Take a Bite of This

I am having a truly bad day. I have already eaten a bunch of cookies and cried twice- but the day is still bad. Nothing gets my mind off misery quite the way chatting with you does, so I come bearing another story of humiliation. Hope it cheers us both.

I have already confessed to you that I have become freakishly enamored with True Blood. That is shameful enough for me to confess. Regardless of what you have heard, this is a straight-up soap opera, with vampires. So I watch a soap. Easy enough to swallow, but I don’t just watch it- I pretty much love it. Oh, who am I kidding- I am marinated in the magical world of vampires. I like True Blood like Whitney likes crack- we both know it’s whack, but we cannot stop.

So I watched all of Season 1, courtesy of Netflix. Yes, I had to upgrade my membership type so I could get more, more, more episodes without waiting. But an extra $5 a month was a price I was willing to pay to spend more time in Bon Temps. Then season 1 was over. I was at the height of vampire fever- and I needed a fix. So I started reading the books upon which the series was based. I live in a small town, and the librarians know me by name. Overcome with book snobbery, I decided to buy the books online, lest anyone see me with them. (yes, I do realize I am extremely ridiculous).

So I read the first one, and felt it was pretty awful, but I bought the 7 pack, so I read the next one. I guess it is like when you start doing anything bad- the first time you do it, it’s fairly awful (remember your first cigarette, or first belt of hard liquor), but then it grows on you- and the next thing you know, you are a pack a day smoker, or a booze hound, a crack head- or a closet vampire book reader. I read all of them. Well, devoured them. Shaming myself each time I picked up the books and every time I saw them in the house. Then they were gone. So there I was, no more season 1, and no more vampire books, but itchy for Bon temps. Goodness! I had the vampire DTs.

But what about Season 2, you say? Ah, yes, the elusive season two. We do not have cable. Paying to watch tv? Never! But I needed more True Blood. How was I going to get it? I started calling local hotels to see if they had HBO On Demand. My plan was to check into the hotel for a weekend, have a vampire marathon, and get the whole thing out of my system. But my plan was foiled when every hotel I called did not have HBO On Demand. What to do?

You know what I did. I have already spent money to upgrade my Netflix, purchased (9) vampire novels and tried to will vampires into my dreams (it didn’t work). I finally caved- I PAY for tv now. I simply could not wait to make friends with someone who had HBO On Demand much less consider waiting until the season came out on DVD. I needed my fix. And sadly, it came in the form of a middle aged man in a neon-orange vest hooking up cable.

Even from a junkie’s viewpoint, I know that Season 2 was not that good. And as soon as I watched my final episode of True Blood On Demand- what came in the mail? A bootlegged season twovVampire-gram from the Great White North! I think I love my friends ever more than I love vampires. And that is pretty darn much!

This post is dumb. And jiggly.

I know I have not been around for some time. In my defense, I should not be here now. I have papers to grade, kids to give “side-eye” to, grad school work to do, and this candy is not just going to it itself. In short, I am busy, but you might now believe this, I think about you guys every day and wonder how you are doing. I worry about my friend in Florida and wonder if he is in some legal trouble. I hear a song about hot sauce and I think of my Louisiana ladies. I feel the cold air creeping in through the cracks around the windows and wonder how my Canadian pal is doing- and if the needed weather-stripping is taking place in the Twin Cities and Chicago. I see a gorgeous skein of yarn and think of one Philly girl then hear a WASPy shiksa use Yiddish and think of the other. And don’t even ask me when I think of when I see lemmings wearing Aretha Franklin’s inauguration hat. You may be like my mom, not thinking the imaginary conversations I have with you count, but you are on my mind.

You know only two things bring my back to the blog: bitching and embarrassment. Good news, you again will be able to feel superior to this monkey again. I have been chock-ful of the cringe lately. From sticking my foot in my mouth, to hosting neighbors while wearing less than enough clothes, it’s all here in Monkeyville!

