Caterpillars. Caterpillars everywhere.

The internet sucks today for a variety of reasons. I volunteered to make my boyfriend a website (after making sure he knew I am not a designer like Jack) and Monday night I got around to registering a domain for him along with signing up for hosting. I received all the happy welcome emails and the log in information for the domain arrived Tuesday. I happily try to log in so I can enter the nameserver information only to get a “domain not found” error. After submitting a help desk ticket I receive a very curt reply informing me that they were updating the “long list” and give it an hour or so. This was over a day ago. Still not working and I haven’t received a reply to the message I sent this afternoon.

As if to punish me for my “my host is so much cooler than you domain jackasses” thoughts I noticed my mail and website weren’t working today. Go to their site and see a post that says that my server is down, they’re working on it, blah blah and it should be up shortly. No updates on that despite the slew of angry postings by people who spend much more on their hosting than I do.

*kicks internet*

Also, I have no idea what to get Rob for our four-year anniversary coming up. I was thinking of getting him a thing so he could play Invader Zune in his car, but apparently all the adapters are awful. So far I’m down to the Colbert book (please may he not buy it for himself). And damn you radio for making me panic about Christmas already by proclaiming that there are only sixteen weeks (or whatever it is) until Christmas. I only want to think about that after I am full of turkey and gravy goodness aka Thanksgiving.

Grrr.

To Whomever decided to Spray Paint my car’s driver’s side window and Rob’s side mirror white while both cars were parked on the street,

Fuck you.

So I had an interesting experience late Wednesday night after leaving my my boyfriend’s house. Here’s the email I sent him at 3 in the morning about it. Please pardon the rambliness, I was very tired.

First some background information. I have a history of being approached by men. Very rarely is it so they can hit on me. Usually it’s so they can tell me their life stories, talk about carpal tunnel or whatever else for hours. Sidenote: I did, however, once have a memorable night caught between two guys - one tugging on each arm - like I was a rope in a tug of war while I’m yelling “Phlebotomist!” at my friend (phlebotomist was our code word for “get me the hell out of here!”). I don’t usually mind except for the fact that I am terrible at extricating myself from such situations. After 2 hours of talking about carpal tunnel I might want out of the conversation, but I can never seem to really assert myself. I am better than I used to be at least.

I am at heart a nice person, despite all my attempts at jaded cynicism while a teen. And I don’t like to hurt people or cause them pain. So I can be a pushover.

The email:

From Monica:
To Rob:

Stopped at Price Chopper last night after I left your house because I forgot contact lens solution. Plus I was really awake.

I get there and there appears to be no one else in the store. I am wandering around the cosmetic section looking for solution and of course the only other customer is there waiting for me right in front of the eye stuff. He is in his forties and in a ratty t-shirt and shorts. He is also very dirty. I am trying to avoid eye contact and conversation (it’s 1:30 in the morning), but I hear, ‘You know anything about eyes?’ I don’t even know what I said in response. He explains that his eye is red and hurts and he wants my advice. He also eyes my little hand basket and asks me if it’s true that single girls use those instead of shopping carts. I reply that I have a boyfriend while desperately looking for the brand my mother likes. He counters that not married equals single. All of this in a remarkably unsleazy way. He then asks how far away I live while informing me that he lives in Throop and walks to Chopper every night, but he hasn’t seen me there before. My eye catches sight of mom’s brand, I grab it and start heading towards the front of the store. The guy decides to walk with me while asking me repeatedly if I’ll put the drops in for him (no). I come to a stop near the register, hoping he’ll keep going. He stops and asks if I need anything else and offers to walk around the store with me. I mutter nonsense about forgetting something while inching towards the clerk. He finally moves into line and I take off down the nearest aisle and hide there. While I’m hiding I hear the clerk telling him how to use the drops and that no, she won’t put them in for him.

I wait a few moments and finally get to the register and out the door.

I really need to be more assertive.

Dear Drivers of Pickup Trucks Who Feel the Need To Hang Fake Testicles From The Back of Your Truck,

I am especially talking to the guy with the neon pink pair that I saw yesterday on Interstate 80. Please be aware that I respect you that much less. Do you think it’s ultra-macho to have them hanging there, swinging in the breeze? It’s really not. It’s ridiculous. It makes me think less of you. Do you see that tiny pickup that just whizzed past you? He probably has a bigger penis than you.

Who exactly are the Fake Testicles on display for? Women? All the girls and women I know find them laughable. And not in a good way. This will not get you laid. Is it for men? If you’re looking for a boyfriend there is probably an easier way to advertise. This will not get you laid.

Do you just think it looks “cool”? It really, really doesn’t. It’s a “Beware of the Idiot” sign.

Please take it down. Go back to your ultra-tough fake bullet holes or whatever you have. If you get the urge to do arts & crafts in the future try painting or sculpting. That might get you laid.

Sincerely,

Monica