Right now, I am sitting at home trying to prove my friend SMC WRONG WRONG WRONG. Of course, I'm cheating by putting it on my blog because I know that she will read it because it will pop up on her blog dashboard, but she is still wrong!

Here's why:

The other day I went into this gallery to get something reframed. (I always love going there and I always love hanging around a little. Fun Company + Great Advice = I'm A Greedy Girl.)

However, lately, because of some recent experiences (combined with some recent conversations, including one with HerSelf) I have been trying to be more "determined." (Does it get any more ironic than trying to be more determined?) And, I've been trying to be lower maintenance as a customer, client, whatever. I say lower because let's face it, when you're like me, shooting for low maintence is just a lofty goal at which to miserably fail ...in a meteoric way. Frankly, I'd also be concerned about the rebound effect.

(I should get credit all the way around for this current attempt.)

Here's how it usually works: I go in to get something framed (or reframed) and SMC shows me about 5,783 options which are all very similar...because she is a master. I then proceed to slowly narrow them down by removing about two or three at a time and then, I wind up choosing one of the first two she suggested.

(Someone who reads this MIGHT remember my mother.)

Although SMC is in the business of selling artwork valued at very substantial thousands of dollars she patiently stands there showing me choice after choice: a silver frame with an off-white mat, a white-washed silver frame with a white-ish mat, a brushed silver frame with a beige-tinted white mat, a goldish-silver grey frame with...you get the picture, no pun intended.

I choose everything she pretty much has suggested (I think), I leave, and then I call her within 24 hours to question my decision and she spends even more time reassuring me. Can it get more complicated?

It can.

Let's remember that I brought in the last piece thinking I was going to become more of a DECIDER, and with my new commitment to being lower maintenance. It meant I had to pay closer attention to what was being said AND I had to reject the possibility of more choices.

Combined with the fact that SMC knows me pretty well now, this has completely set me up.

She knows I'm not good at picturing things, she knows I have a hard time making up my mind, and she knows I like to think about things and then I change my mind.

(She was the one who told me this and because I had to pay closer attention to everything that was said, I heard it very clearly. I have considered whether my feelings are hurt but I've decided -- being the DECIDER that I am -- it doesn't matter. On the other hand, I have a bathroom vanity which requires a stepstool...so maybe it does matter. Well, maybe it doesn't matter so long as someone like her is around.)

But she's still wrong.

Although I can't remember the color of the mat of the piece I brought in and I can't remember if I considered whether that will look good with the frame I wanted which was supposed to match the other piece, and I can't figure out if that will look good in that color frame, I am NOT reconsidering this.

I was lost on back roads in Goffstown, NH in a foot of unplowed snow and I was thinking about that frame but I did NOT call SMC. I think that is profound self-restraint and I await your enthusiastic applause. Except for this sneaky little blog thing, I am not calling her.

I remain calm.

I Wish My Bathroom Vanity Was Standard Height For A Bathroom

Have you ever had one of those days where you realize life really would just be a whole lot better if someone did everything for you? Or, rather, in stead of you?

Remember that Talking Heads movie where that woman was so rich she never had to get out of bed? That's who I wished I was on Saturday. In fact, I'm sure the world would be a better place for us all.

It wasn't like last Saturday was different from any other. My To Do list was almost exactly the same as my To Do list of the previous weekend. That might be comforting to some, but not so much to me, considering that is my life. I'm starting to realize my To Do list really is just a Wish list.

What the hell, maybe I should just change the title of the list to All The Things I Didn't Get Done and readjust my ideas of what I should feel a sense of accomplishment about. I'm starting to understand why my mother always started her To Do lists with "GET UP, TAKE SHOWER, WASH HAIR" and I'm starting to think she was on to something.

Let me explain how this started.

We have not had a sink in our downstairs bathroom for more than six months and finally, Saturday, it was installed. This would be great except the salesperson, when she placed the order, failed to take into consideration that a shorter vanity was needed to accommodate a vessel sink. As a result, I have to warn you ahead of time, practicing universal precautions in my downstairs powder room will require a step stool.

The salesperson said, "I thought you wanted standard kitchen height." I said, "It's a bathroom." She said, "Yes, but these cabinets don't come in a shorter size." I said, "I wish I knew that."

Is your first reaction, "Big deal, stuff like that happens to everybody at some point...?"

No. No, don't even go there. At this point, I am so intimately familiar with the laws of If You Want To Get Something Done Assume That It Will Be Wrong And There Will Be a Fight First And You Will Wish Someone Else Had Taken Care Of It.

