bitterdiva

Polymers, dyes, and synthesis oh my!

My expertise in computer related matters called for me stuffing binders this morning and all throughout the afternoon. Note that not one relates to the other, as per usual of the current professional affairs. Alas, the summer workshops are now half over with the worst one being completed yesterday. As I opened the box of binders that familiar nostalgic smell hit me, plastic coated binders – the exact smell that triggers panic in my brain. The scent I refer to is educational supplies and as I look into the advertisements in the Sunday paper, I realize that summer is also half over and colleges are gearing up for another expensive season.

My love for the polymer goodness developed at an early age when my mother would take us three siblings out for back to school shopping. For my sister and I it was the equivalent to pirate booty simply for the fact that we both attended catholic schools and were required to wear a uniform. My brother, attending a public vo-tech high school, missed out on the booty and received clothes instead. After all, not much in the way of school supplies you can buy for a raging electronics geek other than the assortment of wires, pliers, LEDs, and power tools of which my father had in his disheveled workroom that was 75% of the basement. After returning home from the shopping excursion, I would dump all my booty on the floor of my shared room and enjoy the smells of the plastics, the colors of notebooks, and the feel of pencils.

My faintest school memory has to be either the E.T. or Animal (from the Muppets) canvas tote I had. I remember putting all my school supplies in them and bringing them to school. I also remember the pictures my parents required us children to take on the first day of school all in our best outfits (as best you can get with a plaid jumper, white blouse, and some stupid crisscross snappy tie). Those are the best pictures of me since well, I was cute at the nice impressionable age of six. The only day I looked forward to in the entire school year was the day before the last day of school – when we had to clean out our desks the entire classroom so we would all wear whatever, bring rags, brillos, and muster all the elbow grease we could. Now that I’m thinking about it, that was sort of cruel and unusual punishment to subject a six year old.

Actually, what’s cruel and unusual and certainly grounds for some type of suit these days is the shenanigans and actions of my first grade teacher. I’m certain that I related the story of how she subjected me to my current bathroom traumas with her denial and ridicule of using the lavatory when needed. This woman must have been a Jedi because she mind trick the first graders to submit to her and rub her back, and the kids looked forward to pleasing her. It was a reward for the day; if you made her happy and were good, you were a shoe-in to give this woman a back rub. She also had children at recess trail behind her and hold onto her makeshift train that was her quilt.

The other peculiarity this woman had was the distaste for wasteful lunch food. I recall a story my sister told me when this woman was her teacher. My parents had apparently mixed up my siblings’ lunches or they had some brain fart – probably were too busy dealing with me at the time. My sister as a child detested ham sandwiches (who doesn’t?) and threw it out at lunch because as a kid who cannot be around the most disgusting sandwich in the world, it’s the best thing to do. The woman passed by a trashcan with said sandwich, pulled it out and handed it back to my sister. After politely explaining the situation with the garbage rummager, she refused to accept my sister’s side of the story. She gave sis the ultimatum: either the recess or the sandwich goes. She chose recess. I don’t blame her one bit, with the choice of eating a discarded, garbage-touched , disgusting ham sandwich or losing one’s recess, I’ll take sitting there with the sandwich staring back at me for 30 minutes.

One of my classmates at the time had this annoying habit of throwing up on his desk once a week. After a while it became commonplace and I looked forward to the interruption of the class. The janitor would come in (and I actually can’t place his face since I saw him quite often) and douse the desk in that disgusting green powder to help soak up the vile stomach contents. It mostly occurred in the morning and there wasn’t much in the bootage – mostly liquid. The kid had some nervous problem, perhaps separation anxiety from his mother.

2 prayers | 04:15 PM

Best sign ever

As per promised by myself to Mer and Pat the best no smoking sign ever. This is what I call the Truth.

9 prayers | 09:24 AM

Smoke em if you got em

but not in a bar, not in a resaturant, not in a mall, not in a bowling alley, not at a Sporting event, not at a concert, not at work, and not in the market.

