I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

Sometimes when I'm alone, I have conversations (arguments?) with myself.
Me: I just don’t know what to do with myself.

Me: Oh really, Yersa? That’s quite the poetic, dramatic sing-songy thought.

Me: I just don’t know what to do with my time. I’m so lonesome for you, it’s a crime.

Me: Yersa! Lock it up! You are a strong independent woman and you do NOT need someone around to keep you company. Snap out of it.

Me: But I’m so used to doooo-iiiing everything with you. Plan-niiiiiing everything for two.

Me: Look at yourself. You’re sitting on the bed in your underwear watching YouTube videos. Go outside and live, for chrissake.

Me: Oh, I need your sweet love to beat all the pain.

Me: That doesn’t even make sense.

Me: Like a summer rose.

Me: Stop.

Me: It needs the sun and rain.

Me: No. Please. Not the Cameron Diaz version.

Me: Oh yes. The Cameron Diaz version.

Me: Lord help us.

Dear teenagers that hang at the beach,

 I do not care if you dickweeds are raping the corpses of the goats you are trying to summon Team Jacob with late at night in your black velvet douche-robes. Please just be fucking quiet. And throw your frigging cans and bottles away in the trash cans provided.  The beach is surrounded by nine hundred thousand dollar condos, and I come here to get a little peace and quiet.  And if you are betting that (A) I give a flying fuck about your safety or (B) how far people are willing to go to defend their investments, then keep going and throwing your garbage everywhere, and I will break that empty fourty off in your pubescent ass while I fashion a garrote wire out of your three chest hairs to strangle you with, you fuckwits. Pick up your shit, I am not your mom.

Lovingly yours,
~Yersa

 

Just in case...

Game Time

Let's play "looks what was found in Yersa's car".


*$2.87 total in miscellaneous change
* 2 pieces of unchewed Doublemint gum
*1 green grape
*2 arcade tickets for a prize to be redeemed later
*3 plastic bottle caps
*3 sea shells
* 1 piece of Pirate's booty
*1 shoe (WTH?)
*3 snow scrapers
*2 coat hangers
*a pocket knife (hey, you never know)
*a can of peas
*4 lipsticks
*a McCain/Palin bumper sticker (fuck you, it wasn't used)
*3 of those little mini-packs of tissues
*4 bottles of hand sanitizer
*band-aid count:  3 unused, 2 used.  eeeww....
*a spork

A True Story About A Chair

After I bought my first home, I did not have much in the way of seating. I had a couch and a big leather La-Z-Boy, which was perfect for just me and him and the cat, but not so perfect if I wanted to have a party¹. I wanted to purchase a chair or two that I could stick in a closet and set out when all of my friends² came over to hang out with me.

Before long, I found an adorable wooden dining chair online, painted black with a subtle gold stencil design on the back. The seller had placed the product in the middle of a lush green field, surrounded by pretty flowers and framed artistically by a setting sun off in the distance, for the website photo. On sale for just $35 and located relatively nearby (so the shipping wouldn’t be exorbitant), I was sold and excitedly placed my order.

I waited by the door each day³, wringing my hands nervously in anticipation of The Chair’s arrival.

Will it be as pretty as it is in the picture? I thought to myself.

Will the gold fleur-de-lis stencil design be subtle enough for my demure and understated living room decor? I thought to myself.

Will I have to stick a sugar packet under one of the chair legs? I thought to myself.

Finally, The Chair came. The UPS dude rang my doorbell and I galloped toward the door with the speed and finesse of a filly, my mane blowing behind me in the wind. I wrenched open the door with my
hoof hand. I inhaled sharply.

Is this some kind of sick joke? I thought to myself.

Standing before me was the delivery man, holding my package (that’s what she said), as I expected. But something had clearly gone awry.

The package was way too small (she said it again) for The Chair to possibly fit inside.

“Thank you for your trouble, sir,” I stammered, tears rushing to my eyes.

“It was no trouble at all, m’lady,” the UPS guy said. He reached out and dabbed my cheeks with his hanky.

I took his package into my hands (I could do this all day) and closed the door.

Perhaps there’s some assembly required, I thought to myself. Or perhaps this isn’t The Chair at all! Maybe one of my adoring fans sent me a gift!

My spirits temporarily renewed, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut open the box. Inside, cushioned neatly betwixt layer after layer of bubble wrap, was the tiniest chair I have ever seen.

