I'm going to rant today.
It's that simple.
Rant. Rant. Ranty-rant-rant.
I'm not in a good mood; I'm sorry.
If you don't read the rest or comment I don't blame you.
I'm tired; and... well, I'm tired.
And grouchy. And grumpy.
And my skin is dry. And itchy because it's dry.
I was raised that it was impolite to talk about money with people. Why is that? I've never quite figured it out. We can complain to people about our jobs, our significant others, how underpaid we are, our pets, our razor burn, crappy drivers, our family, our weight, our hairiness, our aches, our pains, our frustrations about sculpting the perfect eye-brow arch with tweezers.
Nope; we're never supposed to complain about money. Perhaps it's so it doesn't seem as if we are asking for some? I'm not asking for anything; other than, well, a shoulder to gripe on.
Call me crazy, but I think we're in this pickle in the U.S. of A. BECAUSE we don't talk about money. Just a gander.
Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
Hint: it's never a good thing when I start quoting Dante.
You'll be much relieved it has NOTHING to do with the bailout that I can't make up my mind about. I'm thinking, who cares? It's Monopoly money at this point anyway.
Really, we're fine financially. We've got food and heat and a car that's only one year old. We have a beautiful apartment with the original hardwood floors and moldings from the late 19th century. Our cat is still alive and seemingly is fine. No one is sick. We don't have medical bills except for prescription co-pays. My back's hurting hardly at all. Tom's great. Family's great. I'm great.
It's just the extras I miss.
I miss my philosophy products. (They don't capitalize their product names or brand.) pure grace everything; shower cream, lotion, perfume. My philosophy skin care products that are to DIE for. I'm 37 and have been graced with great skin from my mother's side of the family. But, I am doing preemptive wrinkle and pore-size control. Except I can't and haven't been able to buy anything except purity face wash. It's the stupid girlie stuff that I miss being able to splurge on.
I also only use Bare Escentuals make-up, too. Luckily, I haven't been using it much as I am at home most days working on my dissertation (well, staring at the cursor and counting how many times it blinks before I think of something to write; the scary kind of writer's block that is numbingly terrifying like the Nothing from Neverending Story; sucks the hope right out of ya).
My poor husband. We went shopping the other day and I had a bit of Warmth on and some mascara. He looked at me and said, "You are gorgeous, honey." I thanked him and said, "Well, I haven't worn makeup for a while. You've gotten used to seeing me in the all and all."
Okay, I'm going to stop being selfish and gripe about someone else's money.
Money they're going to GET for having eight babies they can't afford anyway.
Yes. The chick that was using her uterus as a clown car (thanks Sidhe, I hope you don't mind me borrowing that visual), Nadya Suleman, turns out to have some serious mental health problems. I'm not trashing her because she's chemically imbalanced. Heck, everyone's a tad imbalanced. Who wouldn't be a bit PTSD after eight years of GW?
British rumor has it, too, that the family is holding out showing the world the babies and the mother SO THEY CAN SELL THE PICTURES AND STORY TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER.
To top it off, we watched part of the worst movie ever written: Meet the Spartans. It was so bad we couldn't even finish it.
Why is it that stupid people get rewarded for being stupid and stupid movies get made when I'm over here with my increasingly dry skin and sour attitude and three decent (IMHO) screen plays that could easily make some decent box office?
Okay, I'm done.
Thanks for letting me gripe.
If you made it this far, I really appreciate it. Thanks for reading my virtual bitch fest.
I needed it, really.