Sass-Thoughts....Or Not

Dog and Croc:
Poor, poor Dog the Bounty Hunter. Arrested. They were having a marathon of his episodes last night and it was sad to hear Beth (Dog's wife) and his younguns singing (in a previous episode), "Daddy caught the bad guy. Now the bad guy is arrested and going to jail." I think he'll come out on top though.

And this coupled with the Crocodile Hunter passing away makes it seem like it is just a bad time for people with the last name "Hunter."

Next up: Cell phones
I'm discovering that I know the equivalent of nothing in the way of cell phones. I was enamored with the BlackBerry. I couldn't believe that I could have a phone that would do the work of two of my trusty items (cell phone and Palm Zire). Then I saw the Palm Treo phones and I was really ready to jump the budget ship.

I then discover that my own 'lil cell phone can do what I need already. And I feel like an idiot. But I push my own embarrassment aside and go look for the magic data sync cord that will allow me to sync my phone with my computer. This cord is all but extinct.

My family and I have coined the experience of attacking a subject or interest with zeal, "a hair up the ass." And I had a hair up my ass to find this cord. And I tried so many, many places no luck. And I say to myself, "Alright, I'm just going to upgrade my phone." I go to TMobile and they are showing me all the phones I can upgrade to. I settle on the Razr which can also sync up. And the TMobile guy (who knows my story) says, "Yes, yes, this one can sync up with your computer and there is a cord for it. But we don't carry that cord here." Okay...so how is this going to help me?

On to: Signage
I always love, love, love a stupid sign. Nothing is better to break up the boredom of street driving than a stupid sign. Now, we are all aware of the many different real estate signs. There's all kinds: For Sale, For Sale/Sale Pending, For Sale/Price Reduced!, and For Sale by Owner. Presumably, the owner or the owner's next of kin, are always involved in the selling of their home. But yesterday when I was in hot-cord-pursuit I passed a sign that struck me, at first as being worded odd, then secondly as hilarious.

The sign said, "For Sale With Owner." Um, duh. Who else would be selling it with the real estate broker? Or wait...maybe it is a niche market I know nothing about. Maybe it is sincerely, "For Sale With Owner." Maybe the owner comes with the house. What an interesting concept! Maybe some homeowner said, "Forget this mortgage crap, I'm selling my house and myself. " Can you imagine? "Here's the deal, you buy the house and *me* and I'll continue to live there and care for the place!"

Due to this litigious society, I suggest they change the wording. Otherwise someone who is in the market for both a house and a owner might sue for false advertising.

Lastly: The Meds Must be Working
Because I took not only my four children (aged 10 and under) but my eldest son's friend to Newark Days today. It's basically the city's yearly celebration with crafts and vendor stands, food, rides and games. I did this by myself. I have no idea why I felt compelled to make the parent to child ratio 1:5, but I did it. And it actually went off well.

My children who aren't used to me wanting to do anything that requires too much effort, and especially if I'm by myself were in awe. Perhaps that's why it went off without too much chaos.

This may work. Keep their standards low by saying "no" to 99.9% of recreation requests(Incidentally, this will also eliminate alot of the guilt I feel when I say no as well). When I do finally say "yes" to one of their demands they will be dumbstruck.

I'll name my new plan: Operation Disappoint, Shock and Amaze.

Sass: The Bitching Hour

My neighbors in the townhouses across from us, specifically the second one down (or third one down, depending on where you are standing) are blaring....of all things....Michael Bolton. Old school dental office music. I can't even go smoke on my balcony without my ears taking it in and relaying the message to my oversensitive brain that it is time for Captain Hook to work her magic on my gums.

Not okay.

I used to feel bad smoking on my porch. Polluting other people's air makes me feel bad and guilty. Feeling bad and guilty, ironically, triggers a nicotine attack.

But if I have to listen to their crap music, which I feel pollutes my ears, they can smell my smoke and I'd say it's about even.

Speaking of neighbors, there is a big blond chick in the townhouses as well. Not at the Michael Bolton one, the one next door to them. She's way loud. Incredibly loud. Especially when she yells at her man. Which happens at least three times a week, if not more.