I am used to a certain level of constant embarrassment. I have had whole conversations with people with broccoli in my hair, have spilled on myself every place I have been ever been with every kind of material I have ever come into contact with, I have fallen down, fallen up and fallen on top of, pretty much everything. I am a goof. If I was not at ease with that, I would have literally perished from embarrassment ages ago. My uber-dorky ways have forced me to have a good sense of humor about myself and therefore allowed me to brush stuff off and get on with it. So, in my estimation, things have to be really embarrassing to shame me. Behold, exhibit A:

I work at home. Because of that, to say my workday dress is “causal” is an incredible overstatement. Oh, it may have started as casual wear when, years ago, I first started working at home, but it has gradually devolved from lounge wear, to pajamas and now a mix between homeless-wear and lost-and-found bin couture. Torn, stained or ill-fitting? No longer call to be discarded, this is the new work uniform. That hot look, plus a pony tails and, heaven forgive me, Crocs are my weekday uniform. Tragic I know. But actually, it is a bit worse than that. You see, there is nothing in the world I hate more than wearing a bra. Well, I hate famine, pestilence, widespread poverty and any Gosselin news more than I hate bras, but bras are certainly up there. Since I am home all day, and already look like I live in a dumpster, I keep it extra class and go bra-free. Which would probably be fine, except I desperately need to wear a bra for every single reason you can imagine I should.

Mr. Monkey is fine with my bra-free lifestyle and is no longer taken aback when he sees a bra next to my shoes right inside the door. So, why am I confessing all of this to you? I just have to get this off my chest (horrible pun, but it stays), I was exposed as a bra-less wonder to my neighbors. And I am still mortified about it.

Last evening I was watching Super Nanny and feeling superior because I do not have children (don’t judge- oh, I take that back, judge away) and I heard a knock on the patio door. Thinking it was Mr. Monkey and that there was a garage door problem, I went to answer the door. The door in my back yard. That you have to access by opening a gate and going onto my deck. Surprise, it was my neighbor. The first thing I said, because I keep it classy was “ you can come in, but I am not wearing a bra.” As a woman in her 50s, she’s probably seen worse, so I was relatively unphased, and I thought this visit would last but a moment. As she entered the house, there was knocking on the front door. Her husband and her adult daughter were on the front porch. To make a long, boring story short and boring- the next thing you know, the whole family is in my house, I am opening wine bottles and looking through my cupboards for snack to offer my guests while wearing pedal pusher length pj pants, two t-shirts, footies, Crocs and nothing to strap anything down. I was flying free. And dying on the inside.

There is not moral to this story. I am not wearing a bra as I type this, so I have not been shamed into action, just thinking of more ways to avoid people thinking we are home, or getting the neighbors to think we are too scary or weird to come over. I think I made strides in this direction yesterday.

If I have time, I may soon share with you a time I was far too honest with someone, and the reading that I have been doing that has me soaking in shame and buying books on the internet, lest I be seen in public. Spoiler- it’s not porn!
Hope everyone is well!

Hells Bells, it's Bats!

Where have I been? What have I been doing? None of that is even remotely interesting. Here is a little something that might be, or might not, you know how we roll around here:

It was Monday night and I was lying in bed, reading “The Secret History.” The light in the room was dim; my husband was beside me, breathing the slow, deep breathes of the first throes of sleep. The long weekend was restful and cozy and I was contently snuggled into the covers with one foot here and the other foot in the New England winter of the novel. Then I heard it. A light flutter. I thought it was a very small animal running across the roof of the house. Maybe a mouse? I sighed and shifted, knowing that creeping critters trying to get in the house is just part of the package when you live in the woods. I heard the flutter again and worked at concentrating more deeply in the book.

But then I saw something. I screamed, my default response, and quickly put on my glasses. My husband scowled, clearly unhappy to be awakened. Then he saw it too. I had hoped it was perhaps the world’s largest moth? No, way too big to be a moth. A bird? Nope, no feather and no tweeting. A bat! A bat was flying around our bedroom! Being cool under pressure, like I am, I crouched between the bed and bedside table with a sheet over my head, screaming. This seemed to have the opposite effect that I desired- the bat came at me. In a flurry of screams and flailing limbs, we managed to get the bat outside of the bedroom and slammed the door.

While I was busy packing the space between the door and floor with anything I could find, lest the bat come back in, DH began dressing, sensibly thinking bats are best battled fully-clothed. As we heard the bat repeatedly run into the bedroom door to try to regain entry, I recalled that bats carry rabies and I got to a new level of hysterical. (Please be sure to invite me to your next crisis- I am cool as a cucumber…). I remembered the last time I had been locked in a room, terrified of an animal- at the scary dog house! Not only did the dog torment me, but in the early days of my stay there, a bird was loose in the house. Once I realized that sitting on their front porch while crying was not going to lure the bird outside, I called my dad and asked him what to do. He told me to wait until the bird landed, throw a towel over the bird, then scoop it up and throw the bird and the towel out the door. This is some of the only practical advice I have ever received from my dad. It worked for a bird, maybe it would work for a bat?

