I did something a lil bit crazy.
I quit my job.
Ok, so I only quit one of them, but still. I worked at UPS for almost 15 years. Only part-time, but I’ve been there since I was 18. And I quit. I should point out here that I do, in fact, have a perfectly good full-time job, one that I have been at for 9 years, that I am continuing my employment at. So I’m not, you know, jobless.
It’s a bit weird for me, as I’ve spent my entire adult life there. And although I had come to despise both the job and the lack of free time, I haven’t quite wrapped my head around the idea that I don’t HAVE to be there anymore (I say “have to” as though I could just show up when I please and tell ’em I’ll work for the day hah!). As I’m now on the husband’s Big Brown insurance, I’m really losing a paltry sum per month by not working there since I spent most of my time trying to get out early every night anyway.
So I’m free. This is my first free Monday. It was productive, except for learning I have to replace all my brakes (great timing, right?). And I get to spend time with the kitties and feed them at the time they have become accustomed to (the hubs has been at home having had surgery and just returned to work last week) and were so VERY unhappy to shake up last week (while we were both working nights and they had to deal with a 9pm vs. 7pm feeding). So they’re happy. I’m happy. Tiny bit freaked out, but happy. I don’t do change well, and I always take the safe road. Sooooo here’s to my new life as a married woman with one job (still no kids, I swear, the cats are enough).
If I had known how insane it is to change the name you’ve had for 32 years, I may not have changed it. I was going to hyphenate, and while researching the proper way to go about that I learned that it is somewhat difficult, causing issues with forms and credit cards and whatever. I also considered making my maiden name my middle name, but my dad gave me my middle name (it’s Amelia, my dad’s a pilot), so I asked him which of his names he thought was more important. He said that he was traditional and also that he thought having the same name made a relationship stronger — and although my new husband said “it’s up to you,” through constant questioning I finally got him to admit he rather liked the idea, so as I do with most big decisions in life, I said “fuck it” and went all in. Pardon my language, but this is my method for making big decisions. I HATE change. I mean, I REALLY hate it. I second guess everything after it’s done, so I’ve learned that the only way I can do things out of my comfort zone are to say “fuck it.” You know when the light turns yellow, and you’re right at the point where you have to decide immediately whether or not you have to slam on the brakes or gun it? I make my decisions this way. I mull over the options and then if I am not totally sure which way to go, I make a decisive decision and do it.
I have had comments from married people, both male and female, how impressed they were with how quickly I got it all done. This is ONLY because I had to preempt my natural laziness. I knew that if I let some slide, I’d never get around to it.
I was NOT, however, prepared for the identity crisis that the name change incurred. Not that I regret changing it, despite my aversion to tradition, I think my dad was correct. It makes you more of a family. But again with the aversion to change…I feel slightly lost. I am currently trying to convince people to call me by my maiden name as a nickname. Oddly enough, I have very little ties to my first name other than that my mom picked it out. But there are SO many of me. We have like, 4 Sarahs at my work alone.
I also feel like it is a LOT of BS that the woman has to give up HER last name and get CHARGED for it. New license. New registration. And my bank TRIED to charge me for my new card until I called them and ripped them a new asshole.
So I’m mostly changed everywhere, except for my bazillion online accounts. And I know this probably doesn’t matter in the least, but the cats are under my maiden name at the vet…do I have to change that too? Will THEY have an identity crisis? Probably not, since neither started life with the names that we gave them and for that matter, as I’ve written about in a previous post, they could be called any abomination of their name at any given time.
I swear, I’m not going to make this blog into a “blah blah married life” thing, because really, not much has changed. Except for my name. And various legal things.
Which is where I currently am. Nothing horrible, the boyfriend just had to get a tiny bit of spinal surgery done. Amazing what they can do these days. Just clip out the bad ol’ disc and pop in an artificial one! No worries.