She really, really hates him. Really. And she decides that she hates them about the same time every night, which I've termed the "The Bitching Hour." Somewhere between 11:00 p.m. and midnight she decides it's time for him to feel her pain. She screams at him telling him just how bad of an asshole he is. And all I can think is, "Then kick his sorry ass out then." Really now, how hard can that be? If he truly sucks that bad I'd think the solution would be simple--kick his ass out.

It couldn't be that she's afraid of hurting his feelings because her near-nightly monologues tell us all that she has no trouble being blunt.

So whatever her glitch is, I'm willing to help. I'll kick him out for her.

All she has to do is ask and I'll show him to the door, tell him to beat feet and not look back. Just 'cause I'm a good neighbor like that.

And if she chooses to not kick his ass out, I've got to say to her Bitchiness, "Get thyself to the psych posthaste!" Because her screaming and hollering has actually woke me up. And that's some hard shit to do.

Either she kicks his ass out, has me kick his ass out, or gets herself meds or I'm calling the cops because I'm completely fine with domestic disharmony--until it wakes me up.

Sass: Things that make me go "WTF?"

I'm not sure if I just coined that heading or if I totally subconsciously took it from some other wise and savvy individual. Since delusion is a mostly happy place for me, I'll consider it *mine* and *mine alone.* (Shit, I'm so stealing from Colbert Report or the David Spade thing huh?)

So back to the point---things that make me go, "WTF?"

---The spiel where the flight attendant is all into her (or his---see I'm all about equality) pre-flight instructions about the oxygen mask and the seat cushion that doubles as a floatation device---does she/he not realize that she/he is attending the commuter flight...the one in which you are flying from Silicon Valley to Southern California and also the one which flies only above land? Unless we are really lucky upon our crash (and again, do we really think luck is our strong point that day, considering after all, that we are crashing?) and fall into a huge, deep lake I don't think the floatation seat cushion is a selling point for me. How about the airline springing for individual parachutes? Hmmm? That would be nice and I know it would put me at ease. 'Cause really, when I'm free-falling towards earth at an alarming rate the last thing I'm going to find helpful is the fact that the seat cushion can float.

---People who feel the need to advertise their sexual orientation on their vehicle. When I'm stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with all of the Bay Area the last thing I need to know about my fellow commuters is what they prefer in the bedroom. Honestly, I have no bias or prejudice against others, except in the case of TMI. I am TMI-phobic. Yes, those that know me (and consequently *love* me) will be laughing as I find each and every detail of my own life not only interesting but am so generously willing to share the entertainment with anyone I deem worthy of listening--I just don't extend this courtesy to others. Mostly people I don't know. And that means random people at the mall, folks in the grocery store line and fellow commuters. Now, before you think I'm aiming this at the population who love to slather rainbow stickers all over their cars, let me just broaden your mind for a moment. I'm also looking at you Mr. 18-Wheeler-With-The-Silver-Silhouettes-of-36-24-36-Chicks. Yes....you. I'm just sayin' that one look at your lack of hygiene and own personal measurements of 38-46-38 says enough. The only 36-24-36 you are going to find is at the strip club and you're gonna be paying her quite a sum in exchange for her company. She sure as shit ain't coming to you willingly.

---Personal fountains....mostly the desktop ones. Here's why: As a mother of four, three of which are boys, the sound of running fluids is never good because one of the two scenarios are at play (if not both):
1-Someone is flooding the bathroom-or-
2-Someone is peeing in the corner.
Either way I'm screwed and fit to be tied as I don my protective gear and prepare myself to enter into the young-testerone-zone and perform hazmat-esque clean-up. So anytime I hear running water I panic, and with no surprise. Running water is not soothing, it is bad. Bad. And people who sneak those damn little water fountains indoors prey on my adrenalin system. They are causing me kidney damage....adrenal fatigue. I just don't need that kinda stress in my life. So deep breathe or something. Chant...I'm used to idle self-chatter both from my children and myself. Do something...get one of those squeeze-em stress balls. Just please....don't do the running water thing.

---People who love songs that urge you to "live like you were dying." Hmmm...listen, I get the deeper message...I do. And how could I not? Every home decor store worth their salt has decorative signs with such platitudes. I get it...savor each day, live life to the most, yada. And I agree. However, let's really look at the sentence, "Live like you were dying." Now....wouldn't that be awful? Consider all the ways you might be dying. I just don't think we should all be living in hospital beds, hooked up to IVs, breathing machines, etc. Why not say "Live life fully." Much more to the point.

