I have a tendency to over-think things. As a result, my decision tree probably looks more like a decision heavily-browsed-riparian-shrub: where other people might have a 'yes' branch and a 'no' branch, I have countless numbers of 'maybes' and 'yes, buts' and 'if I only had a little more information to work withs'... all of which conclusions I tend to arrive at simultaneously, culminating in endless mental gridlock.
On my more euphemistic days, I prefer to think of it as quantum superdecisioning. Sounds more like a superpower that way.
Whitewashed flaws aside, I do happen to be blessed with a great many superpowers. Not all of them are fit for publication in a family-friendly blog such as this, but I can tell you that one of my personal favourites - I used it just today! - is that I don't get hangovers. Ever.
And so, in absence of any perceivable disincentive, the decision whether to imbibe is one of the few I can reliably make in life without an awful lot of hand-wringing or second-guessing. In fact, my decision shrub for whether or not to drink is more like a decision... stick. With 'yes' being the foregone conclusion.
And there might not even have been a question.
Here's a recent example:
"Ooo, I'm so excited about this party, I'll grab a glass of this nice chardonnay and mingle a bit."
"M'mm, that first glass went down pretty easy. Better grab another just to be sociable."
"Oh my goodness, what a delightful time for a refill!"
"You know what this cheese would go well with..."
"Shit, my glass got all empty again."
"Now onto the reds!"
"Don't mind if I do!"
"I love you, man!"
"More = YES."
"YES = YES."
"Paaaaartay!"
"WOOOO HOOOOOO!"
I lost track after the first twelve glasses or so, but you can see how the Decision Stick works: the fact that wine was present in the vicinity functioned as an implicit question, to which the answer was, invariably, 'yes'.
Okay, so it's a bit of a blunt stick, but what the heck.
DH gave my Decision Stick a try at the wine party we hosted last night, and his trajectory more or less paralleled mine throughout the evening (see above). Unfortunately, the results of his experiment seem to indicate that he doesn't appear to possess quite the same degree of hepatic fortitude as myself.
But don't worry - I was able to force the bathroom door open wide enough to get a blanket more or less on top of him and check his pulse every couple of hours throughout the night. I'm sure he'll be back to normal in a couple of days.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
HazelNut
I always used to say to my ex-husband, "I didn't marry your mother!"
It was one of the biggest sources of friction in our relationship: I am a delightful, sensible person, while she is an overbearing, meddling lunatic. Who eats fish heads. (Not even kidding.)
In some sort of horrible cosmic comedy, the fact that I didn't marry her not only had no bearing whatsoever on her decorum for the duration of my ill-fated first marriage, but it also meant that I couldn't divorce her, either. Somehow, in her mentally-unstable fish head-eating haze, she's construed the fact that she and I are not divorced to mean that we must be good buddies, from which it (il)logically follows that she should phone me seventeen times a week to complain about her boss and ask whether Medium Fry needs a new jacket because she just saw some on clearance at Wal-Mart.
My ex phoned me this week to tell me his mother had phoned him to complain that I never answer the phone or return her messages when she calls.
First of all - she tattled on me? And secondly, what the hell did she think he was going to be able to do about it? The moron can't even hold down a cell phone account, I'm not about to start taking his advice. Thirdly, the kid doesn't need some shitty discount Wal-Mart jacket! I buy her nice jackets! What is with that woman and her Wal-Mart jackets?!
*pant, pant*
But I didn't say any of those things. You know why? Because I am a delightful, sensible person. So I put on my most thoroughly delightful saccharine-yet-terrifying-because-it-is-only-thinly-veiling-my-actual-rage voice (with which I assure you he is very familiar) and made an exceedingly sensible point, namely:
"Ohhhh, I see. So how many times a day would you like to converse with my parents? I'm sure I could arrange something..."
... ... (Have patience. It always takes him a while to process.) ... ...
... "Oh. Yeah. Uh, I guess it is kinda weird that she calls you so much. Maybe I'll tell her she should stop phoning you."
"I doubt she's going to be able to go cold turkey after all these years."
"Yeah, you're probably right. So how much can she call you?"
"I think a couple times a month is about the maximum I should reasonably be expected to handle politely."
"Okay, I'll tell her. Oh, hey, by the way, I've been having trouble with my cell phone..."
"You mean it got cut off again?"
... ... (processing... ) ... ...
