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Just a Thought
Aug. 17th, 2007 01:51 am
It's weird... I went from being extremely paranoid about the Internet to the point where it would take me days to rearrange my life if we lost it. I bank online, pay bills online, do research... I probably haven't picked up a telephone book in months. It's a royal pain in the ass dealing w/the Metro background check paperwork because that's exactly what it is - paperwork. I wonder to myself, who keeps all this crap? Seriously, who keeps all this crap? I called Clark County to see if I could get a listing of all the times I've applied or put in interest cards for jobs & they tell me they shred everything older than 6 months. Too much paperwork to keep around. I was positively gleeful when they put the application & interest card form online so I didn't have to keep going down there. Henderson, NLV, Salem, they all say the same thing - 6 months, that's it. You're only supposed to keep personal tax records going back 7 years. Most NV jobs are weird in that they want a 10-year employment history for their applications - most states only want 5. Still, I've been at the Ex for almost 7 years, so that's only 3 additional years to come up w/, not including the pt/hrly work I did while working f/t for the Ex. Metro wants it going back til when I was 16. Why would I keep 17-year old paystubs? Why? Especially for a job I didn't even have to declare to the IRS because I only worked 1 day?
When we got robbed, the first thing I found was paper (and dildos) strewn all over my room - that prompted a great throwing-away of much garbage.
Maybe that's all that really defines a person's existence - the paper trail we leave behind. Numbers and dates and addresses showing where we lived, where we went to school, where we worked, where we had kids, where we grew old & finally where we die.
Debbie at work told me her dad knew he would be dying (he had terminal cancer of some sort), so before he died, he bought his girlfriend (not Debbie's mom, his post-divorce girlfriend) a new car & paid off her bills & got a high-limit Sears card. He basically furnished her home, got tools & a riding lawn mower, all the things a person might need to care for their home & live comfortably in it. Well, the Sears card was in his name & he left his girlfriend's address as a contact address, but since they weren't married, she wasn't financially obligated to Sears. When they kept calling asking for Debbie's dad & sending collection notices to her home & weren't accepting the girlfriend's answer that he was deceased, she finally gave up & told them he moved. She then proceeded to give them the address & phone number of the cemetery where he was buried. I'm sure the funeral director was pleased the first time Sears called them to collect the debt.
I am footsore & weary this morning. It's way before my bedtime, but I had a busy day. I was outbid for lead, so I don't know what kind of schedule I'll have next week. Today I cleaned the kitchen for the first time since my surgery. Yeah, I know, gross. I mean, I'd wipe the counters & stuff, do dishes, wipe up the most severe spills, etc., but I was still sticking to the floor in there. I truly hate housework - at least when it's my house. I could psychologically justify it by saying that since Penny & my Aunt Liz used me as slave labor I just cringe at it, but really it's the sheer redundancy of the act. No matter how many times I clean that kitchen, it will not stay clean. Eventually, I'm going to spill something inside the stove top or drop something meaty and raw between the counter & the fridge or lose a grape somewhere... or dump half a can of coffee or fling frozen brussel sprouts everywhere like a pool-hall breakshot. I don't like mopping the floor and I didn't mop today, probably do it tomorrow. I just keep using sanitizing wipes to clear off my bathroom counter. At least I did get around to pulling out the booster seat from the toilet & taking the shower chair out of there a couple of months ago. I do have to admit, Easy-Off oven cleaner is an amazing de-greaser - my hands are like sandpaper. The only reason I launched into it with such gusto is because I've been finding flying ants in the house & I don't want to give any budding queens the idea that this is a 5-star nesting site.
Had to go to the college - my loan app got sent back since I wasn't qualified for the type of loan I requested. Of course, no one from the college calls - it's mostly DIY at (C)CSN Been sitting there since the 3rd & no one bothers to even have a recorded machine call: "Hey, you're a dork & checked the wrong box on your student loan application". I swear to Gods, the people at the financial aid dept. on the Charleston campus are the rudest bitches on the face of the planet, & they just get ruder the closer it gets to the semester starting.