---Voicemail messages that say, "I'm either on the other line or away from my desk."
Um...duh-much? Are they worried that without that disclosure everyone that calls will take it personal, thinking that in the callee's psychic-ways (or Caller ID wisdom) is deliberately shunning them? I think it's fairly obvious to less paranoid folk that Voicemail=Person Busy Right Now. All we really need is a name so we know we got the right number, a brief assurance that the callee has some plan to return calls soon and then be on your way.

---Knee shorts...or whatever those awful fashion tragedies are. They are everywhere. Like a bad, bad rash or virus. They are baggy "shorts" that are really just Capris (which, on the other hand are CUTE, CUTE, CUTE!) that the seamstress cut-off too soon. Like right after the knee. Awful.
Listen, NO ONE looks good in these things. I know Plum has her own personal hatred of skorts, which I whole-heartedly support, but I have to say that a more urgent fashion virus that needs to be erradicated is the knee shorts epidemic. And as I was telling my bestest friend Audrey tonight on the phone...the thing that gets me is they are often paired with high-heels. Really now....I mean....r.e.a.l.l.y.n.o.w. It's like, "Gee...I can't seem to really get that I-C-K look down with just the knee-shorts. Oh! I know just the thing to really make folks gag.....high heels!"

That's all for now....I'm sure tomorrow will bring more things for you and I cackle about. Until then, keep on...keeping on.....or you know, living like you were dying. :oP

Sass: Um, yeah, a few things I can do without....

People who drive their cars to the very, very end of the damn merging lane just so they can get ahead, like, one car length. Does that not drive you nuts? And if you are one of these people, stop that shit! It's annoying and I can promise you that the time you save is only about 1/3 of a second. Worse than those drivers (whose licenses should be immediately revoked upon completion of sucking the merging lane completely dry) are those who will get out from their lane (perhaps behind you, three cars back--completely hypothetical) and use the merging lane as a way to get ahead...about four car lengths. Why? Why do this shit?!

I've been driving in the bay area far too long....I know.

Also, if you let your sunglases hang from your ears so that the lenses are under your chin and you do this for an extended period of time, why? It doesn't look cool. No one thinks, "Man, that guy/girl must be superfly, they use their sunglasses as a chin sling." No one thinks this. I promise. I wouldn't be against this shit if perhaps, it was done by loving, sweet individuals, but it seems that those who do this shit are generally asshats. It is like a key behavior of an asshat.

Lastly, those who don't realize that when they receive the, "Yeah, yeah, right, I see what you mean, okay, right, right," response to them when they are talking (profusely) that it is time to shut up. What the person really wants to say but can't, due to company or family hierarchy, is, "Shut the fuck up."

Okay...more cheerful post another day.

Sass: Rambling Tumble Thoughts

Psychology Today magazine has an article that made me laugh out loud. It's in the most current issue, titled, "When You're Smarter Than Your Boss" by Judith Sills, Ph.D. Hmmm...not going to come right out and say that I am but when your superior asks you how to spell "multi" (as such happened today) you have to wonder....but not long.

Watched a George Carlin special late last night and I think he should run for president. I'm sure that's been said before. In fact, I'm willing to bet I've seen a bumper sticker or email forward along those lines sometime in the past.

Fellow co-worker, a truck driver, has come up with many nicknames for me: Little Mommy, Beautiful Butterfly and Miss Muffet. I totally don't get it. But the Butterfly one had a nice ring to it....I can handle that.

I'm clearly rambling....I fell off my blog habit. Hey Sean-baby, if you're reading this, my timecard totally misses your timecard in our row.

Sass: 867-5309 or So Much for Anonymity

I've been thinking alot lately about my name. Since my name is Jennifer I share it with half of the planet, or so it seems. I know this wasn't my parents' intention for me. They didn't know that what they thought was a nice, somewhat unique name for their newborn daughter would become so popular. I was born in the era of "Jennifer and Michael." Although, now that I think about it, maybe it was "Jennifer and Jason." I went by "Jenny" until 8th grade when I adopted "Jennie" because I was a dork of 90210 proportions.

Anyway.....

