In some kind of weird, weird coincidence, 24 hours after I baptized my new little foldable baby, and made my house wireless and started tucking typewritten words between my pillows, and window shopping at my kitchen table, my internet fell down. And it didnít just fall; it hit the floor, and rolled around a little, and then it passed out.
So I had the Cable (internet) Guy come in today, and he followed the wires, and went outside to the side of the house, and then he went digging around in my backyard. After all that, he came back inside, put what he deemed a temporary fix on my modem, and told me that in seven to 10 days, more people from Rogers Internet would be coming to do some serious digging in my backyard, not more than a couple of feet from where my father plants his tomatoes, because evidently, Something is Wrong with the Wires.
It always comes down to the state of the tomatoes in my house, doesnít it. God, could I be any more Italian?
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Iím bloated and irritable. Tomorrow starts placebo week, and my nerves are more frayed and flickering than usual. Somebody elseís last word is all it takes for me to snap, and so itís best that I stay as quiet as possible. Conversation is dangerous right now, because my hormones are laying in wait, on the ready to annex all the communication field offices in my brain.
Remember that scene in the first season of Friends, when Ross and Phoebe and the Lesbian Life Partner are trapped in the janitorís closet while the ex-wife is in labour, and Phoebe goes all spastic and yelly, and says, ďDo not make me do this again, because I do not like my voice like this!Ē Remember that? Thatís how I feel. I am not at all in control, and the only way to feel in any way comfortable by my surroundings is to retreat completely within myself. I hate that I hate people right now.
I hate that I want to descend into utter destruction-mode, and eat my weight in Cheetos.
I am almost 31 years old. You would think Iíd have a handle on PMS by now, hm?
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Is this laptop supposed to heat up like this? Are the keys supposed to be this warm? And why the right side more than the left side? Anyone? Bueller?
Thank you all, by the way, for the many great links and suggestions regarding my new babyís accessories. Between bags and mice (mouses? Theyíre not real, after all) and names, Iíve much to think about. Ann-Margaret was put forward, so Iím now in an actress-who-was-in-her-prime-40-years-ago stream of thought. And then of course, thereís always the name borne of a dirty joke. What do you think if I call her Posh? After all, I can bend her like BeckhamÖ
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Right. Iím going to find something to nutritious to eat, eat it, and then top it off with 6 gallons of ice cream. Because balance is everything, poppets.
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