Tainted Love

The internet is a strange and wonderful place. I'm sitting at the table trying to put the postage on the Halloween cards for my family (or in my Mom's case, her Halloween "cod"- hilarious!) so I can have them arrive PRIOR to the holiday for the first time ever. The card that I got for my sisters has that stupid little "Requires Extra Postage" mark in the corner. Typically I just stick an extra stamp on and send whatever on its way...I hate going to the post office so whatever why not. However, because this card will be going to my parents' house- where my Dad the former postal worker lives- I was a little leery of the lecture that might accompany the wasting of an extra stamp where maybe a 3 cent will suffice.

So, because my father isn't answering the phone this afternoon (most likely because the subject of our last conversation was one Barack Obama) I decided I would google how much postage actually is warranted when "extra" is indicated. I believe my exact google search term was "extra postage required" how much. I clicked the first return. And immediately I was taken to this website.

That's right. PRISON TALK! Just the single page of the forum (which, bt-dubs did not give me the answer to my query) is full of amazingness.

One user had the following signature:

Tell me He's Lazy, Tell Me He's Slow, Tell Me He's Crazy, Maybe I Know...Can't Help Lovin' That Man of Mine!

What is that emoticon doing!???

AUGH God I love the internet.

Compromise

People ask me how it works that I'm a vegetarian, and my husband is not.


There ya go.

Despise Thy Neighbor

So, it is not lost on me that I am constantly complaining about those who share my habitat. This blog could previously have been named "OH MY GOD I HATE MY LANDLADY." And then we bought a house, and I was no longer under the tyrannical rule of a woman who would arbitrarily cut me off from the water supply or allow random workmen to use my toilet. And life was good.

But then we lived here a while, and I started to realize that I may hate my neighbor. Like, a lot. You see, my neighbors are annoying. And obnoxious. Actually, I suspect it's actually my neighbor's 20-something punk son that I hate and the Dad is actually decent, but those genes came from somewhere. So I hate them both.

First, they started to park in front of our house. Which shouldn't be a big deal. We live on a street on which parking is allowed- actually it's allowed on both sides of the street which is ri-friggin-diculous, but that's a grievance for the city. I don't mind if you park your Honda Accord in front of my house. I'm not going to see it over our hedge anyway. And we have room in our driveway for both of our cars, plus a bonus invisible car that probably drives better than my Chevy pickup despite the limitation of NOT EXISTING (sorry..also hate my truck.) So I don't need the street parking in front of my house. But you know what I am bothered by parking in front of my house? Your Ford F-5000. Seriously. This truck is as tall as my house.

This is not my neighbor. But I'd probably like him better if it was. This guy looks hilarious.

So when I open my windows in the living room and look out to enjoy the neighborhood (or check out what's happening with the 2 police cruisers in front of my other neighbor's house like this morning- juicy!) my view is hindered by this MONSTROSITY. It's also kind of tough to see past when I'm trying to back out of my driveway. I've almost been hit twice, but really I'm more bothered by the aesthetics.

This is extra annoying because I'm pretty sure that my neighbors are single-handedly fueling the demand for off-shore drilling. They own the above tank, another pick-up of similar size, 2 SUVs, and the kid has a motorcycle (which is obnoxiously loud)! There are only 2 people living in the house! And we live in the suburbs of Boston, people. I'm from the South and people didn't own this many gas guzzlers. I feel like there should be some kind of evil stupidity tax.

Finally, today I went into the back yard to put down ant spikes (my yard is overrun by ants-augh!) and found a dead bird. Actually dead bird number 2 in the last week. My yard might be the epicenter of West Nile Virus this summer. Sooo, sorry about that. Anyway, found the bird, was disgusted, put down ant spikes. Then an hour later I went out to pick my husband up from the train and noticed a piece of paper next to the bird that had not been there before. When I got home I went and picked it up. It was a piece of mail addressed to us. Where did it come from?!

Here's my theory: the punk kid got it in their mail (our mailman sucks and constantly mis-delivers things) and then just threw it over the fence rather than walk all the way to our mailbox. I have absolutely no evidence to back this up, but I almost flung a dead bird into their pool in the name of vengeance.

Speaking of their pool, they have a pool. Bastards.

It's going to be a long summer.

The Plot Against Me Thickens

So I received a brochure in the mail today. Addressed specifically to me. Not "Current Resident" or "Our Neighbor" or even to both of us. No. Addressed to me.

On the front it says, "Can we help with your Planning?" and this picture:

The subheading describes this patch of grass as "One of the most naturally beautiful settings in New England!" Nice try, Puritans.

So, I assumed it was a wedding brochure (Tip: never ever get a profile on TheKnot.com) Get married or have your reception in this big field! Something like that.

No.

Open the brochure, it's from "Puritan Lawn Memorial Park" and below is the subheading "If this arrives at a time of sickness or sorrow, please accept our sincerest apologies."

And then it goes on to outline my traditional and cremation planning options. And if I return the postage-paid info card, they'll send a complimentary guide for my survivors. Sooo, when the rocks finally get me, I'll have my arrangements all set.

