Snake skin belt, anyone?

If you are in need of a snake skin belt, let me know.

Because I found a snake skin in my begonias today.


Of course, it would have to be a very tiny belt. Say . . . for Snake Skin Barbie. It is a very tiny snake skin, as you can see above.

But still. Somewhere in my yard is a snake.

A very tiny snake.

But a SNAKE, nonetheless. And a skinless one, to boot.

C.T.

Gripes

I have some bones to pick. I'm warning you now, if you are not on my good side, you might not want to read any further . . .

In no particular order:

1. Home Depot
Home Depot, why do you make me hate you sometimes?

I love you. I have loved you for years. I don't understand why you insist on being stupid sometimes, which of course, does not make me happy.

Why, on a Saturday of all days, would you have only ONE person working the Returns/Exchanges register? Are you unclear that Saturday is the day that everyone in the world goes to Home Depot to buy stuff for the yard, or spring house projects, or whatever?

And do you not realize that all of the people in the world who bought something from you on Saturday morning will realize as soon as they get home that they bought the wrong thing, then they'll turn right around and need to come back and Return/Exchange it for the right thing that same day?

So, imagine my dismay when I had to make several trips to visit Home Depot on Saturday to deal with my lawn equipment that was dying off, one by one. And on the third trip when I needed to Exchange the wrong extension cord for a longer one, I arrived to find five people in line at the Returns counter and just one lonely soul working that department.

Then, imagine my confusion when moments later, FIVE additional Home Depot employees come to "help" by literally standing in the corner and looking at all of the returned stuff. But not doing anything else.

Well, they were staring at the line of all of us trying to return stuff. The line was growing by the minute.

Home Depot, please fix this before the next Saturday when I might possibly have to make 108 trips to visit you in one day.

Nevermind that I'm kind of an idiot and I tend to buy the wrong thing 107 times before I get it right the 108th time.

2. Doctors
Dear Doctors, I believe I've mentioned this before. But clearly it has not gotten better. So maybe we need to talk it through again.

I don't like waiting an hour (sometimes more) for you to spend three minutes looking at me. And it's not like this happens every once in awhile. It's more often than not the standard mode of operation.

And don't think I'm fooled by the SECOND waiting room trick. You know, calling me back from the first waiting room . . . only to put me in another waiting room to wait some more.

IT'S STILL WAITING.

Here's the problem: I sit in a waiting room with 10 other people who are all booked for the same appointment time. Now, I'm no mathemagenius. But it's humanly impossible to see 10 people for individual appointments . . . all at the same time.

Unless you are a superhero doctor who can somehow manipulate time and also clone yourself instantaneously. Which, none of you are. I never see any of you wearing capes, and that is proof enough.

The thing is, we all schedule our appointments with you to work around our work schedules. I can legally get away with taking an hour from my work day to come see you. Now, I understand that my appointment IS, in fact, YOUR work day. But, that merely proves my point that I have to arrange my own time to come see you doing what you do, plus I still have to do what I do.

Yet, I continually wait on you.

So, when I wait for an hour and I still haven't seen you yet, I am confused. You offered a time for me to come, I accepted. We agreed on it by writing my name next to that time. I am there on time. I have gone out of my way to come to where you are. And still, I wait.

I'm comfortable waiting for 15 minutes. Anything more than that is not a good use of my time, or yours.

See, when clients are scheduled to visit me, I meet with them when they get here. If I made them wait for an hour (or even 15 minutes), I would probably not keep that client, or that job, for that matter. So . . . why is it different for you?

There must be a way that we can get that hour of wait time out of the way. If I could somehow wait at my office, or at my home, prior to the appointment so that I can be productive during that hour (as opposed to trapped in your useless office), that would help.

Or, maybe if I am supposed to be there at 1:00, if I call ahead and say, "Doctor, I am beginning my waiting now," that could be your signal that in an hour I'll arrive and walk right into my appointment.

It could be a Pre-Appointment. At 12:00, you do whatever it is that you do in that hour before you actually spend those quality five minutes with me, and I'll just let you know that I'm already waiting. Then when I get there at my designated 1:00 appointment time, we're both ready to rock.

You know, like calling ahead for reservations at a restaurant. They know you're on the way, and they have your table ready when you get there.

I'm on the way, please have that giant needle ready for me when I get there.

