November 13, 2010
Clearly, the internet gods have a problem with me. After twelve days at the repair shop, and a new hard-drive, my laptop is still spontaneously shutting down. And guess what else? A certain German Shorthaired Pointer gnawed through the power cord.
Man I love that dog.
I swiped Jared's laptop while he's busy getting ready for work, but this will last approximately four minutes before he catches me and craps on me, because, "Oh my gosh, Amy (said in the whiniest tone you can imagine)!!! I hate it when you sign into your Google account on my computer (said even whinier)!!!"
Personally, I hate it when children in third world countries are rendered homeless due to war--but you know, those little things that drive us bonkers, they're different for everyone!
In happier news, I tasted a little bit of redemption on the running front. I ran a 5k on Veteran's Day with the goal of 21:30. I came in at 21:33, which I consider close enough. A friend from my running club paced me and kept me going with a combination of motivational phrases and creative curse words. Things like, "C'mon, let's pass that girl, she's got worse form than you do!" and "Alright, let's ramp it up and power past this @#$% wearing the #$%^&* smurf pants."
It was an ugly three miles--I was sucking wind enough to make a scene, and my only clean running clothes were in varying shades of pink. I'm not so good at keeping track of personal records, but high school aside, I think that's a new PR. Seriously, I'm thrilled. Three miles of success is so much more fun than twenty-six miles of craptastitude. I really do think I'll stick with the short stuff for a while. Maybe.
And other than that, I've got to ask...has anyone here seen those little pancake sausage ball things at Dunkin' Donuts? I really want a three pack.
Happy Saturday!
My Propane Company
November 10, 2010
I really love my propane company. They ask about my kids, their customer service is over the top, they keep my family warm and alive. But you know what? I absolutely hate my propane company at the very same time. It's not their fault, but I despise the fact that I have to spend my hard earned money on heat instead of candy.
Hate. It.
Back in August, I was running by the propane company when I decided to stop for a drink from the spigot on the side of their building. Just as I was not washing the sweat out from under my armpits, Dave, my friendly local heating buddy popped out of the side door and said, "Hey Amy. Are you pre-buying this year or do you want to do the budget plan?"
Didn't I say they had fantastic customer service?
So I was like, "Dave. You think I can afford to pre-buy? Do I freaking look like Paris Hilton to you? Of course I'm doing the budget plan." And two days later the contract came in the mail.
For those of you who live in the warmer weather states, the budget plan allows you to lock in your propane price for the entire season, and break the cost up into convenient and affordable monthly installments. Yay!
So the contract came in August, and to be 100% completely honest with you, it's still sitting on my desk.
I don't know where the fear comes from, but every time I sign that heating contract, I feel like I flushing my future down the toilet. Whenever I pick up the pen and work up the nerve to scribble on the dotted line, the devil spits tricky little phrases into my ear, like, "Imagine the vacations you could take with that money!" and, "Oh, come on, just make 'em wear sweatshirts this winter! They get plenty of heat at daycare!"
So far, he's won me over. But somehow, just like usual, my propane company outsmarted the devil by virtue of their most excellent customer service.
Just a few minutes ago, while I was sitting on my bed, ignoring Maggie's crying, I heard the *beep, beep, beep* of a truck reversing. It sounded just like the UPS truck (not that I'm any kind of expert on the UPS truck,since I never buy anything for myself--especially not without Jared's permission and blessing.) I jumped off my bed, absolutely thrilled to tear into the mystery package, and hoo boy, my heart sank to my feet when I saw the fuel truck.
How could that wretched old bubble-shaped truck be here? I never even signed that contract!
So I called Dave. I was like, "Dave. Why's the truck here! I never signed that contract! Maybe I don't want any heat this year!"
And he was all, "Really, Amy? You're forgoing heat?"
"No," I said, "but maybe I decided to go with another company."
"Pretty sure you didn't."
"Fine. But really, why'd the truck come?"
"Because it's November, in Maine, and Jared's probably freezing his nuts off."
