The Secret Lives of Auditors

One might think that my lack of blog entries is indicative of a totally boring life, dry and tasteless as Cracklin' Oat Bran, and just as regular. But in actuality, my life has been extremely interesting over the last two weeks-- I just can't tell you why.

Specifically, I can't tell you why because every interesting thing that has happened to me involves my job-- and yes, I mean interesting in a universal sense, not interesting in a only-interesting-to-insurance-people sense. But I don't really like to talk about my job on my blog for two reasons: I don't want anyone from work to find it and read it and come to my desk and quote it to me mockingly before they have me escorted out by security, and also, most of you pass out and begin drooling if I even so much as interject a word that sounds like "insurance" into a sentence.

But I can tell you, without fear of reprisal, the following short list of things I did at work today:

1. Jabbed myself pretty hard in the back with the pointy end of an exposed screw while scrambling around under my desk, attempting to plug in my jump drive so I could listen to "Sister Christian" on my computer.

2. Ate a horrendous sandwich.

3. Sent like a thousand people to collections-- take THAT, you non-paying a-holes! You'd best step off next time you make fun of ME for ordering tacos with just meat at Chipotle, because you don't even KNOW what kind of power I got.

4. Listened to "Sister Christian" a bazillion times; each time it got to the "Motorin'" chorus, imagined myself in the car with the windows down driving across a bridge while my hair whipped dramatically around me, like I was in a po-mo Zach Braff movie (side note: I feel that Zach Braff's voice is far too high for his physique)

5. Entertained co-workers with a story about a doll I used to have named Gorilla Ann

I also did a multitude of other things, but they were not funny things, unless you think writing e-mails to the Virginia Board of Insurance is funny, which I wager you do not.

Drama in Real Life

For the past week or so, I have been suffering from extremely achy joints-- particularly my lower back and knees. While most people would attribute this to the mild flu I caught last week, and to the fact that we keep our house at 60 degrees to avoid a repeat of the Dreaded $255 Gas Bill, I fear that there is a more sinister plot in action.

When I was little, I read an installment of "Drama in Real Life" in my parents' copy of Reader's Digest that described a woman that woke up with some aches and pains-- like me!-- that got progressively worse over the course of several days-- like me!-- and then her body shut down completely, the only warning being her achy joints, and she remained in a locked-in state for over three years, forced to communicate only by blinking her eye-- her one non-locked-up eye-- a certain number of times to indicate a letter on a chart. Eventually she recovered, but she was never quite the same. I believe she wrote a book about the experience. But I didn't read the book. I only read "Drama in Real Life," and internalized the fact that if my joints ache, there is a very good chance that I will be confined to a hospital bed, being wiped off with sponges by indifferent nurses every few days and blinking furiously to spell out things like "If only I had gone to the doctor to treat my achy joints before it was too late!"

And that is why parents of nervous children should not subscribe to Reader's Digest.

Done and undone

Done:

• Called Direct Loans re: student loan default letter. No answer, but I'm not as worried anymore, as I now have the letter in my possession, and have found that it doesn't actually have my name on it anywhere, meaning it was probably just mailed to the wrong person. Will begin obsessively calling tomorrow at eight a.m., just to make sure.

• Purchased corset for wedding. Not as easy as it sounds, as it also included a quest to find the apparently no longer open Solomon's Corset Shop, famous in Cleveland for its excellent corsets and mean employees who tell you your bra is wrong and saggy, even if it is made of cast iron. Ended up at David's Bridal, where I also bought my veil. The only downside-- my mom had to see my boobs. Gross.

• Washed and dried four loads of laundry, although sadly, got purple fabric softener spots over 80% of the whites.

• Wrote two new columns to send to the Dispatch while doing the ill-fated laundry

• Watched season finale of The Office-- twice! Anyone who wants to begin obsessively discussing the season premiere should contact me immediately.

• Harrassed Ben about making his guest list.
  

Undone:

• Did not mail save the date cards, as one half of guest list is missing.