Reading the news articles today about the new smoking ban, I happened across a good article in the Troy Record. Now good and Troy Record don't normally coexist in the same sentence, but I have to say the author, James V. Franco, did a good job highlighting some of the points that John has made. I present to you a nugget of truth and idiocy of some lawmakers: James V. Franco: In Albany, it's (no) smoke and mirrors

20 prayers | 09:01 AM

Decisions, decisions, decisions

For the past two week I’ve been feeling like Mr. Hankey, something I relate to a mixture of nutritional deficiency and hormonal imbalance. I’ve got more funk than George Clinton, physical, emotional, and mental. Waking up in the morning is a greater chore than cleaning the bathtub (and I practically clean the tub daily). The alarm goes off blaring in my ear, I wake up, haul my upper body with one arm and hit Hello Kitty to allow a mere 9 minutes more of sleep. (As a side note, those looking to bitchslap Hello Kitty should get her alarm clock; you might take joy hitting that pussy every 9 minutes each morning.) And those are the mornings that I sleep in my own comfy bed. The evenings that I switch into Kris’s room, I have him hitting his alarm and Poopoos yowling for pets in the morning. Nothing says wake up than a persistent high-pitched crying cat nuzzling his head against your arm.

I lie in bed with the unfulfilled hope that some calamity occurred during the early hours that would prevent my appearance at work. Understand that my job isn’t necessarily boring, tedious, or full of horrible people - it’s just that I am full of indifference for it. Sub par income, outstanding bills, lack of movement among the ranks combine to create a cycle of angst. One simply can’t move on up to the east side if the west side’s got a sister down on her juju. But there’s never a calamity, never a definitive clause that deliberately justifies my absence, it’s always some bloody excuse I create to haul my ass out of the comforts of a soft bed and throw myself into the shower to complete the awakening process.

In these two weeks, I’ve had food poisoning, feminine troubles, backaches, headaches, and a sore throat but the necessity of getting workshop documents ready, two mailings out, and a meeting with the financial goblin required my presence. On the past two Tuesdays I almost let my sickness and indifference get the best of me and set my mind into calling in or going home early. Randall’s belief in “title dictates behavior” goes to the core of my work experience though I should probably take his advice and just stay the hell home. Perhaps playing truant negates hatred towards one’s profession. Calling into work has its benefits, it shortens the tiresome workweek and it enables you to sleep and rejuvenate the mind, body, and spirit. I firmly believe that sometimes, mental illness is just as valid as a 104 temperature. Who really wants a pissed off coworker pounding on their desk with a barrage of expletives tainting the quiet atmosphere that’s occasionally littered with the sounds of paperwork and typing?

My PSA of the day is this: Don’t feel like going to work, then don’t. Your ill feelings, regardless of what aspect of the psyche that’s down in the dumps, are only going to hinder accomplishment. Lounging in one’s pajamas drinking long island ice teas and eating enormous bowls of ice cream whilst watching Jerry Springer makes you no less of a person than the pimply-faced kid smoking a doob behind the fry-a-lator at McDonalds. Or does it, after all he can schmoke and cook your French fries which you might possibly eat if you stay home from work.

On another note, my coworker firmly believes in Randall's philosophy because the two Tuesday's that I contemplated calling in, she did it herself. I guess I should admire a girl with the testicular fortitude to do the thing that I can't seem to bring myself around to doing. At least I'm queen of the department today, if that's any consolation prize.

4 prayers | 12:40 PM

Project "Throw Shite Out"

My mission this weekend is to force myself into throwing the previous years' shite out of my room, thus freeing up space. 75% of my carpeting is clothes, the other is random junk. I forced myself to put my bed in Kris's room in order to get me to see what a shitehole I live in. It's a pretty big shitehole.

The plan thus far is simple. If I haven't touched it in the last year, it gets either thrown out or put in the attic. The programming books I don't use, get brought to work with me. All medical supplies and pharmaceuticals get placed into the bathroom where people who are in some sort of shock and pain can be properly healed. The closet will be cleaned out and organized - the tapes and video camera will be put in the attic. My nonfunctioning printer will be put on the street for someone to take to their drug dealer and exchange for crack. The bowling balls will be thrown into the window of the downstairs neighbors if another boisterous party ensues. The cats will be brought to my car along with my computer and Kris and the 5-gallon can of gasoline will be lit to exterminate the infestation of frat boys. Oh wait, that's a dream not a project.