They seem to know me better than I know myself. And that's why I love my propane company.
I really love my propane company. They ask about my kids, their customer service is over the top, they keep my family warm and alive. But you know what? I absolutely hate my propane company at the very same time. It's not their fault, but I despise the fact that I have to spend my hard earned money on heat instead of candy.
Hate. It.
Back in August, I was running by the propane company when I decided to stop for a drink from the spigot on the side of their building. Just as I was not washing the sweat out from under my armpits, Dave, my friendly local heating buddy popped out of the side door and said, "Hey Amy. Are you pre-buying this year or do you want to do the budget plan?"
Didn't I say they had fantastic customer service?
So I was like, "Dave. You think I can afford to pre-buy? Do I freaking look like Paris Hilton to you? Of course I'm doing the budget plan." And two days later the contract came in the mail.
For those of you who live in the warmer weather states, the budget plan allows you to lock in your propane price for the entire season, and break the cost up into convenient and affordable monthly installments. Yay!
So the contract came in August, and to be 100% completely honest with you, it's still sitting on my desk.
I don't know where the fear comes from, but every time I sign that heating contract, I feel like I flushing my future down the toilet. Whenever I pick up the pen and work up the nerve to scribble on the dotted line, the devil spits tricky little phrases into my ear, like, "Imagine the vacations you could take with that money!" and, "Oh, come on, just make 'em wear sweatshirts this winter! They get plenty of heat at daycare!"
So far, he's won me over. But somehow, just like usual, my propane company outsmarted the devil by virtue of their most excellent customer service.
Just a few minutes ago, while I was sitting on my bed, ignoring Maggie's crying, I heard the *beep, beep, beep* of a truck reversing. It sounded just like the UPS truck (not that I'm any kind of expert on the UPS truck,since I never buy anything for myself--especially not without Jared's permission and blessing.) I jumped off my bed, absolutely thrilled to tear into the mystery package, and hoo boy, my heart sank to my feet when I saw the fuel truck.
How could that wretched old bubble-shaped truck be here? I never even signed that contract!
So I called Dave. I was like, "Dave. Why's the truck here! I never signed that contract! Maybe I don't want any heat this year!"
And he was all, "Really, Amy? You're forgoing heat?"
"No," I said, "but maybe I decided to go with another company."
"Pretty sure you didn't."
"Fine. But really, why'd the truck come?"
"Because it's November, in Maine, and Jared's probably freezing his nuts off."
They seem to know me better than I know myself. And that's why I love my propane company.
Ten Days
November 6, 2010
Have I mentioned that my laptop's been at the repair shop? For ten days? Ten days. What can they possibly be doing to a laptop for that obscene amount of time? I have no idea, but it's totally crimping my lifestyle.
I'm dying to tell you about my recent adventure in Craigslisting, but I can't, because my laptop's been at the repair shop. For ten days.
Have I mentioned that my laptop's been at the repair shop? For ten days? Ten days. What can they possibly be doing to a laptop for that obscene amount of time? I have no idea, but it's totally crimping my lifestyle.
I'm dying to tell you about my recent adventure in Craigslisting, but I can't, because my laptop's been at the repair shop. For ten days.
And His Name Shall Be...
November 2, 2010
It's final. His name is Coach (kennel name is Heeza Royal Coachman, after something fly-fishing related), and so far he's a good dog. Lots of crotch sniffing and the occasional accident on the kitchen floor--exactly what you'd expect from a puppy.
So far he seems to be an adequate running buddy. He keeps up, he stays to the right, and if all goes as planned, he'll live up to his name. For the time being he's coming along for the three and four milers, but maybe someday, if I haven't thrown in the towel for something easier on the knees (like bowling), he'll be a distance guy. We'll see.
Gracie, our eleven year old greyhound, seems to be handling her new housemate just fine. She sleeps, she farts, she ate an entire turkey carcass out of the trash while I was at work this morning--exactly what you'd expect from that big ol' girl.
