Heck is for people that don't believe in gosh.

Dear Blog,
Sorry for not updating regularly.
Love,
Kate

_______________________________________

Anyway, I would like to tell you that I'm so busy that I just don't have a minute to break away to write but that's not true. I'm just lazy. Lately I've mostly been consumed with reading other people's blogs and this had made me intimidated and feeling sluggish about regaling the internet with stories about my cubicle. Or...well, my cubicle. That about sums it up. Yesterday I cleaned it! Today I rearranged the magnetic poetry on my cabinets! Oh, did I tell you about when I organized my books from largest to smallest?!

Yeah, cubicles suck.

_______________________________________

SORRY, MORE ELEVATOR RANTING:

This morning I was late to work. I parked my car by the elevator (I always park like three floors higher than necessary so I don't have to walk a long way to the elevator. Whoo...I am SO not living an active lifestyle and will probably die from deep vein thrombosis or something) What was I talking about? Oh right, the elevator.

ANYWAY: This SUPER cheery woman was holding the door for literally every single person in the whole garage. Including me, even though I was busy fiddling with my car, and putting my shoes on and losing my keys in my purse (you get the idea). I even gave her the "go ahead without me" wave and she didn't get it. I'm not sure what else I could have done except give her the "I LITERALLY WOULD RATHER HURL MYSELF OFF OF THE TOP OF THIS GARAGE THAN RIDE DOWN TO THE STREET WITH YOU AND THE SIX OTHER PEOPLE IN THERE" wave.

Eventually she got the message, but SERIOUSLY people. I'm beginning to think my hatred of the elevator is borderline sick.

____________________________________

Since I've been reading other people's blogs I've been feeling less and less important/articulate. I think I've mentioned this before, but MAN, some of these ladies don't even curse. HOW?

Once, someone told me that someone told THEM that I had a gift for telling stories, which I don't think exactly translates into my blogging sometimes. For one, it must seem as though I have absolutely no grasp whatsoever of the English language, or it's grammar (one I got a C on a paper in COLLEGE because it had 17 comma splices, so this might actually be the case). But seriously, I just don't see the point in editing my blog. What you see is what you get here, people. This crap comes straight out of my brain onto the paper. No filters.

Secondly, it has occurred to me lately that maybe I was good at telling stories...back when I had some stories to tell people. I mean, it's not hard to tell a story like this one:

• Once upon a time, Kate and her Friend Sam trespassed in a National Park by climbing the fence at Monticello into an apple orchard planted when Thomas Jefferson lived there and absolutely GORGED themselves on delicious, ripe little national treasures.

True story! But man, compare that to this:

• Once upon a time, Kate was late to work because she couldn't find any pantyhose and she didn't want to get in the elevator and then her computer broke and she converted some firm resumes into a new format and went home and waited for C to get off work because she has no other friends.

WOW.

This same person also told the person who told me that he told her (right? right.) that when I cursed, it sounded "right" or that "it fit". At the time I was not interested in cutting down on the amount of cursing that I do nor did I regularly post in a blog that my grandmother may or may not read. So I was excited. Yea! I'm good at cursing! Now I'm not so impressed with myself when I can't come up with anything better to say than "shit." But I still make mistakes. Probably like ten times a day.

Hey, my grandfather was a sailor. That's what my mother told me and that's probably what I'll tell my daughters when they curse someday: "Hey, your great grandfather was a sailor, it's ok" and so on down the line. Someday there will be a distant ancestor of mine saying unspeakable things and her mother will tell her "Hey, I bet someone in our family was a sailor, so it's ok".

I think I really need some help. Shock therapy or something.

_____________________________________________

*BONUS: Right as I typed this tome excusing myself from cursing my grandmother sent me an email with a prayer in it from Billy Graham. What's that you say? No one cares that your grandfather was a sailor? Cursing isn't cute anymore because you're a grown woman and not a whippy, in-your-face college girl?

___________________________________________

To sum up, and a few more small things that are happening in my life:

• I should not curse because God will use my grandmother as a tool to make me regret it by coinciding her devout emails with my excuses.
• My life will never, ever be as exciting as it was in college, but hopefully it will not continue to be this horrifyingly boring.
• God, I hate elevators.
• I tried for the fourth time to burn off the wart on my hand this weekend, and its STILL THERE.
• C and I looked at engagement rings! That's exciting, right?! I won't even allow myself to talk about it because people DEFINITELY dont want to read descriptions of the 50,000 rings I liked. Bottom line, C? If it's got some diamonds in it, I think I'm happy.
  
• It's four fifty and I am getting the hell heck out of dodge.

Normal Husband-like behavior.

Anyone who knows me as of late knows how much I hate elevators. I have special disdain for the people on the floor below me because EVERY TIME I get on the elevator, thinking I'm gonna be able to just ride up to my floor, one of those annoying hippie architects has to come rushing up and stick their little messenger bag full of blue prints or what have you in the door. Why are these people wasting my time? Can't they just walk up eight flights of stairs? KIDDING. Kinda. I think I would be a lot more tolerant if the first six floors weren't used as parking, and therefore not an issue. But because of that, the seventh floor is the only thing between me and a stop-free ride to my office every morning.