"Um... yeah. So don't call me on it."
"Roger that."
It was one of the biggest sources of friction in our relationship: I am a delightful, sensible person, while she is an overbearing, meddling lunatic. Who eats fish heads. (Not even kidding.)
In some sort of horrible cosmic comedy, the fact that I didn't marry her not only had no bearing whatsoever on her decorum for the duration of my ill-fated first marriage, but it also meant that I couldn't divorce her, either. Somehow, in her mentally-unstable fish head-eating haze, she's construed the fact that she and I are not divorced to mean that we must be good buddies, from which it (il)logically follows that she should phone me seventeen times a week to complain about her boss and ask whether Medium Fry needs a new jacket because she just saw some on clearance at Wal-Mart.
My ex phoned me this week to tell me his mother had phoned him to complain that I never answer the phone or return her messages when she calls.
First of all - she tattled on me? And secondly, what the hell did she think he was going to be able to do about it? The moron can't even hold down a cell phone account, I'm not about to start taking his advice. Thirdly, the kid doesn't need some shitty discount Wal-Mart jacket! I buy her nice jackets! What is with that woman and her Wal-Mart jackets?!
*pant, pant*
But I didn't say any of those things. You know why? Because I am a delightful, sensible person. So I put on my most thoroughly delightful saccharine-yet-terrifying-because-it-is-only-thinly-veiling-my-actual-rage voice (with which I assure you he is very familiar) and made an exceedingly sensible point, namely:
"Ohhhh, I see. So how many times a day would you like to converse with my parents? I'm sure I could arrange something..."
... ... (Have patience. It always takes him a while to process.) ... ...
... "Oh. Yeah. Uh, I guess it is kinda weird that she calls you so much. Maybe I'll tell her she should stop phoning you."
"I doubt she's going to be able to go cold turkey after all these years."
"Yeah, you're probably right. So how much can she call you?"
"I think a couple times a month is about the maximum I should reasonably be expected to handle politely."
"Okay, I'll tell her. Oh, hey, by the way, I've been having trouble with my cell phone..."
"You mean it got cut off again?"
... ... (processing... ) ... ...
"Um... yeah. So don't call me on it."
"Roger that."
Sunday, September 18, 2011
It Ain't for Sissies
At first, the signs were subtle. If you weren't paying attention you wouldn't even notice them.
Then one day you walk out of the liquor store and think, Gee, that guy didn't even ask to see my ID when I bought this.
In fact, you realize that you can't think of the last time anyone asked for your ID.
Or, for that matter, your phone number.
Oh my gawd, you think. How long has this been going on? How far gone am I?
Maybe it was just the lighting. Yeah, the lighting. The lighting in that place was total shit.
You rush home and scrutinize yourself in a magnifying mirror. You discover what appears to be - although the sighting has not been confirmed - something resembling a line on your forehead. A permanent line.
Although it could have just been the lighting in your bathroom. The lighting in your bathroom is total shit.
Just to be safe, you make an emergency appointment with your hairdresser to get some side bangs.
But by the time it reaches this point, no amount of side bangs can help you. The signs start coming hard and fast, and all of them are pointing to one thing: Old. Here are some handy ways to know if you've arrived at Old:
- The pimply young grocery store clerk calls you "ma'am".
- Actually, everyone does.
- It takes you two months to fully recover from an all-nighter.
- "Now why did I come upstairs...?"
- You're in a long-distance relationship with your breasts.
- Your idea of a good time is a glass of red and a nap.
- It requires conscious effort to refrain from buying purple clothing.
- Your tweezing schedule has begun to interfere with your social life.
- You could swear that chocolate bars used to be way bigger.
- If someone would just get you some fucking coffee right now, no one would have to get hurt.
- Mascara has changed in your estimation from special-occasion accent to indispensable crutch.
- Someone of the opposite sex compliments your appearance and you become faint with gratitude.
- You used to be free to flirt with abandon, but now you're pretty sure you're going to be arrested for the dirty joke you just told that handsome young fellow.
- And, finally:
Frankly, Old is a scary place, and I'd like some company - if any of the above sound familiar, give me a shout. I'm thinking we could start a support group.
Then one day you walk out of the liquor store and think, Gee, that guy didn't even ask to see my ID when I bought this.
In fact, you realize that you can't think of the last time anyone asked for your ID.