I stopped at home for lunch about an hour ago, and Gracie greeted me at the door with a total, "Seriously? Say what you will because I don't give damn," kind of look. It's her signature. Then, when she turned around to walk away and ignore me (really, this is normal protocol), I noticed that she was just about as wide as a barrel.
Excellent. In between the mad dash of kids, and coats, and figuring out who the crap I'm voting for, I forgot to take out the trash. Cross your fingers for no midnight trip to the emergency vet clinic. We did that this time last year and I swear on all thing holy that it was more expensive than my epidural with Maggie.
Now before I move on, did anyone notice that I happened to whip up a turkey for just-another-Monday-night dinner? Really, did you? Yes? Maybe?
Because Jared kind of didn't. At least not until he halfway digested the gravy, then he was all, "Wait. What?! A turkey?! You spoil me, Amy!"
And I was like, "I know, you should buy me more stuff! Soon!"
So far, no dice. I'll keep you posted.
And as another sidenote, I'd really like to add some pictures of the dogs, but my laptop's in the shop and I'm working on a computer that, I schnit you not, has a disc drive--this gem truly doesn't understand what a digital picture is. If this computer could listen to music, it would totally love Phil Collins.
Friends, I'm passionate about my job, especially the cutting edge equipment. Some people have iPads. Some people have netbooks. I have a floppy disc drive, byotches.
The good news is, who, in total and complete honesty, really wants to see a picture of someone else's dog? He's brown and white and poops in my yard--use your imagination and your mental picture will be more that sufficient. I promise.
So there, life goes on with two dogs. In the grand scheme of things, what's an extra splash or urine here and there?
It's final. His name is Coach (kennel name is Heeza Royal Coachman, after something fly-fishing related), and so far he's a good dog. Lots of crotch sniffing and the occasional accident on the kitchen floor--exactly what you'd expect from a puppy.
So far he seems to be an adequate running buddy. He keeps up, he stays to the right, and if all goes as planned, he'll live up to his name. For the time being he's coming along for the three and four milers, but maybe someday, if I haven't thrown in the towel for something easier on the knees (like bowling), he'll be a distance guy. We'll see.
Gracie, our eleven year old greyhound, seems to be handling her new housemate just fine. She sleeps, she farts, she ate an entire turkey carcass out of the trash while I was at work this morning--exactly what you'd expect from that big ol' girl.
I stopped at home for lunch about an hour ago, and Gracie greeted me at the door with a total, "Seriously? Say what you will because I don't give damn," kind of look. It's her signature. Then, when she turned around to walk away and ignore me (really, this is normal protocol), I noticed that she was just about as wide as a barrel.
Excellent. In between the mad dash of kids, and coats, and figuring out who the crap I'm voting for, I forgot to take out the trash. Cross your fingers for no midnight trip to the emergency vet clinic. We did that this time last year and I swear on all thing holy that it was more expensive than my epidural with Maggie.
Now before I move on, did anyone notice that I happened to whip up a turkey for just-another-Monday-night dinner? Really, did you? Yes? Maybe?
Because Jared kind of didn't. At least not until he halfway digested the gravy, then he was all, "Wait. What?! A turkey?! You spoil me, Amy!"
And I was like, "I know, you should buy me more stuff! Soon!"
So far, no dice. I'll keep you posted.
And as another sidenote, I'd really like to add some pictures of the dogs, but my laptop's in the shop and I'm working on a computer that, I schnit you not, has a disc drive--this gem truly doesn't understand what a digital picture is. If this computer could listen to music, it would totally love Phil Collins.
Friends, I'm passionate about my job, especially the cutting edge equipment. Some people have iPads. Some people have netbooks. I have a floppy disc drive, byotches.
The good news is, who, in total and complete honesty, really wants to see a picture of someone else's dog? He's brown and white and poops in my yard--use your imagination and your mental picture will be more that sufficient. I promise.
So there, life goes on with two dogs. In the grand scheme of things, what's an extra splash or urine here and there?
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