Holy $98 Overage Charge, Bat Man!

Ok, so my damn phone bill came and it had a massive overage charge, which I never do, because I don't talk to that many people, so my dang phone bill was, let's see, can I do math in my head, 41 goes into 158 how many times? Anyway, it's a fucking huge phone bill, for me anyway. So no one call me. Text me, but not more than 250 times, because then I'll have to pay for them assuming that I answer each text, which adds up to 500 texts total. Which I can add up in my head, thanks. So to recap, don't call me, you bastards. Text me, please, but only if it's important. Because I can't be spending my beer money on fucking phone calls, ok?

Hey, do you remember Carl, the straight guy who knows all the words to Grease? I do, but he don't remember me, kids, and he's sitting right next to me, ignoring me, which is fine, because I'm not in the mood exactly to be too nice to strangers. I'm in the mood to pick a fight, actually, and I haven't felt like this in forever. I didn't miss it.

Let's not go picking fights for fun. Hey look, my battery power is running out. Dang. I wonder if they would install an outlet at this end of the bar for me. That would be so convenient. I can't move to the geek corner with the outlets because people are occupying all the outlet-adjacent tables.

It's very difficult being me.

PS. Tonight's drinking is sponsored by last month's freelance gig, which I finally got paid for today. Don't worry, I'll pay the phone bill tomorrow.

Well, Fuck ME, Sweden, As It Turns Out.

Sweden - 3
ReadBecca - 0

Not only was I wrong about the shelves being faulty, I cut my hand on the glorified laminated cardboard backing piece, which drew blood, and I was wrong about needing the drill. They provide this little hand-cranky thing that made me feel like I was starting a Model T. Ikea means "Just because the instructions are internationally understood pictographs doesn't mean you'll follow them correctly, you ignorant American." There wasn't a damn thing wrong with the shelves. The half-circles were where the pins fit in the adjustable shelves. Bookcase successfully assembled. Books successfully out of dresser drawers. ReadBecca contrite.

Level of realization there are many more books in boxes in the storage closet: High.
Next Ikea storage solution: Chosen. And measured. Will fit CD player. And serve as bar.
Height of Eiffel Tower lamp: Too tall. Trade places with paper shredder.
Level of realization ReadBecca didn't measure paper shredder: High
Confidence level that paper shredder will fit on non-adjustable shelf: Medium-low

And all this home-storage assembly was done without the aid of adult beverages. Amazing. Now I only have to get a job. And pay tuition. And get something to eat. I'm freakin' starving.

Just in case it wasn't completely clear:

Sorry, Sweden. My bad.

Fuck You, Sweden, And Your Fucking Bookcase.

Ok, so right now I hate an entirely pleasant country and I know that's irrational, but still. If the two of you who have been to my house in the last two years remember, there has been a tall, skinny cardboard box leaning against the wall pretty much since I moved in, right? It's the bookcase I bought for all the books that are in my bottom two dresser drawers instead of clothes. All my clothes are in the laundry basket getting wrinkled right where I can see them and find them. Anyway.

I opened that fucking box tonight.

First, I couldn't find the instructions. Then as I get set with the drill charging (I know the directions always say you don't need a drill to tighten the screws, but fuck Sweden. You need a drill.) and my hammer at the ready (yes, I own tools that aren't sexual in nature.), I take a good look at the shelves themselves to make sure I'm using the correct ones first, I realize that half of them are fucking fucked up. The pre-drilled holes are all in the fucking wrong places, and not only are they not in the right fucking places, they're half off the edges. So instead of a fucking round hole in the wrong place (0), there's a bunch of fucking half-circles (c) off the edges of four fucking shelves. Fuck these fucking Swedish shelves. What the fuck does Ikea even mean?

Fuck their fucking cinnamon rolls and their fucking 90 day return policy. And fuck putting all the fucking furniture back where it was. I WANT that lamp in the middle of the fucking floor. The only thing I'm going to put back is my CD player. It can sit on the fucking floor just like fucking college for all I care.

This never would have fucking happened at the New Yankee Workshop. Support public television now!

Besides the monumental bookshelf fuck-up of '07, I have other interesting things to speak of, but now I don't want to. After all this time, it feels weird to talk about it, even though it's like the reason ReadBecca exists. I guess the only thing I want to say is that St. Patrick's Day is no longer the anniversary of anything. Except that time Michele ordered seven Jell-o shots. To go.

What The Hell, Thursday?

So apparently, Thursday is date night at The Dubliner. So there are no ruffians or ne'er-do-wells with whom we may consort, however innocently, or not guiltily, whatever the case may be. Stef is here with me, and we abandoned our ginormous table that we never sit at for the bar, which we always sit at, and we feel much better. Except now I'm writing and Stef is bored. Writing is a solo process. It blows that we can't write at the same time. They make sex toys with remote controls for two, but still, I blog alone. I'm sure Stef appreciates that. (Official disclaimer: we are just friends, and not in a Perez Hilton way.)

I am a mathematical genius. Took the algebra final and despite not knowing an effing thing about logarithms, I still got an 87.something, so I hit my 64 quota and have my A overall. Please hold your applause. Hey, cook me a steak. I'm all stream of consciousness right now. You would be too after 4 or 5 beers and a bunch of blinking Christmas lights. Oh my gah, Stef just outed me blogging to strangers. I blushed. I can look at vibrators for two hours today, but two dudes see me typing at a bar and I blush. My brain is so miswired. Ok, now I can't think. I better buy some shots or something. Self-consciousness ruins everything. Self-awareness is heretofore banned.

Ok. Who wants a Tuaca shot?