I've also read some stories lately of people changing their first names. Jacob in the Bible became "Israel." Sarai became "Sarah" and Abram became "Abraham" when God promised to bless them with a child in the future. There are other, non-Biblical people who have changed their names after life-changing events. After living 27 (nearly 28) years of being just another "Jennifer" and after having faced many challenges and a couple of crises, I can understand why. You are just not the same person that started this journey and if you like the person you've become a lot better than who you were, changing your name becomes very appealing.

Just yesterday I was trying to tell my co-worker about how there were five girls with the name "Jennifer" in my sixth grade class. Seriously, we had to go by our last name initial. So we had: Jennifer A., Jennifer B., Jennifer C., Jennifer Sk., and Jennifer Sp. Yeah, that last one was me. Because once you are not only sharing a first name with a classmate but your surname starts with the same letter you have go to the next letter and soon you feel like a bent index card in the old-school card catalog at the library.

So I was telling this co-worker about all that when he burst out laughing and singing, "867-5309!!!" Hilarious. Especially because I've never heard that one before. Hum.

However the joke is on him because, eventhough I didn't have the heart to tell him, I was only in the lower grades of grammer school (think Preschool and Kindergarten) when that song, 867-5309 hit the airwaves whereas he was what? Oh yeah, older---much, much older.

But....I'm Jennifer and that's that. I couldn't go against the name my parents chose for me. It'd break their hearts. Although I might become known as "Jennifer-Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong." Just to be different.

Sass: And what did you do over the weekend?!

I'm an active participant in Freecycle and this weekend, someone offered some very fashionable clothing and I happened to be the chosen one to receive them. All it took was a simple jaunt up to Richmond (approximately 30-something miles). Nooooo problem!

Except....as 880 became I-80 I seriously had doubts that I was going the right direction, especially because I had saw an exit for the same street I needed on a different off-ramp on another highway. We were quickly making tracks to San Francisco and I was fretting...because well, if you know San Francisco at all, you know that it is a bloody nightmare to navigate through.

Okay...so we double-back and take the offramp to this other highway and take that exit of the same name. Man...I was SO sure we were going the right way and I was cursing out Mapquest.

But then we were there.....the ghetto. In Oakland. I have NO problems with Oakland. Both my grandmothers live there. I was born in Oakland! I loooovvvee Oakland. I even have no problems with the ghetto. As stated in previous posts I am intrigued by all races, persuasions, economic levels....all of it But....they had a problem with me. There I was....driving through, trying to navigate and I'm sure radiating "lost" to these folks and they weren't feeling exactly compassionate towards me. The way they dogged me and were in no hurry to move out of the middle of the street despite my car slowly, and POLITELY, trying to edge by, told me so.

I eventually got myself back onto I-80 east and in the proper direction but not before I called the lady I was getting the clothes from, frantically shouting, "I'm so freakin' lost. Oh shithouse, this sucks. Oops...excuse my language. Fuck! Where am I going? Oh sorry about that. I usually don't talk this way." Yeah....right.

Sass: Diagnosis-Operator Error

So for all my bitching and moaning about money flying out the windows I do a major faux pas. I got gas early this a.m. and decided to get a car wash too. Now, before I go any further, it should be noted that I *know* I am not smart or particularly sharp in the a.m. I know this...but the world does not and therefore I need to operate at a time when I shouldn't operate.

We are in the carwash and the car is shaking and moving and Ornery Tiger Cub is getting scared so I pull up on the e-brake. Okay....light turns green....I go and I can't get the car to budge. I have to really push on the gas. Those who do not suffer from mommy-brain probably can already diagnose what was wrong. I, for the life of me, could not. So I finally get it to go and I'm cruising down the street wondering why my car is so unresponsive but think not much of it because it has 221,000 miles on it and is a 1991 year van. Fast forward three or so hours and I have offered to go pick up LoveMeLots so Phil doesn't have to stop his game in exchange for extreme ass-kissing when I come back home.

