Girl Plumbers Rock

(This one has been in my drafts for a few weeks... I need to stop procrastinating.)

My day off this week was Thursday, a super busy day for me, as it is forever known as "D-Day" to me. My "to do" list was a mile long between filing for divorce (yay!), getting my oil changed (has it really been 10,000 miles?), and having my car inspected. I had a lot on my plate.

So of course, it was no surprise that my downstairs potty decided to go on the fritz Thursday morning. I was in the kitchen, frantically working on my last minute divorce paperwork, when I realized that the toilet had been running for the quite awhile. Crap. Let it be known among all that I am the furthest thing from a Ms. FixIt. My mom can fix anything. I try really hard to be like her in this aspect. I even bought the coolest power drill that Home Depot had to offer. I still can't figure out how to use the damn thing. Instead, I just show it to boys when they come to my house and tell them I know how to use it in a last ditch attempt to impress them, then claim that the battery is not charged when they ask me to demonstrate. (Hell, I will never have a second date with any of them, so my little white lie will probably never come back to bite me.)

Back to the potty issue. The first thing I did was call my soon-to-be ex-husband. He is a maintenance supervisor after all, so I figured he was my best bet to keep something from overflowing within the next thirty seconds. He was having a pro-Carrie day (these are rare), and he walked me through a couple of things over the phone, but nothing really fixed it. So I emailed my landlord, who is by far the most awesome person on the planet because he stays out of my hair as much as I stay out of his. For the next 24 hours, Kylie and I avoided the downstairs bathroom, which was a bit of a challenge for both of us. You don't really appreciate the convenience of having a bathroom fifteen feet away from your sofa until you don't have one.

When I was driving home from work Friday, frantically trying to get to the YMCA a little less late than usual, I got a phone call from a lady who said she was on her way to my apartment to fix my potty. Yes, that's right, a girl plumber. Until that point, I had been envisioning the standard guy plumber. I realize that there are some hot ones out there, but those are not the ones who come to repair things for me. I get the ones with the saggy pants, butt crack and all, who are old enough to be my grandfather. When Trina came marching into my apartment with her toolbox, I watched in total awe. I thought she was the coolest lady in the universe. She worked a little toilet magic, and my potty was functioning again in no time.

As she was leaving, she mentioned that my landlord had called her in a total panic because more than one toilet in my little row of townhouses was not working. "Trina," he said after getting my email about the water running continuously, "I have another one that's backed up!" Call me vain, but I felt the incredible need to defend myself to her. "Oh, mine wasn't backed up though. It was just running," I told her. Because nice girls like me don't do gross things like clog up their toilets.

After all, I am too cute to poop.

My Natural Color

To my pale peeps: you MUST go and buy this product. Right now. Run to the nearest drugstore and buy the biggest bottle that you can find. It is worth the $8.56 you will spend on it.

My New Toy

I officially have a new toy. One that I have needed and wanted for a very long time. Great God in heaven...I bought a GPS. Specifically, a Garmin Nuvi 265. I love it so much I could make out with it.

Please understand, this purchase was as necessary to me as buying bread and Starbucks. I have all of the sense of direction of a blind mole rat. Sometimes, finding my way home from work is a challenge. I got lost pulling out of the mall while on the phone with my brother a couple of weeks ago. (I have worked at the mall for a year.) He blamed it on the fact that I was on the phone, but I know better. Navigation is not my strong point. I use Google maps and mapquest for everything, but these have proven to be unreliable in more than one situation, and I am simply not a girl who has time to mess around. Not to mention that I often find myself sitting on the interstate because of a car accident (some monkeys simply cannot manage to drive and talk on the phone simultaneously) or road construction, and I don't trust myself to wing a detour without assistance.

I now know how men feel after they get new tools. I sat in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and played with it for at least 20 minutes after purchasing it. Then I proceeded to use it to drive to work. I was disappointed that I was only ten minutes away from the mall. I really wanted to see if this GPS had the mojo to be in a car with me for any length of time. If it can get me from Point A to Point B without throwing in the towel, it is worth the $250 I spent on it.

On the way home, I discovered the coolest stuff about my GPS. I can choose from any number of voices to tell me directions. I am currently alternating between the Australian man (Lee) and the British man (Daniel). I rode home with the chick voice last night, and to be honest, she just didn't do anything for me. I can also turn the volume up so loud that I can hear it over my stereo system. The screen is touchscreen, and it displays things like the the speed limit for the road that I am currently on as well as the speed I am actually going (note...they are always the same). It tells me how many more miles I have before I get to my destination as well as my arrival time. This GPS does everything but drive the car for me, which would simply not be much fun.

