When one door closes there's always another one to kick the sh*t out of

I'm grumpy today. Tired. Bitchy. Did Oscar the Grouch have a sister? Because that's about me, right about now.

I am seriously rethinking my decision to become an academic-- five days prior to defending my dissertation-- possibly the worst piece of tripe ever composed, anywhere, by any being, in the entire history of the whole universe.

There's about 50 gazillion articles and books of which I should have a working knowledge by next Tuesday. Yep, and the likelihood that one of my five committee members is going to ask about the 40, 161,234th is about 1:1. (It's never a good sign when I start trying to use numbers; that and quoting Dante or Melville who might be the second worst writer in the history of everything right behind me.)

Told you I was grouchy.

Another thing that is pissing me right the hell off: our dryer is broken. Yes, I am griping because I have clothes and boxers and socks hanging all over our apartment. And four voicemails since Monday to our landlady (who is usually Jane-on-the-spot) have gone unanswered.

I feel like a turn-of-the-20th-century Irish/German/Polish immigrant in the Bronx. All that's missing are the gaggle of children tugging on my imaginary apron strings (oops, just popped out another one). Not even Monty Python can make me smile today.

I refuse.

Every sperm is not sacred.

In fact, if a sperm gets wasted, it is because the dude it came from had too many Jack and Cokes at the pub down the block.

And I am the one who's irate.

I am so white from being inside, strapped to a computer, that you can almost see every vein, muscle, and tendon beneath my skin. I'm like the Invisible Man without the cool invisible part (and the penis; boy wouldn't that be a shocker for Tom after being together for almost four years?).

I am in such a foul mood that I considered switching political parties just to see if that made me feel better. Actually, that's a lie. I would never even consider it.

See? And now I'm lying because I am grumpy.

I never lie.

Ever.

Except for that one time when my doctor asked me if I had ever experimented with drugs and I said "no".

Altho' technically, that's not a lie. I didn't experiment with cannabis. I smoked it... regularly.

Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis. I am turning 38 in less than two months and I am without a working dryer, I feel like a Staten Island cast off, and I don't want to be an invisible man, well, woman.

Regardless, doors keep opening and closing and I feel like kicking the crap out of all of them.

Especially the one marked: "Winning Powerball numbers for the next drawing."

Unfair. So f*cking unfair...

Update: I just found this post on Media Matters that made my day. In a nutshell, rightwing blogs are irrelevant according to a Brigham Young University study. Can you get more right wing than BYU?

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A shoulder to gripe on

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.

But money?

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.

Sickening.

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.

You're great.

Thanks.

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