I so wish that someone would offer a conference on How To Wish Harder And Better So Your Dreams Of Getting Something Done, and Done Right, Can Come True because at this point, I believe it is my only hope.

Here's a snapshot of some of my experiences from the past year.

I was sued by a painter who left me with chipping and peeling paint. I so wish I had fired him on the first day when I had to point out that he had primed over picture hooks and Scotch tape that was left on the wall.

I had a fight with a furniture store over a couch that aged 10 years in 2 weeks (no, not because my dog was on it).

At work, I got into a squabble with an ad agency which sent me stuff riddled with typos and when I pointed it out, I got a sarcastic apology for trying to save me money by not proof reading. The owner also made fun of me on her blog (by the way, the economy looks great from my seat).

I paid a woman to make slipcovers for my dining room chairs and then she moved to Florida...with my fabric.

I had my hair cut by someone who had been recommended to me for years and walked away with a mullet.

I tipped a guy $3 at a fish counter for not spitting on the fish he cut and wrapped for me (which really doesn't have much to do with my point except to illustrate that I am desperate when it comes to trying to close out a transactional relationship without first getting into a fight).

I have therefore, logically concluded that "wishing" is my only recourse. I have carefully experimented with asking, demanding, paying, and praying. None of them work. Sometimes worrying works, because I've noticed when I worry the most, it turns out I had nothing to worry about at all -- but that's usually over stupid stuff like whether I'll accidentally find myself holding a toaster while standing in a tub of water. For some reason.

...So, the WISHING conference could be offered at a spa, preferably someplace warm, and I will invite my friends, who are also sick of hearing my stories and wishing I would shut up.

The other day, I asked one of my friends to tell me who cuts her hair and after a short silence she said, "No. No, I'm not going to tell you, because you'll wreck it."

My poll on whether Jen's blog is dreary ended on Friday. I'm pleased to announce that 9 people voted. 1 voted that it was Totally Dreary, 5 voted Just Kind of Dreary, 2 voted Not Dreary At All and 1 voted The Greatest Thing I Have Ever Seen In My Life.

Obviously, I have an awesome blog that everyone is pretty much in agreement about. I am pleased with the results and have determined that there is no reason to demand a recount.

Poorly Written Observations of the Second Kind

I think the world is pretty much divided up into three different kinds of people.

First, there are the kind who have healthy self-awareness, are directed by good prioritization and their own principles. They know their flaws; they try to keep them in check by operating with some self-restraint but they don't concern themselves too much with thinking about them, or those of other people. In fact, sometimes I really wonder what they think about all the time.

Then, there are the kind of people who have what would otherwise be good self-awareness, if they were not so preoccupied with it that they weren't talking about it all the time. They obsess about what's wrong with themselves, what's right with themselves, why other people are wrong or right about what's right or wrong about themselves. They are pretty much directed by what other people might think or won't think or said or didn't say or would say or wouldn't say, and figure that if someone didn't throw down a red carpet and flowers before them, they hate them.

And then there are the others. They have absolutely NO self-awareness at all and are virtually insufferable.

The problem is that the first kind gets a huge kick out of the second kind and doesn't necessarily even notice the third kind.

The second kind is really bothered by the fact that they can't be like the first kind and the third kind bugs the crap out of them.

The third kind is oblivious.

I bet you know what kind I consider myself to be. I've thought about it a lot.

What kind are you?

The Y Chomosome Who Lives In My House said my blog looks dreary. Do you think it is dreary? My understanding is that grey is fashion-forward but SMC told me she wasn't crazy about grey either. So, is it dreary?

Dreary is a good word -- underused. So is dour, but it's pronunciation is so complicated I think it confuses people when you call someone "door." Don't you think?

Back to Me and Mine: Dreary?

I Tip...Not Because I Get Good Service But Because I'm an Idiot

Yesterday I went into a nearby seafood store and ordered a pound and a half of salmon. The kid behind the counter sliced the fish, weighed it, wrapped it, and handed it to me. I presented him with my credit card, he swiped it, laid the receipt down on the counter, circled the word TIP, and handed me the pen.

I took that as a hint. Would you?

Like an idiot, instead of crossing out the word TIP, signing the receipt, and handing it back to him I stood there for a second completely frozen in confusion.

In a restaurant, I usually tip about 20%. (Just kidding, I never tip, Roberto is the one picking up the check.)

Seriously, I think about 20% is good, sometimes a little more, because I tend to be high maintenance (you know the drill: I need a glass of water without ice and a piece of lemon on the side... and a separate glass of just ice...a paper napkin instead of "this,"...blah blah blah).