One of the two bookshelves will be brought into the bar, thus eliminating an area where I can collect shit. On that bookshelf I will put all the magazines in the living room and all the boardgames in the dining room hanging ontop of the bookshelf there. Then I will put my Chamber of Secrets Professor Snape poster up... the one that I have completely forgotten about for the last 5 months. Then I will have Alan Rickman Posters on all my four walls. There will be much rejoicing and masturbating.

Tomorrow the bed will be brought back into my room, on the frame to which I neatly organized all the storage bins. The cats will have their hiding place back and I'll know where all my goodies are. Instead of shelling out money for therapy I will have done a marathon session of cleaning and organizing which equates to the same damn thing.

So that we didn't feel completely pent up in the apartment, Kris and I walked to Mahar's and enjoyed a pint. He had the Konig Hefe and I had mer's fav, the Leffe. Bill remarked that if I kick it I would have to deal with mer; if that's some indication on how much Bill really likes mer. I'm just happy when he calls me darling, I don't think he knows my name but I'd rather get a darling than some of the treatment of other customers.

8 prayers | 08:30 PM

Insanity births creation

I've been poor for a while, the past two weeks basically. And as such, I need to bring lunch to work since I have to buy breakfast in the morning. I have a week old pasta with very little sauce sitting in the fridge at work. I also have Cabot's low-fat sour cream and some PC Parmesan/Romano cheese. The worst thing I hate about pasta after you throw it in the Nukulator is the crunchy crusty dirtiness of the pasta. So I figured what the hell, throw on the sour cream and Parmesan cheese to make a mock alfredo sauce. Damn good pasta is what I say!

During lunch, I finished the third book of the Belgariad. I would have finished last night but there was so much action that my head was spinning and I needed some down time to process the plot. Though finishing it at work is good because I don't have the fourth book and can't start chugging through that one.

Tonight we're pre-bowling since I hear the team we would be bowling and next to whom we bowled last week frighten me greater than Grace Jones in a leotard. I hope I do as well as I have been, I have my socks in the trunk all set for tonight. The only thing that is nagging at me is the a portion of the nail on my left big toe is dangling and threatening to rip off the nail bed.

I have this compulsion to play with my feet when I'm bored or in a fit of mindlessness. It can be as bad as Goldmember with the calluses but not as disgusting with the saving or eating. So I start picking at my toenails, seeing if they'll come off easy and sometimes I'll get the nail to break off but the other half is too short and then I'm stuck with a dangler and in pain. I'm thinking that I need to paint my toes so the persistent urge dies.

No prayers | 12:29 PM

Weird fascinations

Occassionally I will go to weddingchannel.com and see if anyone I went to grammar school, high school, or college are getting married. Sometimes I'll look up people with the same last name as myself. Those select chosen few blessed with that knowledge also realize what a rare name it is. I am the only one in this country with that name, I believe.. or at least that's what google stalking says anyways.

So regardless of the fact that I am or am not invited to said persons wedding, I go and look at their gift registry. One of these days, when I have more than the typical spare five bucks I am going to randomly send people wedding presents. Regardless if I don't know them.

Then I take a look at their goods and comprise the interior of a house with them, sort of like playing the sims but with real people's names and actual objects. I think of how their first night with their new presents would be, especially for the brand new 280 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets by Bloomingdales' with coordinating dust ruffle and duvet by Calvin Klein. Her with her blond hair pulled up in clip wearing a pink gingham apron making her husband their first meal with the Tangerine coloured Kitchen-aid complete with torched crème brûlée.

People certainly live fascinating lives as I sit here at my job and ponder the oddities that occur around me. Then again, I doubt people have 50 year old brits messaging them asking to roleplay Zuul and Vinz Clortho from Ghostbusters. Anyway, I'm off like that little red number Sigourney Weaver wore in the movie.

