Me, thrilled? HELL NO! But, I'm taking a small bit of comfort in the fact that others before me have survived AND a bloggy friend is going through this too! And she's first! Kirsten celebrated her big fortieth this weekend. Hopefully she'll tell me it wasn't that painful or at least offer some tips on how to block out all memory of the occasion!

Personally I think we're pretty damn special, I mean we are '69 babies. That's a memorable position year, right? Plus we were born in the year of the COCK! Rooster. Male chicken. Future KFC meal. So that's cool.

Oh, and I was reading about Roosters and the synopsis said that we're, "deep thinkers, capable, and talented". OF COURSE! Was there any doubt? It also mentioned "eccentric", but you can't really trust EVERYTHING you read on the internetz.

Something I didn't know is that Roosters Chickens are compatible with Ox, Snake, and Dragon. The Ox makes sense cuz they're strong, hardworking and usually well hung (I'm guessing), but the Snake and Dragon are predators! What the hell? I'm snack-size for those dudes! Maybe us Chickens aren't meant to lead long lives? Okay, so I might be lucky to be turning forty. But still. . . "cluck-cluck".

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Know what's cool with the kids these days? Me!

Yes, four out of five of my friend A's kids think I'm da shit! Well, that's rounding up. I think it was more like two one out of five. And I'm pretty sure the term used was "cool", as in "she's nobody's parent and she doesn't even act like an adult so we don't necessarily need to shun her."

But seriously, who knew that kids appreciated the quirky goodness of a "somewhat" (nevermind the details schmetails) unemployed, house sitting, cat loving, off-balance, no life having, older-than-dirt grad student and all around lovable beotch?? 

Damn those kids are good judges of character. Or at least one of them. So I have that to cling to. Maybe now I can stop seeking validation from bloggy friends, acquaintances and total strangers online. HA! *snort* Like I could give up THAT drug!

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photo by Parksy1964  Some rights reserved

Before college I was goodie-two-shoes squared. (but please, don’t let that get out.)

Unfortunately that sad little character flaw contributed to my decision to attend a private college on a dry campus. Fortunately, the campus was moist, just not a top ten party school.

And now as a grad student I’m shocked to see student health newsletters that include headlines like:

Drinking Games: How to Come Out a Winner

Whoa, what?? Come on people, everybody knows it’s more fun to LOSE at drinking games! Seriously, what kind of pussy-footed college drinkers are we trying to create? At least in my day, even on my conservative little campus, they didn’t try to convince us to drink sensibly. Instead they employed the age old practice of denial. AND IT WORKED OUT BEAUTIFULLY! Except for a tiny glitch my sophomore year when I was completely annihilated, hid (poorly) from the cops, was dragged out and questioned, strongly reprimanded for underage drinking, and reported to the dean. But still, those were good times!

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I feel the overwhelming need to strangle White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs. Or at least punch him in the head. Better yet, pull his vocal cords out through his penis. All because of the—”uh”.

Seriously. Listening to Gibbs in a press briefing is MADDENING! The man, uh, can’t, uh, stop, uh, saying, “uh”, uh!

How can he NOT be aware of this? The man only speaks publicly on a DAILY BASIS and is recorded by HUNDREDS of media outlets. Has no one ever said to him, “Dude, you’ve got a serious UH problem”?

I really don’t care what it takes to get his problem fixed—speech therapy, lobotomy, jaw wired shut—but for the sake of my fellow American’s ears and my superior communication sensibilities something MUST be done.

Your suggestions for possible solutions are always welcome. (please be aware--if your comments lead to the Secret Service showing up at my door I will totally give you up. but only because I believe in tough love, and I do loves you)

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Why am I here? Why, exactly, do I need to be healthy? Why am I so gawd awful sweaty? Why is the guy next to me working out so freakin’ hard? Why do I feel like I’m having a bad hair day AND a heart attack?

To make matters worse I was completely unprepared for the horrid experience of getting my picture taken for the stupid membership card. GAH!

It was so much worse than any DMV photo I’ve ever had taken. I was rockin’ it with no makeup, ratty hair, baseball cap, lumpy coat, head cocked to one side, lip snarl, and a vacant look in my slits for eyes. I pretty much made love to the camera like this gangsta girl, except I was lookin’ 1000 times more ridiculous doin’ the thug thing.

Why, I ask ya, do they even bother? I’m never going to admit it’s me in the real picture. In fact that membership card may or may not have already met an untimely demise; snipped into tiny bits, burned to ashes, and buried in a remote location. On the up side, I’m counting going to such extremes as a full workout.

