I went to buy the Maxi Pad. I was literally in hysterics every time someone mentioned the words "30 year fixed" to me. I would give myself pep-talks before talking to the mortgage broker: "Okay, Paisana. We're going to KEEP SHIT TOGETHER this time." And I would, too. I could keep it together until I left the meeting and then I'd get in my car and freak my shit out. To this day, I still can't look at my mortgage statement. I shred them without opening the minute they come in the door and the bill is automatically paid by my online checking account. I can't stand the idea of knowing that I owe some entity hundreds of thousands of dollars over the next 30 years. I get hives whenever I see the "paid in full" date: September 1, 2036.

Still don't believe me? When Bones and I first started dating, we had been dating for close to 8 months before I said he could use the word "girlfriend" in reference to me. It was close to a year before I used the word "boyfriend" in reference to him. He was just Bones. My friend, Bones. He often reminds me of this whenever someone refers to me as his "friend" (which does happen from time to time). I give him a sideways glance and he says, "Well, it would be awkward to correct them now. It's not like you let me call you my girlfriend." These days, I preempt this speech with one of my own, "Your friend, eh? Your only friend in the whole world."

Every time I think I'm getting close to chilling out, something reminds me that I am, indeed, commitment phobic. Well, terrified of making the wrong decision and not being able to back out is more like it. This time, it was my cell phone.

As I mentioned, I ran my cell phone through the washer earlier this week. Always being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, this provided me with an opportunity to make two Very. Important. Decisions:
1. What new cell phone should I get?
2. Is my current plan the "right" plan?

The first one was an easy(ier) decision: the phone I wanted was discontinued and there was only one other phone available that met the qualifications of being a Motorola and having the features I wanted.

The second one is a MUCH. MORE. DIFFICULT. question to answer. I did a metric ton of research when I went with my current plan over five years ago because at the time, things like "national plans" and "no roaming charges" were nearly unheard of. Now they're standard fare. My plan is still offered in the same form through my carrier, so clearly it wasn't one of those situations where I was renting my phone through the phone company and was in need of a new plan, STAT. Anyway, suffice it to say that I have been generally really happy with both the company and the plan I use.

This is not to say, though, that there might be a better plan out there. You say "Neurosis." I say "Smart shopper."

I initially hit my favorite web comparison tool: LetsTalk. It's a (brilliant) repository for comparing features of different phones I've bought over the years and it has a similar tool for phone plans. You enter your requirements, it comes up with what's left, and you can compare plans and phones side by side. You would think this would be easy.

You would think wrong. LetsTalk is great for things like "minute overage rate" or "contract cancellation fee," but the bigger decisions are left to you to make. Because every phone company has a "gimmick" (eg, "Rollover minutes," "My Favs," or "Free Incoming Calls") it becomes freaking impossible to try to compare apples to apples and oranges to oranges. If I had rollover minutes and free calls to any AT&T customer, would I need 200 less standard minutes for the same price as 600 minutes with five "Favorite" people and mobile-to-mobile calls? How often do people call me vs. me calling them? (answer: all the time.) What if my nights started at 7p, then how many minutes do I use during the day when I'm sitting next to a land line all day?

I suppose I could sit down with my last year's worth of cell phone bills and determine a calling pattern and even sit down with the Internet and figure out what carrier carries each number, but I ask you: why?

Do you think cell phone companies make it this difficult on purpose? You know, thinking you would get so frustrated trying to make heads and tails of it that you would just quit and stick with your old plan? I know I did.

By the way, after my grandfather died, we got his phone bill and looked at it for the first time in a half-century: he was still renting his phone from the phone company. Moral of the story: Stick with what works?

At The Bar, Round 2

While discussing what to do with all the materials my old desk housed when we get a new desk which will not have that much storage.

Me, "I could put those CDs in my storage locker."
Bones, "No, I like having that stuff out."
Me, "[mimicking Arial from the Little Mermaid] Look at this stuff/Isn't it neat?/Wouldn't you think my collection's complete?/--"
Bones, "Stop singing The Little Mermaid."
Me, "Dude, how do you know that's The Little Mermaid?"
Bones, "Because Sister used to watch it. Now stop singing it. And if you're going to sing, at least do one of the fun Disney songs."
Me, "Which was the fun one?"
Bones, "I don't remember."
Me, "Me neither."
Bones, "If only there was some kind of... repository where one could look up these sorts of things. Perhaps even accessible from your own home!"
Me, "What a cool idea! I would call it: Teh Internetz."
Bones, "[snorts] What a stupid fucking name."

That's Doctor Numbnuts to You!

Accolades, people. Bones passed without revisions. The Doctor is in.

Merry (Med School) Widow

Reader, it has already started. Three weeks--I thought--before the beginning of the Hell That Will Become Med School, Med School--like Bill Lumburg--has asked Dr. Bones to come in on the weekend and do a TPS report. Except the TPS report actually means that he's starting classes AN ENTIRE WEEK before we'd thought.

