Overly Verbal

So yesterday when I woke up, I had no Internet access or cable TV. Turned the whole damned thing off, turned it back on, and the TV came back after about half an hour. The Internet was back by the time I got home from work, but only if I bypassed the modem, which was illuminated in various shades of red and orange when all of the lights should have been green. And that’s all fine and good, because I like having Internet access, and if the only way to have it is to plug a cord right into my computer, it’s not like I’ll die – I lived much of my life without the freedom to wander about at will while connected to the Internet. Heck, I only got a laptop in November.

But I know there’s a better way, and so I’ve been turning my modem off and on randomly for a while now, hoping it will come back to life. I tried troubleshooting it online, but they only have “solutions” for people who have no power light, a red flashing power light, or a solid green light but no Internet access. My power light is solid red. (Or orange, depending on your perception of color. It’s sort of orange-red. I don’t know.)

Anyway, finally I decided that I had to call Verizon, which I enjoy doing about as much as I enjoy, oh, I don’t know, talking to really, really stupid people who work for a company I pay well over $150 a month, who don’t know as much about technology as I do, who won’t accept that I know more about technology than the average person, and who also persist in following a script the entire time they are interacting with you.

But today, I take back every single bad thing I’ve ever said about Verizon. I called this evening, was only on hold for seven minutes, and the woman who answered the phone solved my problem on the very first try. Whatever happened the other night fried the power adapter for my modem. How did she know? There’s a green light on the adapter, and when I turned the modem off, the green light got brighter – when I turned it back on again it got dimmer, they’re sending me a new adapter tomorrow, and I will soon have wireless Internet again!

I know it’s a cliché, but you really don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

The only disturbing thing about this is that the adapter for my modem is plugged into a surge protector, which is itself plugged into another surge protector, which is plugged into a heavy-duty 25’ extension cord, which is plugged into one of those things that make two plugs into six, which is plugged into an outlet in my kitchen. Also plugged into the first surge protector is the entire power supply for my phone, the power supply for my television service, and the switcher thing for my TV, so I don’t have to unplug the cable box every time I want to watch a DVD.* Plugged into the second surge protector is my printer, my laptop charger, my speakers, and my monitor. And frequently my cell phone charger and the charger for my camera battery. Each of those things still work, although I am seriously questioning the surge protecting capabilities of both surge protectors. So sure, I can replace the surge protectors – they’re old anyway, I think. But the larger question is why I have never accidentally set my house on fire. The largest question, though, is whether my ghettolord will finally crack down and have a couple of the outlets in the living room and bedroom converted to real, honest to goodness 20th century electricity** when he next visits.***

Well, and it’s also disturbing that my official reversal of my position on Verizon’s customer service will go down in history as a time I was wrong. So be it.

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* Which has become irrelevant since I now use my computer as a DVD player – this weekend I mean to get rid of it, my VCR, and my DVD player. Who needs a VCR? (No, I mean “Which one of you needs a VCR?”)

** Did you know that the three-prong plug was patented in 1928? Neither did I. I love Wikipedia.

*** Speaking of which, when I mentioned to Molly that we might be having a visitor, all she had to say was, “Well, I hope he brings his own Froot Loops.” Oh, no, wait, I said that. (Molly suggested that this mysterious visitor bring a travel holder for his toothbrush, because otherwise she’s going to chew on it while you’re sleeping.)

So tonight at my 7-11 I was feeling lucky, and bought a scratch-off lottery ticket. I won a whole dollar, which would be great if my lottery ticket cost 10 cents, 25 cents, or even 50 cents. Instead, it cost a whole dollar. I’m pretty sure the Virginia lottery is trying to tell me something, but I’m not sure what that is, unless it’s, “Um, yeah, Jen, you’re a person who breaks even. It’s like being a winner, only not.” That’s some kind of lesson, no?

I am seriously getting tired of doing everything myself. Therefore, I would like someone to:

• Think of a clever pun with which to respond to Randy’s last comment
• Do my laundry
• Find a watchband to fit my favorite watch before I just go ahead and buy an entirely new watch (same as the old watch)
• Answer all my e-mail
• Do the dishes
• Find my checkbook, an envelope, and a stamp (which would be ever so much easier if someone would also)
• Finish rearranging my living room for me, because there are baskets of yarn, assorted knickknacks, and at least 225 books stacked on the floor and every other available horizontal surface, and I am suffering from a motivation deficit (You know that person who once said something like “The perfect is the enemy of the good”? That person, whoever they were, can kiss my ass.)
• Decide once and for all whether the cats look better sleeping on the polka-dotted or the plaid side of the new reversible comforter,* because I’m a little bored with flipping it over again and again – here’s a visual aid:

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in these matters.