Again, my car is unresponsive. It'll go but it takes a lot of convincing. Then it starts to shudder...right about the time I hit 30 mph. And I'm shuddering and shaking and freaking out all the way to LoveMeLot's school. Plus it was making a "rough-running" sound. So then I pick up LoveMeLots and on the way back it is just worse and worse until it starts smoking. I get home and freak out. "Phil you've got to look at my car...it stinks...it's unresponsive and is shuddering." (Hindsight grants me the ability to see an uncanny resemblence here to Phil when he plays computer games, which ironically, he was still playing when I told him this.) He says alright and then does nothing....and then...nothing....and then....nothing. This is status quo for him lately and I nearly throttled his precious little ass. I call my Dad:
Me: Dad...my car is shaking and smoking and doesn't want to go. What is wrong with it?
Dad: What?
Me: (Realizing I should get to the most important part) My car is smoking.
Dad: Well, so do you.
Me: Thanks.

He thinks it is either the oil or the transmission. He says, "Where's Phil?" I say, "Playing the computer." They know all about my peev-ability with this as they have heard my venting oh-so-much about it lately. He says, "Do I need to have a talk with Phil?" "No Dad, " I say.

So I wait some more....tell Phil that he has a real-life drama as opposed to a computer game drama that he needs to attend to RIGHT NOW. "Okay" he says. Good....he still has control over his vocal cords. And I wait and wait some more. Now, I grab the eff-ing keys and go to the van myself all the while contemplating running away...if I can get my van to work.

I start checking the oil and surprise, surprise it's fine despite the "check oil" light I've neglected for the past week. By now Phil has come out of his virtual fog and is down there helping me. He takes it for a test drive...oh please, do note that HE TOOK IT FOR A TEST DRIVE. And comes back saying, "It's the transmission." He says he'll check the transmission fluid. It's full. So he says, "Where's the papers?" So we start researching buying another, more recent but still used, van.

I end up picking up AstroBoy too and I take the Jeep. As I am pulling away from the curb after I've picked up AstroBoy, I do this mental, "Turn on engine, put into drive, check e-brake." And then I hear "E-BRAKE" rattle in my head and start laughing my freakin' ass off. AstroBoy, used to me being completely insane, just keeps talking about school and Pokemon cards as I yell, through uncontrollable laughter, "DADDY IS GONNA BITCH-SLAP ME!!!! I'm so dead." He stops long enough to say, "No he won't," and goes back to Pokemon and blah-blah-blah.

But guess what, Phil already made an appointment to see a 2000 Dodge Grand Caravan and we are OBLIGATED and then we start rationalizing, "Well, this car is old...and it has SO many miles on it. Plus, it's heating core is eff-ed up and there is no AC and the windows don't work." Oh, and most of all, THE EFFING E-BRAKE LIGHT DOESN'T LIGHT UP ON THE CONSOLE. So we went and saw it and they just got it in as a trade in so they want to put new tires on it, detail it out, check the smog and title, yada, yada and then it may very well be ours.

The bottom line good news is that we need something that is newer and more than that we need to rebuild our credit from the bankruptcy/near-foreclosure mess we've been in and I couldn't have asked for a better salesman/loan guy. He kept saying, "Don't be embarrased. I have worked with all types of cases for the past five years." Then he pulled our credit reports while Phil and I kept snickering were snickering in his office like two kids who know just how messed up a situation is but the adult hasn't figured it out yet. And he comes back in, shows them to us and says, "This isn't as bad as you think. I can find a bank to finance you." What?! I nearly kissed him and bore four children for him too. We are only going to finance half or a little more than the sale price but I told the guy, "If I only came here today to sit down with you and hear you say that our credit, although hurting, isn't a disaster it was well worth the trip!"

Sass: My village is too expensive....

I'm trying hard to ignore and not stress out on the mondo-mess that is my apartment right now. I can't believe how badly 1,000 +/- square feet can get thrashed under the creative and capable hands of four children.

So I approach life and housecleaning this morning like a 12-stepper, one room at a time. But first, I need coffee. I make the coffee and grab a cig and head outside with the paper. The San Jose Mercury New's Real Estate section. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I even look? Well, because I thrive on the thought that someday I'll have a home of my own again. But I should just look at the pictures....but I haven't mastered the control to keep from looking at the listing price. This is what followed, "799,000 oh shit...1.2 million...oh shit.....oh wait, this one is only 569,000 but wait...I can't afford anything above 100,000." Ugh.

So move...start over someplace else right? Wrong. We did that in Ashland. Apparently any place that has even remotely low prices has a job market to match.