6 prayers | 04:43 PM

Saturday night is Roofy night!

Seeing as such as Sunday was most likely going to be a day of relaxation and recovery Kris and I decided that it would be in our best interest to get all the activities we normally would do on a lazy Sunday done. Which meant going to do laundry, luckily this Saturday was about 15 degrees cooler and 25% less humid – favorable conditions for laundry. And as per usual no one was really doing laundry, everyone waits until to Sunday to finish up their chores.

After doing laundry we drove over to Barnes and Noble and we hooked myself up with the rest of the Belgariad since I was feeling lost without more Polgara. I think Kris is rather amused at the fact that I’m just chugging away at the books, one can’t help it when the characters are as extremely developed in the book as these are. And I was able to use the gift card my aunt had given me for my birthday and since I had already bought Harry Potter, I guess I could use this as an excellent excuse to pick up more of the series.

Jaunting over to Target heading back home, I picked up some cute little socks for bowling. I had unfortunately purchased a pair of bowling shoes wearing my tiny thin socks and as such my bulkier socks will not do. That okay, anything to force me into buying cute beige socks with kitties is never a bad thing!

In the evening we headed over to Revolution Hall. I started out playing two of my favorite Black 47 songs, Funky Céilí and 40 Shades of Blue. As Kris mentioned on one of his numerous journals/blogs, he meets up with an old acquaintance named Jim. This guy was a riot; he was hyper and hysterically funny. We got there five minutes early and had to wait for fifteen minutes even though doors supposedly opened up at 8pm.

We get inside, scout out a table, I order a Long Island Ice Tea. Amusing story: the bartender says to me, “they’re expensive,” and I’m looking at him dubiously, how bloody expensive can a plastic pint-sized long island ice tea be? Seven dollars, but that’s not expensive, that’s normal for the five tasty shots of alcohol. The bartender remarked that people often look expect it for three bucks, those people must be from some backwater bar where 75% of the drink is coke. I switched to beer (three pints of Cherry Raspberry Ale) as soon as I got my buzz on.

Finally to the music… the best part of the evening (other besides the alcohol). I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by The Ruffians. I went into the show not knowing the type of music they play, after all the last time I saw Black 47 at Northern Lights, the opening act was the son of the venue’s owner and had the musical capability of a tone-deaf shop teacher with two fingers. The Ruffians are in fact an Irish band – even better than that an Irish Punk Rock band complete with Matt the Bagpiper. You have to love a band that makes the procession into the hall headed by a Bagpiper with a Chris Farley type jig and dance attitude festooned with a Hawaiian shirt, West Point kilt, and a blazingly red blazer.

At the beginning I didn’t know how I was going to make it through this band’s set and just wanted them to get off the stage so I can see Larry and company. After a couple of their songs I was hooked faster than a monkey on cocaine. Most of their songs’ themes were typical Irish fashion, beer and women. They even played a reel complete with Katie a red-headed Irish step dancer who’d be dancing for about 15 years – basically equating for most of her life since she had to be no older than 22.

During one of the songs the brother of the lead singer, dressed in what I called Michael Meyers gear but more like a paramilitary soldier with combat boots, Kelly hat, and a olive drab jumpsuit was dancing across the tables. I believe before him and after him, Matt came dancing across the tables playing the bagpipes. The most amusing point was when Jim sitting next to me stuck a dollar in his kilt pouch.

Black 47 was bloody fantastic as usual; they played two new songs off their upcoming album. One of them has to do with 9/11 and I used that time to go to the bathroom, as I was worried for missing one of my favorite songs. They played Living in America, Green Suede Shoes, Rockin’ the Bronx, Different Drummer, their usual jam Reel, Fire of Freedom, Fanatic Heart, and Funky Céilí (to which Jim and I danced) and for their encore they played James Connolly.

Larry pimped the Trojan Pale Ale, which I believe Kris also dug a lot. It was good to see the crowd reacting to the band a lot better this time. I was worried that it was going to be another Northern Lights fiasco but it wasn’t. After the show, Larry hung back to talk with people and I received a hug. Larry is the man, he never disappoints when it comes to be friendly and chatty.