I am 26 frakkin' years old. WTF.

Really Universe?

So this afternoon I went to pick up this hammock stand:

Whaaaaaaaaaaat??!???!!!

From a dude named Cesar that looked a lot like this:

So not kidding. Thank you Craigslist.

So I think we can all agree, my day was going pretty well. And then I drove home.

It's gorgeous out, not as warm as yesterday (86 degrees in April? Yes please.) but definitely nice enough to have the windows down. I have a ton of hair that is easily blown into knots, so I rarely have my window down further than an inch- as was the case today.

So I'm driving with my sunglasses on, I hear something like a rock hitting the windshield, and all of a sudden it feels as though the glasses have moved on my face. You know what happened?

A ROCK CAME IN THROUGH THE 1-INCH CRACK IN THE WINDOW, PLINKED ME IN THE FACE, AND BROKE MY SUNGLASSES!

Look at these things!!! That missing chunk could easily have been my forehead. Or cornea.

Seriously what the hell?! How does that happen?! I couldn't find the assassin rock, or the missing piece of plastic. I guess they both disintegrated. There's an entire windshield for minerals to target, but instead they choose my face. Either this kind of thing happens to everyone and I'm just better with documentation, or there's an entire Kingdom that is out to destroy me. So now I am without sunglasses (AKA much-needed armor for my eyeballs.)

I guess I'll be parking the hammock in the shade.

Ordering

I worked overnight and was completely starved and exhausted. So, I stopped at a gas station for fuel and a sandwich. And yes, it is totally gross that I ate at a gas station Subway.

I intended to order the same thing I always order at Subway. A tuna salad sandwich with lettuce, tomato, olives, and topped with oil and vinegar. Again, gross, I know. Instead, Zombie Sam decided to order the food.

Subway Kid: "What can I get for you?"
Zombie Me: "I'll have an egg and cheese on honey...wow. No I won't. Sorry. Can I get a tuna sandwich on....do you have some kind of honey bread?"
SK: "Honey Oat?"
Me: "Yes! That please."
Note: At this point this kid is looking at me like he really wishes he had some of whatever I was on.
SK: "What would you like on it?"
Me: "Lettuce, tomato, and olives"
SK: "Mayonnaise or mustard?"
Me: "No, just salt and vinegar."
SK: "Ok...salt and vinegar."
And he starts shaking salt onto my sandwich.
Me: "Why are you putting salt on my sandwich?!"
SK: "You wanted salt and vinegar?"
Me: "Salt and vinegar? Oh my God no....OIL and vinegar. I'm sorry. Just give it to me."
SK: "Are you sure? I can make you another one."
Me: "No no, it's my fault. I'll eat it. Thanks."

FYI...it was gross. Luckily I'd also purchased a bag of pepperidge far macadamia nut cookies to wash it down with. Mmmmm....healthy. :-p

Open Letter

Dear Census,

I was on your side. Why are you doing this to me?

When my raging Republican father told me that the Census was a government ploy to enter our homes and give all our personal information to corrupt ACORN workers, I calmly defended you. When Michelle Bachman popped up urging me not to answer the Census, I threw things at my own television. And when my mother said that despite what I thought about the usefulness of Census data, it was still a huge waste of money, I again explained to her your value.

Please stop proving my mother right. It is painful to me.

Two weeks ago I received a letter in the mail with a return address of "Census 2010." I was genuinely excited to have received my very own Census form. I was going to answer every question just to spite my parents. Also because I love public health and understand the ramifications of frikkin' Census data. So imagine my surprise when I opened the letter, pencil in hand, to find that it was not a survey. Rather it was a letter explaining that in the next week or so, I would be receiving a Census survey. Um...okay? That was a waste of whatever in God's name postage costs this week. And I shudder to think of what you spent sending that letter to every household in America. Particularly because I am of the opinion that those members of society least likely to answer the Census accurately and completely (i.e. The Teabaggers...God I love that they call themselves that) are going to need more than a letter outlining the way the Census benefits our society to change their minds. Pretty sure they're immune to facts. And Glenn Beck is taking down social justice too, so it's all downhill from here.

(I could only watch about 3 minutes of this before I choked on my own rage.)

Anyway, I thought the letter was dumb. I put my pencil down and awaited the (way too) heralded arrival of my actual census form.

About 5 days later, it came. I got the short form. None of the questions that my father feared were destroying America were even there! And I was so looking forward to telling Barack Hussein Obama my life story! In the end I put my and Tom's names in the little blanks, confessed to being totally uninteresting in the ethnicity department, and mailed the stupid thing back in. How anti-climactic.

And then today I got a postcard in the mail. From the Census Bureau. Letting me know that a few days ago I should have received a request to participate in the Census. And that it was important that I respond. You know what's really important? Not sending $3 worth of postage for no reason! Holy crap! I support the Census. I love that it saved me a lot of leg work on papers in grad school. But I do not love that it's making my mother do her "I told you so" dance via telephone.

Not cool Census Bureau. Knock it off.

Thanks,
~Sam