I Love Being Me

I screwed up a newish relationship recently. Not all by myself, but one night I said THE WRONG THING. Something you can't take back. Something that makes even DEBI'S best friend say "You said WHAT? WHY would you say THAT?!?" It made sense at the time. My perception was WAY off which led to a bad assumption. When I realized the enormity of my mistake, I apologized with all the sincerity I possess. But, you can't unsay something.

Through the weeks that followed, it was never mentioned, but I can't help but think that it was the point of no return. There was an intermittent and very confusing shit storm that I still don't understand. I kept trying to make a case for myself, but given that I don't know what was actually being held against me? That I don't actually know what we were arguing about? Who knows? We were in different places in the relationship. It happens. But I did come to a very important realization. It took a very defensive form, but it's the most positive thing I have ever said.

You know what? I love being me. I'm a metric shit ton of fun. Some of the most amazing folks on earth consider themselves lucky to have me in their lives...And after 44 years, I'm not even a little afraid of them figuring out they’re wrong, because they're just as lucky as I am.

And it's true. I don't know when it happened. I don't know when I realized that I didn't have to earn ANYONE'S love or presence. I don't know when I started believing that people are lucky to have me around. I know there are people that have been trying to convince me of this for 20 or 30 years...at least one is a teeny bit miffed that I never took HIS word for it.  

It's not perfect knowledge. I still beat myself up for "ruining" things with someone I genuinely miss. And I've got a laundry list of my faults. I trust too easily. I think and talk almost simultaneously, and boy do I say the WRONG thing sometimes. My heart always overrules my head. I'm impulsive. I put the feelings of others first sometimes and others seem not to even notice them.  But when I stop and I think (not an easy thing in this head)? It's a pretty great package and that’s an amazing realization.

I'd Rather Stab Myself in the Eye Than Have a Meaningful Conversation

It's Passover. It's that time of year where Jews of all levels of observance and knowledge and such gather to recount the story of how Pharoh was a dumba** and tangled with the Jews. To summarize: "They tried to kill us, the failed, let's eat." Of course, that's a simplification, but it's the basic theme to all Jewish Holidays except Yom Kippur...which is better summarized in "We suck, we don't deserve to live, and see, we're not eating to prove it."

We spent the first seder with my gay boyfriends. They're overachievers when it comes to...well everything to be honest. This is the email that hubby and I got a few days before:

But we ARE asking people to bring a small item to add to the second seder plate. Last year <insert name of gay boyfriend here> added a spool of thread which lead to a lot of discussion...I think you get the picture. One per family should provide plenty of questions and discussions.

Yeah. Here's the thing. By the time you get to dinner (which is where we did this), there's already been a LOT of discussion. Some seders more than others, but this was a "some seder", not an "other". First, there's the whole story of Pharoh and oppression and plagues and such. Then add lots of knowledgable Jews who want to tell about something they read or something they wondered or sing a new tune. We Jews? We interpret. We never take ANYTHING at face value. We argue across the centuries. We sieze upon inconsistencies and come up with all kinds of reasons they could be there. So, there's LOTS of discussion by the time we get to FOOD.

I knew this was coming. And the Heckler-in-Chief was READY. I'm not a "The Thighmaster is neither a thigh nor a master. Discuss." type of girl. Ok, I'm THAT type of girl, but "Tell us about your personal Exodus from Egypt" is not my gig. So, I brought my husband's LEAST favorite part of Passover, THE MATZAH MAN. I love a lot about Passover, but I perhaps love The Matzoh Man best. He does a little dance. And I do it with him. Every time.

So, Matzoh Man joined us at the seder and took up a lot of room on the discussion plate. The person who took it upon herself to start the discussions wanted to know why he was there. And I replied the above. Much laughter ensued. Come on, at least half the room was thinking the SAME thing.

Doesn't turning 40 involve being "grown-up"?

It's true. I'm 40. Well, at this point, I will be tomorrow. But I'm sure the earth has wobbled enough in my lifetime to make the distinction somewhat moot.

How did this happen? I'm not particularly dismayed about the event, but it just doesn't seem real. In school, 40 is inconceivable. Hell, 40 is how old your TEACHERS are, and getting that old just isn't on the to-do list. I don't remember there being much of a conceptual difference between 40 and 60.