I however would like to say I enjoyed my conversation with Matt the Bagpiper from the Ruffians. We talked about his West Point kilt, his family in Killarney, he plays Rugby and was generally the nicest guy. He told me how they play at Rocky Sullivans in NYC and occasionally hit up CT once and a while. I had a great time talking with him, just ask Kris who I sort of ignored as he talked with his buddy. Kris and I bought the CD for $5 but it’s totally worth it, what a great deal that it was. And Matt gave me a sticker on my upper chest so I kept saying to everyone that I was roofied.

All and all I have to say this: give me beer, give me irish men, give me music, give me reels, and give me bagpipers and you’ll have drunken happy bitterdiva!

1 prayer | 04:36 PM

Black 47

Tomorrow night is one of my most awaited nights since I've returned from Ireland. Black 47 is going to be playing at Revolution Hall. Most of the people in the Capital Region haven't really heard of this band, which is a pity. Everytime I start to talk about Larry and his posse these people always say, "Do you like Hair of the Dog?" and I have to chuckle at them and respond, "No." Usually I get a glare or their brow will furrow, I've given them a shot, I honestly have. I borrowed a CD from one of my coworkers in full attempt to listen to Irish music. I was severely disappointed when I realized that I didn't hear a faint hint of any brogue on the musicians.

I like my Irish music with a little more influence and a directness that only someone from the country could only understand. It conjures up a more powerful emotion when the listener realizes that a person singing about a topic has experienced a life that is not full of twinkies and MTV. I would have to say one of the main differences between HotD and Black47 is that HotD likes to do a more traditional music including the horrible and most Americanized song, "Danny Boy," whereas Black47 uses fuses traditional Irish music with a political message. Another difference between the two, HotD has a Banjo player and a fiddler, whereas Black 47 has a person playing the uilleann pipes and bodhrán.

I'll be drinking me pints of ale and jigging the night through! I'll have to make sure I have my cigarettes ready for the boys!

4 prayers | 01:05 PM

Yoda's travels in Ireland

Well, I successfully finished entering all the captions for the Yoda gallery. It can be found here I highly recommend you search for the Guinness picture and the Trinity tour one as well. All and all they came out very well.

5 prayers | 07:52 PM

Smurfing oneself

is really annoying when it's blue laserjet toner. I have to be thankful that at least it's not birdshit but still wandering around worrying that it'll set is not fun.

The day has gone to pot faster than some hippie to a bowl full of grains. I should have known that when shizzle started to go down with my sister, it was going to be a long day.

Several artists have called wondering where their bling is when I'm sitting there thinking, I don't know. I have no time to put all this work through and ever since I went to Ireland all my work just was completely fucked up.

I don't get paid enough money to deal with budgets nor do I get paid enough to do the work of the supervisor. I have another department to work for, helping to smoothly (right) put on six workshops across the state in short notice. Luckily I have the intelligence and capability to beat Access into submission.

If I was a fortune teller, I'd say that the evening looks to be full of excessive ale debauchery.

1 prayer | 04:20 PM

I'll take badass female literary characters

There was a time, not too long ago – probably before I left for Ireland, that I would walk by the bookshelf in the dining room and belt out, “Polgara the Polgarian,” deliberately mocking the books Kris wanted me to read. For some reason before I became familiar with the Belgariad, I couldn’t for the life of me remember Polgara the Sorceress.

Now I’m on the book Polgara the Sorceress and I have to say, she’s probably my favorite female literary character. She is the best exemplification of a woman, she has wisdom, beauty, magic, and is an almighty bitch. Even her father realizes that her word when dealing with humans is the best, even when he doesn’t appreciate being put into his place.

On another note, my sister was laid off from her job. Apparently they had some uber watchdog in their office two weeks ago supervising their daily activities. She had said that it went fairly well and the guy was rather impressed by their organization’s human rights efforts. Just a couple weeks ago they had Angelina Jolie for an online chat discussing her work with Cambodian refugees.