• Did not upload new songs to MP3 player in an effort to get it to stop playing the same songs over and over and over again.

• Did not ride bike.

• Did not sign and mail contract for oboe trio for ceremony as promised.

• Did not return Netflix.

• Did not begin rereading Harry Potter series, despite looming release date of book seven.

What's going on

Okay, so I know I haven't been the best blogger lately (although traffic on my site is way up, which I find both exciting and sort of creepy), but since it's Sunday, and I'm home alone and sitting on top of the washing machine, as is my custom, I thought I'd redeem myself with a short recount of my latest activities (or non-activities, as the case may be).

1. Remember a few weeks ago, when I was called for jury duty? And how I was totally panicked about having to drive downtown, and made Ben do like three trial runs with me to the courthouse, and became convinced that I was going to be gunned down by a rogue defendant, like I saw in this one episode of "American Justice"? And wept openly over it at work, because I was so freaked out that I would get called for some sort of OJ case, and be sequestered for months and months, and then everyone would expect me to write a book about it, only I was afraid the book would be totally boring and no one would buy it?

Anyway, if you can forget all that, I would appreciate it, because I never got summoned. I called the jury hotline today, and was thanked by a recording for completing my jury service. And I have to admit, I was totally bummed. Mainly because I had worked myself into such a retarded frenzy over it for no apparent reason, but then also because that meant that I myself would never actually get to appear on "American Justice," which (when not documenting cases of gunned down jurors) often features them as key performers.

2. On Friday, our dog pooped herself. This was not acceptable, as all of our furniture and carpets are white or beige. (Not that it would have been acceptable had the furniture all been brown, but I admit, it might have eased my worry a little.) Nine pre-wetted paper towels and a day-long confinement to the basement later, Che is now socially acceptable again, only now she has pronounced dingleberries, which makes me wonder if the people in the neighborhood think I'm a bad dog mom when we're out on walks.

3. Fed up with my horribly librarianish wardrobe, I went on a shopping spree and am now very fashionably dressed (except right now, with my unshaven legs and "What Up, Dog?" t-shirt, but I feel that I can afford to be poorly dressed in my own basement). My favorite purchase-- a pair of footless lime green tights, which I don't actually think I'll ever be able to bring myself to wear in public, but which are really fun to run around the house in.

4. Ben and I met with the florist and picked out our wedding flowers, which are totally awesome (my bouquet will have wheat in it!). I never thought I would be the kind of person who would care at all about flowers of any kind (other than a heartfelt hatred of carnations, especially in unnatural colors), but apparently, I do. Next weekend, we're meeting with our minister for our first marital counseling session, which will most likely reveal that I am tired of walking the dog all the time, Ben is tired of doing the dishes, and neither of us really wanted to go to premarital counseling in the first place.

So as you can see, I have been very, very busy

• worrying needlessly about things that didn't happen
• chasing the dog with scissors to remove the offending dingleberry
• running around in footless tights
• being wedding-y

I hope you will forgive my lapse of blog activity, and I do hereby solemnly swear to be a better blogger. Keep in mind that I could have posted dinglebery pictures, but I didn't, because I have that kind of restraint.

Things I find vexing

• I just bought this bike:

And tomorrow the temperature is supposed to go back down into the thirties.

• I am, as I type this, compiling a mix CD that I do not feel has a solid anchor song. It does, however, feature both "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" and the Presidents of the United States' of America's "Puffy Little Shoes," so I am hoping its eclectic nature will save it.
  
• I still have no music for my wedding ceremony...

... and this guy is an actual option available to me. This isn't just a picture of a bagpiper. This is an actual Cleveland bagpiper that I could get to play at my wedding. For $3,000. I am seriously considering this.

• Not really.
  