Or, for that matter, your phone number.
Oh my gawd, you think. How long has this been going on? How far gone am I?
Maybe it was just the lighting. Yeah, the lighting. The lighting in that place was total shit.
You rush home and scrutinize yourself in a magnifying mirror. You discover what appears to be - although the sighting has not been confirmed - something resembling a line on your forehead. A permanent line.
Although it could have just been the lighting in your bathroom. The lighting in your bathroom is total shit.
Just to be safe, you make an emergency appointment with your hairdresser to get some side bangs.
But by the time it reaches this point, no amount of side bangs can help you. The signs start coming hard and fast, and all of them are pointing to one thing: Old. Here are some handy ways to know if you've arrived at Old:
- The pimply young grocery store clerk calls you "ma'am".
- Actually, everyone does.
- It takes you two months to fully recover from an all-nighter.
- "Now why did I come upstairs...?"
- You're in a long-distance relationship with your breasts.
- Your idea of a good time is a glass of red and a nap.
- It requires conscious effort to refrain from buying purple clothing.
- Your tweezing schedule has begun to interfere with your social life.
- You could swear that chocolate bars used to be way bigger.
- If someone would just get you some fucking coffee right now, no one would have to get hurt.
- Mascara has changed in your estimation from special-occasion accent to indispensable crutch.
- Someone of the opposite sex compliments your appearance and you become faint with gratitude.
- You used to be free to flirt with abandon, but now you're pretty sure you're going to be arrested for the dirty joke you just told that handsome young fellow.
- And, finally:
Frankly, Old is a scary place, and I'd like some company - if any of the above sound familiar, give me a shout. I'm thinking we could start a support group.
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Ol' Hydraulic Frolic
Hey, did you hear about that French fellow who had to pay damages to his wife for not having sex with her for "a period of several years"?
I have to admit I'm appalled at the injustice of it. No, no, not that someone saw fit to attempt to legislate someone else's sex life - what really knots my knickers is that Monsieur B. failed to comply with Unspoken Spousal Agreement Number 6, a.k.a. the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex Agreement, as follows:
6 With respect to the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex to be entertained in the marriage:
6.1 The spouses shall participate in some quantity of sex;
6.1.1 at least some, and preferably all, of which shall occur with the marital partner;
6.1.2 the spouses' fantasy lives notwithstanding;
6.1.3 chance encounters with George Clooney also notwithstanding.
6.2 The quantity of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.2.1 the sex shall be distributed spatially such that it occurs in a non-random manner;
6.2.2 the sex shall be distributed temporally such that it occurs in a non-random manner.
6.3 The type of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall also be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.3.1 the sex shall be enacted in a non-random fashion.
6.4 The disagreeable nature of the sex lives of the spouses shall be trotted out regularly;
6.4.1 in any and all arguments longer than 10 seconds in duration;
6.4.2 in moments of pique, as seen fit by the parties; and
6.4.3 whenever drinking with friends.
So you see, Monsieur B. was clearly acting in violation of clauses 6.1 through 6.3, and one may infer 6.4 as well, although this is not essential to the case.
I'm an advocate of alternative sentencing in these types of rulings, so I would be very interested to know how exactly the judge assigned a dollar figure to the judgement. Perhaps Madame B. presented receipts for any "alternate means" she was forced to employ?
Although, even at cost plus 10% over several years, it hardly seems possible that one woman could burn through that many thousands of dollars' worth of hardware... she must have been awarded a battery stipend as well. Plus maybe a wee "pain and suffering" amount for any carpal tunnel incurred. Then multiply the lot by Madame B.'s subjective Hotness Factor - as determined solely at the discretion of the judge - and you've got yourself a quality alternative sentence.
I applaud you, crazy French judge.
Coincidentally, I predict a 6oo% increase in job security for positions within the French legal system as a result of this precedent-setting/ floodgate-opening case.
I have to admit I'm appalled at the injustice of it. No, no, not that someone saw fit to attempt to legislate someone else's sex life - what really knots my knickers is that Monsieur B. failed to comply with Unspoken Spousal Agreement Number 6, a.k.a. the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex Agreement, as follows:
6 With respect to the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex to be entertained in the marriage:
6.1 The spouses shall participate in some quantity of sex;
6.1.1 at least some, and preferably all, of which shall occur with the marital partner;
6.1.2 the spouses' fantasy lives notwithstanding;
6.1.3 chance encounters with George Clooney also notwithstanding.
