kdiddy.org

I think I want to dress up as my blog for Halloween. I could coif my hair, do my makeup, carry around a cup of coffee and some yellow roses and then just rig up some paper behind me that I’ll paint brown plaid.

It could work, no?

I don’t know how I would explain that to people, though.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“My blog.”

“Hold still, I’m going to punch you in the face.”

We’re still all messed up, sleep-wise, from vacation. So you can imagine how shocked I was to glance at the clock last night in the midst of helping the sister-in-law work on her resume and cover letters and see that it was nearly 1:30 a.m. I did a few more things on my laptop…very pressing issues like playing Word Twist, etc., but I was heading for bed.

You know how there are certain business locations that just always fail no matter what kind of business goes into it? There was a Seinfeld episode about this phenomenon and I’m fairly certain that every neighborhood has at least one of these locations.

Of course, in my neighborhood, the only locations that are immune to this phenomenon are those that house the CVS, the Sunoco, and the CoGo’s.

Anyway, there’s an apartment on my street that is always, always rented by the biggest turds on the planet. Every year, new tenants move in, and every year, everything’s fine for a week or two and then the noise starts. There are arguments, fights, parties, crying babies, whatever.

The current tenants aren’t too bad in that respect, but the one dude who lives there is a jerk. He creeps me out. He lurks on the street, stares at people, yells at the husband to turn down music when it’s still early in the day. But after last night, I completely detest him.

He sat in his parked (gigantic, ugly, $500-to-fill-up-the-gas-tank) SUV and blasted…sigh…I have a hard time even forming the word…Creed.

CREED!

God-awful, melodramatic, no-shirt-wearing, “CAN YOU TAKE ME HIGHER?” CREED. At 1:30 a.m. On a fucking weeknight.

I seethed at the husband that if the dude was going to have such horrible taste in music, he could at least suck at a reasonable volume.

The husband cocked his head at me, puzzled, and asked, “Are you sure it’s not Nickelback?”

“What difference does it make?!?!?”

“Well, how do you know it’s Creed?”

“I watch too much MTV.”

“This is like a nightmare.”

“I KNOW!”

After 15 more minutes the husband finally said, “Fuck this, I’m calling the police.”

“Be sure to tell them that he’s listening to Creed. Maybe they’ll get here faster.”

Of course, at that point, the dude turned the music off and, I don’t know, wept over his I <3 Scott Stapp armband tattoo, but I still had a hard time getting to sleep.

So, I went to Conneaut last week…

There were bugs, including this beetle and a flying ant that I inadvertently ate while celebrating my cousin’s birthday. Said ant landed on my chocolate ice cream which I inserted into my gaping maw. I felt a little pinch, which I guess was the ant’s way of saying, “WTF ARE YOU DOING?” I spit him out, but it was too late. He was dead. I mourned him by eating more chocolate ice cream.

There were also bug parts, like this wing that landed on my towel and captivated me so.

You recognize my kid, of course, but the short, drunk-looking guy in the foreground is my baby cousin. He is very cute and likes to cuddle, but he drools a lot. He is the youngest of seven (SEVEN) boys.

I’m kind of over babies at this point in my life, which isn’t to say that I don’t like them, but before I had one I would always go apeshit over them and want to hold them and change them and blah blah blah. Then I had a baby and let me tell you, the novelty of all of that wears off somewhere around 3 a.m. the first night. Now I hold a baby for about 30 seconds and I’m like, “Yeah, I’m good. Here, take this. Is there more beer?”

But this little guy had me quite captivated. It might have something to do with the huge (moist) hug that he gave me. My heart might have melted a little.

Ring Pops for lunch…because we were on vacation and I just couldn’t care.

I scored 100% on “My Name Is Jonas” on the medium level of Guitar Hero III. This may not be an astonishing accomplishment, but the husband and I have been trying to best each other at this song for awhile. I took a picture because he was not around when it happened and I knew he wouldn’t believe me. We have a healthy relationship.

My kid and another of the seven brothers (who will need seven brides at some point, I guess). They look all sweet and precious here, but they were actually in the middle of an epic whinefest that included the longest recitation of, “STOP IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT” ever.

Ain’t it quaint?

I don’t know this guy, but he sat on this bench for the longest time, just quietly taking everything in. I like to think that he stared at those clouds and watched the kids play and reflected deeply on his life.

Or maybe he was just taking note of how hot the lifeguard was.

On our last night we went to dinner at the Stable Pit and Pub, which is this Western-themed restaurant and bar smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania. It’s very corny and I love it. They have one cottage that they rent out and you can get a romantic getaway package that features champagne service, a Jacuzzi and a mirrored ceiling. I reminded the husband that we never went on a honeymoon, so maybe he’ll surprise me for my birthday. Because what better way is there to turn 30 than in the countryside of Pennsyltucky with cowboy paraphernalia a few feet away? Fingers crossed!