See? So simple. Yet, it saves my time and yours, as well as my sanity. Plus my office won't wonder why I've disappeared for two hours when I really only need to disappear for one hour.

That's all of the energy I have today to gripe. For those of you who know you have wronged me in some way lately, don't think I've forgotten. I'll get to you soon enough.

You know who you are.

C.T.

A question I often ask . . .

I will call her "Pete and Repeat" from now on.

Wait, let me start over . . .

From now on, I will call her "Pete and Repeat."

C.T.

I'm just sayin'

I'm pretty sure D-list celebrities were invented purely to be on Celebrity Fit Club and entertain me.

Seriously, Screech, could you be any more of a paranoid, over-dramatic, lazy, ridiculous idiot?


And yet, it's sooooo entertaining.

C.T.

"Hey . . . YOU," she says awkwardly, having no idea who you are.

So, the more people from highschool who Facebook me with a friend request, the more I realize . . . I have no idea who anyone was in highschool. And I have no idea how people know who I am if I can't remember them this many years later.

I mean, it hasn't been THAT many years. But then again, I have no idea what happened two days ago. So, time is pretty much irrelevant for me at this point.

Sure, some of these people I recognize and remember as my highschool friends and acquaintances. I'm not a complete idiot.

Although you people who get married and change your last names, then expect me to know who you are when you Facebook me, even after I click on your page and see only a very tiny picture of you with 10 other people . . . it's just a little ridiculous to expect me to be able to figure you out if I haven't seen you since graduation many years ago.

Anyway, today I got another friend request from a name I didn't recognize. After clicking on the page and seeing a few other people on it that I recognize from highschool, I assumed this guy must be from highschool. But it still wasn't ringing a bell.

So, I went to the highschool year book. This is a place I never like to go. A little piece of me dies inside each time I crack open one of those books.

I found the guy in the book, but he now only looked vaguely familiar. I tried to get in and out of the book as quickly as possible, but the book fell open to the pages where people write messages to you.

And after reading a few of those messages, I have determined that I really was a complete idiot in highschool.

I clearly had quite a few inside jokes with people back in those days. Of course, reading those words and phrases repeated on the pages of my yearbook leaves me confused, and again, certain that I must have been an idiot. Why was any of that funny? And I'm a little baffled that if these people who are Facebooking me are the same people who wrote any of these messages that reference my super-lame jokes, what about any of that makes them think, "Hey, I'll Facebook The Tyrant to see if she remembers that thing about [lame inside joke reference here] from highschool."

Fortunately, I read in the messages of my yearbook that folks in highschool did find me funny, so maybe the ridiculous inside jokes were actually funny. I was also apparently a really good clarinet player (which, of course, makes me proud nowadays), and quite sarcastic. A skill that, thankfully, still dwells within me today.

Of course, I remember very few of the people who wrote these things in my yearbook, so chances are I wrote them myself throughout the years, just to cheer myself up. Using random names from pictures I found in the yearbook of people I thought looked cool and probably wished had actually written in my book, and a variety of ink colors and handwriting samples to give it some variety.

Ok, I didn't really do that. Too much work.

So, People of Highschool, feel free to continue Facebooking me. But I make no promises to remember who you are. However, I assure you that I am WAY funnier now.

I mean, you could be some crazy stalker, for all I know. Including the stalker I actually had in highschool.

C.T.

This is what I look like after getting home from work by 5:33, sitting on my patio, enjoying that I was home from work at 5:33.

C.T.

Week One

I have completed Week One of the new job, and I must say, it's been a good week.

Of course, some strange things have happened.

I left work at 5:30 everyday . . . along with everyone else.

I took a lunch break . . . everyday. Along with everyone else.

It's the end of the week and I don't feel stressed. At all.

People I'd met in passing on my first day came by my office later in the week . . . just to see how I was doing.

The IT guy was helpful. And friendly.

All of the people who weren't the IT guy were also helpful, and friendly.

The one guy who reports to me let me know when he had downtime . . . and offered to help me with anything I needed.

People seemed happy and content. Also, they seem to like each other.

No one blamed me for anything I may or may not have been responsible for.

In fact, I did a couple of good things, and I got props for it.

I didn't hear anyone yell at anyone else. No one yelled at me, either.

Also, I didn't yell at anyone.