6.2 The quantity of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.2.1 the sex shall be distributed spatially such that it occurs in a non-random manner;
6.2.2 the sex shall be distributed temporally such that it occurs in a non-random manner.
6.3 The type of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall also be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.3.1 the sex shall be enacted in a non-random fashion.
6.4 The disagreeable nature of the sex lives of the spouses shall be trotted out regularly;
6.4.1 in any and all arguments longer than 10 seconds in duration;
6.4.2 in moments of pique, as seen fit by the parties; and
6.4.3 whenever drinking with friends.
So you see, Monsieur B. was clearly acting in violation of clauses 6.1 through 6.3, and one may infer 6.4 as well, although this is not essential to the case.
I'm an advocate of alternative sentencing in these types of rulings, so I would be very interested to know how exactly the judge assigned a dollar figure to the judgement. Perhaps Madame B. presented receipts for any "alternate means" she was forced to employ?
Although, even at cost plus 10% over several years, it hardly seems possible that one woman could burn through that many thousands of dollars' worth of hardware... she must have been awarded a battery stipend as well. Plus maybe a wee "pain and suffering" amount for any carpal tunnel incurred. Then multiply the lot by Madame B.'s subjective Hotness Factor - as determined solely at the discretion of the judge - and you've got yourself a quality alternative sentence.
I applaud you, crazy French judge.
Coincidentally, I predict a 6oo% increase in job security for positions within the French legal system as a result of this precedent-setting/ floodgate-opening case.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Damn You, Flynn!
I used to think the most dangerous place to leave toy cars would be on the stairs. Now that I have children of my own, I realize that it's actually the bathtub.
You can always trust kids to one-up you like that.
This leads me to a related conclusion at which I also couldn't have arrived without having been a parent. Be brave, this is gonna hurt a little: your kids are smarter than you.
Not just statistically smarter, or better at texting, or whatever it is you routinely tell yourself to help yourself sleep at night, but actually smarter. Sure sure, you can tie your own shoes and snicker at the dirty jokes in the Pixar films that are still going way over their little heads, but otherwise they are floating like butterflies and stinging like bees while you are basically standing around scratching your ass. Intellectually speaking, anyways.
Now to be fair, they have a lot less going on than you do - no work, no responsibilities - but all this means is that they are able to devote 100% of their formidable processing powers to a) obtaining junk food; b) shedding whatever work or responsibilities they are handed; and/or c) formulating "non-linear interpretations" of rules.
Cases in point:
a) We recently saw twin eight-year-old boys at Superstore get the old "One treat, do you hear me? ONE!" from Mom, then - having made artful use of Dad's inattention during the remainder of the shopping trip - waltz out of the store a half-hour later with one of them cradling a family-sized chocolate bar and the other a bag of marshmallows. (Pwned!)
b) My girlfriend finally hit on a potty training incentive that worked: every time her daughter used the potty, she would get a sticker. When she earned ten stickers, she got a trip to the store to pick out one treat, whatever she wanted. Once at the store, she looked her mother straight in the eye and requested a roll of stickers. (PWNED!!)
c) Small Fry. All the time. *sigh* pwned.
And if the three-year-old is running laps around my best efforts I'm thinking I'll probably need to retain a lawyer before Medium Fry hits her teen years, to help me through curfew negotiations.
You can always trust kids to one-up you like that.
This leads me to a related conclusion at which I also couldn't have arrived without having been a parent. Be brave, this is gonna hurt a little: your kids are smarter than you.
Not just statistically smarter, or better at texting, or whatever it is you routinely tell yourself to help yourself sleep at night, but actually smarter. Sure sure, you can tie your own shoes and snicker at the dirty jokes in the Pixar films that are still going way over their little heads, but otherwise they are floating like butterflies and stinging like bees while you are basically standing around scratching your ass. Intellectually speaking, anyways.
Now to be fair, they have a lot less going on than you do - no work, no responsibilities - but all this means is that they are able to devote 100% of their formidable processing powers to a) obtaining junk food; b) shedding whatever work or responsibilities they are handed; and/or c) formulating "non-linear interpretations" of rules.