Anyway, they arrange their creamers in this little flower formation and I just thought that was the cutest thing ever.

As soon as we got home from Conneaut, the husband and I headed to Alto Lounge to hear our friend Tony play records. He was headed back to the Navy on Sunday and it was his birthday, so it was all kinds of bittersweet.

Yeah.

This French guy was there and told everyone that he had traveled to Pittsburgh, “in ze canoe,” and demonstrated his rowing technique through some interpretive dance. The sister-in-law found his antics hilarious, but then realized that she probably sounded exactly like that dude during her time in Argentina. “Me llamo Bolt. Yo me gusto Pittsburgh. N’at.”

After we left the club, we saw the French dude approaching random people sitting on their porches. The husband, who had heard all about ze canoe at length, hissed at us to cross the street. Luckily, Shadyside has plenty of alleys that one can sneak through when escaping odd French men. And I think Pittsburgh needs to promote that aspect of our fair city much more.

Here’s a photo in search of a caption…

I don’t think it’s normal to open up the website of your ex-bank and feel more than a twinge of sadness and regret and “What could we have done differently?” But that, my friends, is a glimpse into my psyche that speaks volumes.

For instance, do you know how long I had an AOL account? Five years. 1998 to 2003. Do you know when I stopped using it? 2002. I realized that AOL was a complete fucking joke some time around…early 1999 (I’m slow). But I kept it because I felt bad. This also explains why I keep every stub from my movie tickets and why it upset me to kick the soccer ball during gym.

I have all of these FEELINGS, which is fine, but they don’t make a lick of sense.

Like why did I get all excited when I was going through stuff at my mom’s house the other day and found my stub from seeing Clueless in the theater in 1995?

Oh, but I also found a bunch of notes from my friends that I kept that I need to scan or transcribe because they are awesome. (***Note to young’uns: “notes” are a primitive form of adolescent communication that pre-date the widespread use of email, IM, and text messages. These notes were written in ink or pencil on looseleaf paper, intricately folded, and then hand-delivered. See also: the effing Pony Express.)

Anyway. I did end up closing my account at the bank yesterday. It wasn’t very dramatic. They did not want to refund all of the overdraft fees because the whole thing resulted from my error, which was not getting the husband’s endorsement on the check which was made out to both of us. And, you know, fair enough. I do not subscribe to the “customer is always right” school of thought because…well, it’s bullshit. And I acknowledged my oversight and explained that I understood the bank’s position, but previous experience (like, when I deposited all of the checks from our wedding without incident) led me to believe that there wouldn’t be a problem and as a loyal customer I wanted us to kiss and make up.

They said no. I said that I wanted to close my account immediately. I am not a millionaire or a large corporation. But I’ve had that account since I was 19 years old. And the fact that they didn’t even blink an eye about losing me as a customer sealed the deal.

Then today, the dude that I dealt with called and pleasantly let me know that I owe the bank $65 before they can consider us split.

This is seriously the most bullshit break up I’ve ever gone through. I should’ve gotten a pre-nup.

So, tomorrow, I’m going to go down there with $65 and I’m going to feel like Paul McCartney doing it, too. “Here, Heather…I mean PNC. Here’s your $65 THAT YOU SO TOTALLY NEED I’M SO SURE HAVE FUN WITH YOUR EPONYMOUS BALL PARK OH SHIT I MISSED MY BUS!”

The husband and I were cooking up horrible things to do to the cash before handing it over, like rubbing it with various bodily fluids. I don’t think I’ll allow that to actually happen, though.

But I do want to do SOMETHING to express my dissatisfaction and, well, how hurt (but totally not surprised) I am that they don’t even care to see me go. Perhaps I will press my butt cheeks against the glass.

Or maybe I’ll just write them a letter. THAT’LL SHOW ‘EM.

We stopped at the Record Exchange on the way home and I bought used DVDs of Top Gun and Wall Street.

What is most disturbing about these purchases, you ask? Well, that would be the fact that I’ve never seen either of these movies. I also never saw Die Hard until late last year.

I’m really not sure what I was doing in the 80s, especially since I was indeed a TV watcher and we had HBO. And I didn’t drink or do drugs until the mid 90s, so I don’t have that as an excuse.

Hmm. The mysteries of life. At least now I can properly reminisce about when Tom Cruise was hotter and less…hyena-ish.

TAKE MY BREATH
AWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

OH BY THE WAY, SUCKERS. I got tickets to see Louis C.K. on November 8th. It’s how I’m helping to stimulate the economy. By the way, The Economy, are you stimulated yet? Huh? You like that? Right there? WHO’S YOUR DADDY, THE ECONOMY?

I don’t know why this post is so disgusting and shouty. YES THEY DESERVED TO DIE. AND I HOPE THEY BURN IN HELL.

