In which I’m back online, using Internet Exploder – a browser I hate.

I spent much of today doing laundry and fucking with my computer. I have many clean clothes and I finally got Win2k installed. I’m now online, which was my whole goal.

I haven’t installed anything at all except for my modem driver and SP3, which was the only one I had. (I’m getting messenger popups. I need to go disable that.) I need to run Windows update, get SP4 installed, and install about a bajillion programs in order to really be “back up” because right now I’m not even running a firewall or virus protection or anything. It’s like having unprotected sex.

Okay. Not really.

When I told Brett how much kennelling would cost, he said, “Well fuck that idea.” So I’m still looking for options for Bindu and Shiva because, as we know, Brett already found a place for his dog. (Why that makes me so fucking mad I really can’t say. It just does. I guess it’s because it’s so typical of him.) I tried to call Chloe today to see if she could take one of them, but her cell’s not working and I don’t have a landline for her. I think I’ll just end up canvassing everyone I know with a dog and beg them to take one or the other of my beasts while I’m gone. It’s starting to stress me out. I can’t go if I can’t get the dogs handled. The cat will be fine; I’ll just leave food and water and an open window and he’ll do what he does.

I guess that’s one of the benefits of living in BFE. You can leave a window open for your cat while you’re gone for a week.

In which there’s an MP4 to download.

I’m feeling melancholy as autumn approaches. This morning I drove to work with the windows down and the heat on, Breathe Me on repeat, blasting.

Fall makes me ache, makes me sad in a deep place. I look around at the leaves turning, the fields turning; the mornings are crisp and the world feels like it’s ending. One becomes fatalistic, starts nesting, worries. I kind of like it, really, like messing with a hangnail – it hurts so good. I don’t know if it’s autumn itself or my approaching birthday, but I start pondering things this time of year. What am I doing with my life? Am I happy? What should I change? What could I do better?

And why he hell did we move so far out of town that we never get any trick-or-treaters?
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In which I totally bitch and moan and you probably shouldn’t even read this.

Today has proven to be something of a total bitch.

One. I backed up my home files onto my work computer, then attempted to set up my iTunes library and update my iPod. This was a total pain in the ass, because at one point I clicked and held my mouse in a weird way, and all the tracks in my library became checked. All of them. (I have a 4GB iPod, so only the checked songs get downloaded onto the device.) I had to go through my entire library and uncheck the songs I didn’t want on my iPod. My whole library’s all fucked up now.

Two. I sent our home owner’s insurance premium payment in late last month and the company cancelled my policy and declined to renew. (They haven’t bothered to send my check back yet, either.) Our property is uninsured right now, and I have 30 days to get this situation unfucked before the sellers try to foreclose. I’ve talked to them and their lawyer’s office today. Since they’re on the rider as lienholders, they got the cancellation notice and, apparently, decided we’d “gotten tired” of the place and had already started to reinsure it themselves. (Like it’s worth anything. The property would actually be worth more if the house burned to the ground… but that might just be fixer-upper buyer’s remorse talking. I am so tired of living in a remodel.) I have no doubt it will be handled well before the 30 days is up, like probably I’ll drive all over the damn place on Friday signing things and dropping off photocopies, but goddamn it anyway.

Three. Apparently our auto insurance was due yesterday and I didn’t pay it online, so the Drive insurance web site locked out my login and I had to call and talk to one of those stupid voice-activated systems to pay the premium. I hate talking to those fucking things. I hate insurance in general.

Four. I called the vet to see how much it would cost to board Shiva and Bindu while I’m in New York and Brett’s in Telluride. In order to board the dogs there, they have to be current on their shots, which they’re not, plus they have to be immunized for that kennel snot disease. The total, to board two dogs for six days is… Are you ready? Two hundred ten dollars and seventy-five cents. Brett’s leaving his dog with Jimbo, of course, so apparently I’m on my own with my dogs. And it’s not like I could leave Shiva with anyone and still expect to be friends with them when I got back; he’s a farm dog born and raised and wouldn’t make anyone a very good houseguest. I’m guessing this means I’ll be travelling to NYC on a shoestring budget because I’ll be using all my money to board the damn dogs. Why the fuck couldn’t Brett have stayed home while I go to New York?

Five. One of our servers (here at work) is all fucked up, and now I have to spend the afternoon doing the most hideously tedious job: moving web sites and email accounts off of the failing server and onto our outsourced hosting solution. I hate doing this so, so much. I avoid it whenever possible because it’s so tedious. (Usually I don’t get this negative about stuff at work, but I’m in a shitty mood.)

On top of all that, I have to stop at the store and buy something for dinner after work, go home and cook it, and listen to my husband whine about getting laid. (No matter how much he gets laid, he whines about never getting laid. True story.) And my home computer doesn’t work, my iPod library is fucked up, my checking account’s out of balance, and this damn homeowner’s insurance thing! Fuck! I want to take a nap.

