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[Monday Binge]
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Out of Triscuits and soy-nut butter at work, I was unable to satisfy my belly, which--as per usual--grumbled at 3 o'clock. As a result, I came home at 4:30 and ate 3 pieces of leftover pizza (granted, they -were- small, very-thin-crusted pieces, with very light cheese) and, as a result, I feel like a major sandwich ass.
As much as I ought to wash dishes and take out trash and tidy up a bit, I think I'd prefer cuing up "Dead Like Me" and "Entourage" and, perhaps, "Six Feet Under," although I already watched it last night. |
[ Taxes, Interest rates, and flood insurance, oh my!]
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I don't mean to be neglectful of my Internet duties, but I've been spending most of my non-work waking hours looking at real estate online and researching taxes in various areas of this tri-state blight that I, most likely, will continue to dwell in for the next few years or so. Today was for open houses in Hartwell and drives through Bellevue, Northside, and historic Newport.
Hopefully, I'll be in a home in a few months. I'd like to secure a loan soon, while the economy is still in the shitter and rates are low.
My mom's friend and coworker, David, lives in an adorable house in a good part of Northside. Apparently, his next door neighbor -- also in an adorable house -- is old and on the way out. He will call us immediately when she either -accidentally- slips on her porch or voluntarily opts for a nursing home existence.
The whole point of me taking a job Downtown was to cut down the commute. I don't want to move much further "out" than a 5 mile radius from the city. Though, I must admit, with Hartwell being on I-75 and quiet and right on the end of Wyoming, the area is very tempting. I'm going to arrange a showing of a small, brick cape cod this week. Granted, it's only a two bedroom, but it has a huge second floor "rec" room, which has promise. Plus, at less than 90k, it's a steal.
I'd love, however, to get my hands on one of the Italianettes in historic Newport, one on the "end" of the -very- nice area, where houses are expensive and far from my financial wingspan. I drove by several very nice, very promising homes a block outside the "finished" area of Newport. I'm okay with a neighborhood and house that needs a bit of love. Love makes the world go 'round, right? And it will also elevate the value of any house. I'm all for the possible profit, especially if I see myself moving in a few years or so.
Oh, my food is here. Ta-ta. |
[I'm so done with this one bathroom situation]
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I'm going to look at houses today.
I'd like to be out of this apartment by December or so. Of course, my house-purchasing-criteria might push that back some, considering I'm a fairly picky bitch.
If anyone knows of a three bed, two bath house with hardwood floors (I hate carpeting, but I'm willing to purchase a place with wood floors under carpeting), located in semi-white-trash-gangsta-free zone, which is no more than ten minutes from downtown (I hate suburbs, too), let me know.
And siding, I'm not a big fan of vinyl siding. Brick is the way to go. Wood is okay, too, if for old Victorian-style houses.
The areas of choice as of now are: Mt. Lookout, Mt. Adams (but I will never be able to afford such a place, so I'm fooling myself), Ludlow (Clifton, not Kentucky), Downtown Newport, Covington (the nicer areas, of course), and Hyde Park. There are some areas, I must admit, of Northside and Walnut Hills I would consider as well. I realize that I can't completely escape the urban assholes . . .
I wouldn't mind, actually, finding a place in the Liberty Hill area of downtown. It's down the street from my place of employment and there are some beautiful row houses. Sean would never go for that. He's -done- with any area remotely located near ghetto. I might feel the same way when I'm thirty. Who knows. |
[ An "up the what" girl!]
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Last night, I drove to Bellevue to pick up my favorite mommy, Melissa, and got to see her Amazon of a child, Syd, who at twenty months of age is three feet tall and weighs over thirty pounds. A monster, yes, but a very sweet, very, very smart one. She speaks in complete sentences and conveys complete relevant thoughts. Much unlike most of the population of Cincinnati Public Schools.
[[By the way, not to be an ass, but I'm going to be homeowner soon. So all you folks renting and voting in the Cincinnati Public School district, please consider me when you are faced with a future levy for the miserable school system, which is not only churning out failure after failure but also raping homeowners via taxes. New buildings do not make smarter kids, nor do they make better teachers. And, just so everyone knows, CPS teachers make a very nice wage, very nice indeed. They have no right to bitch about being underpaid for their efforts. Just a note.]]
Anyhoo.
Melissa and I headed to Carol's where we met Laura and Joe and drank beer and cosmos and chocolate martinis, while discussing extramarital affairs, sex in a new neighborhood with new neighbors (shitting where eating), birth control failure, sex with college professors, beer-booth firemen, female ejaculation, and motorcycle purchases.
After two or three hours of debauchery and gossip, we all headed to Chez Joe, Joe's new apartment in Northside, to watch his tape of the Olympics opening ceremonies and to point out the athletes we would and wouldn't do. We also delighted in a variety of off-color jokes and comments about some of the countries represented at the games. But I'll stop with that before my lack of political correctness begins to offend . . .
Non sequitur: And then there was Sean. His boyish good looks charmed me right out of my pants. |
[Mirror, Mirror]
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Every morning, while looking in the mirror, I mull over "fixing" the lines on my forehead, lines that even my 57-year-old mother does not have, lines that began to carve their way as I was undermined by department heads, disrespected by so-called students, and harassed by ghetto moms, ex-military morons, Bible banging freaks, and, of course, one Norman Bates-type freak who, from what I hear through Ray's Place detainees, is still trying to contact me [Also, one can't forget the lousy pay and my frequent trips to the pawn shop so that the rent check would clear!].
From 1999 to whenever I turned in that last gradesheet (March 2004, I think), a scowl occupied my countenance eighty percent of each and every day. While settling into my new job, I've taken notice of how the stress had taken a toll on my body. I think I deserve a date or two with Dr. McKenna and his lasers and syringes and whatever tools it might take to take back all that wasted effort.