The day the wedding stood still

I've reached a really strange point in wedding planning where phase one-- finding a site, getting a dress, hiring a DJ and a photographer, getting a minister-- has all been completed, but it seems too early to move on to phase two, which seems to involve about eight million small but infinitely significant details-- yes, we have a caterer, but we never told them what we want to eat. We haven't yet picked a cake for the baker to make. We have no invitations, or save-the-dates, or even a master guest list. Or any music for the actual ceremony (note: if any of you play a musical instrument, or know someone who does, and they want to play at our wedding, we will give them a million, billion dollars.).

Even though I know it's too early to start on most of these things (or, rather, I have been informed of such by my mom and by Ben, who just want me to stop freaking out for five seconds), I am already secretly in a panic over them, a panic which manifests itself in these horrible dreams where I wake up and it's the wedding day, only we only have planned what we actually have planned in real life. Which means we have a reception hall, and photographer and DJ and dress, but no menu, or seating chart, or guests, for that matter, because we never sent out any invitations.

And on top of all that, I feel intense pressure to have a really cool wedding, especially since so many people are (theoretically) coming in from all over the country to attend. But this is a fatal flaw in my character-- while I may be a decent creative writer, I am not even slightly creative when it comes to almost anything else, including decor, costume-making, and yes, wedding planning. So in my mind I picture all my cool friends from all over the world arriving in Aurora, Ohio, and going, "eh."

Actually, let me take that (slightly) back-- I DO have creative ideas, but they cost a lot of money. Like my idea to have a photo booth on site at the reception, which would have offered up all sorts of weird and wacky portraits of my guests that I would cherish for decades to come. Yeah, those booths? Cost, again, a million, billion dollars.

Sadly, there's nothing I can really do to overcome this crippling defect in my character, except to artfully steal from other weddings and hope that no one in attendance at my own remembers them.

Behold my sword and scales

About a week ago, I received a very angry letter from the government informing me that I was a wanton hussy who had refused to fill out my jury selection questionnaire and that if I did not do so within ten days of receipt of said questionnaire, Scooter Libby would come to my house himself and beat the crap out of me.

This was highly upsetting to me, as I had not received any of the supposed previous attempts to get me to fill out this questionnaire because the government had my wrong address (which is so weird, since they knew exactly where to mail my income tax forms), and even this one was late-- the deadline for filling out the forms pre-ass-kicking had already passed.

So, like the good citizen I am, I filled them out immediately and returned them.

And was almost instantaneously called for jury duty, about eight days later.

I mean, I knew filling out the forms might meant they might want me to be on a jury someday. I didn't realize it meant before the hiatus of The Office was even over.

After overcoming my initial shock-- I don't know if any of you have ever been called for jury duty, but just getting the letter made me feel like I had dome something really wrong, like this was all an elaborate trick to get me to go down there so they could bust me on some trumped up littering charges-- I am now actually quite excited about doing my civic duty and serving on a jury. I am also excited about the $40/day I could potentially earn as a juror, which I plan on putting toward a sweet new bike... of justice.

Seriously, though, I honestly am kind of excited about it now. Which means that my jury pool will most likely not be chosen, and I'll never get the chance to actually be a part of a jury. Which is too bad, because Ben and I watch a lot of American Justice, so I would probably be quite the worthy candidate.

The Blizzard of Aught Seven

Once, 29 years ago, Cleveland was hit with a blizzard, commonly known as The Blizzard of '78, that people still talk about to this day. I, being young and vibrant, was not alive then, but have heard much of its fury and anguish.

But let me just say, that blizzard was probably pansy-esque compared to this.

After finally being released from work today at 4:30, it took me three hours to complete the normally 30-minute drive home, including an unscheduled and most unwelcome stop at a BP to chisel free my windshield wipers from their awkwardly-frozen ice prison, which caused them to seize up and completely stop functioning about ten miles from home. Finally, after prizing them free ("THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, MOTHER FUCKER!" was, I believe, the exact phrase I used once they finally began moving again-- Ashley can corroborate this, as she was on the phone with me at the time-- on my hands free, of course, as I do not have a death wish), Ben came and rescued me, and I followed him the rest of the way home.

