Acme Ipod Repair

I should get a job at the Apple "Genius" bar.

My 80 gig Ipod was having seizures months and months ago and since it would have cost, you know, money to get it fixed, I put it away.

It's been riding around in my purse for months, vying for my attention with unwrapped pieces of Juicy Fruit and clean but tattered tissues. (The kind that, when your friend needs a Kleenex and you produce one from your purse, she will look at you skeptically and surreptitiously examine it for old boogers before daring to touch it to her oh so delicate proboscis.)

Never throw away those unwrapped pieces of gum. I live in a fantasy world where one day some horrible event will take place right in front of me and Richard Dean Anderson will appear and begin to frantically search his pockets for the one thing that will save the day. Juicy Fruit gum. (It will have to be Juicy Fruit do to some chemical reaction that would occur if Double Mint was used. That's why the bitch standing next to me waving her pack of Double Mint under his nose gets TOTALLY IGNORED.) One day I will prevent another 9/11, Murrah Federal Building, Texas chain saw massacre with a stick of Juicy Fruit and Richard Dean Anderson. This is the reason that I change my underwear everyday.

It can be really draining to live in my world.

Side note: How do sticks of gum become undressed in a purse? Is there some sort of faction of ultra liberal sticks of gum that feel they need to go "natural" before they die?

Yes...yes...I was going somewhere with all this before I saw that deer and hit that tree...my Ipod! I pulled it out last night, charged it up, and was able to actually put things on it AS GOD INTENDED.

The computer didn't suddenly vomit, I Tunes didn't suddenly freeze, and that whole issue with the green smoke emanating from the headphone jack? Gone!

I don't think I'm a mere Genius...I think I'm a soooooooooper Genius.

This is where I realize I'm holding the lit stick of TNT, right?

Five Dollah, No Hollah

Finding money squirreled away in my purse makes me giggle. Not gonna lie.

I don't squirrel it away on purpose, it's usually just change that gets thrown into my purse after a transaction and I'm too lazy to put it in my wallet.

I found FIVE DOLLARS today!

Yeah, that's like a large percentage of my grocery money for two weeks.

And even better, I was sitting out front of the gas station, getting ready to run in for a gallon of milk.

(I'm fighting the urge to toss my cookies right now and I made the conscious decision to buy 'gas station milk' as opposed to 'grocery store milk'. Yes, I'm spending more but I HAD FIVE GOD DAMN DOLLARS! It was burning a hole in my pocket man! And IF, mind you, IF I found myself tossing my cookies in public, I certainly didn't want to do it in a place that I frequented.)

So amidst the nausea and the cold sweats and the body shakes that come with the pain that I'm having in my guts, I started to giggle out loud.

And then I started to get out of the car.

And then I started firing off one of my favorite movie quotes...or a version thereof...

"I'm gonna get me a FIVE DOLLAH MILKSHAKE!"

And then I looked at the truck that was parked RIGHT next to my car. With the window down. And the NRA sticker. And possibly a white sheet crumpled up in the bed.

The dude looked alarmed. As if I were CRAZY or something.

The dude did not abide. (ooops. That's another movie.)

I flashed him my most brilliant smile and said in my best' crazy cat woman from the hood' voice: "Don't worry brothah! I ain't crazy!"

Dear God in heaven, I have an appointment at the Community Health Center tomorrow for my guts. I think I just might be insane by then.

Make A Run For The Bathroom

Dear Taco Bell,

I realize we’ve had issues in the past.

I also realize I must be suffering from either self esteem issues or perhaps chronic masochism.

This can be the only explanation for why I continue to seek you out. I am a sailor lost at sea, swimming for a distant lighthouse and when I finally haul my body up onto the beach and gaze upon your solitary beauty I suddenly have the horrifying realization that I have less than .0289 seconds to get to the nearest restroom.

I know this about you. You bring out the worst in me.

Yet, while driving around Green Bay and hesitant to go further and get lost, I suggested we just eat there.