Yesterday it seemed like a septic tank hit the industrial fan and wreaked havoc for the small department. Everyone was gone, disbanded, left hoping that a severance package might be in the works. This morning they came back to finish cleaning out their place and found that they had been locked out of every account, including their computers. The worst thing about XP is that if it’s a network connection, trying to log on to the computer is a great feat than pushing a bull elephant up Mount Everest. Then they removed all the equipment this morning leaving them without any means of communication with the outside world.

No prayers | 01:33 PM

Love and marriage...

... goes together like an Indian and yahoo messenger

Today I received my first marriage proposal over Yahoo Messenger, thank you Syed. The weirdest part of the conversation besides being asked to marry him is that he wanted to know what my father does for a living. Perhaps he's trying to see if I'm wealthy enough to be a wife. After proposing I asked him how he could marry a complete stranger and he gave me his phone number to call him. First thing, if you want to marry me, you call me bub. Secondly, I don't have long distance, let alone calling to India long distance.

Some days I find the absolute craziness of all the middle eastern men messaging me absolutely hysterical, some days I find it rather irritating when they want to occupy my time asking stupid questions. Or proposing to me.

Now I promised this dude that I would forward him a picture of myself so I'm thinking that I'm going to send him a wonderful picture of Yoda in Ireland. I think that would be hysterical.

1 prayer | 04:17 PM

Heat... or why I hate summer

Some people enjoy the heat and some people seek out the big yellow orb that often means illness and crankiness for me. Some people are able to withstand the almighty power of solar energy whereas I retreat into the confines of artificially lit rooms. There are three types of people, heat, cold, and very rarely omni-seasonal. I am a cold person, it is my belief that in winter you can add layer upon layer of clothing to keep your temperature at a comfortable one whereas in summer you can only strip off so much and still be painfully uncomfortable.

The sun is a fierce enemy; it stares down upon me relentlessly seeking my submission. It’s crippling effects suck the life out of me. Dehydrated, irritable, and a raging bitch I am better left alone to not be asked questions, to not be forced to stand in line, to not go anywhere except the 12 by 10 foot air conditioned room of Kris. The effects vary, from lightheadedness to nausea as I stand in a raging torrent of sweat.

The worst part of this summer thus far is the simple fact that we’ve had a week of 90-degree weather, another week of upper 80’s to low 90’s and there’s only been one bloody thunderstorm and most of the residents of the area were unfortunate to miss it except for a couple who woke up and one who was unfortunate enough to have to drive back home. Though for the next couple of days the weather has included thunderstorms, which makes me happy like a little girl.

Thunderstorms are my favorite weather related calamity, next to blizzards. Besides the extremely high decibel roaring of the thunder and the calming sound of pounding rain you have brilliant flashes of high voltage. Yesterday morning I was watching a Discovery channel episode on natural disasters and lightning was one of the featured events. Apparently there’s a support group out there that’s for lightning and electro-shock victims and they convene once a year to discuss the events that lead to them belonging to this group. Too bad Palahniuk didn’t include that support group within the plot of Fight Club. The troubling matter was that I immediately thought if my father could be included in this group, especially with the side effects surrounding all the victims.

Now jumping to a different tangent, wrapping this post up to include the weekend as seen through my eyes. Bowling, Mahar’s, sleep, Clifton Park, Fireworks, cursing out the neighbors, sleep, Laundry, sleep, Variety Pizza (Gyros!), Mahar’s, Smoky and the Bandit 2, sleep, Bobs, Panera, Crossgates, Price Chopper, and Bowling.

The awe and wonders of Mahar’s are often spoken amongst my four companions and myself and I am going to tout that wonder. Wednesday night Kris and I were at Mahar’s and got the skinny that the list was being updated, so naturally I couldn’t wait to see what the new choices were the next evening. When we arrived after (for me) a most excellent night of bowling there were a bunch of good beers. My favorite one of the evening is Shipyard’s Pumpkinhead Ale – basically it’s pumpkin pie beer. Now if only I had a dish of vanilla ice cream to have along with the beer, life would have been perfect. Definitely a must have during the fall season.

5 prayers | 01:18 PM