The Chair shown next to famous actor Danny DeVito for scale.

The subtle fleur-de-lis stenciling was about the size of my fingernail. The chair legs might as well’ve been toothpicks. Since that fateful afternoon, when my hopes and dreams to one day own an adorable black kitchen chair that would be used very rarely were smashed to bits, I have managed to recover.

¹I had somewhere between zero and one party while living in that house.
²I have somewhere between zero and two friends.
³Exaggerated for dramatic effect. I actually had a riveting⁴ job at the time and likely worked each day, although I don’t remember exactly.
⁴By ‘riveting’ I really mean ‘soul-crushingly horrible’.

It's Not Over! (Part 4)

Dear Dustin,

 

I find it odd that you find italics odd. That particular typography style has been around for quite some time. I would think you've seen it before now. Perhaps if I had drawn some figures in the dirt with a stick while grunting? I do apologize for getting all crazy and changing up the typeface on you like that. I'll try to be more consistent in the future. But that's neither here nor there, as I wanted to let you know what I find REALLY odd.

I find it bizarrely odd that you would extend an invitation to meet you at the gym to read over one of my e-mails, and then not even have the decent courtesy to show up. That's just bad form Dusty. Even from you. Perhaps once you return to town?

I'm available most nights other than Mondays or Wednesdays.  Anyhoo, looking forward to meeting with you upon your return.

Safe travels!

~Yersa

Four-Play

Bugs the Shit Out of Me.

Yersa:  Exterminator Extraordinare

This is how I've been spending my leisure time, yo.  I have these nasty ass beetles that keep cropping up.  Now, I'm not a bug-phobic girly type, however, I do like to have a clean, preferably infestation-free domicile.    At first I thought these little bastids were cute.  I'd name them, take a few photos, set them free, etc.  But I'm over it!  So in my on-line searches for Have-A-Heart beetle boobie traps, I came upon the most fucked up photo of a spider I've ever seen.  And holy shit. I realize that not everyone here has a fear of spiders, but do you really need to have a pantie-wetting phobia to be freaked out by this:

Yeah. It's eating a bird. That it caught in it's web. OK, so I looked it up and the bird is only the size of a finch, meaning that the spider pictured is approximately the size of a dinner plate, give or take a like it fucking matters. They're getting bigger people, and before you know it some guy who thinks he's cool will figure out a way to train one, then the government gets involved for the weapon potential, and game fucking over. I realize they play a vital part in our planet's ecosystem; however, the brand of genocide I'm proposing is just for the really big ones. Think about it -- would you miss them? 

You gonna give this thing a treat when it comes crawling up your leg? Hell no. You would beat it to death with your mother if that's what it took. If I have to, I'll involve the creationists in this. They killed all the dinosaurs, so I doubt a few hundred thousand eight-legged tools of Satan is going to be a big deal. Have-A-Heart this!   I'll keep my beetles.

It's Not Over! (Part Three) Otherwise known as: Game On!

Italics. Odd.

I’m a business owner that appreciates feedback, but has no patience for disrespect. Perhaps you should come in to the gym and read that email to me, and tell me how it sounds then.

The problem was scheduled for resolution far before your irate email.

______________ is a fine gym, conveniently located for you, and perhaps they’ll do a better job at keeping your blood pressure below 230.

 

 

 

 

Poor Dustin.  Poor outwitted, Dustin.  He has no idea who he's dealing with.  It's on like Donkey Kong, mothereffer!  Boy isn't he going to be surprised when I show up to read my letter.  I may throw in an interpretive dance, if he plays his cards right.

This Isn't Over. (Part Deux)

Really? Criticizing my grammar is your response? Aren’t you too old to be swearing in emails like that? I think you’d be happier elsewhere. There is always going to be issues at the gym, and I don’t really care to put up with such aggressive complaints. It’s not good for my health. I can go ahead and cancel your membership for you.

Dustin



Dustin,

As a business owner I would think you are tough-skinned enough to handle complaints. Nothing about my complaint was aggressive.  I didn’t come in physically swinging bats at you, I simply wrote up an email outlining the frustrations that many of your customers were experiencing, not just me. It seems you would, as a business owner, be appreciative that I took the time to voice my complaint so you could be aware of your customer’s concerns. It sounds as though you heard my complaint and are taking steps to rectify the power problem. You are to be commended for that. As previously noted, I don’t want a membership at another gym so I would prefer my current membership be left as it is. I only wanted the power problem resolved, which you are in the process of resolving so it seems we both have a win/win. You have happy, paying customers, and we both have our good health.  Well, aside from my cataracts, graying hairs, gastrointestinal responses to pureed prunes and of course, my impending hip-replacement surgery.  Keep it real, kid.

