doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

Since when are telemarketers stalking our cell phones? When we put in a land line at the apartment we started getting “courtesy calls” all the time. With no caller ID or answering machine to screen calls, we’ve been spending a lot of time hanging up on obnoxious callers. But I have never gotten one of these pesky calls on my cell phone.

Until yesterday.

I was locked out of my car because Brad had my keys and I couldn’t get ahold of him (long story). I was also waiting for an important call from my sister who just moved to Montana. So when my phone rang and showed an unfamiliar number, which I would usually send to voicemail, I decided to answer.

Obnoxious telemarketer: Hi is this Shannon?
Me: (thinking this is so not my sister) Yes.
OT: Well Shannon, I’m calling to offer you an all-expense paid vacation for two to either Orlando or Miami. Which of these destinations do you prefer Shannon?
Me: Actually this is a really bad time to talk.
OT: Oh yeah? Can I ask why?
Me: Well bitch. As a matter of fact you can’t ask why. Actually go ahead and ask why. That’ll give me a chance to tell you to kiss my ass. It’s none of your business why it’s a bad time. If I say it’s a bad time, it’s a bad time. Is there ever a good time to talk about your scams? No. So kindly mind your own business and get yourself a real job.

Yeah I told her! Actually I have a soft spot in my heart for telemarketers because my sister and brother-in-law were forced to sell magazine subcriptions over the phone when they were struggling to make it in a new city. And one of my many jobs in college was with the fundraising department where I called alumni and asked for money. Which is essentially telemarketing because people hate you when you’re asking for their money.

So the conversation actually went more like this…

OT: blah blah blah Orlando blah blah
Me: blah blah blah bad time blah blah
OT: Can I ask why?
Me: Actually I’m locked out of my car, and I’m trying to figure out how to get in.
OT: So you’re not interested in this offer?
Me: No I’m really not. But thank you.
OT: Okay. Well I hope you get into your car!
Me: Thanks! Bye.

But still. On my cell phone! The nerve.

Calling all ladies, I need the inside scoop on something only women (and male doctors) can answer. Remember how I’m completely ignorant about all this doctor stuff? Well I’m in a situation.

I made an appointment with a (female!) doctor for a month from now. When I called, I indicated that I just wanted to come in for a routine checkup, to which the receptionist asked “Do you need a Pap smear?” No not right now, I told her, and that was it.

I had assumed she was using “Pap smear” as a general term for a pelvic exam and all that other uncomfortable stuff I so dread, but I later realized maybe not. Maybe it’s routine to do a pelvic exam, but they ask about the Pap specifically for some reason. And dear god, if that’s the case, I need to prepare.

I haven’t been to a routine physical since I was a child, before all that dreadful womanly stuff was necessary. And since then, I’ve made very specific appointments for those very specific exams, which of course always included a Pap smear. I don’t know how it works when you combine the two.

So the question is… what is the routine at a routine exam? What can I expect? Do I need to beware the speculum, or is she just going to tap around my exterior and listen to my heart?

Ladies don’t make me sound like a fool and call the doctor’s office to ask about this. Tell me what you’ve experienced, please tell me what the hell this lady is going to do to me!

You know you have a good man when, despite all this, he comes home after a disagreement with the best make-up gift ever:

A whole tub all to myself! We decided I wouldn’t share and see how long it takes me to eat all 70. Let the countdown begin.

After we mended the disagreement, I asked him if he picked up anything else at Sam’s. Oh not much, he said, just this:

A GIANT clock! About the time we moved into the new place, we both became obsessed with Mission: GIANT clock. We absolutely had to have one for the apartment, we decided. But despite searching far and wide, we could never find one that was affordable, yet not horribly French country.

Finally, when we weren’t even looking, we spotted this monstrosity at Sam’s Club the other day. Because of my (hopefully temporary) money woes, I said we’d just have to wait and hope it’s still there in a few weeks, and we walked out sans clock.

Thank god my boyfriend is not as tight-fisted as I am because life is definitely better with a GIANT clock on the wall. And 70 cream puffs in the freezer.

We finally got our apartment clean and in decent living order last weekend, which means I was finally able to take “after” pictures. We still need a coffee table, nightstands, and more stuff on the walls. But for the most part, we’re finally ready to stop moving in and start living here!

