Headaches

I've had a headache for four days now. Well, not for four days straight, but each of the last four days, I've had a headache.

One time, I almost convinced myself I have a tumor. (Insert Ahhhhnold reference: It's not a tumah.)

I'm sure it's a combination of things that will eventually resolve themselves, but right now I think the only cure for this tumah I seemed to have developed is a vacation. Like at least 5 days in a row of doing straight nothing.

And not checking emails, especially work ones. And putting my cell phone on silent, and leaving it there... I'll check it twice a day maybe. And perfect cloudless beach weather. And clothes that don't need to be ironed, fluffed or thrown into a pile because they don't look good for whatever reason that day. And then, when I do go back to work, I want my entire to-do list miraculously wiped out.

If that doesn't take away my tumah, then I'd start getting worried for real.

Victoria's Secret (update!)

Dear Vicki,

Please accept my deepest apologies regarding the post I wrote three days ago. You have fully redeemed yourself and I would like you to know I'm am hereby officially removing you from my shit list.

Thank you for having the bikini bottom in your catalog that is back-ordered until MayFreakin21st IN STOCK IN THE DAMN STORE.

I truly appreciate it, but am still a little hurt that you didn't just tell me that before. I thought we were closer than that. I trusted you.

Anyway, I'll get over it. I always do. You had me at $10 coupon. Welcome back to my Holy Trinity of Shopping (Express/Victoria's Secret/Target). Welcome home.

3people2seats

Last night at precisely way past my bedtime, I was at a dive-ass bar called "Nippers." The name alone should tell you. Anyway, I went to Nippers after a lovely couple hours of bowling (which I suck at, and systematically suck more and more after each beer).

I'll set the scene for you. It's karaoke night. It's late. The people here are wasted, and going to far as to attempt to croon Outkast. There's an old drunk guy beating one of my friends at pool (he doesn't lose well). Someone just shattered their cocktail on the floor and I'm wearing flip flops. I'm standing in a nicotine fog since smoking is allowed. I'm babysitting my Mich Ultra... and did I mention it's way past my bedtime?

Bowling started out as a crowd of 6 or 7. From there I drove over to the bar, two friends walked over (it's right next door) and one left to go get his car from somewhere and come right back. This one who was "coming right back" is one of the walking guy's ride at the end of the night (stay with me now...).

Bottom line: Mr. I'm Coming Right Back never comes back. I drive a BMW Z4 (two seats), and there are three of us at the bar. Do the math. 3people2seats. No bueno.

Luckily for Mr. ICRB, we were able to pawn Walker #2 off on someone we knew who mercifully showed up. Because, believe me, I'm not catching a DUI because I somehow drew attention by driving down the street with a random guy riding on my roof.

Milk shards

I really don't even like milk. I really only use it when making random or recipes or, in this case, on a rare cereal kick. Which I'm on right now, so I need milk (but I only use enough to wet the cereal; I don't want to taste the milk).

The thing is, when you turn the cap to open the milk, there are inevitably milk shards. Now you know what I mean. Those flakes or dry milk that were hiding in the twist cap, that fall all on whatever you're opening the milk over -- in this case, my cereal.

Nasty.

So lesson learned. Open the milk over the sink, not over your food.

Victoria's Secret

Haha... panties in a bunch, Victoria's Secret, panties... harr. NO. Not what I'm talking about.

I never thought Victoria's Secret would make it to my bitch list, but here they are. You see, VS is one piece of my Holy Trinity of Shopping (Express/VS/Target -- duh). They can do no wrong, and I find something to spend money on every single time I go there or peruse their catalogs (quit sending me a new one every 3 days and maybe I'd be able to save a little money here, Vickie. Thanks.)

So I was delighted to receive the latest swimsuit catalog... as I always am. And equally as delighted to find a fabulous bikini I liked (shocker, I know). Which I ordered, despite the fact that it was overpriced and I had to pay like $20 for shipping on top of that. No matter, I love my new suit!

And it comes. To my office! I have a package! Yay! I open it and love it just as much as I did on freakin Giselle Bundchen or whoever perfect they had modeling it in the catalog. I can't wait to take it home and try it on!

Which I do. And wouldn't you know, the bottoms are too small (And you know what a too-small bikini bottom looks like. Can you say muffin top?). No problem, I'll just call and order the next size up.

It's back-ordered until May 21. Go ahead, check your calendars. That's like two months away.

#1. Do you know what kind of FIERCE tan lines I'll have from my old suit by then?!!

2. You're telling me VS only gets shipments once every two months? I call bullshit.

So now I have to return the whole thing. Cause I can't have my poor beautiful bikini top waiting, lonely and abandoned, for TWO MONTHS for it's other half.

Stupid VS. Thanks a lot.

That plastic thing in my toilet

It's broken. Whatever ever thingamajigger it is that is attached to the whatchamacallit is cracked. And so now, every single time I want to flush (which is EVERY time, thank you), I have to lift up the lid and hand-flush it.

This think broke over the weekend, as major useful appliances are wont to do. And since I live in an apartment, I'm stuck here, flushless in Florida, until the maintenance guy decides to roll his golf cart over to my crib and fix it.

Which sucks. Because if I owned the place, I'd go buy the stupid $2 whozit and put it in myself. But since I pay waaaaaaay too much rent, I'm not about to add $2 to my monthly total. I'd rather call the office red-faced every morning ranting irate. Cause I'm right, dammit. And I don't care if those people next door's A/C is broken and they're dying of heat exhaustion... I'm not down with the manual flush.

And while we're talking toilet, here's the story of Jack Schitt. A classic.