His "student ambassador" (we'll call him The Moron) neglected to mention that, although Bones's University has an academic calendar published, the medical school will not be following that particular calendar. Bones found this out in reviewing his orientation materials and emailed The Moron: "Moron, this schedule seems to indicate that classes start a week ahead of schedule. Is that accurate?"

Moron: "Yes. Sorry."

Sorry? SORRY? You take away the one week my boyfriend has had off in TWO YEARS and you say 'Sorry'? You take away this weekend from Italian Fest 2008 so that Bones can finish his disseration revisions because he didn't have the week he thought he did and you say 'Sorry'? You force me to cancel the first and only trip I was going to have planned for "just fun" all summer, and it's 'Sorry'? YOU ARE MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMN RIGHT, SORRY.

Only then did The Moron think to send Bones the schedule for M1s (aka 1st year medical students): Bones has finals the week before Christmas. He then has Christmas off, New Year's off, and goes back to school the Monday after the New Year. He does not get a spring break. He does have labs on Saturday mornings, though. Like that's some kind of comfort. I bet he's really going to want to have late brunch after spending five hours in a gross anatomy (read: cutting up dead people) lab. Appetizing.

It's not that I wasn't prepared for this: I was very prepared for the commitment for the time frame that I had in had. I was not prepared for the change in time frame. And, despite my rage at this very moment, the truth of the matter is that this is what I signed up for. It is what it is and there's nothing else to be done about it.

But, uh, I could use a little reader love right about now. And if you know Bones, he's not invited to my little blog pity party.

Today--yes, today, when I'm flaming mad and want to do nothing but pick a really good fight with a worthy opponent--Bones is defending his Ph.D. thesis. Today--and today of all days--is a day of celebration. If you know Bones, go congratulate him on a job very well done.

Rite of Passage

Did I ever tell you about the time my sister destroyed her phone? I didn't know about it until I called her the next day and her voicemail, in a very angry and depressed voice said, "This is Sister. This is my voicemail. I dropped my phone down the fucking elevator shaft so if you want me to call you back, leave me your phone number."

I laughed until I peed. When she came home that night (we lived together at the time), I asked her about her phone exploits. Apparently, on her way back home the night prior, she had pulled her phone out, promptly dropped it, and it literally bounced once and fell into the 1" gap between the elevator and the 24th floor (we lived high up back then) without touching either side. When retelling this story, she will tell you that she swore she saw the light in her phone grow fainter and fainter as it fell down the elevator shaft until she very faintly heard the crunch of her phone, 24 floors down.

It's a pretty great story.

I had not, until today, so completely destroyed a cell phone. I've had them break on me. I've lost them, even for days on end, to recover them in the back seat of my car. I've left them off for days at at time. (Frankly, what you should be taking from this is that calling me is not a particularly good way to get a hold of me, even though it is my preferred method of contact.) Until today, I have never run them through the wash.

Let me tell you about my day. This morning, after falling asleep too early, I woke up too early, and decided that since I had some extra time around, I would clean my house from top to bottom. I tend to be a fairly neat housekeeper, but my weekends--especially the weekends that Bones works--are the weekends I get down and dirty with the bleach. Oh, how I love bleach in all its germ-destroying, clean-smelling goodness.

I stripped the bed and threw the sheets in the laundry (side note: how did I live before I had in-unit laundry?). Inspired by KATE!, I decided that I would put together a triple-batch of pizza dough, which I did. Then I swept up, cleaned up, and mopped with bleach as it rose. I picked up the house (which is really an 800 sq. foot condo). I cleaned the toilet. The shower. The bathroom. Mopped it. Then I switched the sheets into the dryer and the comforter into the wash.

The the phone--not my cell phone, the house phone--rang. I have the house phone forwarded to my cell phone, so it gave that half-ring of call forwarding and I waited for my phone to play Pink Floyd's Money (specifically, the Munchkin Dance portion of it, which is a reference to a college story that only makes sense if you're high so I won't tell it here). It did not ring. Then I remembered that I had not seen my phone all morning, despite my feverish cleaning.

So, I called my phone. Instant voicemail. Not good.

Assuming that I had put the darn thing into my back pocket of my jeans, I went through the dry laundry looking for it. No phone. Under the bed? No. In the bedroom? No. Purse? No. Then I shuddered. Dryer? No.

It was like it was out of a movie: I suddenly heard the tinkling of metal against a front-load stacking washer which you cannot stop mid cycle to retrieve a cell phone. I watched as my phone clinked against the glass and then disappeared again into the folds of my comforter. I had to wait until the cycle stopped until I could retrieve my poor phone.

My phone has been unequivocally killed. It won't even turn on. I need to go to the store this afternoon and purchase a brand new phone. Eight years later, I have finally been fully inducted into cell phone ownership.

How did you kill your phone?

If you're reading this, please take it as an invitation to email me your phone number, because I promise you, I don't have it.