Regards,

 

Yersa

This Isn't Over! Not By A Long Shot!

********CAUTION .....LONG********************

So, I have a gym membership at a local gym that shall remain nameless.  At least for now, until they manage to somehow piss me off further than what they already have.  Now, I'm not one to complain *ahem*.  Or at least not to complain directly to the source, but I felt it important to point out to the aforementioned gym that they suck.   After the third instance of equipment failure, I decided to fill out a customer comment card.  They are located at the front desk.  My only comment on the card was, "fix your shit".  Simple.  Concise.

Anywho, no sooner did my completed comment card hit the basket, than the juice-head behind the counter reached for it, read my comment and muttered under his breath as I walked out, "what the hell's her problem?"  This was followed up with a voicemail approximately two days later. After several back and forth messages being left, I was told that I should express any concerns to *Dustin.

**name has not been changed-to expose the guilty

After a few failed attempts to reach Dustin by phone, I did what any concerned customer would do, I wrote a written complaint.  (because apparently the comment card wasn't sufficient)


Dustin,

I'm told these e-mails go straight to you so I'll address my complaint to you. I've waited 24 hours to even write this to give me time to chill out, but I'm still pissed as hell. Last week was the third time I've tried to work out using your treadmills only to have the breaker trip and get jerked abruptly off the treadmill. The first time it happened, someone downstairs was notified who said they'd take care of it. I waited a little longer than 20 minutes before I thought "fuck this" and left.

The other morning, all the treadmills were in use again and the breaker tripped, startling the hell out of all of us. This time I waited until they started up again. Less than 5 minutes into my run, it happened again. Now I'm pissed and ready to go.  

I pay $20/month to a gym where I can't even use the equipment? Are you fucking kidding me?  Yesterday was the third time I wasted my morning and my gas by going to your gym and left feeling like I wanted to punch a baby. I go there to help alleviate my stress. Not CAUSE it.   Being winter, and the fact that you have a current advertised special, there's only going to be more and more people wanting to use the treadmills.  In keeping with my schedule, I'm supposed to go there tomorrow morning for cardio. I'm not wasting my time again, but now what? Jog in place in my living room while watching Sex & The City for the 4,000th time and cursing the fact I don't have cable? Or run outside and risk a hefty hospital bill after the inevitable frostbite ensues?   I live less than 10 minutes from another gym. I don't want a membership to another gym. I like your gym. I like the atmosphere. I like your staff (aside from the douche that read my comment card and made an asshole comment within my earshot), they really are the best. I like working out there but please, for the love of everything American and holy....Fix your shit!

Sincerely,

Yersa 

 

 

Dustin's response:

 

Wow. You definitely do need a stress relief, but I don't think running is going to do it.

The problem is power. We're running another circuit to the treadmills on Friday.

You might consider raising issues you have earlier so they don't effect you so greatly. It's really not good for your health otherwise. We also offer great yoga classes, at no extra charge. Perhaps that would help.

 

Dustin

 

 

Dearest Dustin,

Your ability to deflect the real issue (i.e. your power problem) and make it my issue (keeping in good health) is astounding. Not only that, you didn’t even use the word “effect” properly. (Fyi… it should be ‘affect’ with an ‘a’). May I suggest a language and grammar course for you? Perhaps that would help.

 

In the meantime, I look forward to running on a properly working treadmill once you get your power problems under control.

 

Good day, Sir.  I said, good day!

 

Hugs and Kisses,

 

Yersa

 

 

***********response pending************

IT is $#IT.

I manage to invoke the blue screen of death and break my computer. For some reason I take pleasure in telling the head of our IT department this. He asks what happened. I tell him I broke my computer.

IT: "Yes, but HOW did you 'break' it?"

Me: "I dunno. It was going and then it just broke".

IT: "Well, what were you doing on it when it stopped working?"

Yeah right. You'll have to get up priiitty early in the morning to pull a fast one on me. I watch Law & Order. I know my rights.

Me: Silence....