There is, however, a lot of waiting. While this hospital seems to have everything operating like a well-oiled machine, there is still, nonetheless, a lot of waiting. Arrive 3 hours before surgery. 1 hour with anesthesiologist. 1.5 hours of actual surgery. 1.5 hours of recovery from anesthesia. This is where I’m at now. Waiting for him to be brought up to his room. So much better than the surgery waiting room, which is pretty small and REALLY full of people. Especially when there is an entire Italian family waiting for one particular patient.
I prefer to wait alone. I’m not good at waiting. I’m impatient. I was never actually worried, because I do have a rather large amount of faith in modern medicine, plus I did an awful lot of research so I knew exactly what the risks were and the benefits and the procedure, all that junk. Granted, it’s easy for me to say since no one was cutting ME up, but the person being cut happens to be someone I love very much and would prefer to keep in one piece.
No, I’m just antsy. Give me a couch and a book and I’ll sit there all day, but give me the same book with an uncomfortable chair and tell me to read while I wait for something and it’s an entirely different story. So while everyone and their mother (literally) offered to keep me company, I declined. Antsy and impatient are much better alone.
But since this blog is about cats, I should probably tie that in somehow. Maybe if I could bring the kitties to entertain me while I wait. A cat-petting waiting room. Probably not very sanitary. I feel sanitary is really at the top of the list at a hospital. And as far as hospitals go, this one is pretty decent. Even got a black bean burger for lunch. But I’m probably going to have blood clots in my legs from sitting all day, because although they put some of those compression socks on the boyfriend to avoid blood clots, they do NOT pass those out to the waiters.
Pro tip of the day: bring your own. If there is ever a next time, I will know to do that. But I’ll still leave the furry sons at home. No smuggling.
I’ve been awfully spotty with my blogging as of late, but tonight I find myself bedridden with a thrown-out back (this is a first for me, and it is not fun, and I don’t like it) so I figure I may as well.
And despite my spotty blogging record, I’m choosing to write a post not about cats, but about my favorite band. I have lots of whacked out theories about life, and while some of them are wishful thinking and pure speculation, there’s one that’s held true. Never trust a person who doesn’t have a favorite band. I have no actual evidence to back this up. I have, however, found that the people I know who have favorite bands (or artists, whatever) end up being people I like and remain friends with. Perhaps this is a loyalty thing. Whatever it is, it is a theory that works for me. And while my 2nd favorite cycles around a large mix of eclectic types of music (namely 2 Chainz, Lady Gaga, Bloodhound Gang and Blood for Blood… imagine THAT concert), my #1 has been around since the ripe old age of 14, when my 8th grade boyfriend (I think we “went out” for a whole week) lent me a cassette tape. That band has been and forever will be the illustrious Gwar. Yes, those dudes in the costumes. Back then I was finding myself still, I started 8th grade into alternative and ended as a punk rocker, which at heart I suppose I’ll always be. But I’ve never strayed from Gwar. Through everything, they’ve been my go-to. When I got my first car, I plastered it with Gwar stickers. And I’ll always remember how ecstatic I was to see them the first time. And while I’ve seen them countless times since, I skipped quite a few, too. Why? Because I’ll catch the next one. Because I had to work. Because I was tired.
I regret those missed ones now, because I can’t catch the next one. The lead singer, Dave Brockie (better known as Oderus Urungus), died. There’s no Gwar without him. You can’t find a karaoke singer to replace his madness like the Asian Steve Perry in Journey. And I’ve found myself devastated. My logic side feels silly for being so upset. But I am. I lost part of my teenage self. The one I found every time I saw them live, even now as an old lady (the last two times I ended up giving myself whiplash from the headbanging, this didn’t happen when I was younger). That constant in my life is gone.
The 3rd time I saw them, none of my friends wanted to go so I went myself. I was sitting outside when I saw Dave Brockie walking around, and no one else recognized him out of costume. I remember going up to him and talking to him, and he was just cool as shit. He didn’t get creepy and hit on me like a lot of douchebags in bands do when they talk to girls, or talk down to me like some stupid starstruck kid, he just talked to me like I was a fan and friend. I will never in my life forget that. It’s not like I could like the band any more than I already did, but it meant a lot to me. Yeah, he’s not uber famous. I didn’t have some amazing, rare encounter. But I think the affirmation that I liked the people behind the band I was such a fan of meant more.
