yay! Done! well...ok, not really.

I just submitted the rough draft of my Magnificent Octopus to the editor. I'm not even half-done, but I feel relief. Blissful, completely undeserved relief. :-) So now I anticipate what they'll say (I mean publicly, after they finish laughing), make those corrections...

Oop. Got ahead of myself there.

I meant that I will finish writing the parts that need it, anticipate the corrections, change them, get the real corrections, fix those, and re-submit. Woof, baby.

I am so organised, it's frightening.

Heh. As if.

If there is a god, then he's a just one....

I guess I get more than my fair share of pain because I can take it: Redheads

At least there's some benefit to this hair and skin.

I'm sorry...did *I* just make that sarcastic snicker? My bad.

I have to type more stuff, and somehow get in 16 hrs at Eviljob over the weekend. Big thing due Monday. And stuff overdue in one of my classes, but they're going to have to cope. 'Cos god knows I'm not. Sigh.

I have a lot of references to god for an agnostic. Heh. The irony of life.

I met with one of my former profs today; if he's not Number One Fave Of All Time, he's for sure in the top 1.5. :-) This is someone I have known since my undergrad days, and he's awesome. Very intelligent, unprejudiced, interested in everything, fun to talk to, kind, very funny, patient... I went to talk to him for maybe fifteen minutes, and ended up there for over two hours, and I didn't notice! Neither did he, but that's one of the things that make him so awesome. Everytime I go to talk with him, I feel like he has nothing else to do. :-) I think he does, too. :-D He gets an amazing amount done, though. Somehow. I wish I could pull that off. He's a former head of department for a...let's say "soft science" field I minored in as an undergrad. In general, I tend toward being hard (well, hard*er*) science, but I completely feel that the things he does are just as, if not more, important. I just say that because of an attitude in our department (and others). Everyone is so goddamned elitist, you know? I guess it's a way of reassuring yourself that you've made good life decisions, but seeing as how I deeply like people in other fields, I don't have a lot of tolerance for that kind of elitism. I can't see how anyone could not like this guy; he really is thoughtful, very insightful, an excellent conversationalist (I mean truly above reproach!), he both understands and generates successful and appropriate allusions, he is open to suggestions, and is tolerant of the learning process--I mean, he doesn't just give up on you if you can't grasp a complex concept out of the gate... Why can't all men be like this?

Sigh.

Yeah, I do. For a really long time, too.

Sigh.

Yeah, I know I am. Really big time a lot.

Sigh.

girly goes shopping

Today didn't suck too much. I got my paper handed in, and at least that's some relief. After class, I decided to go pick up something at Office Depot, or Max, or whatever. I searched around for twenty minutes, couldn't find what I was looking for, and finally gave up and left. Why is it that whenever I go in for something that they do have, I am some kind of sales associate magnet--literally--I will have five sales associates ask me if I need help, but when I need one, they're nowhere to be found? The only associate I saw was at the front register.

So whatever. I'll look on line at Staples (not Office Whateverinthehell...they're on my shit list right now) or eBay, or something. I hate getting totally ignored; that's why, after probably upwards of fifty visits over the course of a few years, last year I solemnly vowed to never set foot inside a Home Depot again. And I shan't.

What I consider to be Home Depot's crowning achievement was a few years ago, when I was helping with teambuilding exercises for Eviljob. They were these dumbo exercises through some vendor that were inane, butsoanyway. One of them involves some rope and those little clips everyone puts their keys on that are aluminum, and in all different colours, and the cute little label on them warns not to engage in mountain climbing with them, or somesuch.

What spoilsports. Butsoanyway...

Some rat bastard stole our rope and clips. We'd set up different activity points at this section of a nearby park we'd rented for two weeks (to take all the building's teams through; we figured they'd like getting outdoors, and 99% of them did). So we set up our "radioactive waste" exercise (don't even ask; it's soooooo freaking dumb) off over *there*. When we went to do it, the ropes and clips were thefted. Can you believe the nerve of some people?!?