Very, very strange. I'm not sure I understand this environment.

But I think I could probably like it here, and do well.

C.T.

The next phase of my life

Sure, I just started a new job this week and it's going great. But it's never the wrong time to think about your future.

In "some" years, I will achieve the age of 35 years old. This can be an important time in a woman's life. It represents a milestone of age and wisdom that opens new doors that were previously un-openable whilst being much younger, and far less wise.

One door is a position of power, leadership, and includes a big house. At the age of 35, I will become eligible to be President of the United States. And at the rate things are going now, our country might be ready for a fresh, young face and a new take on leading this country with honesty, values, and all of the country-running know-how contained in seven seasons of The West Wing.

First order of business: Four-day work weeks (Violators will be prosecuted and ridiculed)

Second order of business: Business-casual dress code at The White House

Third order of business: My face on a new 3-dollar bill

Fourth order of business: Peace in the Middle East, and fix Social Security

Of course, should I choose not to become President, the age of 35 will still provide an opportunity behind door number two. This one comes with far less power and little-to-no Secret Service. But it does combine my love of reality TV and ridiculous modeling competitions.

And I think I can still probably get my face on that 3-dollar bill.

I may be too old for America's Next Top Model, but come my 35th birthday, I will be the perfect age for TV Land's new show . . .

Gorgeous women 35-and-over will grace TV Land primetime in a new modeling competition series like no other. For one very lucky winner, a second chance for a supermodel career, a life changing contract with the world famous Wilhelmina Modeling Agency, and a spread in Self magazine awaits.

I mean, it will be a tough choice. Ruler of the free world, or 35-year-old model. The possibilities are endless with either path that I might choose.

But I have "some" years to think it through and arrive at my decision in a mature and responsible way. It's a big decision. I'll give it some time.

Of course, if I get fat and ugly before 35, the decision is pretty much made for me.

I think that's must have been what happened to Hillary, too.

C.T.

I design shoes, too

Yes, they do let the world know that I'm a rockstar.

Design your own shoes at Converse.com.

Keep in mind, yours won't be as cool as mine. But you're welcome to try.

C.T.

This is me at home for lunch today.

Why? Because I can, now that I work close enough to do so.

Yes, that's a hot pocket on my fork.

C.T.

Sittin' outside, eatin' Doritos

I wanted my last day before I start my new job tomorrow to be as low-activity as humanly possible.

I am well on my way to accomplishing that.

I was not able to secure a fantastic tan during my time off. And today would have been a perfect day to work on that. It's nice and sunny outside.

However, I don't want to be THAT girl at work.

You know, the new girl who shows up on her first day with the most ridiculous sunburn ever.

So, I sat under my patio umbrella this afternoon, eating Doritos, foregoing the tan attempt so that I don't look like an idiot tomorrow with a horrible sunburn that would inevitably occur instead of a nice tan.

I have a talent for ridiculous sunburns.

C.T.

It's my last day of vacation.

It's just not okay.

It doesn't matter how much time off I have, at the end it never feels like enough.

I get anxious about what to do with what little time off I have left. And it's not like I haven't done a lot during my time off. I've done all kinds of house projects, caught up with people, relaxed, got my eyeball fixed, almost finished reading a book.

But there's more stuff I probably had time to do, but I didn't do. I wanted to write more of my memoir, start a band, be in a movie, get a tan, get abs of steel, learn to play the drums, and become a millionaire so that I can be on vacation forever.

I just don't know where all the time went.

And then it's like even after having time off, I need two more days to get myself together to go to work. And this time, I go to work at a new job. SCARY!

I'm totally freaked out, y'all. I mean, I'm excited about the job. But it's scary to start over at a new place. It took a year and a half before people figured out I am funny at my last job. I just don't have that kind of time anymore.

Also, I don't like change.

Clearly I need a few more weeks off to work through these issues.

C.T.

Elderly Lesbianism

I seriously just heard an "expert" on the Barbara Walters Special about aging say that since people could start to live longer, and women tend to outlive men, it's possible that we could see a rise in elderly lesbianism.

ELDERLY LESBIANISM.

If that's what's waiting for me after the age of 100, I don't want to live that long.

C.T.

Tree, or Weed?

This has been growing next to my shed for quite some time.


Whatever it is, I cut it down today.

C.T.