Rob keeps wanting some sort of marathon sex session involving toys & ties & film & possibly a neighbor's dog or someone's burro and a few circus clowns swinging from chandeliers, but lately I've been icked out by the whole act of intercourse. I wish I could just blow him & he'd go away, but he's striving for that intimacy. I haven't even been jilling off much. Just haven't been able to get around to it like we used to & the whole thing seems so pathetically biological. We did it twice today, and my knees are fucking screaming. They were screaming before sex, though, right about after I was trying to clean the grease off the microwave (which is over the stove & involved me being on tip-toe).
When we got robbed, the first thing I found was paper (and dildos) strewn all over my room - that prompted a great throwing-away of much garbage.
Maybe that's all that really defines a person's existence - the paper trail we leave behind. Numbers and dates and addresses showing where we lived, where we went to school, where we worked, where we had kids, where we grew old & finally where we die.
Debbie at work told me her dad knew he would be dying (he had terminal cancer of some sort), so before he died, he bought his girlfriend (not Debbie's mom, his post-divorce girlfriend) a new car & paid off her bills & got a high-limit Sears card. He basically furnished her home, got tools & a riding lawn mower, all the things a person might need to care for their home & live comfortably in it. Well, the Sears card was in his name & he left his girlfriend's address as a contact address, but since they weren't married, she wasn't financially obligated to Sears. When they kept calling asking for Debbie's dad & sending collection notices to her home & weren't accepting the girlfriend's answer that he was deceased, she finally gave up & told them he moved. She then proceeded to give them the address & phone number of the cemetery where he was buried. I'm sure the funeral director was pleased the first time Sears called them to collect the debt.
I am footsore & weary this morning. It's way before my bedtime, but I had a busy day. I was outbid for lead, so I don't know what kind of schedule I'll have next week. Today I cleaned the kitchen for the first time since my surgery. Yeah, I know, gross. I mean, I'd wipe the counters & stuff, do dishes, wipe up the most severe spills, etc., but I was still sticking to the floor in there. I truly hate housework - at least when it's my house. I could psychologically justify it by saying that since Penny & my Aunt Liz used me as slave labor I just cringe at it, but really it's the sheer redundancy of the act. No matter how many times I clean that kitchen, it will not stay clean. Eventually, I'm going to spill something inside the stove top or drop something meaty and raw between the counter & the fridge or lose a grape somewhere... or dump half a can of coffee or fling frozen brussel sprouts everywhere like a pool-hall breakshot. I don't like mopping the floor and I didn't mop today, probably do it tomorrow. I just keep using sanitizing wipes to clear off my bathroom counter. At least I did get around to pulling out the booster seat from the toilet & taking the shower chair out of there a couple of months ago. I do have to admit, Easy-Off oven cleaner is an amazing de-greaser - my hands are like sandpaper. The only reason I launched into it with such gusto is because I've been finding flying ants in the house & I don't want to give any budding queens the idea that this is a 5-star nesting site.
Had to go to the college - my loan app got sent back since I wasn't qualified for the type of loan I requested. Of course, no one from the college calls - it's mostly DIY at (C)CSN Been sitting there since the 3rd & no one bothers to even have a recorded machine call: "Hey, you're a dork & checked the wrong box on your student loan application". I swear to Gods, the people at the financial aid dept. on the Charleston campus are the rudest bitches on the face of the planet, & they just get ruder the closer it gets to the semester starting.
Rob keeps wanting some sort of marathon sex session involving toys & ties & film & possibly a neighbor's dog or someone's burro and a few circus clowns swinging from chandeliers, but lately I've been icked out by the whole act of intercourse. I wish I could just blow him & he'd go away, but he's striving for that intimacy. I haven't even been jilling off much. Just haven't been able to get around to it like we used to & the whole thing seems so pathetically biological. We did it twice today, and my knees are fucking screaming. They were screaming before sex, though, right about after I was trying to clean the grease off the microwave (which is over the stove & involved me being on tip-toe).