My thinking was that we scrap the dumbass exercises and go on a manhunt for the sick creep that did it; I figured he was probably somewhere nearby, trying to tie a squirrel up and clip it to a picnic grill so that he could have his way with it. Or maybe he was tying himself up, and trying to figure out how to make "come hither" noises in Squirrelese. Who knows? Regardless, my vote was that we track him down and beat him to death.

Ok, so I didn't actually *share* my thoughts on the matter. :-) It's not my own particular...idiom. ;-) I instead attempted a rescue by calling lunch early and running off to Home Despot.

Yeah, I meant to do that. Butsoanyway...

Not only did I have to find, measure, and cut my own rope myself (after waiting politely for probably about ten minutes right by the rope and cutting table, looking expectantly), but while waiting and before I started cutting, I was ignored by a few employees, who instead went off to help men! So I got my rope, and went off in search of clippy things. I had no idea where they are, and had to chase employees--literally!--all over the store. One I called to as I was at the foot of one aisle, and he up in the top fourth; he heard me, looked my way, and then decided to go help a man at the top of the aisle.

Ok. That pissed me off. I'm on a schedule here, remember? Eviljob is tight with their schedules, and I still have to get something to eat, for crying out loud. I'm only getting one lunch break per day!

And I'm not trying to sound...jerky, or anything, but I would think that an at-least-reasonably attractive girl, dressed somewhat professionally (Eviljob has its standards, even for trainings-in-the-park, you know) would be able to snare at least a little male attention. I mean, I know I'm not a beast, and I know I don't look like a bum--get my drift? Cute girl has money. Cute girl want spend money. It's that simple, and somehow places like Nordstrom get it (I get ambushed by the male clerks there, more than any other place, and they're not all gay, believe it or not) places like...oh, why go on? You get what I am saying. Plus, I'm wandering the damn store in heels (ok, they were low heels, suitable for the park, but you get my point) actively *looking* for help. And I can't rustle up a single associate to save my soul.

Now, Ancodia here is by no means a helpless female. She has put in time working tech in the theatre, and did more than her share of hauling furniture (by herself!) up and down from the prop room, putting together sets, and so forth. Never once has Our Brave Girl flinched at the sound of a nail gun. A really big one. That was loud. And unwieldy. Never once did our Mistress Of The Booth hesitate to unload lumber with the best of 'em, to screw butt hinges until 4 a.m., when her wrists were numb, to...

Ok...I just like saying "screw butt hinges". :-) Always have.

My point is, I've been there, done that. I could do it again if I had to. Someday I might even *want* to again, but I don't right at this moment. If I ever manage to get myself married off, it's ok with me if he wants to play Handyman; Ancodia can hold stuff for him, or think up new and creative ways to distract him while he's fixing the garbage disposal. :-)

God, I have a dirty mind. Sigh.

My point is that I'm neither totally incompetent, nor do I look incompetent. My personal take on the matter is that, hardware-wise, I look like an easy sell.

So I'm getting ignored, and I'm pissed. I stalk towards the front of the store and encounter "George", who obviously failed Hide-and-Seek in primary school.

"Don't you dare move," I tell him. Yes, Ancodia will get bitchy, if you piss her off enough.
"Ok, I gotta..."
"No, you don't. Take me to the clippy things. Now."

George and I haggled for a moment over what "clippy things" were, and he found them for me. I looped my rope around one and realised that I'd cut my rope too short. I demanded that George accompany me back to the rope.

As he's measuring and cutting, George decides to turn into a wise acre; "So who're you gonna tie up with the rope?", he leers.

Don't kid yourself; Ancodia has lost all hope of lunch, and is by no means in the mood to put up with this right now.

"You, if you don't move it." I *told* you I can be a Bitch if provoked!

"Awww," George protests, "I'm just teasin' ya."

I explain to George that I would have taken it better if what was supposed to have been a twenty minute trip hadn't stretched to fill an entire hour, and that after the way I've been treated, I'm half-tempted to visit my doctor to make sure I don't have cooties, or leprosy, or something.