Honestly? Those born during my second semester of college? Apparently it's legal for them to consume alcoholic beverages. In the United States. Nope, not making that up.

And of course, there are those I went to school with who now have grandchildren. And I'm still sitting here trying to have CHILDREN? Mother Nature is having a rollicking laugh over that absurdity.

I admit that I started feeling a LITTLE grown up when we bought our house. That seems to have faded. Perhaps it’s just that being $400,000 in debt is even harder to grasp than being 40? I don't seem to be any more "responsible" than I was before we bought it. Of course nothing has gone PROFOUNDLY wrong with the house yet, so perhaps it's just a matter of time?

So am I just perpetually immature? What does grown up feel like? Does ANYONE I know have any experience with it???

When Did Barry Manilow Turn into Liza Minelli?

Today, I'm in a Barry mood. It's been a while, but I've been on an occasional melancholy jag, so it seemed appropriate. At some point, boyfriend started looking like Liza Minelli. Seriously. In fact, these days, he looks more like Liza than Liza. I mean, LOOK AT THIS.

How many incredibly crap plastic surgeons ARE there in Hollywood?

I've had rocks in my shoes that are both smarter and less painful than you

As an IT professional, I came to understand LONG ago that users aren't NECESSARILY stupid. I try to assume that users are intelligent people who are good at their jobs and they just want the technology that is supposed to make their lives easier to WORK. Just because I spend my day living and breathing a piece of software doesn't mean that most other folks do, and so they just don't know.

But sometimes? There are morons. Aggressively, and possibly intentionally, stupid people that will not learn. No matter how many times you hold their hand. No matter how often you show them the helpful documenation that has both a short form and a screen shots. THAT SHOW EVERY BUTTON YOU NEED TO PUSH IN ORDER TO DO YOUR FREAKING JOB.

In some cases, if they seem dense enough, those around them decide it's easier just to do it for the morong rather than have to deal with the moron being aggressively stupid.

Even worse? Occasionally, BIGGER morons show up. They make the original moron look smart and easy to deal with. Which is painful, because you KNOW how stupid the original moron is.

I often compare them to the average box of rocks or the average box of hair. But sometimes? Hair is just more intelligent.

Honey, I'm a Shoe Whore. I may not sleep around, but I see LOTS of other shoes

Comment to Mike after bringing home more new shoes

I'm unapologetic. I love my shoes. I love my cute shoes. I've had foot problems for the last year or so, so I haven't been able to wear what's in my collection, nor have I felt much like acquiring anything new.

Well, the foot is better. It's not great, but it's good enough. And I've got new shoes I don't even have clothes to match. So, I'm buying myself new clothes, too. If ONLY Mike's operating principle wasn't "When we run out of money, you'll stop buying shoes."

When Did You Get Peppermint Foot Scrub?

Mike's Comment after my Shower

I like to have soft feet...I ignore them entirely too much, so I don't have them. On top of that, due to my extreme case of Plantar Fascitis, I spend almost all of my time with my foot taped up. Because my lovely and talented husband gets to tape my foot, it's not nearly that neat.

The down side of surgery and plantar fascitis is medical adhesive. It sticks. Forever. Long after you remove whatever it was meant to adhere to your body. In fact, the object of the adherence might JUST fall off. So apparently it just sticks to skin forever. In my current life, it means that I constantly have black and gummy lines on my feet from where the last round of tape was.

Why don't I just wash it off? Two reasons. First? The previous paragraph. Soap don't work. Acetone? Nope. Petroleum Jelly? Ok, takes forever. Second? Well, I shower in the morning, approximately 3 hours AFTER my husband vacates the house. While he's perfectly happy to wake me up to give me shots in the butt before he leaves, I don't have to shower first and I can turn over and go back to sleep.