In which I recount a dream. Yes, posting this kind of self-serving, of-interest-to-no-one crap is totally against the rules of blogging.

I rarely remember my dreams. I would estimate that I remember fewer than five per year. Over the weekend, however, I had a really strange dream that I did remember.

I was doing a show. Since it was a dream, there was no more context than that: it wasn’t a theatre I recognized, I have no idea what company it was, etc. The house was full, the show had started, and I’d never done the show before. It was as if I’d been called in to replace someone who wasn’t there. I was totally unrehearsed and I didn’t know the lines. I didn’t even know what show it was, but somehow this all made perfect sense in the dream.

I spent a great deal of time running from backstage to the back of the house. I ran through the wings, out to the corridors, through a bunch of rooms, and to the back of the lobby, where I could peek in at the audience and watch the show. When I finally got to the back of the house and could see the show, I realized what I really needed was not to watch the show but to find out when my next entrance was!

I decided I needed to be backstage, so I ran a hugely long, far way to get backstage, through rooms and dressing rooms and corridors… you know how dreams are. The theatre must have been a mile deep. (Awake, I recognize it as a combination of the Spayde Theatre, the Fox Theatre, and television shows.)

I finally reached the wings, and there was a prop or quick-change area set up, deep into stage right, way far from the curtains. It was an oval-shaped enclosure, sided with screens. It was like a corral, and it was gigantic. Inside this area were actors in costume pacing and prepping and waiting for cues, prop tables, and all the other paraphernalia you’d expect backstage, except it wasn’t lit. Continue reading Curtain Call →

In which my boobs stop hurting and everything else starts.

I woke up one minute before Brett’s alarm went off at 4:26. I’d only been asleep since midnight, so I wasn’t at all pleased that I was awake. Brett got up and did his morning thing and left for work at 5:30.

I was lying in bed, tired, but still awake. Couldn’t get back to sleep.

Then I got cramps from hell.

I got up after the sun was up and drank a quart of water with my breakfast of ibuprofin. Shuffled around like an old lady, got dressed, brushed my hair. Laid on the couch with my hands pressed to my belly.

I hate cramps. I don’t get them often, but when I do they’re debilitating. I can’t stand up they’re so bad. It’s like someone’s stabbing me in the gut with a dull knife every few seconds.

I fell asleep around 8 o’clock, I think. Sometime right before I should have left for work.

When I woke up at noon-something, feeling muzzy and disoriented, the ibuprofin had kicked in but I was obviously several hours late to work. I emailed Buzzdoctor that I was on my way and drove to town.

Sometimes, I’m just totally fucking useless.

In other news, Meathead snagged an entire pizza off the kitchen counter yesterday, and ate not only the pizza itself but most of the tea towel it had been resting under.

In other news, my boobs hurt. This might just mean that I should not have done braless arobics the other day. Or it might mean that I’m going to have wicked-bad-awful PMS soon.

Or it could mean I’m pregnant again, in which case I will kill myself.

I had the very last of my many horrible miscarriages last December, thank you very much, and I do not want to have another. Not to mention that I don’t much fancy the idea of another month – or three – of moody, weepy hormonal insanity followed by three solid hours of hemorrhaging.

Last night at the picnic table I told Mr. Brett that my boobs hurt, and that if I’m pregnant I’ll be killing myself so he’ll have to find a new wife.

Naturally, he asked immediately if we could go upstairs and have sex.

I rolled my eyes at him and said, “No, we can’t have sex, you dumb whore! I just told you I’m freaked out!”

He giggled.

I said, “It’s not funny! Miscarriages suck!”

He said, “Oh, I know it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all, babe, and I’m not laughing about that.” He sobered. “But you’re funny, Mushlette.” And then he patted me on the head.

I guess he thought the part where I said I’d be killing myself was a joke, then? Or maybe the finding a new wife part? God knows he can’t talk to women to save his life. I’ll have to mail-order him one before I go, I guess, because I doubt he could get through that much paperwork by himself. Snort!

I love this picture so much.

Makes me want to run right out and buy an Airstream. Or a convertable.

I can’t help it, this love I have for all things Google. I have no idea why Google has suddenly become a software house, but I love all their little doodads, including Google Desktop.

You know what’s cool?

The Internet. The Internet’s cool.

I used my blog yesterday to bitch and moan and blow off domestic steam, and in response my worthless self got several comments that made me laugh out loud and an Amazon.com gift certificate from Shegeki!

CAN YOU STAND IT?!?! Of course you can’t. It’s too wonderful.

(I now have two books and two CDs on their way to live with me in Iowa. So fantastic! Yes, inanimate objects can make one happy!)
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And this little ivy-growing-on-a-telephone-pole guy already knows it: