For various reasons, I sometimes have to walk to work. Often on the journey, acquaintances will honk and yell at me as they drive right on by. Worse than this are people who later say, "I saw you on the way to work the other day." Well, why didn't you pick me the hell up? Just keep it to yourself if you ever pass me by. Allrighty, then.

I have just purchased an MP3 player in a futile attempt to stay in the loop, I suppose, though I don't think I have put a piece of music on it that is more recent than 10 years old. Some of the stuff I have on it I have had in each of the following formats: 8-track, vinyl, cassette, cd and now MP3.

So I'm walking to work today, and I'm wearing dress shoes with white athletic socks (over knee-high panty hose, long story). I'm smoking a cigarette and chewing gum at the same time. I can't keep the ear buds from falling out of my head for long due to my abnormally small ears. I am listening to Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush and even Simon and Garfunkel. I am aware that I am a colossal dork.

But I am listening to this music on my new MP3 player and it is a friendly and sunny day. I can't hear you honking at me. I can't help but walk in time to the tune with a newly springy step. I am a dork, and I feel like. . . I feel like a rock goddess.

I live in an 78 year-old house, albeit, thanks to Katrina, one with a spanking new roof. We have hardwood floors (that are a mess), and 12 foot ceilings (with walls that are--eeek!--covered with dark brown panelling circa the '70's). Lotsa potential (but very little money).

Recently, we have sprung a leak in the bathroom. No problem. It must be the hot water tap that we just turned back due to the family coming to visit. It's normally turned off at the floor due to a stream of water that pours from it and a $400.00 gas bill. Folks are gone, so the tap is turned back off. And still the floor is soaked. Ok. Perhaps it is coming from the toilet, which is sorta like a rocking chair (which is not as much fun as it sounds). But no, that is apparently not the source. Well, damn, it must be the claw-foot tub. Sounds fairly simple, huh? It would be, except that the last owner (who happens to be my ex-boyfriend--Hi, again, D.!) enclosed the tub because, though in good shape on the inside, the outside is unsightly. Simpler to get a little plywood and box in the sucker than get 4 strong men to haul it outside, rent a sandblaster and repaint it.

For two weeks the fiance' and I have ignored the problem as much as we are able whilst still bailing out the tub after each bath. Tonight, however, I have charged Scott with dismantling the box and seeing what's what. So that's what he's doing with the help of the cats, who are very interested in the whole process. As I told him, I am helping by writing this post (hey, it keeps me out of the way).

The problem with dismantling the box is that the carpet now covers only part of the floor. The linoleum under the carpet simply must go. Which would only serve to remind us how half the floor is rotten. This has caused a sag in the wall, which has knocked that side of the house off kilter. Scott swears we now have to level the whole thing, which I forsee will cause cracking of the walls, and perhaps the earth to open up and swallow this little plot of land.

Anybody out there have room for one tall, skinny man, one shortish, not so skinny woman, and three ornery cats?

Well, I've done it again. Gotten engaged, I mean. And this time, I actually have a date decided, so it shouldn't go on for the 10 or so years as it did last time (with a perfectly wonderful man, I may add. Hi, D.!).

So, the first time I was engaged, women came from far and near to congratulate me and remind me how this is my chance to finally have that wedding that I had imagined for years and practiced endlessly with my barbie dolls and remember how cute she looked with that little toilet paper train and . . . .Wait, WHAT? No, ma'am, I don't remember, having never even had a Barbie doll to my recollection. (Though I did have a 3-feet-tall purple stuffed dog and a ridable big banana which I remember quite fondly. As I may have mentioned elsewhere, I was an odd child.)

Apparently, I was singulary unromantic as a child, and I suppose I remain so today. Not wearing white, my dears. The current plan is a Justice of the Peace, a nice family reception, and then a kick-ass party, to which you are all invited.

More details to follow (I promise) and a discussion of the man who dares jump the broom with me.

I have a confession. I work in a call center.

I am not a telemarketer, but if you were to speak to me in my official capacity, I often have not-so-good news to give you. I have been cussed at and had my heritage denigrated, but the worst is folks--women and men, but men are somehow more heartbreaking--crying. Fortunately, the crying does not occur too often, leaving me free to focus on the following aggravating things that occur on a daily basis:

The first real person you speak to is your portal and guide for the rest of your call. Pissing me off with your first statement ain't the best tactic.

The phrase "you people" is truly one of the most obnoxious things a person can say.

". . . Uh. . . ." is not the answer when asked your account number, name, or social security number.

I have no control over the phone system. I don't know why I have to ask you all the same questions again, and yes, I agree it is pretty stupid.

I have no control over the phone system and no, I don't know the name of the Muzak-ed song you were just listening to.

I have no control over the phone system, and starting our call with a rant about how this is America and why the !@#$ is there a Spanish option when we should all speak Amurican will not endear you to me.

I have no control over the phone system, and no, I do not know why you ended up with me when you specifically entered the Spanish language option.

I have can see how long you have been waiting, and no sir, you have not been on hold 25 minutes.

I can see your payment history, and no, ma'am, this is not "The first time in 20 years" you have ever been late.

The first pen you pick up will not work. Be prepared for that, and realize that I have heard at least ten people today comment on how funny that is.

When asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you," the answer "Pay all my bills," is cute only to you.

And what is UP with people who read strings of numbers this way:
"Ten, twenty-three, one, one, three zeros, five" for 1023110005? Just read the damn number, a digit at a time, please. One, zero, two, three, one, one, zero, zero, zero, five. . . . How hard is that?

Even more difficult to understand are people who state dates like this: The "sixth of the seventh" translates to July 6th. I have had conversations that go much like this one:

"I paid the first time the sixth of the seventh, but my second payment was on the third of the eighth then I didn't pay again until the eleventh of the tenth." What.the.fuck. Someone tell me, is this just a Southern thing?

I am sure there are many more irritations I can tell y'all about which I am currently blocking, but I am off to work, perhaps I will update this tonight.

Here is an email I recieved from Ben Bounds last week, in case eveyone is thinking that the Mississippi Gulf Coast is up and running smoothly again.

Well, I would have agreed with the comments by DSMars and Anne Arkham on the post below mere days ago, but that was before I ran across an article on "accessory" nipples on the internet. I found them a fascinating evolutionary tidbit, kinda like the gill-having stage that human fetuses go through. Sort of, wow, that's neat, and how can anyone not believe in evolution with this sorta thing going on. But then I read further on the subject. . . .

I have always had a cute little mole below my left breast. Now, this is not the sort of thing a swimsuit model would be sporting after a dip in a cold pond. Not at all nipple-like. I had never given it a thought. But as I was reading, it slowly started dawning on me: "Holy shit! It couldn't be, yet. . . yet. . .Yes! My little "mole" meets all the qualifications of a supernumerary nipple! Now, what do I think about that?!" It was a shift in perspective, for sure. What once was an interesting philosophical idea was now an object on my own body. I think I really liked it better when it was an abstraction rather than a reality, but did I think I was an exception from evolution? And now Mark Whalberg and I finally have something in common.

You know how you can be sailing along through life, complacent, but in an ok way, then all of a sudden you realize something about yourself you never knew that sort of shakes you up a bit, such as discovering you have a third nipple?

No? Well, it's a shocker, I'll tell you.