Also, this afternoon a lady got in and had that annoying habit of smacking her lips and swashing her saliva around in her mouth for no reason. She also felt it was necessary to stare blatantly at my shoes the entire time. I tried to back into a corner and pretend I was invisible but no dice. She just turned around and kept staring. How are these people even functioning in the real world? What is it about the elevator that makes people act like rejects? Honestly.

Anyway, enough about that.
__________________________________________


I read this other girls blog today and it inspired me thusly:

LOVE: this gorgeous, fall-like weather
HATE: the horror-movie-esque number of fleas that come with it.

LOVE: my job
HATE: being the lowest person on the totem pole here.

LOVE: C
HATE: that he can't find a job that will get him money while he's furloughed.

LOVE: ice cream
HATE: that theres free ice cream that I can't justify having in the lobby

LOVE: my job
HATE: STILL not having enough money to buy myself things.

__________________________________

Speaking of the ice cream social in the lobby, I wasn't sure what was going on until the elevator came and an absolutely inane number of secretaries, etc (all women -- draw your own conclusions) got off and went streaming for the ice cream. I'm talking about like thirty women at a time. It was insane.

__________________________________

All in all, this hasn't been the best day ever. It hasn't been the WORST day, but it definitely could have been better. I will now interrupt this blog entry for a healthy dose of Feeling Sorry For Myself (FSFM):

• This morning my now ex-roommate once again displayed an unnecessary level of asshole-ity. He of course can suck my proverbial wang, but it still made me blindingly irate mad.
• Thinking that the shoes I wanted to wear were in my car already, I left the house without shoes on, only to arrive at work with no shoes. So for the first half of my day I had to wear a pair of shoes that had been in my trunk probably since like 1999 (incidently, the last time they were in style was probably 1999 as well) and also looked like I had pulled them out of a dumpster to boot.
• Then when I got back from lunch I had to pee BAD, so I ran into the bathroom, but the hook on my slacks was welded shut by dragon fire or something, and I could NOT get my pants off to save my life. Sooooo that sucked.*

*Yes, I did eventually get my pants off without the use of the jaws of life.

_______________________________

I realized I haven't reviewed the latest gem on Yahoo Answers lately, so here it is:

Is this normal for A Husband?

I find my Husband Dunkin with his member in a bird feeder! I find him with it in a hole in the wall of in our den! I found him with it in a doughnuts when we buy them from Dunkins Doughnut'! He even has placed his member into a drain in our bathtub!

Im afraid if he sees a gofer hole he might place his member into it and get bit! I feel it is a danger for him to be doing this, how should i tell him to stop?

elevator brats.

gripe time:

Why do people get into the elevator, see that the button for their floor is clearly illuminated, and then proceed to push it again. WHY?! Is the pre-existing push not good enough? Is this some sort of vestigial urge left over from when they were annoying brats who had to push the elevator button themselves or die?

Obviously, I have very little tolerance for the whole elevator experience. Probably because my expectations are so high. Is it too much that people not speak, breathe, or move while they're in the elevator with me?

If I were a unicorn.

Today I saved my old blog from doom by downloading the entirety of it (2002-present) onto my computer. At first I thought I would slowly import old blogs into this one and date them retrospectively (see labels: retrospective posts) but that got old, and now there are only a few, very random posts from the past, not at all indicative of my general mindset or state of being during those times. Now it exists only as a massive, dense block of unformatted text with smatterings of html tags throughout. I bet my children will be doing nothing short of clamoring to read it.

______________________________________

I'm always super annoyed by people on the elevators at work. Perhaps today more than other days, because for the past week or so I've been exhausted and in a fog. But the thing is, there are at least eight elevators in our particular bank of elevators, servicing only floors 6-16. Thats more than one elevator per floor so WHY THE @#$% DOES EVERYONE NEED TO JAM INTO THE SAME ELEVATOR?! I know I should be a dutiful office citizen and hold the door for people who are too fucking lazy to call themselves an elevator and wait for it, but I don't. There I said it. I don't hold the elevator. I'm not even one of those people that will stand behind the closing doors and say "OOPS!" loud enough so the person who is left behind will at least think you tried.

Here's what came up when I googled "crowded elevator"...discuss:


The lumberjack depiction is pretty much my favorite, but the toy unicorn spearing what appears to be hitler is definitely a close second. If only the hitler doll was instead the middle aged secretary who today said "beep beep beep!" as she literally backed into the crowded elevator, and the unicorn doll was myself, then indeed the second depiction would be an accurate presentation of a "crowded elevator." Yes, maybe we SHOULD install a back-up warning horn on you so we can all be on the lookout for you when you back your ass into the elevator.





_________________________________________