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* “They look equally adorable on each surface” is not an acceptable answer. I can get that sort of response just by doing things my own damned self, thank you very much.

This morning when I woke up there was a mouse in my bedroom. I think it was dead, and whoever killed it left its tiny broken body on the rug immediately in front of the cat litter box. I didn’t get a real good look at it, only glanced at it sideways, long enough to be about 75% sure that it was actually a dead mouse and not a cat toy. Then I went to make coffee while I considered the next steps. Sure, I could pick up the dead mouse and dispose of it, but I hadn’t looked closely enough at it to be certain that it was dead - if there’s something more distasteful than picking up a mouse your cat has killed it’s picking up a mouse your cat has not fully killed.

When Mouse and I lived in Harlem, we had these roommates. While they left much to be desired in the way of cleanliness, English language skills, and not being sort of frightening, they were always willing to pick up the mice that Mouse maimed, of which there were many. Sometimes they flushed the mice down the toilet, other times they threw the mice out the window into the courtyard below, but there were so many roommates that I almost never had to pick up my own dead or dying mice.

So just in the middle of my second cup of coffee, right about when I decided that the only rational thing to do was call each of the men who live near me in sequence until one of them valiantly offered to remove the mouse carcass from my home, Goethe called me. “I think there’s a dead mouse in my bedroom,” I said, and he rather reluctantly offered to come pick it up for me. He assured me that it was dead, picked it up with only some paper towels as a barrier, and only made a little fun of me because I had to call a boy to handle my domestic problems. In any event, now there is not a dead mouse in my bedroom, and about that I am glad.

I think it was Molly who killed it, because the other morning she was just sitting on the kitchen floor, fixated on the spot between the dishwasher and the wall. I thought maybe there was a spider back there, but it seems pretty obvious now that it was a mouse. (Also, times that Mouse has killed mice, he’s made much more of a show of it. I’m pretty sure he would have woken me up, meowing at the top of his lungs about his conquest. Subtlety is not one of his strong suits.)

And since I think it was Molly, I told her to brush her teeth:

(And from now on, we can all refer to Molly as “Killer”, which is a much better nickname than others she has earned, like “Droolie” and “Peanut Brain”.)

And now if you’ll pardon me, I have to figure out how the mouse got in, and how to prevent his friends and family from following him, because I really don’t think I can take much more of this. (And no, I did not take a picture of the dead mouse to post here, because I couldn’t bring myself to look at it, let alone focus on it long enough to take a picture. Although whichever cat was involved and the mouse were simply fulfilling their biological destinies, an endeavor in which there is much dignity, I think it’s simply more respectful to not post pictures of this mouse whose young life was brought to an early halt through no fault of his own.)

First, let me start by saying I probably shouldn’t be so irreverent in public. I’ll apologize in advance if I offend anyone.

Then, let me announce that I am writing a book, with Randy’s help. Thanks to his extraordinary ability to amuse me by text message, I think it will be entitled If God Wrote a Book, It Would Be Dedicated to You.

And it shall be filled with life-affirming sentences of the “If God had/did/said X, He/you would have/do/say Y” construction.

And it shall be mostly text, but it will also contain photographs of all sorts of needlework (created by yours truly) of said sentences.

(It may also contain line drawings illuminating the phrases (such as a drawing of God carrying a couch down some stairs coupled with the sentence “If God had a pickup truck, he would help you move”), but only if I can bring someone on board who can draw.)

And it will be a joy to read and to look at. And while it may need to printed in small runs initially, it’s going to take off like wildfire just as soon as the blogosphere gets a hold of it. I’m thinking if we can get it out in time for the winter holidays, it will make an excellent stocking stuffer.