George thinks this is funny. No apology. Just funny. He nods, even. Now he's all helpful, even encouraging, making sure I don't need anything else. WTF?

If this was designed to make me feel like the biggest raving bitch on the face of the Earth, it's working. My guilt switch has a hair-trigger. I apologise to George, who is still getting some major amusement out of something, and take off. As I'm leaving, I decide I'm never going back to Home Depot, a decision I change my mind on within a few months. And I get ignored again. And I go back again. And get ignored again. And again. And again.

Ancodia begins to notice a trend.

I mention this casually one day to my son-friend, who was a manager for ten years (he's way older than me, did I mention that?) at an Ace Hardware franchise. Son-friend fills me in; I look like Walking Trouble, he says.

And how does he figure that? Wanna know? I sure did.

I look like "walking trouble" in a hardware store, he explains, because I just look like the kind of girl who has just moved into a new home, and decided home remodelling isn't all that hard and want it all done my way anyway. If I walked into Home Depot and he was working there, he elaborates, he'd figure I'd just finished doing something utterly moronic like measuring out my kitchen with a sewing ruler, then done something irreparable like bashing off my kitchen countertop and shelving because I hated it and thought it was ugly, and was presenting myself at Home Depot, thinking I was going to just swing by, pick up some marble and shelves , cram them all into my compact car, and go home and put the new stuff up by evening so I can start cooking in my new kitchen.

Oh, spare me.

What's worse, he continues, is that I look like I'm not going to listen to whomever tells me it can't be done that way. I will insist. Once I get home and find that it won't work, I will come back. Girls Like Me, he says, are the Repeat Customers From Hell; they won't listen to a thing you say until about the fifth repeat trip. By then, their kitchen (or whatever) looks like Beirut. It's unuseable. They're pissed. And they've already spent more than it would have cost them to just hire someone to do it.

And to top it all off, he finishes, about then they usually offer you money to come over and do it for them. By the time they get to that point, they're usually about to start crying, if they aren't already. He insists that this has happened to him more times than he can remember.

"I do not ever look like that," I protest, "and what's so wrong with measuring with a paper sewing ruler?"

"My point exactly," he says.

Sometimes my son-friend really pisses me off.

I didn't think anything was wrong with measuring with a sewing ruler because I'd never done it, not because I'm stupid. Once he explained that they are notoriously inaccurate, I got it. Now, in truth, I might not have noticed that they were inaccurate, but I'm not sure I own one anyway, so the world is safe. I own a real ruler. So whatever.

So I won't go to Home Depot, I'm temporarily ticked at Office Whatever, and I'd rather shop for the laptop desk thingy I need online anyway. And I kicked my son-friend under the table several times while he was being needlessly unkind. And wrong.

So there.

Hmmph.

so there.

Well, I just got my email. After I'd sent a polite inquiry and wishes for the success of Horridmeeting in the past tense.

Technically hours later, I started venting after I felt wholly blown off, but anyway...

It went well. And I received generic thanks. Generic thanks in the sense that it didn't actually say, "thank you for helping", but it did say something along the lines of, "if you were rubbing your lucky Bufus Buddah Frog, it worked! Thanks for praying to St. Ricketywicket for us!"

I guess that's enough. :-) I do feel better. Now I have to go finish typing this *other* paper...

Sigh.

Miffed Me.

After all of that work, I get not even a "screw you, your shit sucked". No thank you, no email about how the meeting went...nothing.

I don't *need* pats on the head, I tell myself. 'Cos I don't.

It just rips my widget all the same. I *do* sometimes like to hear that I did a good job, and this time, I really think I did.

I know I'm whining, but it's not like I'm ever going to say anything to anyone about it in reality. I wish I understood why, of all people, I never get the proverbial pat on the head. I mean, even when I tell my mom I love her, I get a "ummm-hmmm," if I get any reaction at all. Which is nothing compared to the dejection and sadness I always felt when I would tell one guy that I loved him and get damn near the same reaction. Or, better, when he would respond with "I know you do". Why? Because he said that telling people that he loves them makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it makes my mom uncomfortable, too. I just always grew up with it, so it was never different...you know? But you'd expect better behaviour from a boyfriend. And from a manager. And from...geez...everyone in your life.