Tonight, I did some heavy lifting, and it's a bit muggy around here. So, I decided to get a shower before bed. And I decided to clean my foot and make it soft before hubby attacks it with more tape. So, I dug into my quickly emptying tub of Peppermint Foot Scrub. And it felt so good when I did the left foot, I decided to do the right. Unfortunately, I'm a klutz. You knew that. So, I knocked off the tub of peppermint foot scrub onto the bottom of the tub. And milliseconds later, a glob of peppermint foot scrub arrived in my eye. I gotta say that it's ALWAYS hard to flush your eye with water...I mean water doesn't feel good to begin with, and strangely, your eye is designed to shut tight to help create tears and wash out the stuff you got in there. When it's peppermint AND gritty? Yeah, fun.

So, I come out and tell my husband what happened. He cocks his head and I think he's trying to figure out how I managed to get a big glob of peppermint foot scrub into my eye. Nope, he posed the question above.

No good comes of bathing. Or of marriage.

Dark and Stormy Ratholes Investigated Here

I have a vision problem. Whenever I see a problem, I want to fix it. Even when it's not my problem. I like untangling problems. And being right. I'm good at it. I do it professionally, which makes it much easier to live my personal life.

The upshot is that I'm better and faster at things than a lot of folks I work with. I spend my life in a few systems, they access them a few times a month. I've managed the world as a benevolent dictator because...um...well I can. Oh who are we kidding? I like the power trip!

Turns out, this management of the itty bitty details doesn't leave me much time to do the things I'm really good at. This world has been untangled, so it's time to move on to new things that are celestial clusters. So, my boss is trying to clear a lot of this stuff off my plate and give it to the people who really own the processes and the data.

However, there are dark and nasty ratholes that only I can go down. I notice problems. Sure, I could ignore a problem I see, but that's the wrong thing to do. No, I don't own them, but if I let someone else try to figure it out, it will get even more screwed up. Then people OVER my boss will say "Well, Debi should figure this out." Or worse? They'll try to get folks at corporate to do it. Honestly? I like that the folks at corporate love me. I'd prefer not to hand them a big honking mess...I know, vision problem.

Anyway, I'm gonna make me a sign. It's going to say:

Dark and Stormy Ratholes

Investigated Here

Cheerful Service

Reasonable Rates

Stop your laughing.

No Felonies Here

Place of work has recently been acquired. Actually, the company that acquired us a couple of years ago was acquired by a bigger company which is owned by a BIG HONKING company with more than 85,000 employees. Being acquired by such a large company, that is actually quite good at acquisitions, is new for me. Now that I think of it, I've been through five acquisitions now. Huh. But that's not what this is about.

The new company has processes. And a lot of them. I suppose that's important when you've got so many people. One of them is that new employees get a background check. For felonies. Since we're newly acquired employees, that means us.

I'm not sure how the Human Capital director referred to it, but it wasn't clear what would happen if you DO have a felony on your record. I mean, we're already working here. So, in the meeting of 100 of my closest co-workers, I asked. This is suprising, I know. I'm not typically so inquisitive or outspoken? I'm not sure that this question had ever been asked because I was then told, uncertainly, that it would be handled on a case-by-case basis. Ok.

A coworker told me a couple of weeks later that I've raised a lot of eyebrows. Lots of people are speculating about my criminal background. Which is just hysterical. It's not like you can't COME TO ME AND ASK. The only thing I've ever been CAUGHT for is speeding. And the last time that happened was early 1996. Parking tickets (all 2 or 3 of them) don't even count, because they're not moving violations. I'm not saying I haven't done other things. That ugly plant Dana and I stole in the 8th grade comes to mind. But I think we did the nursery a favor, really. And there are a number of photos which document the enormous amount of underage drinking I did at a certain fraternity in Atlanta. But none of those are felonies. And like I said...it's been a while.

Mostly, I asked because it came to our attention several months ago that not only was one of our coworkers a convicted felon, but he was working at our company on work release. Huh. He's gone now. But not because of a background check.

And really, Human Capital? I guess that's supposed to be friendlier than Human Resources, but it kinda makes me feel a little like property. Of course, I'm easy. Pay me enough and you can call me anything you want. Easy, but not cheap. Feel free to file away that useful piece of information.

Thank you for f*cking off...now if you could go ahead and die?

Debi's further instructions for those who do not follow through with both parts of the F.O.A.D. directive

It's been a rough friggin' few weeks. People keep screwing with me. A few have been forced by people who aren't me to shove it up their proverbial...um...whatevers. But still. Aggressive stupidity as defined by the repeated pissing off of ME should be painful. And more painful than me just working to make your life hell.

