Temperatures over 100 should be illegal. Actually, I’m not fond of anything over 90, but when it’s not humid, I can deal. Still, I’m not a fan of summer because:

1. I don’t like to sweat without exertion to earn it. It gives me acne breakouts that make me look even more like a twelve-year-old than I generally do.
2. I become lethargic.
3. The dogs become even more lethargic than I do.
4. Ever since having LASIK six years ago, I’m very sensitive to bright light.
5. The bugs from outside try to come inside. I hate bugs.
6. Since I’m long past school days, those long summer evenings just mean I don’t want to ease into my evening routine. I stay up too late, and then I don’t function well in the morning.
7. I am constantly reminded how near the beach we don’t live. I miss the ocean. The shark toy in the pool doesn’t help.

On the other hand, summer does bring my birthday and Shark Week, though not in that order.

There are times when, no matter how patient you want to be, little things just annoy you far more than they should. This week, partly due to funky, indecisive weather and an abundance of eye-hurting overcast days, and partly due to not sleeping well, and partly because I’m stressing about Fuzzy’s trip, and my parents’ arrival in a couple weeks, I’m cranky and peevish.

I was going to do a Thursday Thirteen list of “things that have been irking me lately,” but instead I’m going to list a few as a sort of purging measure. Many of these will be related to use of language.

Video Tutorials. Hate them. I am not a visual learner. I NEED words. I can follow the most convoluted written directions with ease, but if you throw pictures at me, my brain explodes. Also, if I’m doing something I require instructions in order to complete, I need to be able to flip back and forth, and video just isn’t a good choice for that - at least, not for me.

The phrase “return back to.” By definition, if returning is reverting to a prior state (of being, of ownership, whatever). The use of “back” in this phrase is unnecessary, and sounds really stupid. “I returned the book to the library.” “Let’s return to simpler times.” I realize that language evolves, but why are the stupid people in charge of the evolution?

Using IM instead of Email. Unless we’re in the middle of a conversation, chances are that even if my computer says I’m online, I’m really not. IM is for immediate chatting. I don’t like it when people use it as an off-line messaging service. I use three different computers all of which use different multi-chat software, on a regular basis, so chances are I won’t see your message anyway. At least five different people have left me messages on IM in this fashion in the last three days. If you know me well enough to be IMing me, you should have my email address.

“People that.” And general that/which/who issues. WHO is for people. THAT is for things and groups. “People who have blogs…” “Blogs that are about language.” (For a really good explanation of this issue (that/which/who) check out this page at GrammarBook.com

Websites, especially blogs, that require one to register in order to comment. With one exception, I refuse. If you’re so afraid of what people might write in your comments, why are you publishing your writing to the web?

“Engage with.” Again, it’s just clunky awkward phrasing. Bad: He didn’t engage the audience. Good: He didn’t engage the audience. (Not that not engaging your audience is ever good, but…)

I reserve the right to add to this list as more things occur to me, but right now I’m tired so I’m going to bed.

I often joke that I must have delicious feet because whenever I have my shoes off, one of my dogs aims for my toes. Today I learned that six-legged creatures also think I have tasty feet - or at least tasty ankles. While I was stringing the last of the Christmas lights on the hedges, I thought I felt pain in my foot, but it didn’t seem severe. A few minutes later, I dropped the last cluster of lights, looked down while retrieving it, and noticed that my white sneakers were covered in little moving insects. Yes, I was being swarmed by fire ants - I’d stepped in their nest.

(There was no mound. I repeat: there was no visible mound.)

I confess that I shrieked, but it was of the startled and in-pain type, not one of fear or loathing (though I felt both.) I kicked my infested shoes off on the front walk, went inside the foyer, and stripped, freaking out my dogs, who thought I was insane.

My next step was the shower, featuring cool water and lovely coconut and shea butter soap, and then I sprayed my ankle, where I saw a couple of bumps swelling, with topical benadryl, swallowed one of the non-topical sort, and put on fresh clothes, including soft white cotton socks and other sneakers.

Then I retrieved all my hastily removed garb, tossed it in the washer (added the rest of the blacks) and washed it. Twice. By this time I was willing to go back out and look at my shoes, which were now ant free. Mostly. They went into the washer too (did you know you CAN wash and dry leather Reeboks? Now you do), and everything went round a third time. Then, into the dryer. Where they remain for the moment (except the shoes).

It wasn’t until around eleven PM that the itching and burning really started bothering me, and I made Fuzzy look at my ankle, which is completely encircled by red bite marks with white pussy centers. I send Fuzzy for Neosporin (we were out) and cortisone cream, swapped the bites with rubbing alcohol, slathered them with the cream, and covered the whole mess in band-aids ™, so that I can sleep without rubbing my ankle against anything.