So I’m not apologizing for being a grown adult and crying over the death of someone I barely knew. I’m crying over the loss of what really is a legend. There’s nothing in the world like Gwar and there never will be again. Dave Brockie was a fucking genius. He was hilarious. He was offensive. He never failed me, except for two really really bad albums (but I still know them note for note). Gwar was more than just a band, they were ART. Beautiful, offensive, bloody art. So Oderus, I will miss you horribly. And in your memory, I will remember to offend the living shit out of everyone I possibly can, because above all, you truly taught me the meaning of “fuck em if they can’t take a joke.” So fuck ’em.
Apparently I’ve either gotten way busier or way less interesting in blogging in the past year. Could be a healthy combination of both.
I would also like to note that my hangovers are continuing on their decline as I age. Is that wisdom or just your body reminding you that you can’t party like you used to?
Either way, I had a lovely birthday weekend, except for the hours of Saturday that I slept off the vile poisoning of the night before. The cats were mercifully silent and napped along with me. For this, I give them my heart.
My mom has a bookstore at a flea market. She’s been building her business there from a few tables in a stall to a full-out, serious booklover paradise. I spent a lot of time there, as I was not to be trusted on my own (at least until teenage years, which, ironically, should have been the least trusted) and I was free labor.
I don’t go out there anymore as much as I should, but I did meet up with some friends out there today.
Flea markets are magical.
I didn’t buy anything except for a few beers and a pair of men’s underwear that are far better utilized as around-the-house booty shorts (they have MEN written on the waistband in case there’s any confusion). We had a lovely time in the most random “dollar store” ever, featuring a vast array of items including stress reliever balls shaped like boobs. I suppose there’s a market for that if you don’t have your own. Personally, I’ve never used my own that way, but maybe I’m missing out.
Aside from the girl time and fulfilling the real reasons we were there (to get plants for my friend, visiting my dear mother and checking out/giving the DIRTIEST LOOKS EVER to her competition), I made some observations based on the merchandise offered as well.
- People who go to the flea market like cats. The majority of cat items were knick-knacky figurines, but there were also offerings of t-shirts and car magnets with horribly distorted illustrations.
- Cat people only like knick-knacky figurines, cat t-shirts and car magnets with horribly distorted illustrations but don’t need any actual products for their cat. Although there were a bazillion places with dog and bird (really? birds?) supplies, there was only one place with dubious-looking Temptations cat treats.
- People who go to the flea market like beer. This includes me. Beer made the heat bearable. The majority of the 21+ population walking around had a beer in hand. Sorry to my friends who do not normally imbibe such a pedestrian beer as Bud Light, but that’s like my heaven. Good sports, you girls are!
- Flea market vendors are too pushy. This does not include my mother, oddly enough. No sir, I do not want to buy your fake Versace necklace that’s “discounted” 85% down to $25. I only pointed it out to my friends to laugh about. And that thing I said about it being too big for my tastes? That was supposed to be a nice way of me saying “I’d never buy that” – not an opening for you to offer up a smaller version.
- You will find things you didn’t know you needed, both at prices that are laughably large (the WORST drawing of a Bucs’ helmet I’ve ever seen, signed by every member of one of the worst Bucs teams ever to play…not sure of the year but I know it was bad because I spotted Vinny Testeverde’s autograph on it…for $500) and so cheap you’d be a FOOL not to buy them.
I made some other observations, but they’re probably pretty rude. Anyway, I had a good time plus I remembered how much I love the flea market and although I didn’t bring my mom any business, I felt supportive and good-daughtery, and what’s better than that?
Despite taking my fair share of dance classes as a child, I don’t claim to be an amazing dancer (but this girl’s got RHYTHM. Srsly.)
I like to pretend I can dance, anyway. I even have real ballet slippers for when I feel like REALLY faking it. Around the house. I’ve always wanted to take pole dancing classes. Despite the stigma attached to stripping, I actually find it to be an entrancing form of dance.