I went to Student Health yesterday. Let me put it right out there that I feel incredibly lucky to have highly competent medical staff on campus and available to me at practically a moment’s notice. But I get the sense that the folks at Student Health are maybe lacking some excitement. I mean, just judging by the posters and pamphlets covering the place, I imagine that 99% of the time they deal with minor STDs, contraception, and common colds and whatnot. Then here comes me, all flushed and bleh and complaining of weird pains.

So, yeah, they sent me to the ER to get checked for appendicitis.

I had some pain in my side but not like STABBING pain just “Ow, if you could please quit pressing there as soon as possible, that would be awesome.”

Obviously, since I’m here telling you about this and not in the hospital, I do not have appendicitis. At least, they’re pretty sure I don’t. I was told to make note of any debilitating pain and inform a medical professional should I start projectile vomiting and turning green. Which, you know…word. Will do!

And I’m pretty much okay today. I’m just still really tired despite getting like 9 hours of sleep and have had absolutely no appetite for the past two days. I can’t say for sure what was wrong with me, but none of the medical peeps think it was food poisoning either, so it must just be some low-level stomach bug.

Oh, and I am not pregnant. I know this because I believe I was tested 3 or 4 times yesterday. Like, “Okay, you were negative at 3:30 but it’s 6 p.m. You’re probably totally pregnant now!”

The best part of my trip to the ER was that student health insisted that campus police take me to West Penn. That was all well and good…until the (very nice) campus police officer dropped me off at the Liberty Avenue entrance to the Mellon Pavillion of West Penn. He told me, “Okay, just go in there and there will be a receptionist and they’ll call for you when they’re ready for you.” West Penn is notoriously maze-like, but I KNOW that the ER entrance is on Millvale. So I said, “I go in here? Really?” And he said yeah and I figured he knew something I didn’t. Like, someone from the ER would come get me from a completely different part of the building…because that’s how they roll.

I spent about 10 minutes lounging in the lobby completely alone (no receptionist, no patients, nothing) before figuring that if I DID have appendicitis, it would be best for me to go to the actual ER, instead of languishing in the non-ER, imagined arrangements aside.

So I just walked to the ER. And let me tell you. Stuff like this ALWAYS happens to me. Like a simple task of taking someone to the emergency room becomes this silly exercise in stupid.

Yesterday, I got this gigantic falafel salad for lunch from the Mediterranean truck on campus. It was delicious and I mused to Angela about my theories on falafel, namely that something in it sends my seratonin soaring or something. That was the last thing I ate yesterday

We went grocery shopping and on the way home I started to have stomach cramps. The cramps continued the rest of the night, varying in intensity. They woke me up a few times, plus I had a really bizarre nightmare about Twitter and the baby came in and was asking me about something.

By 7:30 a.m., I felt like absolute shit. The cramps weren’t coming as frequently, but I now had body aches, a headache, some chills, etc. I am at work now and am going to Student Health at 3:30.*

I think maybe I have a touch of food poisoning and that maybe the lettuce and/or tomatoes in my salad were tainted. I won’t tell you what I’ve been imagining about the nice old man who putters around making falafel in his truck and what his bathroom habits are, but I’m sure you can imagine.

So, yeah. I have nothing else to add…besides a request that you all pity me.

*One very good argument for being a professional student is access to Student Health. I LOVE Student Health.

We did not go grocery shopping yesterday. The reason for that being that I did not feel well at all yesterday and I think I was perhaps a tad hungover. This is sad because I had exactly 2.5 beers on Saturday night, but now I recall that I didn’t eat very much on Saturday.

I do recall sitting on the front porch with the husband. We were having one of those great “let’s philosophize!” conversations about life, the universe, and everything. You know, the ones. The conversations after which your neighbors glare at you with sleep-deprived eyes because they really didn’t care to know about your definition of soul at 1 a.m.? But I guess I can point to the moment where I realized things were getting a little sloppy when I said, “And THAT’SH why I think women are the evolution of men. Cause of the thingy. Don Cheadle. Placenta? *burp*”

What a weak performance on my part. Especially since we started to watch Road to Perdition upon my insistence and I fell asleep about 15 minutes into it. We watched the first half of Once Upon A Time in the West last night, which is extremely dope thus far. I’m not a big Western fan, but I don’t think Sergio Leone can really be denied in many instances. And of course there’s The Searchers.

Anyway, besides getting surprisingly drunk and killing my cell phone, I also got reacquainted with my Wii Fit on Saturday. It was surprisingly gentle about my extended absence (24 days), but I did note some sarcasm when I first stepped on the balance board. You know how it says, “Oh?” I could have sworn mine said something closer to “Whoa.” Like, “Whoa, what’s up, Krispy Kreme?” Whatever.

A scene. Earlyish evening. A laundry room. A woman pulls wet jeans out of the washer and tosses them into the dryer.

“Hey. What’s that kind of large, silvery, flat thing in the bottom of the tub?”

*beat*

“OH IT’S MY CELL PHONE THAT’S FUCKING AWESOME YES 100% GRAND!!!!!!!!!1″