Pictures are up at flickr, but you can only see them if you’re a “friend” or “family” of ours. So go get an account people! Here are a few for those of you (all of you) who won’t bother:

PS: New Doahleigh banner courtesy of Robin, who is way too busy living her crazy fun life to blog about it, which means I can’t link to her, but trust that she rocks.

In college I gained the proverbial “freshman fifteen” (and then some), and I still hate to see pictures of myself from those couple years. But since then, I’ve settled into a weight I’m comfortable with. And no matter what I eat or don’t eat, I always stay within a few pounds of that weight.

I know this, anybody who read that post knows this, and you’d think that Brad would know this by now. However, I’ve discovered recently that he is adamantly opposed to me buying these:

Delicious Belgian Mini Cream Puffs from Sam’s Club.

Whenever I find these at a party, I usually skip dinner and any other snacks, and load my plate with cream puffs. Twice. Okay three times. But they’re seriously that good. Imagine my drool when we got a membership to Sam’s and I saw these in the freezer aisle. A whole tub of them, only eight dollars.

I didn’t buy them, but made plans to soon. When I shared this with Brad, he suddenly became very concerned for my health. He actually told me I should not buy them. He, a man, told me, a woman, what I shouldn’t be eating.

EXCUSE ME! Have you met my friend PMS? She doesn’t take kindly to being told what to eat. If she wants cream puffs, shut up and move the fuck away from the freezer. Even if PMS isn’t around, I’ll introduce you to my sweet tooth who will tear your head off if you stand in my way. If I want to buy the damn cream puffs, you better not make me feel guilty about it. Because I’ll buy them anyway, and probably a second tub too.

What’s funny is that Brad never seems concerned with the fact that we go out for ice cream every other night. He doesn’t worry that we eat pizza, Wendys and Subway all week long, or that I rarely get my recommended servings of fruit or vegetables. He knows I’m a terrible eater, and he’s never seemed to mind.

Until I mention the cream puffs. Then suddenly he’s all those are so bad for you. And I’m all I don’t care they’re delicious! And he’s all but it’s a tub of cream puffs. And I’m all yeah exactly!

In the store the other day, I mentioned that maybe I’d go check out the freezer aisle again, and he immediately protested and practically called my delicious puffs the devil.

-What is so wrong with the cream puffs babe?
-They’re just so terrible. A whole tub!
-For you, cream puffs automatically equal fatness and lethargy don’t they?
-You know, they really do.

It’s like he thinks I’m going to swallow the tub whole or maybe eat them all in one sitting in front of the tv with a gallon of chocolate milk and a side of lard. No honey, I only do that at parties when the supply is limited and fleeting.

At home, with my very own tub in the freezer, I’ll just snack. One or two at a time when PMS rears her vicious claws or my sweet tooth cries and begs. I won’t gain a hundred pounds, and I won’t be any more unhealthy than I am now. I swear.

But if you ever catch me in front of the tv with an empty tub on my lap and Belgian cream all over my face, you have permission to ban me from cream puffs forever.

Wouldn’t it be weird if sea creatures found a way to “breathe” on land the way humans found a way to breathe underwater?

Humans breathe air, making it impossible to spend long periods underwater. So what did they do? They built an apparatus that straps to their bodies, which allows them to breathe in water and explore and invade the sea creatures’ territory.

Wouldn’t it be creepy if sea creatures were intelligent beings and created their own apparatuses to allow them to “breathe” on land? They’d call it SCOBA gear (Self Contained Out-of-water Breathing Apparatus), and it would feed right into their gills.*

Suddenly we’d see octopi sludging around the deserts with SCOBA packs fastened to their ample arms. There would be sharks walking on fins through the city streets, looking around, studying human life. Even lobsters and crabs could strap on some SCOBA gear and be able to explore our malls and schools for days at a time.

Seriously, picture an eel slithering through the weeds like a snake with a little pack of sea water on it’s back and a tube feeding it oxygen. In order to explore land, they’ve devised these little machines to help them breathe. Just like humans did to explore the oceans.

Am I the only one who finds the whole notion odd?

