No Accounting for Manners

At Girls’ Poker Night on Saturday, we were offering suggestions to Jeannie’s and Leah’s 17-year-old cousin who is uncertain about a career path.  Such awful stress at what is supposed to be a fun age.

Among the myriad suggestions, I tossed in court reporting school.  (Gee, wherever did I get that idea?)  To which Jeannie boldly and bluntly stated that court reporting was BORING.  And then she tried to do some backpedaling, saying it wouldn’t be so boring for me once I actually started working.  Nice try.

I remained silent, choosing not to get into it with her.  I was too polite to point out that Jeannie is a staff accountant at a real estate investment company.

That’s right, the Exciting World of Accounting.

Not that I would ever tell someone to her face, especially a friend, that her job (or future job) is boring.  (Of course, I’m plenty catty enough to say it here.)  The bottom line is everyone has different interests.  One person’s interesting is another person’s hell.  And either way, we all have to earn a living.*

As for the cousin, she seems to be leaning toward early childhood education.  I have met her several times, and I think she has the right personality for it.  Best wishes.

=^..^=

*  P.S. and meow-meow:  By the way, court reporters typically earn more than staff accountants.

Dreamstuff

Oh, did I have a doozy of a dream last night.  It featured former friend and former bowling teammate Noelle (a/k/a Silent Noelle, a/k/a Toxic Noelle).  This, in and of itself, is odd, because I haven’t seen her in years (thankfully), nor can I think of anything that has happened recently that would trigger my slumbering mind to think of her.

Anyway, in the dream, I was at the church on Noelle’s wedding day.  (FYI, I did attend her actual wedding.)  In all the peculiarity that is normal in dreams, Noelle was the first in the procession, and the bridesmaids were to follow.  We all stood and turned to the doorway.  There she was, with a big, smarmy grin, in her wedding gown — with a long denim jumper over the gown.

Now, having seen Noelle’s actual wedding gown, I can safely say that the gown in the dream was not the same one.  There’s no way one could have gotten a denim jumper over the ginormous monstrosity of a gown she wore.  (insert catty meow)

Back to the dream.  Bride Noelle, denim jumper over gown, shit-eating grin, clutching a bunch of bright flowers, standing at the church entrance.  She walked down the aisle doing some sort of weird, bowlegged bumpkin walk.  WTF?  I couldn’t wait to see who/what was next.  The bridesmaids, her husband?  Because in the dream, NONE of the wedding party had yet to enter the church.  Toxic Noelle had to be first for this reaction-inducing display.  So typical.

Oooh, the anticipation.  And then –

Cough.  Convulse.  Splat.

Dammit!  Of all times to be awakened!  By a puking cat, no less.  (For all you Clue aficionados, it was Mr. Sam, in the kitchen, coughing up a hairball.)  At least he spared the carpet.

Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  I really wanted to see how that dream ended.  Too funny.  Oh, well, at least I have the mental image of Toxic Noelle in a wedding gown topped with a denim jumper doing that stupid bumpkin walk.  Precious.

And for someone who seldom remembers dreams, a couple of semi-distinct ones this morning between snooze alarms — one involving living on/camping at the beach and one about lilies of the valley.  Ahhhh, beaches and pretty, fragrant flowers.  Good stuff.

If only I could get a re-broadcast of that wedding dream.

=^..^=

Speaking of Skinny Bitches…

I don’t want to get too excited, but according to my scale, I have lost three pounds.  Without really trying.

I think it might be more accurate to say, “according to my scale, I need a new scale because mine is broken.”

In the meantime, I’ll just go with it and continue to feel slimmer today.  I takes it wherever I gets it.

As for the scale, the final “brokenness” determination likely will be made when it informs me I suddenly have gained five pounds.  Bastard.

=^..^=

I Wonder

Maybe in my next life I’ll come back as one of those skinny bitches who lives solely on black coffee and cigarettes.

=^..^=

You May Say That I’m a Dreamer

Over the weekend, I watched “VH1 Honors” or “Rock Honors” or whatever it is that paid tribute to The Who.  As I was watching, my mind drifted, as it is wont to do.  The Who has lost its drummer and bass player.  The remaining Beatles are the drummer and bass player.   Hmmmm…

You see where I’m going with this?

Of course you do.

Superband!  How perfect would that be?!  I’d totally go see Pete, Roger, Paul, and Ringo do up some Who and Beatles songs.  Why not do it, guys?  You’re all still performing these days.

Ego, of course.  In particular, I could see Paul McCartney and Pete Townshend clashing.  For that matter, I could see Sir Paul and anyone clashing.  At least Pete and Roger are still together.  Paul and Ringo never hook up.  Sir Paul would never be a part of Ringo’s All-Starr Band, not without a radical name change, that is.  And by radical, I mean something along the lines of “Sir Paul McCartney and Some Other People Who Dare To Call Themselves Musicians, But Really, It’s All About Me.”

But, imagine a world with no egos.  A superband made up of surviving members of the Beatles and The Who.  Aaaah, if only.

=^..^=

DIE, You Big Fat Fucking Bitch!!!

So, I go to request vacation for the week of August 11.  It is our summer break from school, and I thought it would be wonderful to have a week off from both work AND school.

And I am told no, I can’t have it off — because the ONE PERSON with whom my vacation cannot conflict, Mary the Pest, has already requested that same fucking week.

I approached Mary to determine whether she had set plans (such as those including travel) for that week.  She doesn’t.  She has no plans whatsoever, other than to just hang out and do nothing.  She just wanted a week off during the summer.  I explained to her that I would really like to take that week, as it is my school vacation week, my only opportunity for a true summer vacation.

Nothing.

The bitch didn’t offer to switch her week.

That was yesterday.  Morning.

Today, when I sent my request for a different week, I also requested the week after Christmas, the only other school vacation I get.

Nope.  Mary the Pest/Bitch requested that week yesterday afternoon.  AFTERNOON, as in AFTER we discussed August vacation.

I fucking hate her.

If ever there was a time for me to start using the C-word, this would be it.

=^..^=