Break from Cleaning Out Inbox

I just deleted 667 old MySpace and Facebook notifications (and the end of that road is nowhere in sight). Can't you just sense how joyous I am to be slogging through this? Also, it appears that every couple of days for the past four years, Bath & Body Works has sent me an exhilarating message about some 20%-off sale that I should really take advantage of, because it's clearly ending "SOON!!!" Everything seems to be perpetually "20% off" there. It's beginning to sound a little bit meaningless.

I'd say these are the main sources of e-mails that I receive, accounting for possibly 80% of the total:

1) Bath & Body Works: See above.
2) Domestications, because I once phoned them in 2005 to ask where my mail-order quilt was.
3) Hanes.com, because I once requested free purple undies. (I guess it was worth it. Sort of. Almost.)
4) Kraft Kitchens, because I once swung by their Web site and naively expressed an interest in collecting more recipes. (Oh, how foolish was I. . .)

5) Some little jewelry/accessory store in the middle of nowhere, I don't know how the heck they obtained my e-mail address, but maybe they asked me to write it on a card when I bought something there.
6) Pizza Hut, except that this time, yes, I do remember giving them my e-mail address (and man, I wish that I hadn't).

Meanwhile, as I sift through the above, I'm detecting a severe shortage of correspondence with actual human beings. Just sayin'.

By the way, in the time it took me to write this post, the e-mail tally in my virtual trash can ascended to 723.

Social Butterfly

You wouldn't expect to spend 90 minutes helping someone with preparing and addressing Christmas cards just for the following categories of people:

1) People whose first names the sender doesn't fully know,

2) People who might have died, but the sender isn't sure, so she'll just cross her fingers and hope they're still alive,

3) People who might have moved away, but again, the sender isn't certain, because she hasn't heard from them in about 20 years, so she'll just send the cards to the addresses she has and pray for the best.

I repeat: You might not think this would take 90 minutes. But, sometimes, that doesn't mean a whole heck of a lot.

In other news, I have spent a decent portion of this week buying take-out, leaving it in the fridge for "later," and pretty much forgetting ever to eat it.

Holiday Blues

I feel as if I should write something in here. No. . . no, I don't. The truth is that I'm goofing off on the computer and just don't feel like going to bed yet, which is amazing, considering how exhausted I've been since November. You can't blame me for feeling fatigued when I walk outside at 4:00 p.m. and it's FRIGGING PITCH-BLACK EVERYWHERE. No matter how long I sleep at night, my mind is in such a thick fog that I don't feel particularly festive or ready for the holidays. Nothing fits right lately (and it doesn't help when people twist my arm -- ha, ha, ha! -- by treating me like the scum of the earth if I decline chocolate). Everybody's been asking me since mid-October (no joke) if I'd finished my Christmas shopping yet, but really, all I want is to wake up amidst the peace and quiet of January 2009.

Well. . . actually, I have shopped for something. I bought a belated birthday gift for someone whose birthday was three weeks ago. Since I'm clearly expected to brave the raging crowds and purchase stuff, can that one experience at least count partially towards my December shopping quota? I mean, even if it isn't technically meant for Christmas? (Man, I now regard shopping as if it were academic material you receive credit hours for mastering.) But, wouldn't you know it, I stupidly misplaced that gift almost as soon as I brought it home. Let's just hope I locate it before summer or so. (Oh, great. . . I mentioned summer. Sniff, sniff. Sob!)

The good news? There is a light at the end of this long, dreary, wintry tunnel. In other words, I'm taking a road trip with nifty people to a sunshiny climate in February.

On the flip side of that coin, however?

Ever since I began a mileage-heavy job, I've become a bit of a control freak. In other words, developed a tendency to feel violently carsick unless I'm the one driving.

My HILarious World

Hmmm. . . haven't written a whole lot, lately, have I? Well, for all two of my readers (whom I'll bet are just waiting on pins and needles), here's an obligatory update on the life of the Hilmeister:

My cell phone has developed this charming little habit of dialing people randomly without my knowledge. Since September or so, I've seen this happen at least five or six times that I know of. Whenever it's nearby, I can never feel fully alone. It's very Big-Brother-ish. Therefore, if you ever get a message from my phone, and it consists entirely of me singing (attempting to sing) lame songs in the car -- or howling indignantly, "I just lost that Scrabble game by THREE MEASLY POINTS! That damned CHEATER!" -- then please kindly hit DELETE. And don't even think about using my dumb accidental messages for blackmail material. I mean, do not even let that thought for a split-second cross your mind. OK, that will probably be the most clunkily-worded sentence appearing in my ramblings today. (crosses fingers)