On top of all this? Someone is spreading the vicious rumor that I am TACTFUL, DIPLOMATIC and above all? PROFESSIONAL. Ok, so I'm professional, but the other two? Oh wait, I should wait for you to stop laughing. Whoa, there. Breathe, please. You're not on my "needs to die list." Well, not yet anyway. There's still plenty of time.

The Queen of RTFM

Comment from Coworker

I'm one of the goddesses of process in my domain. I work with a lot of data, and it's important to keep it straight. Because I HATE it when my director comes to me and says "Why is this data all crooked??"

My main job involves a system with an incredibly crappy user interface. Crappy user interfaces aren't just a pain to work with. They lead to enormous amounts of user error. When something isn't intuitive, you do it wrong. So, since I want clean data, I document stuff. So, no, it isn't your fault. Windows really DOES suck rotten eggs.

I don't just point people to documents that some "professional" put together. I painstakingly put together VERY targeted documents WITH pictures AND cheat sheets that say "This custom data field refers to x and y, but not z. Please don't enter a value for z here. It goes in the next custom data field." Really, I try to make it as easy as possible on folks to work with a system they LOATHE.

Honestly? I get tired of those who say "I don't know how to do that." Well, I've showed you AND I've pointed you to help files AND I've been nice while I've done it for the last 18 months. Ok, so I haven't been nice, but still. No I'm NOT going to send you a hard copy, because you're going to print it and keep it on your desk for 3 years and get all annoyed when you're doing it wrong because I've updated the process 3 times due to changing business requirements.

Well, the coworker in question got me in an educating mood. He couldn't find something in the system, so I gave him a sarcastic comment about teaching him how to use a wildcard search. That's when he called Paul and me "The King and Queen of RTFM". Apparently, Paul had been doing the same thing to him that day. I like to think my coworker meant that with affection. But I like it either way.

Have you gained weight??

Coworker's suggestion for abuse stopping question

I? Was attacked today. It has been over 4 years since I've been verbally attacked in the workplace and over 10 years since it happened in person. It was stupid. I made a mistake and the attacker over-reacted with a vengeance. Nothing like topping off 5 days of irregular heartbeat with a new orifice, eh? As always, the boss has my back. With an equal and opposite vengeance.

I confided in my co-worker-who-shall-remain-nameless about this incident. Coworker has had her/his own problems with the attacker in question. Coworker is a refreshingly deadpan and often serious soul. Coworker looked at me and said quite seriously "The only appropriate response to that is 'Bite me.'" Coworker said if that doesn't work, to drop the above question. Honestly? I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard (sorry, Chris). And coworker is much cherished due this well-timed laugh.

Coworker also told me not to share the knowledge of this very powerful question. However, I figure the 2.6 readers of my blog will keep the secret.

What is this "dignity" you speak of and how does it apply to me?

Yesterday, I had a Vicodin hangover. I very seldom take any type of pain medication. It exacerbates my migraine disorder. So what, you may ask, made me break this cardinal rule?

You may or may not know that I have a very rocky relationship with gravity. I throw myself to the ground. Not intentionally, mind you, but it happens none the less. A few months ago, I missed the last couple of steps going down to the stream in our back yard. Ok, it may have been 3 or 4, but I SWEAR the ivy reached out and grabbed my ankle. Anyway, it wasn't pretty. I am a very practiced faller. I tuck and roll and typically minimize damage.

Friday, I tripped over a embarrassingly low curb in front of PCC. While I thought I was doing ok, by the time I drove the 2 blocks home, I could barely peel myself out of the car. As soon as I convinced my mom that the ER was an unnecessary step (by doing a couple of sad but effective jumping jacks), I was calling for Aleve and Vicodin. On which I stayed for the better part of 4 days.

Anyway, I explained all this to Chris yesterday. He asked "Nothing broken besides your dignity?" I pointed out that I have no dignity and thus nothing was broken. He then suggested a Rascal for trips out of the house. He's OBVIOUSLY nuts. If I can hurt myself this badly fighting nothing but gravity, can you imagine me trying to pry myself out from underneath one of those behemoths?

