What People Need to Understand: Your MOM’S an Internal Server Error 500

I am taking comments away for the time being so you can just think I’m a self-absorbed dick who’s dooin it rong rather than a non-technosavvy dick who cannot be bothered with MT. I would rather sew up my own cervix then look under the hood of yon gentle Movable Type.

What People Need to Understand (that sounds like a great lead-in to the craziest part of the manifesto, doesn’t it?) is that oh god oh god I so need a box to write into and a button to push at the end. I thought about chucking it and going to paper journals (WHAT is that cheering sound?) but I cannot write faster than I type. I also think I’m addicted to hyperlinking now. Sometimes I am writing my shopping list and I am like Jesus God we’re out of artichokes and then I think HA HA that reminds me of that picture of the guy with the artichoke crammed into his…and then I look up and realize that I don’t have twenty-eight tabs open in front of me, I have only the kitchen table with granola crusted on it even though Hey I Just Washed This.

Anyway, on the fence about the new neighbors here. I think about my neighbors a fair amount, because when you live in a duplex, you share a wall with just one set of people, whom you see coming and going and such, unlike in an apartment, where you may be totally surrounded and don’t want to see or think about any of them. This is just a little theory I’m working on.

So, points against, they are kind of dingbats. On first meeting them, it was revealed during the discovery process that they had designs on our green tomatoes, which did not, as it happens, just fall out of the fucking sky or magically sprout out of the ground. In fact, we haven’t eaten any of our tomatoes yet. I like to share as much as anyone, but don’t be a tomato plotter if you haven’t earned it. There is other social retardation as well, in the form of the inability to introduce oneself before launching into a tirade about something or other that was the verbal equivalent of tl;dr.

Pro: At work all day. Woo!

In the four days that the unit was empty, I took a break from shooshing the girls for yelling or elephanting up and down the stairs or bashing their heads into the shared wall. They went completely feral in that time, and forgot that we live in a shared building. It’s been a challenge getting them to simmer down again, but it’s going okay.

Today I am waiting for a call for the job I interviewed for the other day. I am feeling like it’s a bad sign that it’s 2 p.m. and I haven’t heard anything, but I am also generally pessimistic right now, so who knows. If they do make an offer, I am thinking about what to negotiate for, since the job description is totally different than the actual job. Like on salary.corm, the listed job and the job as described are two different categories all together, but supposedly you segue into the real job description after three months or so. What do you do in a case like this? I guess I will ask for the flensing salary and see if they can throw in a knife so I don’t have to bring my own every day.

Further, I have been up since 3:30 since the cat decided that was the time to learn a new percussion instrument (door banged against wall) and I could not get back to sleep. I sure I will sleep soundly tonight with a stomach full of pot pie. (Flavor: cat.)

I also managed to find a new doctor for my girls. Their family doctor of seven years UP AND FLED like a bandit in the night. I called the clinic to make an appointment and they said no dice. Where did she go? We don’t have that information. ORLY.

I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I was when I googled her ass and there she was in California. I really, really wanted the sordid backstory: fraudulent credentials, a jewel fencing operation, SOMETHING. But no. Just rudeness. Send a letter or a postcard, FFS, people. Seven years.

Speaking of FFS, I am beginning to recieve harassing phone calls for my ex-husband on my cellular telephone. Awesome. I love a harassment break in the middle of the day, don’t you? The downside of still being connected to him enough that they call me is mitigated by the fact that I get to say, Oh, so sorry, we are not married anymore. I could be harassed all day. I love it. This explains how I thrive as a mother, I reckon.