Sometimes "Still Dirty" Takes on a Whole New Meaning

Yesterday, in an attempt to remove what must have been six or seven hundred pounds of stray cat fur and cheerios from my apartment, I got out the old vacuum cleaner.

While it did a fairly passable job on my carpet, I really felt that the vaccuming could be, well, better.

NB: Here's where I turn into my ex-father-in-law, who could be counted upon to liven up any party with a tale of cleaning out his alarm clock. He was a dear, sweet man, and since I'm about to do the same thing to my audience, I can't exactly make fun of him for it.

So I said, "Hey, BabyGirl - wanna see something gross?" and of course, since she's my daughter, she absolutely did.

However, I can't even begin to describe to you the horror of what then transpired. I have only ever emptied the "dust" container - I've never cleaned the filters or the wheels thingy on the bottom. When I went to investigate the latter, I discovered enough hair (HUMAN HAIR) tightly wrapped around that spinny thing that had to be CUT OFF with scissors to make a wig for a small child. Even I was horrified, and it takes a lot to horrify me.

So I cleaned out my vacuum entirely yesterday, discovering layer upon layer of yuck. I just want to know what I've been doing on my carpet for the last year to make it so unbelievably filthy. Or then again, maybe I don't.

I Know, I Stink

Life has SERIOUSLY gotten in the way of my good, quality blogging lately.

The updates, in brief:
1. Stupid motherfucking raise finally got approved, effective August 1 (no retroactive pay for the work I've been doing for 6 months) and I won't see it until Aug. 31. Not grumbling about it, I'm incredibly pleased. However, the 4-month process it took to get the damn thing has effectively broken my spirit and basic willingness to believe that human beings are generally kind to one another, even professionally.
2. My office computer got the world's most impressive virus on it, forcing me out of commission for three days solid. My only saving grace was a laptop whose internet browsers closed constantly and on which I was able to only barely plod through the most immediate of my work (to say nothing of my regular blog-reading and -writing).
3. We begin practice at our new rink on Sunday. Needless to say, I'm utterly stoked to fall down on brand-spanking-new wood.
4. I am house-sitting for my brother and Babygirl has managed to nearly impale herself on the corner of a coffee table in her zest to go to bed. Seriously. And then, once we got her in bed, she refused to sleep. So I am in the same room, typing frantically (which I'm sure is not helping the sleep situation) and listening to her sing to herself.

Also, I am exhausted from all kinds of craziness, but I hope to not be quite so irregular in my posts in the future. I'm fibering myself to get the crap out, so to speak, blogularily.

Rolling. Sort of.

So Babygirl has wanted skates of her own for a long time. I'm no fool; 2.5-year-old + wheels = yeeeouch. So instead I knit her a pair of rollerskate socks. These were originally going to be baby booty gifts for a pregnant rollergirl, but they came out a little bigger than I intended, not to mention the fact that Babygirl, once she saw me working on them, kept yelling, "My wollkeets! My wollkeets!"



This is blurry because she was in motion, skating, obviously.

Help Me, Blogfans, You're My Only Hope!

Okay, I would've written something vastly entertaining this morning, but my computer has been invaded by a pop-up monster that I can't get rid of. Pop-up blockers are on, but this is a fucking monster that's been installed in my control panel.

The proof?



See that fucker? "Run Advertised Programs"? I know that's the culprit. I can't uninstall it or delete it. What the fuck?

So. I turn to you, my dear internet friends who might hopefully be smarter than me. How the fuck do I get this off my computer?

Oh, and before you start accusing me of looking at porn on my work computer - while this has certainly been known to happen in the past, it hasn't happened any time recently at all that would account for this. But really, does it matter? I suppose this kind of problem is electronic karma for e-sins past, but I still want it to go away.

Until the Dust Settles

My office is undergoing some seriously needed renovations this week (or is supposed to be - I refuse to believe this is happening until the men in hazmat suits show up to remove asbestos, like they're supposed to). I have been relocated temporarily down the hall to my old boss's office, which is rather nice. Also, it has the added bonus of getting me mostly away from colleagues that I have to deal with on a too-intimate basis, in my opinion.

One habit of the office I inhabit regularly is to gather around our main table and have coffee together for an hour in the mornings. I don't like this. I don't like it because I have nothing to say about last night's episode of "Dancing With the Stars" and frankly, it wastes perfectly good time in which I could be blogging. Seriously, I have never needed to actually watch any reality programming in my entire life because my coworkers recount every. single. episode. of. everything.

So I'm hoping that my move for the next week or so will result in some wildly interesting blog posts for a change.

Just When I Thought I Had Nothing to Blog About

Oh, Jon Bon Jovi, how I feel for you!

I can't tell you how horrible I feel that this is happening to you. Really. It's tragic. I mean, the only thing worse than Mijovi Energy Drink would be Yourjovi Energy Drink or (god forbid) Ourjovi Energy Drink.

And I thought my life had problems. I stand totally corrected.

Goodness of Vacations Can Be Measured in Just How Many Waffle House Stops You Make

For the record, I did 3 in 3 days.

Staycation

So next week, I have a vacation. Babygirl is with my baby daddy and I don't have to go in to work. I don't have to be anywhere except derby practice on Wednesday.

I am utterly lame in that I have nowhere to go and no money to go nowhere with and no one to go nowhere with no money with.

I won't have internet access to update you on my nothingness. My camera is broken, so no pictures of my nothingness.

This is going to be GREATEST. VACATION. EVER.

Actually, I woke up this morning thinking that on Sunday night, I might pile into my car and just take off in any old direction. I might come back. Then again, I might not.

Celebratin'

You know, I never cared too much about the birth of our nation. I mean, don't get me wrong - I'm thrilled to have had the good fortune to be born in America - but I can't say I get all weepy when Kroger starts running commercials that manage to both salute our veterans and announce a special on seedless grapes in the same 20-second spot.

Since being on my own, I've revised my own understanding of what the 4th is to me. Get ready, folks, cause it's wildly frivolous (and you've come to expect that of me, no?).

You see, everyone I know likes to celebrate the 4th of July with outdoorsy things. Picnics, barbeques, parades, swimming pools, state parks. Hell, when I was with my ex, we had an annual tradition of taking a picnic lunch to a local park on the fourth.

But I no longer have to live a lie. I can finally, finally be true to myself.

Because, if I'm being honest with me, I hate:
outdoors
heat
bugs
sweat that doesn't result from illicit encounters
poison ivy
plants that look like poison ivy
rocks
dirt
hiking
picnics
state parks
grass tickling my ankles
worrying about ticks
sun

Oh, yes. I know how bad that list looks.

I will be at a parade briefly tomorrow, but it's only because I'm actually in the damn thing. And my hatred of parades doesn't extend to situations where I get to wear rollerskates and look cute.

But because I'm just me now, I can (after the parade) celebrate the Fourth of July the way Little Baby Jesus intended: inside in my dark, cavelike-apartment in my panties with the A/C cranked, drinking chardonnay from a box, and eating brie without any accompanying crackers.

All The Difference in the World

Having two TVs in my apartment now means that I can watch "Gale Force" in all its Treat-Williams-y glory in my choice of rooms.