I put a lot of work into that paper. And I know I sound resentful. I'll be over it tomorrow. But sometimes you have to give *some* praise, otherwise people aren't motivated. I know this for a fact because they say so in those jackass corporate management seminars I have to attend every so often at Eviljob. The only place, it seems, that I do get any praise. Not only do I get praise there, I get money and other stuff for excelling at different goals. That's probably one of the reasons I stay there; because they praise me, and I'm pathetic enough to need it. Even though I don't like it when a great big deal is made. That's embarrassing. But I have saved commendations, all of my awards, and even 'thank you' emails. That's how stupid and pathetic I am. And why Eviljob has definite perqs over Stupidjob. This list thingy with explanations I wrote up was for Stupidjob, my sort-of second job.

I need praise. It even says so in that dumbass book, If You Touch My Cheese Again, I'm Gonna Kick Your Ass Into Next Week. Or maybe it was in Goddamn! This Place Smells Like Fish! or maybe it was in Annoying Habits of Underachievers Who Read Books Like This One. Whichever. :-) They're all might-as-well-be-required reading at Eviljob, and they all meld into one after a while. The short of it is, praise people. Christ...even moms teach people to say, "thank you"!

Yes, I'm angry. I feel resentful...even betrayed a little. I really went above and beyond. No one else in our group even *thought* about volunteering; when the subject came up, they all did the "la, la, la...gee, my nails are dirty and needing a good picking at! Golly, I wonder how my feet are doing under the table all alone..." thing.

This makes me angry. :-\ And consternated. It probably is too a word. I mean, *I* think I did a good job. I think I did a really freaking good job. If I didn't, somebody needs to tell me, so I can re-do it, or do it differently next time! When I sent my stuff, I even *asked* for feedback, so that I could re-do it and get it to my Stupidjob manager. Did I get anything? No! When we meet on Friday, or tomorrow when I see Ms Manager, she'll probably say something, but hey...too late. If I'm not important enough to tell beforehand, or even after the Big Horrid Meeting She's Dreading Because She Needs What I Have, then forget it. Grr.

This is *not* the way I would run things. When I am in charge of people, I praise them. Or give *some* kind of feedback.

I know, deep in my heart, that I am venting because I am stupid and pathetic. I know, deep in my heart, that No Word means that either it was ok, or it really sucked. I can't fix either of those now; Horridmeeting is over. There's no use in beating myself up over it. But it just makes me feel very alone, and...like...no one cares. That's all.

Dumb as dogshit. Yeah, that's me.

AAAAAUUUUGGGGHHH!!!!!!!!

Ok. I just had to get that out.

I'm killing myself for a "justify your existence" meeting in the morning that thankfully I don't have to attend. It's my job to write up "talking points", as it were, regarding our functional group and a particularly icky, dull, and boring facet of our funding. I'm the only one that's interested, the only one that will do it.

And the only goddamn moron that volunteered.

It's boring as hell.

I have four good ideas so far. I can maybe pull our four-ish more. I'd done this once before, because I knew in my heart that when the time came I would get stuck with this, but I can't find what I did with that write up. I'm having difficulty remembering what I'd come up with, but I remember that there were like, fifteen-ish things, and they were all of moderate-to-high quality. I was going to save myself this grief.

I could just kick myself.

I can't even remember whether it was written up electronically, or in hardcopy. I mean, I did this almost a year ago.

Dumb, stupid, idiot bitch. Yeah, that's me.

Sometimes I just hate myself.

I am so very unhappy. I just wanted to tell someone.

Welcome back, Weirdass.

I know that it's been a while since I wrote anything, but things have been nuts! I'm still so totally not-done with a project that is so totally quite-due. I just haven't been able, once school started back, to justify the time for myself. Well, I'm demanding a second or two right now. Long overdue. :-)

Before school started up, I went to the in-the-flesh Binion's Poker Thingy in Tunica. Ok, so that's not the real name, and if I weren't typing like a madwoman, I'd take a sec and look it up; I think it's like, an Open, or something. I mainly went there as a spectator/companion, though I did play a couple of satellites! It was cool! I had fun, and the place had enough rather interesting guys to look at, enough to keep me occupied, at least.