I stumbled upon a nifty new briefcase! One I could finally commit to! Indeed, this was a huge deal. In the last year alone, I must have gone through six different bags/binders/briefcases for lugging my work-related stuff around. As with purses and wallets, I think I'm a serial briefcase junkie, utterly hooked on finding some defect with one and moving relentlessly on to the next. (Unsurprisingly, I'm one of those nerds for whom a trip to the office supply store is infinitely more thrilling than dinner out at an exotic steakhouse.) Either it's too bulky/awkward to carry on an everyday basis, or one of the three rings broke, or it doesn't have enough little compartments to store everything. . . whatever. Well, wouldn't you know it. . . within about two weeks after I discovered a great briefcase and swore that this was it, this was the briefcase of my dreams, I'd be holding onto this one for the rest of my career. . . one of the straps tore off. If it were human, it would have stuck out its tongue and cruelly, mockingly laughed at me. Doesn't that just frigging figure.

I thought briefly about changing the background color on my blog to light blue, just for kicks. Then I decided, nah, I'll just leave it this way for the rest of my life. From there, my mind spiraled into this giant philosophical mess about what people's blogs will look like in 50 years, and whom I'll still be Facebook friends with in 50 years, and whether we'll be posting pictures of our grandkids, our retirement parties, our awesome wheelchairs, our Bingo buddies at the nursing home. I envisioned showing my grandchildren my blog and bragging to them that it had had exactly the same design/color scheme since 2007 (like a historic artifact!), upon which they'd wrinkle up their noses and exclaim in disgust, "Come on, Grandma! You are so not cool!" Then they'd disappear from my old-fogeyish digs and end up at the mall (undoubtedly some really sleek, futuristic mall) via teleporter. Man, I wish I had a teleporter.

Speaking of technology, I keep having issues where things stop working -- phones, computers, office machinery, whatever -- and the moment I ask someone for help, those things maliciously resume working again. Makes me look/feel really stupid. The person typically glances at me in some suspicion and says, "Uhm, this is running just fine. Are you sure you know how to use it correctly?" To that, I inevitably feel like wailing, "Yes! I honestly do have a couple of functioning brain cells. It really, seriously wouldn't turn on before! I'm not just trying to play a joke on you or waste your precious time, I SWEAR!" Maybe I should begin keeping a video camera handy to capture the evidence.

I started dating someone about a month ago. (Not only have our families known each other in three different contexts over the last 60-some years, but he also goes by the same nickname as my sister. You can imagine how much that confuses people. I often contemplate using it as ammunition for pranks.) In the past, I've had new boyfriends at 16, 18, 20. . . ages where it's perfectly acceptable to take your time and get to know each other instead of rushing anything. When you're almost 28, though, it's apparently another story. All at once, the concept of "going too fast" has seemingly vanished. I'm already hearing incessant questions about whether I expect an engagement ring for Christmas, whether we might be married at this time next year, and whether I intend to get knocked up during the honeymoon. It sounded awfully tempting to write "WE'VE BEEN GOING OUT FOR A FEW WEEKS" on a notecard and hold it up whenever someone posed that kind of inquiry to me over Thanksgiving weekend. Come on, guys. . . I don't think I quite meet the qualifications for AARP status yet. Let's relax a little bit, here. . .

I've been more than slightly obsessed with orange-pineapple juice and pretty much anything that has "peppermint," "mocha," or "peppermint mocha" in the name. If this obsession sticks around much longer, I'll have to come up with a new one to accompany it: either exercising like a fiend, or shopping around for new pants in bigger sizes. I think I'll take the first one, thanks. Here we go again. Groan! (Oh, and did I mention that I'm visiting the doctor on Monday morning? And if anyone has any suggestions on how to feel remotely dignified at the doctor's office, then be a dear and throw 'em in my direction. I am all ears!)

Beyonce

I don't fully understand why, but any time I hear that song by Beyonce (or even just a nanosecond of it), I feel like unleashing my inner Lewis Black and roaring at the radio, "But you're NOT a boy! Quite obviously! So for the love of God, SHUDDUP and QUIT YAPPING ABOUT IF YOU WERE ONE!"

In reality, I could care less. Somehow, though, that exact thought pops into my head every single time. Just a mindless instinct, kind of a reflex. I don't know.

Guess I needed something new to roar at, since I truly can't remember anymore how to turn on the TV. . .