IT: *deep sigh* "I'll be right up"

Everyone who has ever sat in a cubicle for more than 4 months usually put photos of themselves, loved ones, pets, their children, clowns...what have you in their space to remind them of their reason for living. I somehow managed to go almost 3 years without a single photo. Apparently this is weird and made people uncomfortable. I'm not one who likes to see people uneasy *ahem* so I put up some photos of my dog.

IT is staring at these photos while waiting for my computer to reboot. He turns to me and asks where are the pictures of my kids.

Me: "I don't have any kids.  Just a niece and nephew."

IT: "Don't you have any of your own?"

Me: "No, I don't have any kids."

IT: "Really? You would have been a great Mom. What happened?"

I stare at him a moment before bursting into tears. In between my sobs I relay the story of how I'd always wanted to have children of my own but was born a hermaphrodite and therefore was never equipped with the proper plumbing to breed my own brood.

Fine. I didn't really. But I did stare at him a moment before making some lame crack about not even being able to keep plants alive. Should have gone with the hermaphrodite story cause really? Who SAYS that??


Just for this, I'm breaking my computer again next week.

Want!

I have COOTIES!!!

I have a sniffle. Followed by an occasional sneeze. I already checked for zombie bites, and I’m all clear, so put down the weapon.
But after watching Contagion, I’m convinced I still may die.
It’s been nice knowing you.

From http://deathbycupcakes01.blogspot.com/

Here’s what I learned from the movie Contagion:

• Don’t touch anything. Ever.
• If you must touch something, wipe it down and then pour an entire bottle of hand sanitizer over your hands when you’re done.
• The average person touches his or her face 2,000-3,000 times a day.
• Being Kate Winslet does not make you safe from viruses.
• Being Gwyneth Paltrow does not make you safe from viruses.
• Being Matt Damon does make you immune.
• Don’t cheat on your spouse. If you do, you’ll die from a virus killing millions. Karma.
• If you eat a pig that’s eaten a piece of banana that was partially eaten by a bat, you’re probably going to die.
• That bat was flying around near the pigs because of deforestation…so really it’s our own fault.

The most important thing I learned is that “Blogging is not writing. It’s graffiti with punctuation.” This was meant to be an insult, but I kind of like it.

Beam Me Up Scotty

As seen on Craiglist:

"For those of you who are now aware to the fact that you are star children of extraterrestrial origins please contact me. (773) 831-4160) We may coordinate our efforts for the upcoming frequency shift? I will be able to determine that for you (if you are indeed a Starchild). Have you learned to communicate mentally either directly or through impressions or thoughts yet? Those s...kills can be uncovered or developed. If you have any ideas of collaboration ideas please feel free to contact me.
I also will answer any questions I know the answers to on ANY topic that I know.

I barter for things I need like Food, Cloth material, and information. I also am looking for someone to do light security work of my property and body guard work when I got out into the public. I have confirmed cases of being followed and surveilled.

I have a large deep freezer that is almost 10 years old I can barter with and also a regular Iphone 4 that I no longer use because I upgraded."



This of course, begs the question, why would a telepath need a cell phone?  Pfftf,

Lessons From A Dirty Girl

When I was growing up, I had an aversion to showering.  I didn’t enjoy being dirty or anything. I was simply far too busy and far too important to spend 10 minutes in the shower getting clean. I had appointments to keep and neighborhood clubs to run and cars to egg and doorsteps to poopify. Being the highly intelligent (genius, really) girl that I am, I hatched a fool-proof plan that would allow me to continue living the disgusting, unhygienic lifestyle that I so cherished.

The plan (as I remember it):

Parental unit eyes me up and down. Film of dirt and sweat covering my body does not escape Parental Unit’s notice. Parental unit shoves me into bathroom and reminds me to ‘be thorough’.

Step 1: Cackle, evilly, rubbing palms together with glee.