Cases in point:
a) We recently saw twin eight-year-old boys at Superstore get the old "One treat, do you hear me? ONE!" from Mom, then - having made artful use of Dad's inattention during the remainder of the shopping trip - waltz out of the store a half-hour later with one of them cradling a family-sized chocolate bar and the other a bag of marshmallows. (Pwned!)
b) My girlfriend finally hit on a potty training incentive that worked: every time her daughter used the potty, she would get a sticker. When she earned ten stickers, she got a trip to the store to pick out one treat, whatever she wanted. Once at the store, she looked her mother straight in the eye and requested a roll of stickers. (PWNED!!)
c) Small Fry. All the time. *sigh* pwned.
And if the three-year-old is running laps around my best efforts I'm thinking I'll probably need to retain a lawyer before Medium Fry hits her teen years, to help me through curfew negotiations.
Monday, August 22, 2011
We Didn't Forget Her, We Just Miscounted
Today marked an important milestone in DHs and my parenting career together.
It's difficult to convey in English, but the full translation is something along the lines of "my ex-husband bailed at the last minute on his summer plans with Medium Fry which left us in the lurch because DH started back at work today after his holidays and Small Fry's regular sitter is away on holidays and his interim sitter only had room for one child and my desk isn't really large enough to conceal an entire 11-year-old underneath it for the day..."
... or, "we left the kid at home alone today" for short.
Now, Medium Fry has been doing the latch key thing for ages already, but an hour here and there is significantly different than a whoooooole day home alone. And while she's quite an exceptional child, it's still a well-known scientifish fact that you can't grow pubic hairs and brain cells at the same time, so her decision-making skills of late frequently leave something to be desired.
Just to be safe, we made some ground rules:
- Keep the doors locked.
- Don't answer the phone.
- No fires, serious accidents, or kissing boys.
- If you are frightened, injured, or considering kissing boys, call me.
- If you are TERRIFIED, MORTALLY WOUNDED, or ON FIRE, call 9-1-1.
- If you are itchy, gassy, hungry, stinky, thirsty, whiny or bored, figure things out for yourself.
Truthfully, I felt pretty good about the whole situation. She's old enough to take a babysitting course and care for other children, so surely she's capable of hanging out by herself for a few hours. But just to quell that tiny niggling anxiety inside me, I decided to ask around the office this morning to suss out what other local parents of similarly-aged children are doing.
Turns out the first few people I talked to haven't actually let their children out of the womb yet, let alone left them home alone for a day. One fellow implied that he loves his children more than I love mine; another flat-out stated as much.
Good grief, Charlie Brown.
Today's Special: Raging Inferno of Self-Doubt and Apprehension, with a generous side order of Unsavoury Public Opinion, tossed in our own house-made Trepidation sauce.
I ordered a double C&C (caffeine and cortisol) to wash it down.
It's difficult to convey in English, but the full translation is something along the lines of "my ex-husband bailed at the last minute on his summer plans with Medium Fry which left us in the lurch because DH started back at work today after his holidays and Small Fry's regular sitter is away on holidays and his interim sitter only had room for one child and my desk isn't really large enough to conceal an entire 11-year-old underneath it for the day..."
... or, "we left the kid at home alone today" for short.
Now, Medium Fry has been doing the latch key thing for ages already, but an hour here and there is significantly different than a whoooooole day home alone. And while she's quite an exceptional child, it's still a well-known scientifish fact that you can't grow pubic hairs and brain cells at the same time, so her decision-making skills of late frequently leave something to be desired.
Just to be safe, we made some ground rules:
- Keep the doors locked.
- Don't answer the phone.
- No fires, serious accidents, or kissing boys.
- If you are frightened, injured, or considering kissing boys, call me.
- If you are TERRIFIED, MORTALLY WOUNDED, or ON FIRE, call 9-1-1.
- If you are itchy, gassy, hungry, stinky, thirsty, whiny or bored, figure things out for yourself.
Truthfully, I felt pretty good about the whole situation. She's old enough to take a babysitting course and care for other children, so surely she's capable of hanging out by herself for a few hours. But just to quell that tiny niggling anxiety inside me, I decided to ask around the office this morning to suss out what other local parents of similarly-aged children are doing.
Turns out the first few people I talked to haven't actually let their children out of the womb yet, let alone left them home alone for a day. One fellow implied that he loves his children more than I love mine; another flat-out stated as much.
Good grief, Charlie Brown.
