Rant, rant, rant...

Well, I was sitting at work today, decompressing from yet another episode of being a mere second away from having a major meltdown over my usual frustrating dealings with The Boss, and I thought gee. Why don't I go home and vent my incipient hysteria in words, online, instead of rampaging madly down the highway, gratifying all the birdwatchers with a not-so-rare sighting of the RI Salute and perpetuating the dubious distinction my state has of being home of the dumbest drivers in the country? It is not vanity that has me posting online, merely the realization that with all the time I spend on the computer, I really can't write legibly any more. YES, YES!! Let me join the rest of the lemmings who think there is anyone out there who REAAAALLY gives a rat's behind about their miserable lives! BTW... from what I have read, that thing about lemmings is a horrible myth perpetuated by our good friends at Disney.

How the heck do you come up with an interesting title for a journal type thingamajig when you don't even know what you're going to write about? I opted for something... aaahhhh... descriptive of my cynical, closet-control freak self instead. When I get a clue what I'm doing, it will probably change.

This being my first attempt, I have no idea what is considered proper protocol (not that I'd adhere), or how polite I have to be. So let the ranting begin. To begin with, I work in the real estate profession as an assistant to an appraiser, and let me tell you. Everyone wants their reports yesterday. Oh, it is NOT pretty out there right now. The market is flattening out, everyone is panicking and yowling and overextending themselves to buy fun toys they don't need, and to give their precocious, self-absorbed little darlings everything they scream for. People just do not understand that if we squeeze the market like a zit to get the value they need to refinance this year, they just ain't gonna get another $30K increase next year. They also don't understand why their 800SF ranch is not worth the same as the 1700SF waterfront Colonial next block over. Add to this insanity a hyper boss with apparent ADD, and you get an idea why I wish I was born a sacred cow in India. I like my boss, I like my work, but I don't like the two together.

After a day in the mines and a 28 mile one-way commute, I am more than ready to go to ground, and only the bravest, most stalwart beings dare attempt to drag me kicking and screaming from my lair. Being a reclusive sort with inner-ear cilia not yet flattened by wax buildup (yup, this old fart can hear that danged Mosquito ringtone...), I defend my right to peace and privacy with fangs bared, taking any intrusion as a personal affront. The merest sound of voices outdoors is enough to send me scuttling to a window where I glower balefully at the miscreants, snout twitching as one hand scrabbles frantically for the volume control on the stereo, in vain hopes of driving away the beastly revelers with a blast of Bollywood.

Monday evening after work I was at my post monitoring the actions of a group of pubescent, mouthbreathing hooligans walking up the street, when I noticed they had stopped their jejeune antics and were instead focusing their attention on my side yard. I figured the 76 year-old lady upstairs was at the clothesline and they were checking out her sexy legs, but nooo. Found out what had grabbed their attention later when I got up in the morning and discovered my patio chairs gone. Chairs. I leave my freakin' car unlocked with windows down, my back door open all night (with screen door locked) as I have done for the last six or seven years, and these little WARTS steal my CHAIRS. How lame is that? Why didn't you steal my cactus, candleholder and watering pot too? Enjoy your pretty purple chair, BOYS, but just so you know? My beloved, dearly departed pet lizard Mozart (In Memoriam: 1991-2005) crapped on it once.

Even though it's waaay more fun to rant about the negative aspects of life, I do force myself to make an effort to reflect on what does go right in my little sphere of existence. This morning, for instance. Heah in New England, we had one killah thundahstoam last night, sending me dashing out into the yard in a nightie to close the windows of my poor old Honda (still left unlocked, DOH!). When I got into my sled this morning... nothing. I figured it was the battery, and along comes my landlord, Manny, to the rescue, charger in tow. Then we realize the headlights are still going on. Hmmm! Even my mechanically-limited girlie mind knows this means the battery is just fine. As I'm sitting there creating another wrinkle in my forehead, Manny starts mumbling about starters and begins to ROCK my car back and forth! I'm laughing like a lunatic, thinking he's out of his mind, but wouldn't you know, it worked!? No clue how, but wow. There is nothing like an abrupt turnaround of a potentially miserable situation to start your day off right. And nothing like coming home to a mailbox empty of bills to end it.

Well. If I don't end and post now, I'll procrastinate forever and never do so. So VOILA! I am off to peruse random blogs and find out what I should have done. Whore of Babble-On out.