Had I been alone, I would have been more adventurous. I would have tried the Mongolian BBQ across the street. If I’ve learned one thing from travelling it’s this: If you’re going to risk the attack of bowel loosening demons, you might as well do it eating something that you can’t get ten minutes from your home.

It’s even better if you can try something that gives you a really good story, as well as gastric upset.

Like the time I was working in Sumatra and I was offered BBQ’d mystery meat on a stick.

I was young. That’s all I’m going to say. Ignorance can be educated but stupidity is steadfastly recalcitrant. I have never, since that time, eaten mystery meat on a stick, especially on the outskirts of the jungle. All I can say is that monkey does not taste like chicken. Monkey tastes like monkey.

Perhaps this is why I’m not a big fan of the food at the MN State Fair? I can guarantee you, somewhere under all that damn deep fried batter is Curious George, not feeling so curious after all.

But the effects of monkey on a stick might be expected to be, how shall I phrase it? Unfortunate? But a burrito from your establishment? Eaten while on the road? In a car? In a hot car? In a hot, small car? Should that really make me, fifteen minutes upon completion, wish that my life were over and that Satan could come and take my soul to the fires of hell so long as the gastric agony would just STOP?

Perhaps it’s just me. I can remember a little tea shop in Osaka, Japan that I was walking by when a woman I took to be the owner, motioned me in. Speaking no Japanese, I didn’t want to offend her as she started to make me a cup of tea with ritualized beauty. I took the proffered cup, bowed graciously, and proceeded to drink the slightly musty tasting concoction.

Within ten or fifteen minutes, I learned the sheer horror of being a tourist in a foreign country where there was not a hope in the world of finding a sign in English that read “American tea drinkers and shit takers, please use this bathroom” with a corresponding red arrow approximately three stories tall, pointing to a little bamboo outhouse.

See? I’m not a novice here.

So, perhaps it’s just me, or perhaps, just perhaps, you might occasionally WASH YOUR DAMN HANDS.

New Job: Marketing Director

For some reason, this photo humored me this morning when I found it on my friend's facebook page.

Remember those commercials for Disney World?

"You've just won the big game, now what are you going to do?"

This was taken at the Duluth Huskies game, the night of the sentencing.

Unfortunately, none of the beer mugs were mine.

But it is kind of funny.

"Your future ex-husband is about to be another man's wife...what are you going to do now?"

"Why, I'm going to get snot slinging drunk at a Duluth Huskies game!"

I think I will call the Huskies with this potential marketing campaign. I'm sure they will be thrilled!

Identity Crisis

I've only had one person come up to me in public and ask "Do you blog? You look familiar."

So, yesterday when a woman approached me and asked "Are you Debbie?" I wasn't sure if she was talking to me or my friends. I must have crinkled up my face and given here my best "Have you taken your medications today?" look.

"Ummmm, no..." I replied.

And then she walked away and suddenly I looked at my friend and she looked at me and I went "DUH!" and I chased this poor woman down. Just like a crazed wombat.

Sorry about that!

I have one legal name, one soon-to-be-legal name and one pseudonym.

I don't know who the hell I am anymore.

But yes, I am Debbie. If you see me on the street, say hello. And be prepared to walk away after the encounter, shaking your head and thinking "She's coping awfully well for being mentally challenged."

Just Another Day On The Job

It sucks to be Hagrid.

You know, the Keeper of the Keys?

Especially when you lock those keys in your office.

Never let it be said that I'm not resourceful though. There are just days when you are forced to go into the office next to yours with a step ladder and ask nicely, "Do you mind if I put this ladder on your desk so that I might scale the wall over to my office?"

I think I saw something like this on Mission Impossible, only there was the added complication of laser beams or something. Aside from the laser beams, it was JUST LIKE THAT.

I ended up scaling the wall and sitting on top of my file cabinets as my co-worker handed the ladder over the wall so I could get down.

And then I dropped the ladder.

Now, the average file cabinet is only what, five feet tall? But put that in the context of having to jump down, miss the ladder that is now lying useless on the floor, and not trip and fall headfirst into the desk. Since I sit on a big blue ball instead of using a chair, I also pictured hitting the ball and careening back over the wall again and having to start all over. (Too many roadrunner cartoons as a kid.)