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Shitty Weather.

I don't like winter. I like the clothes though. But winter itself I can do without. These gray days make me want to stay home and eat potatoes. Summer makes me want to stay home and eat lettuce, so there's the yang to the yin right there. I've got a winter birthday, so that's good. I hardly have to share with other people on my birthday because 95% of the American population was born in September. Rock on, Aquarius.

I just paid a bunch of bills. I had money to burn for 10 minutes and now I'm poor again. I hate that. I had to harass a freelance client for a check after that. Bitch better have my money. I'm starting to get all cranky and moany. I was going to go look for vintage ties today. I suppose I still could, but what if I find some? I can't buy them. And that is worse than not looking at all. The only thing I can legitimately purchase is a #882E scantron. I got a quarter in my purse for that. I'm hoping hot chocolate when I get home will at least partially lift my crap mood. I think if I deliberately stand outside until my fingers turn blue, I'll appreciate the cocoa even more and I won't feel sorry for myself anymore. At least I have cocoa. There are people who are much worse off. Poor cocoa-less waifs.

My hair looks good today, so I've got that going for me, which is nice. Dinner is already cooking in my crock pot, so I'm going to have something delicious waiting for me in addition to hot chocolate. I will also have garlic bread later. Nothing is better than garlic bread. I stand by that statement. I ate the ice cream, but I do have the extra creamy and delicious strawberry yogurt in reserve. And Stef's delicious chocolate cherry brownies. I ate the Chex mix last night. All in all, things could be a lot worse. I don't live under the I-45 bridge. I'm not a crack whore, so I don't have to hide from my pimp. I don't have tuberculosis or scabies. I'm not married to someone I don't love. Oprah isn't trying to have me killed, because she could, you know, if she wanted to. My umbrella is way bigger than that guy's. I've been to Paris. Hey, look at that, I'm smiling.

Think of one good thing and have a better day. You could count ReadBecca as your good thing; it's just a suggestion. Dang, now I've gone all sappy. Huzzah for mood swings!

Dang, When Did It Start Raining?

I was googling some smut and I must have really been concentrating because it's raining and I didn't notice. Note: I am sitting a foot from the window. If a truck came through this joint, I'd be the first thing it hit. It is rather notable that I didn't see it start with the rain.

Anyway, the combination of not having anything better to do and a weekly appointment means the other six days of the week all I think about is smut and how long it is until Monday and what I need to do to get ready for it. I shouldn't have this much time on my hands. It's dangerous. If I start talking about building a home dungeon, fill out an application at Dairy Queen for me and make sure I show up for the interview in something other than a latex apron and boots.

Remind me to actually take my algebra final. I'm preoccupied with visions of sugarsmuts dancing in my head.

Dang, You People Are Behind.

Ok, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Last Friday we hit The Capitol Pub and gave it 3.5 ReadBecca Beers. It's a bit large, which will make it hard to talk to strangers, as opposed to the forced intimacy of the much smaller The Dubliner, which we went to after The Cap. We shut the joint down and talked to many, many strangers, including a 24 yr. old with more mouth than experience with old broads, I'm betting.

Then there was Married Randy from Oregon who was totally turned on when I equated Canada with R.O.U.Ses, I don't think either one of them exists. And when he used his big come on, "You smell so good, what is that?" And I said, "Soap." I thought he was going to die at the thought that I just walk around smelling like that naturally. (SoftSoap body wash, Milk & Honey flavor, pick some up at Target today!) I've seen about 67,392,503 girls swoop in to "save" their friend from an undesirable, but I've never seen a guy do it. MRFO's friends swooped in to save him from me, obviously the town Jezebel. I thought it was funny. Didn't they see me avoiding Randy's attempts to kiss me? Guess not. This is my official notice to the state of Oregon: I don't fool around with married men. Very bad juju comes from such things.

The alleged Canadians were funny. One of them was supposed to have been a hockey player. I wouldn't know, but he kept signing things (my empty beer, a coaster) so I kept one (the coaster) just in case it wasn't total bullshit, which I'm sure it is, but still, you never know.

Our first stranger of the evening was Chris, who had to stand around waiting for service, when my beer was already waiting for me before I even sat down. ReadBecca: You better recognize, and Chris did, with an obvious, "You must be regulars." That we are, son, that we are.

Also, we saw people we hadn't seen since last St. Patrick's day and that time we made out. It was weird how everyone we talked about suddenly showed up. I should have said, "Hey Stef, you know who we haven't seen in forever? George Clooney." He would have magically appeared.

I suspect one of the people we hadn't seen since last SPD was trying to make me jealous. Ha. He always wanted me more than I wanted him. I love it when that happens, which is, like, never. He gave me more notice than was required after the initial "Hey" combined with the chin lift, touching the small of my back as he passed by, when he could have kept walking without any need to get close enough to touch me and I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't. Making sure I knew he was there. Ha.

Yeah, I'm gloating! So what? It was a good night, on all fronts. My jokes were funny and I looked hot. The planets were all aligned. It's nice when someone says you're pretty, even if they're drunk and from Oregon and married to boot. And then Guy Who I Made Out With Once was all, "Where are you girls going now? I've got wine and a fireplace." and we were all, "Home, dude." which is code for "Once was enough. We're through."

Turning him down was easy. Mondays are much better. I like having Monday in my back pocket at the moment. It'll do.

Aside from working it, I've been doing Algebra like a mad woman. The final is next week. I can get as low as a 64 on it and still pass the class. With an A. ReadBecca got mad Algebra skills. Who knew?

Hey guess what. My house is still clean. I KNOW. It IS crazy. But still don't look in the closet.