*For the sake of imagination, pretend they also develop efficient ways of traveling on land.

The last couple of weeks I’ve been carrying around this pad of paper. On the top sheet of the pad is a TO DO list. Included in the TO DO list are many things related to finding myself a doctor, a dentist and a way to get a new pair of glasses. I never realized how many elements need to line up to make these things happen.

First you have to have time. And a phonebook. When searching through the phonebook aimlessly gets you nowhere, you need to have friends or coworkers with good recommendations on physicians (who must be female), eye doctors and dentists. Then you need more time. And a phonebook again. And this time a phone. While making a million phone calls, you have to make sure the physician/eyedoctor/dentist is accepting new patients, and if they are you have to be lucky enough for them to accept your kind of insurance.

If all those factors come together, then you still need more time because you have to get medical records transferred, which requires more phone calls and maybe some driving around town. And then, only then, can you finally start setting up appointments. Which, of course, requires even more time. Time that coincides with the receptionist’s calendar, which I’m sorry, is not allowing you to make an appointment when it’s convenient.

So far this week, all I’ve really managed to do is make a dentist appointment, which I’m sort of dreading. But no, I’m not complaining. I have insurance and by god, I’m using it.

However, one thing I didn’t anticipate is that money would still be such an issue in all this. I have good insurance, thank the powers that be, but there’s still those damn things they call co-pays. I don’t mind co-paying, I’m happy to contribute 10 or 20 bucks here and there because it’s a lot better than 10 or 20 thousand.

But for some reason, this job has not made me rich yet, and so I’m tempted to put off the physician/eyedoctor/dentist visits until copaying 10 or 20 bucks doesn’t feel like I’m spending tomorrow’s lunch money.

Somehow, the whole world found out I got a new job and would suddnely be making more money than I did as a full-time volunteer. So the whole world got together and dicussed who should get a piece of my money first. Unfortunately, the whole world is pig-headed and greedy and nobody could agree who got the money, so everyone in the world just sent me little notes in the mail that said I owed them money all at the same time.

The student loan people sent a “note” because they decided now that I have a job I can instantly pay them back. The car insurance people sent one too because I guess they like to get paid every six months. The credit card people, who haven’t had to send a “note” in a very long time, figured they wanted their money back for all that crap we bought for the apartment. And they all want their piece of my money RIGHT NOW!

I’m happy to fulfill my obligations, but the new job’s paycheck just isn’t quite big enough for it all. I didn’t have any illusions that with this new job I’d be sleeping on a diamond-studded bed under a quilt made of hundreds, but I hoped I’d at least be able to start putting some money into my savings. Instead, I’ve been draining it just to keep up.

I know once I get through this drought, I’ll eventually find myself in pretty decent shape…I hope. I’ll be able to see the physician/eyedoctor/dentist without skipping a meal the next day. But right now I’m wondering if I need a second job.

Payday? Please hurry!

Hey Jen and Required (very funny Ed)… You both Rock!

 Yes Brad and I have a poster of Captain Jack Sparrow on the back of our bedroom door. And yes, we were both excited to put it there. I’ve always been a little crazy for some Johnny Depp, and recently Brad has agreed with me.

After the first Pirates of the Caribbean, I developed a huge lust for Jack Sparrow. Something about the eye makeup and tattered head scarf really ignited my girl parts. And after seeing the second film, Brad admitted there was something greasily attractive about him as well. I love a man who can recognize another man’s sex appeal! Some men are just hot, there’s nothing wrong with thinking so, no matter who you are.

We saw the poster in WalMart last week, and I think it was Brad who suggested we buy it. But where would we put it, I pondered. In the bedroom, he offered. Perfect, I agreed.

And so, there he hangs. Right in our line of vision whenever we close the door to, um, sleep.

You guys are the most unpaticipatory lot I know. I was hoping to draw out some new commenters (I want to know who’s reading!) with my little contest, but I only succeeded in luring one new person into taking the plunge. Look, I know the prizes sucked, okay? But couldn’t you show a little love anyway?

I’d like to give a prize to the four of you who actually did take two seconds to say hello in the form of a guess. Jen, Jessica, Robin and Lauren: I think you’re all winners! What do you guys want? Muffins? Mix CDs? My eternal friendship? You name it…as long as it costs less than $3.