There was also the issue of maintaining my dignity in an office setting.

(Yeah, I THOUGHT that would make you shoot milk out of your nose...Never had it, never will.)

I did manage to jump down and do a cat like landing without any horrifying results.

I have now vowed NOT to wear pants without pockets to work, EVER AGAIN.

Just another skill to add to the resume...interoffice base jumping.

Fuck You Butter

Never tell me I can't do something.

And never make fun of my domestic skills.

Since I got home from work I've been making a homemade cake for our work party tomorrow and I've made two loaves of handmade (note-NO BREAD MAKER) bread.

And when a friend at work laughed at my Mad Martha plans and asked if I was going to churn my own butter tonight, I took it as a personal challenge.

Tomorrow I will bring into work fresh home baked bread, a baked from scratch chocolate black out cake (complete with homemade pudding for frosting) and a jar of hand churned butter.



(My Corgis LOVE watching cooking shows on tv and a live demonstration can keep them enthralled for hours)


Or as I'm calling it, "Fuck You Butter".

You should have seen it when a co-worker challenged me to brain surgery back when I worked on the ambulance...

Grab Your Noir Hats

A friend of mine came up with a great little diversion for me. Occasionally, when the barking dogs in my head begin to bite, I'll journal things in a, you know, real journal. Things that I could never write here. Things that, if written and published, would have SOMEONE knocking on my door.

But this idea of a diversion came up when I began to discuss the many acts of violence that I had fantasized about. Professor Peach, in the courtroom, with an AK-47, that sort of thing. All in delightfully bad taste. All in my fantasy world.

She suggested I journal a story. Entirely fiction, mind you. My own personal OJ story of "If I did it".

So here is where ya'll come in. This will be a Noir thriller. Entirely scribbled in my journal in purple crayon. It will be about Zelda, a 6'2 suicide blonde (dyed by her own hand). She's been done wrong in the worst sort of way and as we find her, she's caressing a handgun like a long lost lover.

Give me your best Noir elements...Zelda's getting impatient.

GO!

Quality Control

Dear Pakastani Child That Made My New Winter Coat:

Hi There! Yes, I am the white, middle America type woman that purchased the coat you made. I really love it, no seriously, really. I'm going for a total Dennis Weaver McCloud look.















I think it accentuates my new glasses and smaller ass and believe me, what I say can totally bring the fashion world to a screeching halt. Yes, I am THAT powerful.

That being said, I must bring up this one concern.
What is it with you people and buttons these days?

I know your hands are tiny. I know the building that you are working in is probably an unheated cinderblock affair. I know you probably are a kindergarten drop out because your parents needed you to get off your lazy ass and EARN YOUR KEEP. After all, it ain't sunshine and fairy dust putting food into the mouths of your ten brothers and sisters (although we all know how expendible those sisters probably are).

But SHIT! The buttons on my stylin' Dennis Weaver coat are hanging by a thread as were the buttons on the last coat I bought. I also just spent a LABORIOUS afternoon sewing buttons on my husband's shirt since they were also hanging by a tear soaked thread.

I am seriously thinking about finding you. Have you no concept of quality control? Doesn't that scary man with the cat o nine tails standing over you inspire you to SEW THOSE FUCKIN BUTTONS ON A LITTLE TIGHTER???

I don't need this frustration my little friend. Don't you realize how much stress I'm under right now? I'm trying to pay my house payment. I'm trying to pay my heating. I'm looking at an unemployed spouse at the end of the month. I don't have health care. The windows in my house are older than I am and twice as cold and drafty. I can't afford a new coat right now but I needed one since my old coat was the size of a circus tent and now I discover, MY FUCKING BUTTONS ARE LOOSE.

I think you need to take a serious look at your job quality and think about your motivations for being where you are. Perhaps it's time to move on? Perhaps you need to consider your CUSTOMER for a change.

Thank you.

A Little To Close To Reality For Me

Don't you sometimes feel like you work with this woman?