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The other night I took a pill to help me sleep (not the red or blue one but some kind of legit prescription from a doc. and, the fact that I wasn’t more clear than that on the details of the prescription should have been a blinking warning light, but I’m generally happy in my little cove of cluelessness). And guess what?? It worked! In fact, I slept for nearly all of the next 36 hours!

Turns out I may have taken a bit too large a dose, or as I like to say—I supercalifragilisticexpiali-dosed myself. As I learned afterward, the med I took has adverse reactions that include (not shockingly)--drowsiness, fatigue, lethargy, confusion, inability to concentrate, blah, blah, blah. Okay, I can vouch for those. But what really intrigued me was that the side effects also include the more exotic:

• psychomotor retardation
• uncontrollable laughter
• sex drive increase

Of course, being the super mature grown up that I am, I BWAHAHAHAHA’d my ass off! Just imagine the combination of the three symptoms—a hobbling horny hyena! Like I don’t have enough deficits already? Anyhozzle, I’m going to try NOT to supercalifragilisticexpiali-dose myself again. Seriously, I can’t risk further retardation.

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I know, I know, I’ll have to do better next time. I might even dig up some way old pics, from back in the day when I used to have a life to sufficiently embarrass myself. Until then scoot on over to Bee’s place and check out some other weirdness!

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I took yet another trip down the rabbit hole of the internetz and ended up in the sequined cathedral of pop star worship--a Britney Spears fan-o-matic site.

I'm not proud of myself, but I had to know why everyone was buzzing about Brit's latest song, "If you seek Amy." Call me clueless but for some reason my brain refused to translate the phrase into it's down and dirty equivalent. Gawd I hope I'm not losing my naughty nelly edge!

Well, I found the answer (which, by the way, is "f-u-c-k me". yeah, well fuck me for not knowing) and more. I'm sure you realize it's only the "more" part that slayed me. I'm completely okay with nasty subliminal messages chat blanc is a hot bitch.

What knocked my Cheshire grin right off the block with shock was a lengthy fan comment that was a combination music theory dissertation and Brit biography! Big words. Vivid imagery. Written by a 52 year-old man. WTF? Apparently Britney's fans have growed up, gone all cultured, and got edumacated y'all! Yeah, so f-u-c-k me, I finally found Wonderland!

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I recently learned,while on the job, that this house/cat sitting gig is actually more like personal assistant, housekeeper, errand girl, lackey, and slave to cats. I didn't realize beforehand that when the parental units left they would leave behind their entire lives and I was expected to a) fulfill all their vacant roles in the house and community, and b) be at their phone and email beck and call 24-7.

Seriously, they weren't 20 minutes down the road to warmer climates when I received the first phone call. The next call came approximately 2 hours later. Little did I know that was only a foreshadowing of my servitude future.

In fact, I now find myself playing roles I never quite imagined; like stand-in for a 60-something retired farmer who serves on the board for the local cemetery. Let me tell ya, THAT'S exciting. Oh yeah, and this:

"Gather round my fine feline friends. I'm Slave Sandy and I'll be your server this evening.

Would you all like to start off the meal with kitty kibble, more kibble, or even MORE kibble?

Very well, kibble it is! Also, I'll be serving a delightful tap water to accompany your meal. I do ask that you refrain from washing your paws in it.

Following the meal we'll be engaging in several entertaining rounds of--Somebody Needs a Hissy Fit Time Out, Quit Picking on Your Brother, Everybody Just Calm Down, I Know Who Farted, and Quit Ignoring Me It's Time to Go Outside."

Good times y'all. Good times.

*Special Editor's Note (yeah, that's another role I'm playing--editor-in-chief-of-nothing): My duties as stand-in for the retired farmer (aka dear old dad)/cemetery board member have thus far consisted of me being a paper shuffler. Apparently the board has a highly efficient system where important papers, documents and information are delivered to my parents address and then need to be passed on to yet another board member who does gawd knows what with them. Other than that, I spend time hoping there's nothing more I need to do for the dead.

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You may not know it, but this is a monumental revelation. I've always been fairly serious, type A about school, work, and achievement in general. But now, I see that my somewhat bombastic and militant approach to accomplishment was really just a crock of shit. And that caring too much about perfect outcomes was one of my harmful obsessions. I was smokin' the give-a-crap pipe.

Thankfully I'm starting to see signs of recovery from this unhealthy fixation. In fact, the other night I did something unprecedented. As I filled out my student profile for my online MBA classes I was inspired to give up my professional persona and reveal my wicked goofball self to the group. And what better way to do that than with my profile picture! So, after a quick and uber informal poll on Twitter I chose my picture.

Now, I proudly present to you the newly reformed, I-don't-give-a-crap, wicked goofball, MBA student with a sense of humor--ME!

Seriously, who wouldn't want to be in a class with that??

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