And more importantly, this is where our village is...you know...our parents and some of our siblings. They aren't in Ashland, unfortunately, because Lord knows I'd rather scrape by in Ashland than in California.

I feel like writing an angry letter to the newspaper. Maybe I should write subscription services and tell them I don't want the real estate section included in my paper, instruct paperboy to take it out.

And the shitty thing is our only chance to own a home out here is by inheriting it. So that comes down to this equation: own home=not having as many family members OR not owning home=having lots of family.

Obviously, we'd rather have our family.

Sass: Neighbors

We have moved into our new apartment and I find apartment living so sketchy. I never know what the "unspoken rules" are practiced in each new neighborhood, yet get the feeling that I am supposed to know these secrets rules and abide by them. Friday night I made the mistake of trying to unpack after the three youngest ones were in bed. I committed the worst sin in apartment living. I dropped a heavy glass jar on the kitchen floor. Big no-no. It didn't break...but oh the thud it made. As soon as it happened I wanted to hide. I wanted to knock on the floor and yell, "I'm sooo sorry!" Turns out, I didn't need to knock because I got my chance to apologize face-to-face. My downstairs neighbor bounded up the stairs (and I say bounded because he must have taken two stairs at a time from the sound and speed of his arrivial) and rapped on my door.
"That noise...what was it?!" he asked. I said, "I'm so sorry. I dropped a jar. It was an accident." He stood for a moment, in his boxer shorts, t-shirt and socks, blinking like mad at the room behind me. I could tell he had been asleep. I'm not a blinker when I wake up. Not even if I go from very dark to very bright...I may squint or even shut my eyes, but I don't blink rapidly. And for some reason it REALLY gets on my nerves when people do. You can fly up my stairs to interrogate me but you can't control your eyelids? WTF?
He said, "I have to go to work tomorrow and I sleep right under there." Again, I said, "I'm am truly very sorry. I'll try to be more quiet. It was an accident." Still, he stands there, blinking and finally says, "okay" and goes down the stairs. I don't understand, as we have the same floorplan, how he could be sleeping right under my kitchen...thus, he was sleeping in his kitchen?
I close the door and feel like shit. Skyler says to me (Skyler's 9), "Mom, was that guy in his underwear?" You'd have to understand that with four rambunctious children, everywhere I go I encounter people who aren't tolerant of children or my children's spiritedness. Believe you me, they are disciplined and they know their manners even if they don't always remember to practice them....they just also have ALOT of energy. So I constantly feel like Dennis the Menance...getting on people's nerves....too damn noisy.
On the flip side I am very tolerant of others who are noisy. I don't mind dogs barking. I just don't. I don't mind the shouts of kids playing even roughl, as long as nobody's getting hurt I'm cool. I don't mind our new neighbors (not in the apartment but in the house next door) who cuss out people who are "disrespecting me as a person" on the phone and then squeal out in their trucks. Don't care....nope....live and let live. Unless they are physically or verbally threatening me....I don't give a f--k.
Which leads me to this, my own unspoken rule for apartment living: We will be as quiet and as respectful of our neighbor's right to quiet-ness as possible with four children. This means I will go out of my way to take my kids to the park frequently to run off their energy as well as CONSTANT reminders to them that people live under us or as I tell Lukie, "People live under our floor." Lukie, who's 3, thinks mom has gone and lost her damn mind when I say that to him as he's a child who has always lived in homes where the only thing that was under us was dirt.
Part two of my unspoken rule is that in exchange for our respect to them, they have to try and be as tolerant of us as possible. They chose a downstairs unit fully knowing that an upstairs unit was above them that contained THREE bedrooms. Chances are real good that a family would be the tenants of the upstairs unit. And families often have young children.
Now I say that these are my unspoken rules because thus far they have been. They are my mantra when I get too stressed or as I tell my husband Phil, "too butt-clenched" about my kids and their noise level. I mean, I have flipped out because Skyler was walking too heavily on the floor. That's nonsense and I need to chill. He wasn't thumping, running or stomping. I'm just really too tense about all of this.
However, should an incident happen again or possibly, God forbid, a complaint to our landlords, my rules will be respectfully suggested to the powers-that-be or to our neighbors.
That all said, I miss having my own home dearly.