We had no other plan, so we decided to go for it. We stood before the bedroom door, both of us carrying towels, me with a clothes basket that I was going to use as shield. My husband opened the door a crack- and saw nothing. We decided to go forth and evict the bat. I think I am using “we” a bit liberally. It was more like he searched the upstairs and I stood in the doorway and occasionally shrieked. Finally, we spotted him. He was in the living room. We went down the steps together, my husband racing to remove the screen from the living room window, while I waved a towel around and screamed. (helpful, I know). Several times the bat almost made it out the window. By this time I had turned on every light in the living room and was wearing the basket on my head, alternating between screaming and manic laughter. The bat seemed to be swooping at me, so I crouched on the floor, basket on my head shouting “get away from me.” I am not sure if bats are fluent in English, but this technique was not effective.

Eventually, we ushered the bat out the window. I bravely moved the curtains around to be sure he really left. He did. We laughed and joked about what had just occurred and noted it was well after midnight. As we crawled back into bed, my husband got out of bed and shut the bedroom door, something we never do. Just to be sure. Now I am worried. Where did he come from? Will he be back? And if he does come back, pleasepleaseplease, do not let me be home alone when that happens…..

What? I still have a blog?

I know I have been remiss this summer. I have been all abuzz with school stuff in the past few weeks. That, coupled with the fact that nothing worth mentioning is happening (besides my insanely intense new love of True Blood) means I’ve got no fodder for you. I know- it is hard for me to believe I have not recently fallen into a hole, ripped my pants or accidently flashed someone as well. I best get back on my game.

The only thing on my mind, with the exception of all things Bon Temps, is school. This year should be good, but scary. I am launching a new program in my school and there are about one million ways for me to mess it up- which makes me both excited, and a bit nervous. And because my life is only fun when it is stretched to the limit, I am also including earning an additional certification. Why? Because I love student loans! Well that, and earning additional grad credits is the only way for me to get a raise. I decided since I have to keep going to school, it may as well be meaningful. Oh, and I love student loans- did I mention that?

There is nothing else newsy to report. But, perhaps you can help me. I was seduced into watching True Blood. Since I do not have cable, I have seen the first season on dvd. I believe I may die if I do not get to start watching season two, but it is not out on dvd yet. Does anyone know how I can see these episodes without befriending someone who has HBO on demand? Or, you know, waiting for them to come out….. because I have vampire fever. And the only cure is more True Blood.

More Self-Indulgent Tripe

I’d hit “Mark all as Read” now and wait for a post when I recount deeply embarrassing public nudity.

What? You’re still here? Well, then on with the show.

Arg! I cannot sleep again. This never happens to me. I am a sleep pro. If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a Snoozeasaurus. I am the proud owner of a magical bed that is draped in magic sheets. I should be in the middle of my third dream by now, and yet, here I am.

Nothing newsy is happening here, with the exception of Facebook crushing my spirit. I am not sure if I think my life is too wonderful and I don’t deserve it, or if I just have a masochistic streak, but I cannot stay off FB. And FB, with a few exceptions, has been like being forced to go to a high school reunion where no liquor is served. (Does such a thing even exist?)

I cannot even begin to count the way in which fun tool has made me feel inadequate- but since I’ve got nothing but time, here goes:

My profession. On a normal day, I feel pretty good about begin a teacher. On a FB day, I am, while not ashamed, not spilling over with pride. It seems many of my former classmates chose professions much more lucrative and respected. I feel like a slacker.

My location. I still live within in hour of where we grew up. Seems like everyone else got the hell out of Dodge.

My memories. Apparently it has taken 20 years for my psyche to totally bury a number of embarrassing and regrettable moments. To recall those memories, all it takes is a single click on “accept friend request.” Why must these people have such long and detailed memories? I’d rather forget a host of jackassery I was either involved in, or led. Them, not so much.

All of this is messing with my Monkey mojo- yet I refuse to stay off that site. Are you caught in a love/hate/cannot look away relationship with FB? For me, FB is like the bad boyfriend who treats you bad, but it only makes you want him more. I think I need a new obsession.