I would like to thank the manufacturers of my intensely oversophisticated ice scraper and the makers of Orbit Mint Mojito gum (it really tastes like an alcoholic beverage!) for helping me survive this ordeal.

In the meantime, I thought it would be prudent to announce, for those of you who don't know, that I WILL BE IN WILMINGTON THIS WEEKEND, and expect to see all my Wilmingtonian friends while I'm there. Please tell me the temperature is about 18 degrees, and I will be able to get the car wash I so desperately, desperately need.

Okay, seriously...

...I WILL be back to blog about my wee box problem. I realize that the problem is no longer of any interest to anyone, but believe me, it's super funny, and you'll die when you hear about it. But I have been very, very busy doing the following things:

• Buying my wedding dress (it's the greatest!). I so desperately want to show it to you, but I can't, for fear of The Ben Factor. I also really, really, REALLY was hoping that I'd be able to post at least one picture of me in a shockingly ugly dress, but really, I couldn't find any. Either that, or a lot of them were ugly, but they just looked good on me because I am so hot.

• Going to my first bridal show, which was a terrifying event of terror, even though I did get all the information I will need to actually pull off this wedding. At one point, though, I had a woman's elbow in my ear as I tried to walk past a "spin to win" booth that could net you either 14 nights in Jamaica or 5% off a night with The World's Most Annoying DJ.

• Staying up late at night worrying myself into nausea over my guest list, which isn't even slightly official yet, because my third grade teacher might find out about my pending nuptuals and feel really badly that she wasn't invited. (But sorry, Mrs. Brunswick. You were a bitch, and I never forgot that time you knocked over Leva's desk because she wasn't paying attention to you during math).

and many other wedding related things.

I know I promised not to be a crazed bride-to-be on this blog, but really, we're putting almost all of this behind us by the end of this week-- we're looking at one more site, auditioning photographers and DJs, and even securing Super Awesome Favor ideas. So once we enter that time where it's just list-making and envelope-licking, I will definitely have more time to talk about my wee box.

So, in short, stick with me! It will totally be up this week! Please?

Do as I do

Not unlike Pen, I, too, have noticed a general malaise among our Blogs of Note (except, of course, for Ashley, who continues bringing the awesome like it's her job)-- I, personally, have been rather neglectful of late, because I have been too busy doing the following things:

• Getting root canals
• Having my kidneys ultrasound-ed
• Watching the 3rd (and alas, final) season of Arrested Development
• Reading books about girls who had sex in high school, probably in a belated attempt to cover up for the fact that I wasn't one of them
• Attending my butthead cousin's soccer game

Et Cetera.

But more than that, I have been experiencing a general malaise, based largely on my growing belief that, despite the fact that I got into graduate school for creative writing, I am not even kind of creative. I base this belief entirely on the fact that I have never once created a catchphrase.

I am so jealous of people who create catchphrases. Like Daisy's "I less than three..." That totally depresses me. Because I'm like, that's a really awesome catchphrase. And I totally didn't come up with it.

Oh, I'm big on appropriating other people's catchphrases. To the point where, the other day, I had to ask Marita, "Did I come up with the word 'ween?'" Because I really thought I did. But no, I didn't.

And it doesn't help that, around the office, people do an imitation of my boyfriend's catchphrase, which is just the word "sure" spoken with a Wisconsin accent, but still, it's totally catchy, and he came up with it, and he doesn't even work here.

And it's not just catchphrases-- I am also super jealous of T.'s discovery of the Church Sign webpage. Because that thing is totally rad, and I totally can't use it now because it's T.'s thing, and I don't want to be a copycat. So not only have I never come up with a catchy catchphrase, I can't even find awesome webpages to use for awesomeness, as T. did.

So far, the only even remotely creative thing I've done is figure out that I can post to my blog by e-mail, as I am doing right now. But that's not really so much creative as it is devious.