"The scooter is supposed to prevent your impromptu slapstick routine." Seriously? He rides in the car with me all the time. At best I'm an average driver. "Point taken. If you can't stay upright on those size 10 gunboats of yours, three little rubber tires probably won't fare any better."

For the record? They are size 11 1/2 gunboats. If I were LUCKY enough to have size 10? I'd be able to increase my shoe wardrobe at least 100% with no problem. Which would obviously make the minor reduction in stability entirely worth it.

Idiots are fun. No wonder every village wants one...

Miss Lyndi's Facebook status

Miss Lyndi is the best. Once upon a time when we were at Wizards of the Coast, she made me a tape called "Boys are Icky". And she should know. She also gifted me with the loveliest little ballerina bear. And gothed her up for me upon request. I still have both.

And sometimes? She has SUPER awesome statuses. And she lets me use them. Facebook? Way too much fun. It's really a shame that now that the internet is over I'm gonna have to find something better to do.

Hey Ya'll! Watch this!!!

My boss just pointed out to me that the busiest time in trauma centers is around 4th of July. Not surprising. As anyone who grew up in the south can attest, fireworks are not only rampant, they're used in a most, well, idiotic manner. I'm sure it's not limited to the south, but that's where you most expect to hear this phrase.

My boss and have agreed that all beer and fireworks related issues should be treated under my variant of Darwin's rule which goes "Hey you! OUT OF THE GENE POOL!" It seems like we could spend the money it takes to save these morons on something more important like Viagra prescriptions for the homeless.

How do I know "they" are morons? Well, first, they were me and my friends.

10th grade. Church camp. High entertainment? Shooting bottle rockets into the lake.

Same year, Halloween. 3 guys and a girl riding around in BDUs (we were in a military town). Mission? Shooting bottle rockets from the car, taking the smallest among us trick-or-treating in the rich part of town, and shooting at Pepsi machines with a BB Pistol. My role as Munitions Specialist was rescinded after I landed a bottle rocket on top of someone's house.

Late spring canoe trip down some river or another. All of us making our way lazily down the river, aside from the frequent cross canoe splashing, rock throwing and such. While we were stopped for lunch, a few of the guys came out and told us in a very giddy tone that we should be moving down the river. As Ricky R. was carrying a glass peanut butter jar along with a maniacal face into the woods. Yep, nothing like black powder and a sealed glass vessel. RUN!!!

Summer of that same year. The sociopath I was dating tossed an M-80 at me. Supposedly, it wasn't supposed to get stuck in my waist-length hair and go off as it passed my leg on the way to the ground. Supposedly, it wasn't supposed to tear the hell out of my leg. His response? "You weren't supposed to run." And I dated THAT gem off and on for the next two years.

Much younger days. Out at the beach with mom, step-psycho and friends. BIG rockets. Into the sea oats up on the dunes. Fire ensues. I don't remember how the hell that one got put out. Probably involved a humorous group of jackasses running back and forth from the water to the fire with the shrimp pot and beer bottles.

Ah...good times.

Anyway, the point is that any injury proceeded by this comment is probably well deserved and if it results in something life-threatening it should fall under the "he needed killing" category. Not that I don't revere my distinguished white trash origins. I'm just saying.

Please make that look more like a Muppet vomited SteamPunk

Job Description for new Super Secret Startup

The job description states that you should find this adequate art direction and that you think the word "Please" is superfluous. I like this. If I possessed any of the qualifications, I would consider applying for it.

I also like the description for the Developer. For some reason, the line "You should know how to interact with a database in a healthy, grown-up, passive-aggressive way." It reminds me of my friend and colleague Paul. Although, I think he probably interacts in a purely aggressive way.

Of course, I'm the girl who was lucky enough to start at Wizards of the Coast on Halloween 1995. One of my teammates (a non-observant Jew) was dressed up as an Arab Terrorist. The Admin for the CEO was dressed up as Death. The admin walked up to me in the hall and blocked my way in a most threatening manner. At which point my teammate came up with his fake machine gun and saved this not-yet-Jew from Death. Really? That was one of my normal interactions there.