And as much as I appear to detest plastic people (in all honesty, it is out of jealousy, I must admit), I think a near future goal will involve the dreaded Botox. Yes, yes. I'm shallow. I'm conceited. These lines on my face are not helping the ego one bit. And, I need my ego.
[It's not as if I want a boob job or a butt lift, right?]
Next,
[yes there is always a next, because, you must realize, it does not end with Botox. Botox is a gateway toxin . . .]
I'd like to get some ink removed. The two on my torso need to go.
Sunday evening, while listening to three Cliftonites talk about all the ink they "need," I started thinking about how much this would all cost. I'm not planning on throwing aside my plans to purchase a house in the near future (if my credit allows!) for my ventures in non-essential "medicine."
Perhaps, within the next five or ten years.
I'm sure my little obsession with plastic surgery is a bit unhealthy. But, I can't help it. I live in Cincinnati. It's a wannabe city, and I'm, simply, doing what's expected of me as long as I am a resident in this armpit of a tri-state area.
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[Oh the drama]
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Dear Tricia:
I completely agree with you. But, because I don't feel like wading through hate mail and what not, I won't publish my reaction and opinion here. And, I don't feel like having 75% of Cincinnati hate me, considering I'm stuck here and all.
And, by the way, you *can* be a "hard body" when you're 60. A 45-minute visit to the gym four or five days a week is all it takes. My mom is discovering that at 58, and I am frightened as I recall my teenage years when my dates and male friends would hit on her: I have competition, yet again!
Amanda |
[A bitter end]
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Dear Coffee (and your confreres: Starbucks, Millstone, and "Fair Trade"):
It has been nice. But I'm afraid my affair with you all must end.
Apparently, your caffeinated goodness has wreaked havoc on my kidneys and sent all sorts of ketones, running helter-skelter throughout my urine and blood. Yes, yes, I hoping it was just diabetes. I can do without the sugar. But not you. You, my friend, will truly, truly be missed.
Sure, I could blame my sporadic eating habits, my teenage anorexic pre-weekend rituals. I read something about it on WebMD, but I'll deny its truth.
In addition, I could blame alcohol. But the doctor ensured me that it was the excess caffeine in my diet -- not the blurry weekends bathed in bad gin -- that was causing chronic dehydration.
I met you shortly before my first Communion (yes, I shall blame church for this!), during pre- and post-Sunday school-and-service-coffee-hour minglings, and you have remained a faithful friend through cigarette breaks, late night talks, final exams, and, of course, morning routines.
I could be sentimental and recall a moment or two made indelible by your touch on my lips, the warmth of your body permeating a trendy mug and thawing my hands during a chilly walk to school, that distinctive coffeehouse-smell in my thick hair. But I've never been one for prolonging a breakup, and, I'm sorry, but I can't start with you.
Sincerely,
Amanda
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[Tony, Tony]
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Tony, Tony turn around. Something's lost and must be found.
One of my earrings is missing. And I am relying on a lil' bit of Catholic voodoo to help me find it!
I am so bad.
Oh, and St. Anthony, if you're really listening to me, please intercede and don't allow my brother to marry in April. Just don't.
Or, is that a request for St. Joseph or St. Ann? I know St. Helen is the patron saint of divorced people. Perhaps I should just go ahead and jump to her as, I'm sure, divorce will soon follow the nuptials!
Oh Adam, you dumb twit. |
[Why I'm up at this hour is beyond me]
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It's Sunday. It's nine am. What is wrong with this picture?
Yesterday, I was cleaning off my coffee table and came across a change grade form. Apparently, a former student of mine from Winter 2003 wants her "UW" (which, gpa-wise) translates into an "F") changed to "W" (a "grade" that neither hurts nor helps students, it just indicated that they "officially" dropped the class).
This girl was a student of mine OVER a fucking year ago. And she just within the last couple weeks decided it might a be a good idea to care!
And what kills me is that somebody at the Ray's Place registrar just casually mailed me the change grade form and a brief note ("Would it be a problem if you change her grade? . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah").
So, I laughed and put the paper work under my stack of old magazines and credit card offers (Things I don't toss away until garbage day, with this whole identity theft issue still looming in my own life and in my shithole neighborhood).
Anyhoo, this incident is just another example of how quixotified the students and staff at fucking Ray's Place are. Sure, I can just disappear from a class, suck government funds because I'm poor white trash, and ask for my failing grade to be revoked over a year later. And, of course, department heads support this, completely. We don't want to punish them. They're only kids is what my former department head remarked concerning this type of situation.
Fuck that.
I am so glad I am far away from that place.
What ever happened to earning your way into college and earning the grades on your transcript?
People in this country are getting dumber and dumber and dumber . . . and dumber. An average IQ is what, 90? How pathetic. Thanks to my former place of employment, these "average" people are the ones taking your blood at the hospital, checking the health of your dog, cleaning the tarter from your teeth, and filling your prescriptions of Zoloft. These are, indeed, positions that require responsibility and care, right? And these two things are few and far between at Ray's Place. No lie.
And just out of curiosity, how much do "pharmacy techs" make per hour? (per year?) -- I would, specifically, like to know how much the dumb bitch in Tenesssee who fucked up my birth control prescription makes. I don't know how many times I repeated "Levlite" on the phone. Not "Trilevlen." When I opened my package, the receipt said "Levlite" as did the sticker on the box, but what did the box itself read? Tri-[fucking]-levlen. I can't take that shit. So, of course, I'm fertile. Maybe this is a sign to start breeding.
So, if any high school girl needs a three month supply of tri-phasal pills . . . just kidding, that would be wrong. Er. Not really. |
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