But in an effort to revive the blogscene and ease my own mind, I will attempt to blog more often (and less about my teeth). The way I see it, every entry I write is another chance that a phrase I use will become catchy. And isn't that all we ever dream of?

Worry Wart

It's something that my mother has been saying forever, but really, I'm starting to think that I really do worry too much, and it's starting to get me down. For instance, this weekend, I worried about:

1. My impending haircut

2. The completion of a project that absolutely had to get done and in the mail by a certain time

3. An invitation I had to turn down

4. This vaguely threatening letter I got from my dental insurance people

And now, I have the haircut (and it just keeps getting sassier with each passing day!), finished the project, turned down the invitation only to be met with great understanding, and straightened out the insurance situation. One would think that I would have learned my lesson about worrying, seeing as how every single thing I worried about this weekend turned out just fine, and in some cases, actually great. But instead, I have simply shifted my worry to include:

1. The imminent distruction of my upcoming vacation to Wilmington by that hellhound, Ernesto. Curse you, Ernesto, and all your windy fury!

2. My inability to answer all the requests placed on my blog for the "all request and dedication post" (some famous fictional dinner partners I would enjoy-- the Invisible Man from Ellison's Invisible Man, Mrs. DeWinter from Rebecca-- or, better yet, Rebecca herself. Some weird foods I have eaten since grad school-- salmon, monte cristo sandwiches, mozzarella cheeseburgers)

3. The Department of Education's malfunctioning website, which will not allow me to post my student loan payment online, meaning I have to mail it in, meaning that the check will inevitably be lost, resulting in my first ever late student loan payment, and probably my deportation from the country.

Et cetera.

Honestly, there probably isn't a day that goes by that I'm not worried about something. And it's often something stupid. I once agonized for an entire day under the belief that a girl I knew hated me (which makes no sense, since I didn't do anything to make her hate me, and didn't actually even like her very much, so what did I care if she hated me?), only to be curiously vindicated when she smiled at me in passing, thus assuring me that she didn't hate me at all.

Is this normal? Do the rest of you worry this much? Has my obsessive worrying worried any of you in the past? Please confirm my general normalcy, so I don't have to worry about that, too.

And by the way-- if you want to see something worrisome, trying doing an image search on Google for the word "wart." You'll see why I went with this anxious, slightly menacing looking woman, who, if you look at her in the right light, looks a little like a red-headed Brigitte Nielsen.

Return of the fro?

Unless anyone has any reason why I shouldn't do this, I think I'm going to go crazy-go-nuts and get my hair cut like this again. So please don't tell me not to unless you really, really, really hate it. Please.

In fact, don't even tell me. Don't say anything. Just think of this as a warning. I am totally getting my hair cut like this. Maybe even shorter. But not crazy short. But no-ponytail short! Which I haven't been in two years.

Yipe! As someone who wore their hair so short that she couldn't even put barrettes in it until she was 21, I have no idea why this is freaking me out so much. But I am totally freaked. But still totally doing it.

I stink

Every single time I smell something bad, whether it's exhaust, foot stink, or a co-worker's Poorly Prepared Salmon Covered in Burnt Onions and Green Peppers, I become absolutely convinced that the smell is coming from me. Not that the smell is on my clothes, or that I caused it by eating something I shouldn't, but that it is actually emanating from me, as if all the cells in my body decided simultaneously to begin emitting stink rays (depicted here in this highly scientific drawing I found of foot stink).

I guess I didn't realize it until recently, but I've had this problem for a really long time. I wonder if, at one point, I really did stink a lot for no reason, causing me to become sensitive to the presence of other stink-related situations? Or perhaps, when I was a baby, every time my parents farted, they blamed it on me, thus giving me a stink complex. All I know is, if something smells bad, it's probably me, even though I will always, upon first detecting a stink in the air, sniff myself vigorously and can never find conclusive proof that I am the source of the stink. Which in and of itself is a totally different problem, being caught sniffing yourself in public.