All Things Profane and Sacred

So I had this thing that I was going to blog about this morning that was totally cool and funny and insightful, but I didn't have time to post it. Now, 13 hours later, I have no idea what it was. You would have liked it though.

So, I was hanging out with J last night and he turns to me and says, "I think your first karaoke song should be a duet with me." Gah. He's been working the karaoke angle since I've met him. After explaining for the umpteenth time that I do not karaoke, he says, "We should sing I've got you babe, but I get to be Cher."

"What???"

"Well, it is only fair. After all, I am taller than you."

Another go round. I explain that I don't sing. J points out that I do sing around the house and driving in the car. I point out that there are many things I do in private that I don't do in public, and if he wants me to keep on doing those things in private, he should knock off the karaoke stuff. I nearly had to call my "safe person" and have her regulate.

While I chose to spend the icy weekend transitioning from the couch to the bed, watching movies, reading, making sweet hot love, getting stoned and napping, others apparently spent it putting up strange personals on craigslist. My personal favorite: http://portland.craigslist.org/m4w/55836669.html. You gotta at least scroll down to check out his pics!

I just finished my least favorite chore: writing out the bills. Throughout every month, I received approximately 5 tons of fucking mail. Comming home to an overflowing mailbox isn't exactly my idea of relaxing after a hard day of letting hardened criminals out onto the streets to prey on an unsuspecting citizenry, so I usually let the mail sit until the mailman starts making his, "Oh god, just take the fucking mail in already" face as he desparately attempts to cram another load into my box (Jebus-let me make clear I do NOT have freudian fantasies about my mailman).

Fully half of that mail is from the ABA, who will never, never stop sending you piles of craptastic magazines, even after you make clear that you will never, never send them membership dues ever again. In fact, from my experience, paying dues only encourages them to ask you for more money. Either they have some sort of highly archaic billing system, a highly sophisticated billing system involving "new math," or they figure a busy law student isn't going to notice how often they ask for mo' money.

Ninety percent of the remaining half is junk mail-bales of credit card offers, coupons, and vaguely threating looking letters marked OPEN IMMEDIATELY. This pile pisses me off because I have to run most of it through the shredder so as to not suddenly have new credit cards floating around god knows where. Worse, most of the envelopes are so bulky that I have to actually open them and run the individual pages of crap through the shredder. Trust me, it does NOT pay to have good credit.

And the bastards are getting sneakier. J came over yesterday and showed me a weird one-a plain manilla envelope with "auditing department" in the return address. So he opens it up, and it's a pitch from Western Business College. Since he already knows how to operate a cash register he's not to interested anyway, so why fucking bother with the sneakiness?

Anyhow, I digress. Most of the remaining mail is bills, with the occasional bit of personal mail. Now my major beef with bills is not so much the paying part, but the sifting through all the crap they send with the bills. I don't want any of the doo dads and junk they want me to buy from their shady little friends. I just want to see what I owe, why I owe it, AND THAT'S IT!

Instead I'm completely irritated as a pile of crap offers the size of Cleveland stacks up next to my chair. And then I can't even seal the goddamn envelope because it has a fakey flap, so I rip open the semi-congealed envelope and end up taping it back together in a pre-schoolerish lump.

Fuckers. How I fucking hate them all.

Whenever I catch my dog somewhere he shouldn't be, like the kitchen, he always backs out instead of turning around to walk out of the room. I think he thinks that by backing out he has turned back time. Me? Naughty? Never happened.

I'm continuing to flog my big procrastination project-the long put off seminar paper. My extension is up on January 7th, and so I've been getting my ducks in order, writing up a storm and filling in my research holes with my beloved Westlaw. It's actually a sort of interesting project-I'm looking at pet custody disputes in divorce, which is starting to be a hot topic in family law.

Despite having an interest in the subject, I'll be really freaking happy when I finish it off and can persue my own stuff-you know, sitting on the couch playing with my ancient NES, strumming the guitar, wanding the streets with my unruly hound, reading interesting stuff, and letting all the stress slip off my shoulders.