Step 2: Turn on shower.
Step 3: Throw back shower curtain loudly, to give impression of entering shower in the event Parental Unit has bugging devices in bathroom and is monitoring your movements.
Step 4: Open bottle of shampoo.
Step 5: Squirt shampoo all over shower walls and floor (to give impression of usage). Use at least half the bottle so Parental Unit smells overwhelming scent of Pert Plus emitting steamy bathroom later on.
Step 6: Repeat step 5 using conditioner.
Step 7: Repeat step 6 using body wash.
Step 8: Turn on sink.
Step 9: Splash water from sink onto hair, to give impression of dampness that would come from actually taking a shower.
Step 10: While shower continues to run, sit on toilet and read Highlights for 8-10 minutes (to give impression of thoroughness).
Step 11: Turn off shower. Disregard the amount of shampoo, conditioner, body wash,  and water just wasted in your ploy to avoid bathing.
Step 12: Strip off clothing and wrap self in clean towel. Disregard that you are dirtying a clean towel with bodily filth.
Step 13: Strut out of the bathroom and down hallway toward bedroom with confidence.
Step 14: Bump into Parental Unit in hallway. Smile.
Step 15: Drag heels in hallway carpeting as Parental Unit forces you back toward bathroom. Shout things like, “I did too, shower!” “You can’t prove anything!” “This is an invasion of privacy!”
Step 16: Sulk as pleas are ignored.
Step 17: Take actual shower. Try not to think of hour just wasted with trickery that could have been spent otherwise, like keeping appointments and running neighborhood clubs and egging cars and poopifying doorsteps.

Yersa's Five For Friday

Things that bother me when not done well:

• vanity license plates
• quoting movies in conversation
• sandwich construction
• handshakes
• parenting

Dog-Ma

Although my barely detectable maternal instinct is wholly satisfied by caring for pets, others in my life are not so blessed. Many of them don’t have pets, or don’t want them, which is totally fine because more for me.

While I’ve been squirreling away cash for my dog's college fund, my friends have been busy nesting and baby-proofing their cribs. (MTV taught me that “cribs” is what today’s youths and rappers call “domiciles.”)   Taking into account my selfishness, disapproval of polluting the Earth with progeny and allergy to humans born after Ronald Reagan‘s first term, I figured these births would be the death of our friendships.

I feared the postpartum depression. The sleepless nights. The hemorrhoids. And I’m just talking about the effect their kids would have on *me*.

Possibly worst of all, I resented that I’d have to buy baby shower, birthday and holiday gifts for their little tax write-offs. When’s the last time someone gave my dog a present? Technically, mid-October. But it feels more dramatic and vindicating to say NEVER.
But when I’m wrong, I am wrong.

Upon the arrival of a friend’s first child, I reluctantly yet meticulously picked out the perfect congratulations-on-being-born present, and bore witness to the look of sheer joy and wonderment on her innocent, cherubic face as she happily wore the cutesy clothes. I’ve never felt more appreciated, so full of purpose. It warmed the cockles of my hard heart.

This is what being a mother is all about, I thought. I’m making a difference. Like Angelina Jolie with her caboodle of third-world orphans.  And thus, an entire wardrobe for my dog was purchased.

Go Piss In Someone Else's Cheerios

I don't know what the hell was up with everyone yesterday.  Myself included. Maybe there was a unreported tornado in the gulf last week that sucked up a metric ton of BP's shame and unleashed it upon North America in the most angst-filled shitstorm ever. Or perhaps everyone finally realized how fucking frustrating the news is to watch and began to lament the time they've wasted on it. Whatever was up people's asses yesterday, it was of near epidemic proportions. I heard that even Tom Hanks was punching babies, THAT'S HOW BAD IT WAS.

I'm definitely not immune to this moodiness of unknown origin. The worst thing was that we are all feeding off each other.   It's like some hippie commune where the residents keep passing the clap back and forth to each other until no amount of antibiotics will do the trick. Thankfully, the solution to our mass anger is a lot less painful than a wire brush to the genitals. Everyone just shut the fuck up and start fresh tomorrow.

Or so I thought.

So we were only a couple of hours into today and it was obvious that very few people seem to be feeling better. And personally I'm sick of it. Not only am I sick of it, but I am taking a stand -- you PMS'ing bastards will not get to me tomorrow. You want to come at me with your petty anger so be it; I'm going to hold you down, draw a unicorn on your forehead, and shove some chocolate in your face. Then I'm going to hug you so hard your that you'll break down in tears and forgive your Dad for not loving you enough. What do you think about that?  Not so angry now, are you motherfuckers?

Tomorrow is the day that I refuse to let other's bullshit become my own. Do not fucking test me on this, you wonderfully awesome sons of bitches.

Yersa's Five For Friday

Things that are impossible to do in a sexy manner:

• juggling
• beekeeping
• holding back a sneeze
• eating an entire spoonfull of peanut butter
• cracking walnuts