And once the first book reaches the New York Times bestseller list, the second book will literally write itself, because it will be filled with submissions made by readers of the first book. (The first one, you see, will have a postcard in the back that can be ripped out and mailed to me – if everyone sends their clever ideas via text message, I will swiftly run out of cell phone minutes. I guess I better get a post office box now, huh? Think I could write it off?) And it’s already titled: If God Had a Cat, He Would Ask You to Be His Catsitter.

I’m usually glad that only a very few people read my blog, but never more so than when I have a surefire idea that will make me rich – the fewer people know about it, the fewer people can steal it!

And that, I’m afraid, is all.

(Oh, no it’s not. So last night I watched “Forbidden Planet”. You’ve probably already seen it, because you’re probably a boy, and a somewhat geeky one at that.* I hadn’t seen it before, and I couldn’t help but notice that in the first fifteen minutes he signed off of his little communicator thingie by saying “That is all” at least three times. It bothers me when people steal my catchphrases, particularly when they did it something like 15 years before I was even born.)
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*Not to stereotype or anything, but you are reading my blog right now, aren’t you?

So when I called the dentist this morning to reschedule an appointment I have this week (for something like the third time, because I simply do not want to go to the dentist and pay them hundreds of dollars, even though I know I should), when I told the woman who answered the phone that I needed to reschedule my appointment on Wednesday, she starting singing “Wednesday, Wednesday” to the tune of “Monday, Monday”. Good job getting a different song about Mondays stuck in my head, lady. Thanks bunches. Then she told me a long, involved story about why she was up so late last night, after some lengthy giggling when she realized that “Wednesday, Wednesday” is not a song. Finally, she told me when my new appointment was going to be, but by that time it was far too late, so I can confirm that the only thing worse than having The Boomtown Rats stuck in your head on a Monday is having The Mamas and the Papas in there.

In other news, well, there is no other news. I’m experiencing what I like to call a “motivation deficit”. There are many things I need to do, some of which I actually want to do, but none of those things are getting done.

X-Ray Nightlight 1.5 was an unmitigated disaster, for example. I do not know the properties of various types of wood, can’t really be bothered to learn them: the knowledge would apply for only a very short time, and other people know about wood, so I will save my learning for things I actually care about, like embroidery hoops (I’m sure you’re excited to learn that there will be more on that later). At Home Depot on Sunday I seriously considered calling someone who knows about these things and asking him about wood (since the help-y helpers in my local Home Depot mostly don’t speak English), but then I realized I don’t know Will’s phone number.*

Did anyone read the piece in The Times on Saturday about quitting? Timely. (I’m not going to quit, though. I’m just changing my goal from building an awesome X-ray nightlight to talking someone into building one for me. I’m pretty sure I can do that, just as soon as I enlarge** my circle of friends.)

Other things I have not accomplished recently include not watching approximately 11 episodes of MythBusters in a row,*** buying a new chair, and teaching Molly not to jump into the kitchen sink whenever she feels like it.

I did, however, manage to buy a number of embroidery hoops. I have this problem, you see, where I’m constantly buying little pieces of fabric that are too small to do anything practical with, but are actually quite pretty, and I intend to put some of those pretty pieces of fabric in embroidery hoops and hang them on my wall, so I can look at them instead of just keeping them in a box. And so I went online to look at pictures of other people’s fabric in embroidery hoops, as one is wont to do, and that is when I happened upon a piece of framed embroidery: “If God had a wallet, your picture would be in it.”

And because that phrase makes me happy beyond all measure (because it’s so hopeful and kind and whatnot), you can start requesting your “winter holiday” presents now. I can cross-stitch that on an eyeglass holder if you’d like, or embroider it on a pillow, heck, maybe use puffy paint to put it on a banner you can hang near your front door. Just let me know your preferred color scheme.

I’m going to go start shopping for the doublewide now.
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* And that’s dumb, isn’t it? (Except that you probably shouldn’t give me your phone number, Will, because then I would call you from Home Depot, and if you weren’t home I would have to leave a message, and when you did get home someone would say to you, “Um, a woman called. Said her name was Jennifer, but then she started talking about X-Ray nightlights and the properties of wood, so I hung up on her.”)