Serial Monotonist

Overheard at Ron & Robert's Chuppah

My friends Ron & Robert just had their Jewish wedding. They've been together for close to 20 years and this is the third time they married each other. They had a commitment ceremony in 1991, long before anyone thought same-sex marriage would ever happen. They got married in Canada just after it was legalized there. And they were finally ready to cement their lives together in front of their friends and family in our tradition.

One of the traditions of Jewish weddings is that the guests are there to entertain the couple. Period. The first thing that typically happens before signing the wedding contract is called a Tish, which literally means "table". The groom is SUPPOSED to deliver a lesson in Torah, typically based on that week's Torah portion. However, it's seldom more than a sentence or two.

In order to distract the groom from his nervousness, he is interrupted with jokes, songs, dance, and heckling. Robert's tish was probably the best I've ever been to. And it didn't have ANYTHING to do with the fact that I was in the back with the best group of hecklers.

At one point, I asked if marrying the same guy three times made him a serial monogamist. Someone else pointed out that marrying three DIFFERENT people made you a serial monogamist. Marrying the same person 3 times makes you a serial monotonist. Shortly after, for reasons I can't remember, this curly redhead broke out in Annie's Tomorrow. A good time was had by all.

Always do what the nice man with the machine gun tells you

Lesson learned early by all Air Force brats

It would seem that two idiots have tried to invade one of my home town Air Force bases. The only reason I wasn't born on the base is that they were remodeling, so they sent mom over to St. Joseph's which used to be a nice Catholic hospital, nuns and all, but now seems to be owned by the Baptists. But I digress. Anyway, it was less than a mile from my gram's house, so I've spent LOTS of time there.

As a 23-year veteran brat, I've spent lots of time on LOTS of Air Force bases. For those of you who grew up near military bases that were NOT Air Force, you might not realize the security that the Air Force employs. I remember the first time I drove on to Fort Bragg and I couldn't understand why I didn't have to drive up to a little shack, show them my ID, and have the nice man or woman with the scary sidearm wave me through. It was the same on some Naval bases I visited. Just drive on, drive around, go home. I don't know if it's still that way, but I suspect it is.

It used to be you could get waved through the gate at an AF base during the daytime with just a base sticker on your car, but that ended for a while during the first Gulf War and then permanently after September 11.

See, the Air Force locks it down. And if you think the base is hard to get on to, you should see the flight line. That's one of those places where they shoot first and ask questions later. Ok, they wrestle you to the ground, point a machine gun at your head and then ask questions. I suspect they'd only shoot if you were dumb enough to say, not kiss the concrete.

Anyway, I'm not sure what they planned to do...show up at Central Command and THEN be gunned down? Or maybe they were just hoping to rob the commissary. They did go the day BEFORE payday, so maybe they were trying to beat the crowds? They should be happy they were stopped at the gate and just risked bodily harm from the police dogs.

That can go in the box marked "Tragic"

Tacky House

We're addicted to home shows. Not too surprising. Holmes on Homes and Clean House are my two addictions. And we do watch in horror at those new hoarding shows. But Tacky House is on after Clean House sometimes, and we occasionally watch that.

This quote came from the episode where they de-rosed a woman's "Martha's Vineyard" room. That really looked like a bunch of silk rose bushes puked everywhere. As they were cleaning out the room, the host said that something could go in this box.

I know I haven't been around much. Not to linger, but we just finished a round of IVF. It was not successful. After 10 weeks of hormones, that was REALLY great news. But, I'm getting back to normal. And here's proof.

Why would anyone want passable pizza and an attractive woman when a disc of grease and animatronic bears are to be had?

Chris's commentary on our favorite pizza joint vs. Chuck E. Cheese
It's true. Another anniversary of my birth has come and has gone. Chris took me out to lunch for my birthday. And by that I mean that we went to one of the two places we ever go and it was his turn to pay.

Our favorite pizza joint is close by. It has relatively good pizza. It has a really nice ass and decent boobs on parade fairly often. I can't remember her name, because I suck, but she knows us, she likes us, and she's hot.

While discussing options for my special day, I suggested the usual: "Pizza and hot chick". His response? "What? No Chuck E. Cheese?" Maybe I should have taken him up on it and gotten my ass kicked at Ms. PacMan while we were at it.