Late night thoughts

I cannot sleep. During my “devil may care” week of rock solid relaxation, I managed to mess up my sleep cycle. Well, that, and if you are so lazy the only people who are less active than you are those in a coma, you find that you just don’t need as much sleep.

After a few hours of flopping around like a fish out of water, I decided to get up and amuse myself until I am ready to try again. Fortunately, I am a very boring writer, so I have yawned nearly non-stop through this piece. Consider the Naughty Monkey next time you need to catch some zs, but don’t want to take a sleep aid. (I may have stumbled on my niche- alpaca farm, here I come)

When wrestling with sleep, I find my mind drifts everywhere. I touch on things I have to do, things that I should consider, my plan for exit incase of a home invasion (I always end up dead I n these scenarios), etc. While I flirt with all of these ideas, the thoughts that occupy me the most are all of the things I have done wrong. Times when I have said the wrong thing, or failed to say something when I should have, times when I acted in a way that does not reflect the person I am. Sadly, there is no shortage of items in this catalog, and list goes, way, way back. For me, it is always in the small hours that these thoughts find me. Rather than dwell on the reasons I am a bad person, I have decided to list some of my life rules based on my experiences thus far. Do you have a rule I omitted? Please add it to the list.

Travel requires for more undergarments than you think you need, and far fewer shoes

What is right and what is easy are usually two different things

Know what is on the dessert menu before ordering your meal

Things are rarely what they appear to be

To all but a handful of people in the world, we are largely insignificant

You are rarely wrong if you make decisions with a clear mind and an open heart

Some things are not worth saving, or so badly damaged they cannot be saved

Shoes that do not start off comfortable never become comfortable, regardless of their level of cuteness or cost

You are okay exactly the way you are. Everyone is.

Good News!

I tentatively got my money back (and I did not even have to sing the Ben Harper song).

After some unsatisfying phone calls, I decided that actually going down to my credit union to spur some kind of action. Because my credit union is in a fancy-ass building on lock-down, I needed an escort to the union. The person who came to the lobby to pick me up was the guy in charge of investigating fraud. I came with lots of information, my Visitor badge and a can-do attitude. I appeared in the doorway of the office of the woman who was supposed to be helping me. She was, well, less than interested in helping me on the phone- and seemed a bit miffed to see me in person. When I sat down in her office (without an invitation) and proceeded to take out my stack of paperwork, her facial expression visible darkened. I expected to see a WTF thought bubble appear above her head (tip for credit union lady- avoid poker, you do not have the face for it) so obvious was her lack of delight with me as I made myself comfortable. She was aware that the fraud guy escorted me in the office, so she could not use his absence as an excuse not to help me, and I had enough paperwork with me to satisfy even the most persnickety DMV clerk, so that was off the table too. The only thing left to do was- gasp!- help me.

Seeing that I was going nowhere, she made short work of it. While on the phone, she was going to report thing and investigate and eventually I’d get my money back. In person, with me getting cozy in her cube, she credited my money right away and would contact me if anything in the investigation proved to be problematic.

Lesson learned- don’t accept answers that you do not like. Or, people are willing to pay cash money to part company with me. Either one works.

PS- yes, Mr. Monkey has demanded I move my money to a “real” bank that a person can actually go to and call for more than a handful of hours a day.

Danno, please book 'em

Someone stole access to my bank account last week. I figured this out on Saturday when my debit card was declined when I was attempting to romance Mr. Monkey by treating him to dinner. When I got home I check out my account online to see what was happening, and I discovered that someone had been tapping into the honey pot. My account has since been frozen and I am not sure when my money will be returned to me. This is going to be a process. I am telling you this both because I am looking for a little pity, and because there is a certain amount of irony in how this happened.

As you know, I am on a wildly inconsistent plan to save money, which in Monkey world means- veto things I actually want and need, but still buy stupid things, like $10 toothpaste and all the candy I want. In my quest to trim back, you’ll remember I recently went to a shady (read suburban strip mall) nail salon and was limply massaged by an Asian man with bulging pythons. Well, the massage wasn’t the only thing that was a rip off that day- the bank suggested this transaction may have been the origin of the fraud. So, in my effort to save money, I have actually lost more than a week’s pay. It is clear to me that the universe does not want to help me in obtaining my own llama farm.