Since the last clue totally sucked (Sorry, Brad was still sleeping so I had to take the picture fast. No time for skill or artistry.), here’s a few more:

1. While this celebrity is always hot, we especially like him/her as a particular character.
2. That character is attractive in a not-everyone-will-agree kind of way.
3. A photoshopped version of the poster. To me, this totally gives it away:

I promise I’ll end this silly game tomorrow and finally let you know who my boyfriend and I have invited into our bedroom!

Okay we have someone a little too smart for their own good in the audience. I guess that’s what happens when you let your best friend participate in these kinds of things. However, I’m not revealing her answer just yet.

I can’t help it…I want to know who else you want us to have a threesome with.

Robin has already secured the grand prize: the much coveted Congratulations! But I can guarantee any other correct guesser one very exuberant You Rock! So please, take a guess.

Here’s another clue (a sideview of the actual poster):

It’s a contest! A big ol’ “Congratulations!” will go to the first person who can guess what poster Brad and I bought yesterday to hang on the back of our bedroom door.

The prize pretty much sucks, I know, since it’s nothing more than the big ol’ “Congratulations!” But wouldn’t it be cool to say you won the “Guess the Poster” contest at doahleigh dot com? Sure it would. So go on and guess!

Here are your first clues:

1. It’s a poster of a celebrity.
2. It’s a celebrity we both have a crush on.
3. It’s the only celebrity we’ve both agreed we’d have a threesome with if ever the chance arose.

Anyone? Anyone?

I took a personality test yesterday at a work thing I had to go to. Perhaps you’ve heard of or taken “the color test” at some point. That’s what I took, except yesterday it was called the “directions test.” As in North, South, East and West. So basically you take a little test and tally your answers using a key and laugh about your silly responses with everyone else, and then it puts you into a category (N, S, E or W), which defines your personality.

You get the picture. Anyway, I’m an East, which essentially means I’m organized and responsible, I like schedules and straight answers, and I like to be rewarded with gold jewelry and fine crystal pieces. Which, actually, is pretty much right on with my personality. Except for the gold and crystal. I much prefer cash.

When I got home yesterday, I had Brad take the test because I suspected he was definitely not where the sun rises like me. Turns out? He’s a sun setter. A West. As in the POLAR OPPOSITE of me. No wonder I want to violently shake him sometimes! No wonder I make his blood boil! We approach the world with totally OPPOSITE strategies. We function with entirely OPPOSITE habits. Our methods are completely OPPOSITE!

While this explains so many things, I was worried at first. Can total opposites function together? Can the cohabit? Can they even stand to be in the same room together?

But then I remembered the age old cliche. Opposites? They really do attract. And we all know nothing is ever really true unless there is a cliche to explain it. And if the cliche says we attract, well then it must be true. And by attract I assume they mean function and cohabit together in a peaceful and loving way forever and ever amen. Right?

A strange combination of boredom and deniable interest came together last night and found Brad and I watching the end of the Miss Teen USA pageant. I’m oddly fascinated by these “scholarship competitions” and Brad was an innocent hostage to my momentary enthrallment.

Most of the time he paid more attention to his computer screen and I was fussing with the uncontrollable Hair, but we did get some genuinely hearty laughs out of the interview portion of the competition. Teenager girls may be able to fool us into thinking they’re mature women while they float around the stage in billowing evening gowns, but once they start talking, the charade is over.

I thought for sure someone would put the interviews on YouTube, but I didn’t find anything. So I’ll do my best to paraphrase our favorite answer, which came from Miss Montana.

The question: What does integrity mean to you?

The answer: Integrity…integrity means that you’re driv…When you have integrity, you are driven and you won’t let anything stop you.  …  That’s what integrity means.

And guess what. Not only did Miss Montana have the ugliest dress (we called her Marshmallow Girl), but yes my friends. She won:

Edit: I can no longer use that image apparently, so you’ll just have click here and see it that way. No really go look. She’s wearing a marshmallow dress.

(Hey, did you notice that the new and the former Miss Teen USA winners look stikingly similar? I think dewey-faced blondes have a monopoly on this competition which calls for investigation.)