** It makes me sad that “enlargen” isn’t still a word.

*** If I was a cable company, I would have a special package for dorks, like they have for movie lovers, or sports lovers, or whoever. And it would have only the Discovery Channel, the Food Network, CNN Headline News, the DIY Network, and whichever channels are constantly showing documentaries about serial killers. (But I would charge just as much for it as I charged for packages with all the channels, because that’s essentially what my cable company does now, and I keep giving them money every single month. It would just be easier to only have to push the buttons six or eight times to choose between the things I actually want to watch, instead of 400 some odd times.)

You know how some mornings you wake up and your heart sings, “Today is going to be a great day! Something spectacular is going to happen, I just know it!”

Yeah, well, I didn’t have any thoughts or feelings even remotely like that this morning. In fact, I immediately got “I Don’t Like Mondays” stuck in my head, and then I cleaned up some cat puke.

Yay!

Kindly visit this link, view the eyeglasses therein, and tell me whether the logo on the temple is too garish. I sort of can’t believe that I’ve selected a pair of Oakley prescription eyeglass frames, and not only because I was previously unaware that Oakley makes glasses that are not sunglasses. (I swear, you really do learn something every day.) In any event, I like them, or like them as much as I’m going to like any glasses at this point, when I need new glasses but don’t really want to purchase new glasses. But I don’t like logos – it’s not too obvious, right? (Also, TYIAFYCITM.)

Click on the “description” tab for sure - I don’t know what all the nonsense in there is. I guess I need eyeglasses with elixir, grace, fizz, and sass, although I was also previously unaware of that.

But the description does remind me that every single year when I read about the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest winner, I think, “Hey, I could do that! I’m totally entering that contest next year!” And then I never do, because I have more ideas than I have time to implement them in. But now that I’ve mentioned it to you, perhaps we can all encourage each other to enter that contest, and see whether one of us can’t win.

And that’s all I’ve got for today. I mean, I could go on about the fact that the store that is further from my work and less expensive has the frames I want in stock in the color I want them in, but would take ten business days from tomorrow to deliver to me my glasses were I to drop my prescription off there tomorrow at lunchtime, and the fact that the store that is closer to my work yet more expensive does not have the frames I want in stock, but would get them in two to three business days, during which business days they would be actively making my lenses, so that when the frames arrived they would just whiz-bang drop my lenses into my glasses in something less than ten business days, which would make me happy but would not only cost $41 more dollars but would also require my bailing on the nice lady who helped me decide on the frames today. (She did say they’d only hold the frames for 24 hours, so it’s not like we’ve made a real commitment to one another – maybe I’ll get my glasses at the other place and just write her a nice note about how helpful she was. (That’d be as good as a commission, right? Do eyeglass salespeople work on commission?)) Anyway, the whole thing just makes me irritated. It’s bad enough I can’t see for beans - it just adds insult to injury that I have to pay exorbitant sums to eyewear providers. (To pile more insult on the injury, if you spend too much time seriously considering precisely what you look like in several dozen different pairs of eyeglasses, you are eventually going to decide that you are exactly like the woman in that Twilight Zone episode. Or maybe that’s just me.)

I’m sure I’ll have something interesting to write about over the weekend, but I’ve committed myself to actually answer all of the very many e-mail in my inbox that are begging for answers, many of which were written by people that I actually like and want to maintain correspondence with, so if I don’t write here at all, don’t be alarmed – I might be writing you an e-mail!

I like your idea, Will, about tackling the childhood issue here. And since I know you like pictures, I thought, well, I’ll just take some pictures of things that were important to me in my childhood, and then write about them. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Started out well:

Then, Molly tried to eat Gumby:

And even though Molly’s eating Gumby makes me sad, this makes me happy: from the Wikipedia entry - “Gumby is a dark green clay humanoid figure . . .”

Thank goodness I am easily amused!

In other news, I have just decided that I am envious of people who have small children. Sure, I can justify crayons, for times when I need them to draw a picture or something. But I have no Legos, and I really need to rectify that situation soon. (Will, do you have any Legos I can borrow?)

I’m not sure I’ve ever had cause to think of the phrase “indignant beauty” before. I’m sure it’s in a book somewhere, but Molly seems to have transcended mere words, and is actually embodying the phrase:

I love her madly, and I really hope that next year, right about the time we experience weather that gives cats asthma attacks, instead of living in a ghetto with air conditioning that is going to die any minute, and carpeting that is older than both cats combined, we live instead in a charming, hardwood-floored prefab container house. Or one of these little gems.

A girl can dream.