But what about at a fish counter? I ordered one thing, it cost $11. The guy cut the fish, he wrapped it up, and he handed it to me. What am I tipping him for, not spitting on it first?

20% would be $2.20, right? Then, you round it up or down depending on whether you liked the person – whether they really seemed like they wanted to help you, right? If you put aside the fact that you’re standing at a fish counter where you shouldn’t even be debating this issue for a split second because it’s ridiculous to tip at a fish counter, a $2 tip seems really cheap, especially if you're using a credit card, right? And, since the guy was pretty much demanding it, I certainly didn’t want to be cheap because the store is only a mile and a half away from my house and what if he remembers me.  Right?

If I gave him $3 for doing this, and everyone behind me did about the same, and then you add that to what he might be paid by his employer, could he be making about $46 per hour for slicing a piece of fish and wrapping it up? The guy could not have been more than 18 years old.

So, what if I figured the fair thing to do would be to tip him based on the time it took him to serve me, versus tipping on the value of my purchase? The entire transaction was finished in less than 5 minutes. Let’s say he makes about $9 per hour – so that would be the value of his time, correct? If he helped me for less than 5 minutes, that means I could probably fairly tip him about 75 cents and I bet I would hear him calling me an asshole under his breath as I walked away.

Hello? Why am I tipping the guy at the fish counter?

As I walked out the door I remembered I had to stop at the bank on the way home and then I had this terrible thought. What if I had to tip the bank teller? If I was depositing my paycheck, cashing a rebate, and making a mortgage payment, would I have to tip the teller on the amount of the entire transaction?

Where does this end?

I’ll tell you what, on Monday when I’m finished work, I’m marching into my boss’ office and I am demanding a tip.

Play Chuzzle!

I have a terrible confession to make. I have been absent from my beloved blog for almost two weeks and it is because I am an addict. I have treated my friends badly, neglected my work, forgotten to feed the dogs. My tea is cold by the time I remember it and in the last week or so, I've walked off with the laptop while it was still connected to the camera more than just a few times.

It all happened over Christmas when we were trying to entertain children and we discovered Chuzzle. It's not a drink or a drug, but it might as well be. It's a computer game and I can't stop. I mean it. I. Can't. Stop.

I might as well be handcuffed to my computer. And to think, it was just an innocent (and, in my defense, very successful) effort to entertain, primarily, a six year old. She went home Chuzzle-free however, and I am sitting here a week later glued to a computer game, considering taking up smoking to keep my hands otherwise occupied.

I also blame the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House because he was the one who found it and he showed me how to keep finding new trials of it until I finally downloaded a virus. You'd think that would have stopped me. But no. The infected laptop went flying under the couch somewhere and I'm now using my retired laptop, which is almost ten years old and weighs about 47 pounds.

Finally, I downloaded an official version of the game for about $10 after a frantic and risky internet search for a discount coupon. It's a good thing I purchased it so early in my Chuzzling career because I think if I had waited much longer, at this stage, someone could have charged me 100 times that amount and I would be stealing money from my neighbors to get it.

When I went back to work on Tuesday I almost cried and in a lame attempt to cheer me up, the Y Chromosome suggested that I take my laptop to work but to make sure I turned the sound off.

I didn't think that was funny at all. And it was very disrespectful too.

Apparently, Chuzzle has been around since 2005. Obviously, its remarkable ingenuity has been long recognized by far greater minds than mine. In case you haven't had the pleasure of acquainting yourself to it, allow me:



The display screen consists of 36 little chuzzles that sort of bounce around to a hip little drum beat. Don't ask me what chuzzles are -- they look like swishy fuzz balls and they're all different colors with big eyeballs that follow your curser. As you drag them around and group them by color, they explode and their eyes fly into a bottle that racks up points. (Who came up with that?) The game doesn't appear to have any rules, doesn't require any thoughtful strategy, and bonus points get awarded for no apparent reason whatsover. As you can imagine, under these conditions, I am astonishingly awesome at this game.

When I close my eyes, I see chuzzle imprints on my eyelids. When I get up in the morning, I immediately start thinking about when I can start playing Chuzzle again. I promise myself just one more game and four (fourty) of them later, it's midnight. I hear Chuzzle music in every advertising jingle and have considered loading it up on my i-Pod. I think I might even want to be a chuzzle when I grow up. My name is X and I am a chuzzle. No, wait, that would be for the 12-step program.


Seriously though, tonight is the last night I'm playing this game, I swear it.