Sadly, the thief was not an interesting consumer. This person apparently loves discount shoes as several hundred dollars were spent at DSW and Crocs. This person with exquisite taste for life’s finest also ordered Dominos Pizza on many occasions. The person now has a Cricket phone, but sadly was not able to purchase the big screen tv from Circuit City, which I am certain was being procured to view Masterpiece Theater or something similarly elegant. While I suppose I should feel lucky this person did not have better taste and completely clean me out, it seems like if money is no object- and in this case, it clearly isn’t, as it is not the thief’s money, you’d think they’d shoot a bit higher. Plastic shoes and fast food? Come on, thieves, raise your game.

I begin the long process of trying to reclaim these funds and live without access to my own money. While I think the larger lesson for me here is to start using cash, the spoiled brat in me is reminded that the “discount pedicure” wasn’t such a discount and I should promptly go back to the spa. And maybe even add in a full body massage, as I am now very tense.

Damn! I am never going to get those llamas.

This is just a ramble- I'd skip it

I have been single most of the week, which means I have basically done nothing but gone to summer school, read, knitted, watched tv and crossed words. I have not cooked anything this week- my Monday night dinner was a lovely cheese plate (aside- have you ever had Abbot’s Gold? I love this cheese. I would date this cheese for a brief, but tumultuous time if this cheese were a person and had a job). By last night I had devolved into Red Vines and rum and cokes. What is on tonight’s menu? Hard to say, but I am pretty sure it may feature the expired tic tacs I won on Sarah B’s site. Since I am probably only days away from making meals of out left over “togo” condiment packs, it is good the civilizing force of Mr. Monkey will be back in full effect tomorrow.

Do you remember a few months ago I was worried about the economy and so I cancelled maid service and personal training sessions at the gym and the internet told me to grow up, and then the real world told me it would soon be living in a tent, so it could not muster up the tears to weep over me having to dust my own lamps or cheer myself on while I did crunches? Well, another part of the Monkey lifestyle has been thrown upon the bonfire- spa treatments. My past two pedicures have not been at the spa. I still have toenails. Granted, they are not perfectly square, as I like them, but I have saved over $100 so far, so I guess I can live with it. Actually, I think this is good for me, as I was afraid the first (well, second as well) time I walked into the industrial nail shack run my immigrants. The masks, not knowing the protocol, having a muscley Asian man flex his pythons while giving me the weakest foot massage ever (seriously, it was like he was rubbing a balloon on me- I would have preferred no massage to that creepy, rubber gloved caress) it all unnerved me. But I did it! Today, the seedy nail shack- tomorrow, who knows?

Why so budget-y you ask? (No, you didn’t? Oh, you’re saying you don’t care? Well, it’s this or whatever you were trying to avoid doing that caused you to click over here, so take your pick.) I have got it in my mind that when I pay off all of my student loans for this job, I can do something else. I do not know how I got that in my mind, and Mr. Monkey did not co-sign on this idea (hi honey, are you reading this? Don’t worry, it will take me a long time, and countless pints of plasma sold to reach my goal). What do I want to do next? Not sure- alpaca farmer, possibility? Professional crab-ass is a possibility, as are driver who cannot stay in her lane and person who wants you to modify menu entries at restaurants to suit her fancy. Anyway, I would like to pare my next life down to $100 a day. Impossible, you say? Well, I counter your argument with the idea that a whole industries has been built on offering vacations for $100 a day. If worse comes to worst, I can always remain on vacation.

How about you- are you extra budget-y these days as well? What have you cut out that was part of your everyday life?

PS- edited to add that I just spent $10 on a tube of toothpaste, so my efforts are wildly inconsistent. I am a ridiculous person. Is knowing it part of the battle?

Onward

Tomorrow marks the start of the last week of summer school. I know I have said this before, but this time I mean it- I am not teaching summer school next year. Please, for the love of all things chocolate-y and delicious, remind me that I do not want to teach summer school next year. I beg of you- free me from the oppressive shackles of my own poor decisions. The kids are great; the classes are firmly in my area of comfort- but I really want to be on vacation . right. now. I know, I know- I am looking in the wrong place for sympathy. Anyway, help a monkey out next year.

Nothing much is happening with me. This post is really more of a place-holder than anything else. I just wanted to give you a shout-out to let you know that I am still here. I have done precious little since summer started except eat a criminal amount of ice cream, knit up a storm, read and doing crosswords like it is my part-time job. This, my friends, is the life.

To wrap this up on a less monkey-centric note- what do you think of the Palin resignation? Why did she do it? Does she still have a political future? Gaze into your crystal ball and tell me what you think.