I've probably not mentioned that I'm a pathetic sucker for a poker face, eh? Makes me dearly miss and fondly remember a former bf--that was his major appeal, I realized after scrutinizing. The only thing is, he didn't play poker; he played baseball. So I guess that makes it a "game face", but whatever. Enough--at least this second, there's more to come--about the speedbumps in my sex life, or expression thereof. :-)

After school started, things fairly blew up. Sigh. That one coworker I'd mentioned before as being a true blue yadda yadda did the "revealing his true self" thing. Sigh. They all do. In retrospect, I should have known. In a nutshell, he was being a little instigator. When it got found out...drum roll...he quit. To be expected, but I was surprised anyway. He just made up some pathetic bullcrap excuse, and quit, all in one day. At least I didn't make the mistake of actually delivering any of his numerous complaints to my manager, like he wanted me to do. Nopers, Ancodia isn't *that* dumb...at least that time. :-)

I will catch up later on everything else. I've missed posting. A lot. This gives me someplace to vent anonymously, and I've realized that I really, really need that. Whether anyone reads this or not, that fact that I'm (1) taking time for myself, (2) explaining and expressing Me, and (3) to a certain extent getting out some of the emotions I have--both good and bad--so that they don't well up inside like they always do--all are good reasons. I'm glad I'm back. :-)

That having all been said, it occurred to me today in class (an especially long and--forgive me, Professor; you really are one of my favourites--boring one) while I was fighting off the microsleeps (is too a word...well, it is without the pluralization, at least) that guys, when they are sleepy, are awfully cute.

I have a bad habit. When I'm sitting somewhere, particularly in class, and feel myself nodding off, I look around to see if I am the only one. Not that it ultimately makes a difference if I am, but...I don't know. Sleepiness loves company? Anyway, so I was falling asleep today, and I did my usual looking. And wouldn't you know; the guy that is sort-of across from me is doing the heavy-eyelid thing, closing them...staying closed...he's asleep! No! Back open! And then...going down...slowly...slowly...

"Damn, he's cute," I thought. Not just a little cute, either. He's the "I'd love to trace the outline of your lips with my tongue and work my way down" kind of cute. He's totally gorgeous, in an awe-inspiring kind of way that I can almost feel brushing across my lips, in a way that...

Wait a damn minute, I think to myself.

I don't like this guy.

That's not to say that I *dislike* him. I don't. I just don't *like* him. Not *that* way. He's ok; that's all. I've known him (through classes) for well over a year, talked to him a bunch, and until now...nothing. Really; not even a casual "wonder what you look like undressed" fleeting kind of half-thought. He's Just A Guy, as far as I've been concerned. Up 'til now, I've not suffered from any kind of urge to lick, suck, and kiss all over his person whatsoever. What in the hell is going on?

He looks cute when he's sleepy.

Now how dumb is that? As an experiment--one that also had the added benefit of keeping me awake--I looked around again. Through the marvels of imagination, I realized that a vast majority of the guys in my class, Professor included, would look cuter if they were falling asleep. A few of them not-so-much. A few of them dangerously so. See? Everything really *does* fall on a bell-shaped curve! Kidding, kidding. Ok--dumb joke.

Now what in the hell am I supposed to make out of this particular little paraphilia of mine? Ok, ok...it hasn't been six months yet, but still. What does this say about me? Moreover, what could be done about it? Get a boyfriend and a bottle of cough syrup?!? I mean, geez...

"Sweetheart, if you love me, you'll take the Rohypnol..." Oh, yeah; I can see it now.

So here I am now, after class, preoccupied with what in the hell is wrong with me, instead of doing my work.

Sigh. And here I am now, not ten seconds after writing that last line, feeling guilty over wasting time, getting to work.

Pfffffffffffttttttttttt.