I was in bed for an hour and the itching wouldn’t stop so I just took another benadryl, which, hopefully, will knock me out so I can sleep.

I feel all pathetic and whiny and stupid, and it doesn’t help that I already had cramps and a backache before a bunch of insects decided my right foot would be lunch.

But there’s only one more work day this week, which helps.
And I think I’m drugged and zoned enough to sleep now.

Plus the lights (which won’t actually be turned on til Thursday)? Look damn good.

When I’m busy, I forget to eat, and then I get cranky and whiny. I don’t like being whiny. One of the reasons I don’t like weight watchers meetings is that every one I’ve been to has been a bunch of people whining about their lives. If I don’t even like to hear MYSELF whine, why would I want to sit in a room with whining strangers?

I am midway through a sandwich. I hadn’t eaten today, as the previous entry makes clear if you know me. The sandwich of the moment is toasted multigrain bread, extra sharp cheddar, tomato, sprouts and mustard. I love mustard, but only the good (read: Grey’s Poupon) kind. Yellow mustard is acceptable only on Boardwalk fries.

Yes, I like mustard on fries.
Except I don’t eat fries any more. When Fuzzy brings home fries, we take turns feeding them to the dogs.

So, anyway, I’m sitting here with my lovely veggie sandwich (crunchy!) and a glass of cranberry juiced mixed with lime Perrier, and I’m feeling slightly better.

Slightly.

My head hurts, and I can’t breathe because I completely messed up our bank account. Thought I’d written a bunch of checks from one account, when I’d really written them from the other, and ended up going negative, in a pay period that was already tight because of the mortgage, and having to pay Fuzzy’s work AmEx and not having the reimbursement that covers our cable bill yet, and, and, and….

Sometimes the best think I can think of to do is to find a really good rock and beat my brains to a bloody pulp and then start over, and I just had to ask my mother if she could loan us money for groceries (she hasn’t yet responded).

What I wanted to do is write all weekend, and maybe take little breaks to surf places that sell digital cameras, because I love the one I have but want something small and sexy that I can slip into a purse.

Yeah that rock thing is getting more attractive every second.

Today was a day I’d really rather not have experienced.

I feel all groggy from lack of sleep, I can’t focus on anything, and I still have an article due to The Boss Who Thinks I Rock by morning. It’s only 750 words, and not particularly challenging, if I can find the right head space and string words together in some semblance of a coherent fashion.

A/C Guy kept me waiting til late afternoon then rescheduled for tomorrow, so all day I’ve been paranoid that the unit will flood again, and unlike Fuzzy, I can’t climb the steps into the attic to plug the hose back in if it comes out again. Even though it was rainy, it didn’t inspire me to write today so much as it made me even crankier than I already was, and if I’d have been smart I’d have just curled up in bed and worked from there today, but I tried to force myself to get dressed and function outside the coziness of my room. Bad plan.

I also had the distinct pleasure of having to call California’s Franchise Tax Board, because the mailed a Tax Due Notice to my former employers (even though my 2004 tax return provided them my Texas address) claiming I owed them $4,000 and change in taxes and penalties.

So I called them three times, and let me tell you, no one has a slower voice response system, and there isn’t even an option to press zero for a live person in round one. In fact there never is, you have to guess that it might work. Which I did.

Of course, once I got to a live person, which took three attempts and twenty minutes on hold, they said, “You didn’t file in 2005,” and I said, “I know. I didn’t live or work in California in 2005.” And they said, “But you have a real estate license here.” I said, “No, I had a salesperson’s license, and as soon as moved out of state it became null and void because I’m not a broker, and anyway, I sent a form explaining that I no longer lived or worked in California, last year, when I filed my 2005 return, and y’all sent a note asking why you didn’t get one. ”

Their first response was “Oh.”

And their second response was, “Please hold while we check on that.”

And then they came back and said, “So you’re saying you didn’t live or work in California in 2005,” and at that point I really wanted to bang the phone on the desk, but either the phone or the desk might have been damaged, so I refrained, and simply said, “I believe I told you that twice.”

They asked, “Do you live here now?” and I replied that no, I didn’t (even though I’d given them my Texas address and told them that twice as well).

Finally they said, “Oh, we’ll clear this, then, and you won’t be bothered again.”

And I said, “So you’re saying I owe you nothing, just as I said in the first place?”

And the FTB people said, “Yes.”

As if dealing with bureaucrats wasn’t enough for one day, the house temperature is never right. It’s either freezing or sweltering, and I’m afraid to fiddle with anything, and there was a water bug (that’s polite talk for “giant cockroach from hell”) in the bathroom, and I made a pot of coffee and let two cups go cold.

Sigh.
Make that three.

And Fuzzy’s phone is going right to voicemail, so I can’t even hear him tell me that I’m not a hack, and everyone has sucky days and he loves me.