Today's Special: Raging Inferno of Self-Doubt and Apprehension, with a generous side order of Unsavoury Public Opinion, tossed in our own house-made Trepidation sauce.
I ordered a double C&C (caffeine and cortisol) to wash it down.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
I Got a New Girl Now
The first time I heard her dulcet voice I was mesmerized. Sultry, sexy... and so informative. Now this, I thought, was a sound I could get used to hearing every morning, if you know what I mean.
It was so sweet the way she would gently remind me which station was coming up next - she knows how absent-minded I can be in the mornings! - and I really admired her patience with those buffoons who always seem to be blocking doors with their backpacks somehow. If not for her, I just didn't know how the world would run on time! What a voice. What a gal.
*sigh* Those were the days.
Then, I don't know. Things just started to... to change between us. I mean, why would someone consistently go out of their way to wake everyone up every five seconds to let you know that you were at one station, then departing the station you were just at, then heading to the next station, then arriving at that station she had just said you were heading to, for every goddamn station down the entire line? Hey, guess what? It's not like they change up the order or anything - I think we got it after the first thousand times or so. Let a person catch some z's in the mornings, will ya? It's just so damned passive aggressive.
Oh yeah, and that bullshit about "this train is trying to depart", could you get any more self-righteous? Like, who died and made her the blocking-the-door police? Take two seconds too long and she's bawling out people on crutches, little old blue-hairs, anyone, totally indiscriminate - surely some people deserve an extra moment to maneuver their wheelchairs or whatever in the doors, don't you think?
And then with the nagging! Jeez, you forget your personal belongings and newspapers when leaving the train once - once! - and man you are in for a lifetime of punishment. Might as well slit your own throat now and put yourself out of your misery because that bitch just won't let it go. I can hardly think with her constantly yapping at me in that grating, whinging frigging voice. Why can't she just shut up and leave me alone for five minutes? I swear, if I hear one single more snotty little "reminder" out of her mouth I may completely lose my mind.
I've asked her to treat me right, but this has been going on for months and she seems completely unwilling to change. I don't want to be stuck in this totally negative, one-sided relationship. I didn't even buy a transit pass this month, just paying cash when I absolutely can't avoid seeing her.
My friends are trying to hook me up with this really sweet gal, quiet and nice, a little 2010 Hyundai. I think it could totally work out between us, but I gotta admit it might be a little out of my price range to take her out every day...
It was so sweet the way she would gently remind me which station was coming up next - she knows how absent-minded I can be in the mornings! - and I really admired her patience with those buffoons who always seem to be blocking doors with their backpacks somehow. If not for her, I just didn't know how the world would run on time! What a voice. What a gal.
*sigh* Those were the days.
Then, I don't know. Things just started to... to change between us. I mean, why would someone consistently go out of their way to wake everyone up every five seconds to let you know that you were at one station, then departing the station you were just at, then heading to the next station, then arriving at that station she had just said you were heading to, for every goddamn station down the entire line? Hey, guess what? It's not like they change up the order or anything - I think we got it after the first thousand times or so. Let a person catch some z's in the mornings, will ya? It's just so damned passive aggressive.
Oh yeah, and that bullshit about "this train is trying to depart", could you get any more self-righteous? Like, who died and made her the blocking-the-door police? Take two seconds too long and she's bawling out people on crutches, little old blue-hairs, anyone, totally indiscriminate - surely some people deserve an extra moment to maneuver their wheelchairs or whatever in the doors, don't you think?
And then with the nagging! Jeez, you forget your personal belongings and newspapers when leaving the train once - once! - and man you are in for a lifetime of punishment. Might as well slit your own throat now and put yourself out of your misery because that bitch just won't let it go. I can hardly think with her constantly yapping at me in that grating, whinging frigging voice. Why can't she just shut up and leave me alone for five minutes? I swear, if I hear one single more snotty little "reminder" out of her mouth I may completely lose my mind.
I've asked her to treat me right, but this has been going on for months and she seems completely unwilling to change. I don't want to be stuck in this totally negative, one-sided relationship. I didn't even buy a transit pass this month, just paying cash when I absolutely can't avoid seeing her.
My friends are trying to hook me up with this really sweet gal, quiet and nice, a little 2010 Hyundai. I think it could totally work out between us, but I gotta admit it might be a little out of my price range to take her out every day...
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