And then there’s the fun dancing. I adore plopping one of the kitties in my lap, taking his arms and sing the “Bird bird bird, bird is the word” song and making them dance. Torture? Maybe. Although the look on their faces is usually one of “I’m going to puke on your shoes later,” I know they secretly enjoy it. Look at this cat dance. Cat. I’m a kitty cat. And I dance dance dance and I dance dance dance. See? Love it.
I DO have a favorite playlist of dance songs, of which I will share some in hopes it will entice someone to shake their booty.
- The Romantics – What I Like About You
- Justin Timberlake – Suit and Tie
- Robin Thicke – Blurred Lines
- Tyga – Do My Dance (this one is way dirty, so obviously that makes me like it more)
- Ice Cube – You Can Do It
- The Ting Tings – Shut Up and Let Me Go
- Orishas – Orishas Llego (Cuban rap, but it’s so smooth! I like to pretend I know how to samba. Rumba?)
In conclusion, I urge everyone to turn up the volume on whatever it is you listen to and get down like you’re Jennifer Beals. Who cares who’s watching?
I try not to watch a lot of TV. TV usually doesn’t capture my attention enough, and I always feel like I should be doing other things while watching it. Because of that, I don’t get into that many shows enough to keep watching them, or rather DVR them and watch them when I have time, which granted, isn’t that often. Summer always brings a bit of sadness, since it means my fave primetime shows aren’t on. Which really, all I can think of is Grey’s Anatomy at the moment. All I have now are Dance Moms, So You Think You Can Dance and Deadliest Catch are on my current watch list. While I enjoy all of these, there’s always a tinge of shame that comes with watching reality TV. I justify this by the fact that dancing is really an art form (one that you can’t fake and that takes incredibly hard work to be good at) and that crab fishing is the deadliest job in the world and therefore watching the show is a form of respect for hard working fishermen.
Where the true danger lies is in Netflix. Where you can watch all the shows that everyone talks about but you’ve never watched because they’re too far along before you’ve heard about them so think it’s not worth starting are available from the beginning.
And guess what happens then.
You spend your whole weekend pushing the cats aside and pushing back chores while you say “ok, just one more episode.”
Thanks, Breaking Bad. I accomplished nothing. And we’re only at the beginning of the 3rd season.
Or maybe I do, but I’m too lazy to. I’ve been stretching my brain a lot at work lately. Most recently learning about SEO and keywords and overall expanding my marketing knowledge. So I think MAYBE all my creativity is used up?
It’s also overly hot out. I have a theory that this is melting my brain. I’ve been late for work (this is SO unlike me, I am a stickler for being on time – but only for work, I’m late to everything else), I’ve been unable to form simple sentences at times and even worse, I’ve been in no mood to play with the kitties. I think they’re feeling neglected.
They may also be feeling neglected because I’ve been going to the gym on a mostly regularly basis lately, which means that I’m gone from 6am until (depending on how busy Big Brown is) 8pm-ish. While the boyfriend stops in between jobs, there’s obviously nothing like mommy love. I’m still a little mad at them (and blame them for my being late for work due to sleep deprivation) for not allowing me to sleep in on the weekends, my only time to sleep in, but they’ve been somewhat cute so I try to make the effort to at least pet them equally.
Yup. Here comes the brain mushing. I just ran out of things to say. Sigh.
Why? Because Mommy didn’t get one.
Happy Father’s Day to all of you dads out there. You got the easy role, though, so every day is really your day. No childbirth, no mommy instinct, no periods, no menopause. Oh, and you just look more dapper as you age but we women look more haggard. I guess I’m a little biased. I may not have given birth to the furballs but it’s clear who’s responsible for them.
To my own father, thanks for putting up with my teenage crap. But look how sane I turned out? With a few exceptions, of course. But overall, not too bad. Thanks especially for being my teenage disciplinarian. I can now appreciate that I had someone to be scared of, but my friend now that I’m an adult. I love you bunches.
By the way, would you like some cats?