I know that this purchase is sad news to my friends and family who are used to getting my, "Omigod I'm lost again!" phone calls. My brother has spent a lot of time rushing to his computer to look up my location on a website map to help me find my way to or from somewhere. The girls at work will no longer have to try to give me directions to the mall based on my description of my current location (i.e. "I dunno where I am! There's a tree, and a building, and a stop sign. Find me!") I can't wait to venture into uncharted territory just to see if I can find my way back out again.

Damn, now I'm going to have to find a new excuse for always being late. "I'm lost" is no longer going to cut it.

Every Girl Should Own Orange Polka Dot Thongs

Dear Self,

Do not be offended by anything that I am about to say to you. You are a classy girl, and sometimes even the classiest girls make fashion boo-boos. Today, you made a boo-boo.

I understand that you have a newfound passion for maxi dresses. I understand that they are pretty, comfortable, and easy to throw on with a pair of sandals before you race to work. Who knew dressing oneself could be so easy? Well, that's the problem. You have never really been great at dressing yourself.

The dress was easy (white with a funky black pattern). The shoes were simple, too (black high heel sandals). The black cardigan was a no-brainer (in order to make it work-friendly). But unfortunately, you did not think to put much thought into what kind of panties you wore. In actuality, you did briefly consider if they would show or not through the dress. As you are well aware, most of your undergarments are lacy and come in bright fun colors from Victoria's Secret. Therefore, you were somewhat limited in what you could choose that would not show through the thin white dress. The turquoise ones were out. Hot pink was not an option. Mom always said to wear nude if you were wearing something see-through, but the only nude ones that you own were bikinis, which would leave you with visbile panty lines. So you went with the white ones with the orange polka dots. Here is the problem: orange is NOT your skin tone!

In your wimpy bathroom light, you could not see the panties. You thought that you were safe. But in the flourescent lighting of your store, that orange lace was as obvious as that zit that sprung up on your chin overnight (You still get those?! Aren't you almost 30?!). And when you asked the UPS man if they were visible and he said "no," he lied! At least Amber was kind enough to tell you the truth.

Your solution? Well, there was the option that Heather suggested when you frantically texted her with your panty dilemma. Just take 'em off! But that's icky. So what did you do? You rocked the orange. You pranced around in those heels and that dress like you owned it. And so you know, those panties were hot.

No girl has ever looked that good in orange polka dots.

Sincerely,
Your Fashionable Side
(if there is such a thing)

T-Mobile Knows I am a Slut

In the midst of my upcoming divorce and child custody battle, I have been desperately trying to forward some saved text messages from Rat Bastard to my email so that I can print them out and use them against him in a court of law. (I love saying that.) My Motorola Rzr V3 is a spunky little phone (hot pink with a big "cheeky" heart sticker from Victoria's Secret stuck to the back), but it is not nearly as technologically advanced as I would like. I can supposedly print messages from the phone, but only on a Windows compatible system. I have a Mac. I love my Mac.

On the same day that I filed for divorce, I popped into a T-mobile store to ask for assistance. Normally, I go to the one located in my mall, but I stumbled across another by chance and decided I could cross one more thing off my "to do" list. I went inside and asked the girl who was working if she could help me. First, let me point out that she was having a little party in the store. She was the only one working, and there were four or five other people (her friends, I presume) who were circled around her on stools, and they were jamming to some music on Pandora.com. The girl took a couple of minutes to check out my phone and look up my account before she announced that I needed to add the internet service to my phone for an additional $9.95 per month. She played around with a few things and then told me that it would take awhile for the service to get added, and it wasn't necessary for me to wait. She would take care of it for me. What great customer service, I thought, despite the party she was hosting in the store. Yay for me! On my way out, I asked if there was information on T-mobile's website to help me figure out the internet on the phone. Yes, millions of people use it everyday. I do not, and therefore, I need help figuring it out. She looked at me and pointedly said, "You can just google it. Type in G-O-O-G-L-E dot C-O-M and it will come up." I must have been wearing my "I look like a dumbass" shirt or something. Then the bitch never added the service to my phone, which I didn't find out until yesterday when I went by my regular T-mobile store on my lunch break. What crappy customer service.

When I got back to work, I complained to Amber about the issue with the text messaging. I have yet to see if I will be able to print anything out. Amber had a solution.

Amber: Why don't you just ask them to print them out for you? You can just get a printout of all of them for the month.
Me: No, I don't want them to read my text messages.
Amber: Um, you know they read them anyway.
Me: No way.
Amber: Uh, yeah. They see all of them.
Me: ALL of them? Omigod. I can never go into a T-mobile store again.

Note to self. Never send something in a text message you wouldn't want your mother to read.

Signed, Sealed, and Delivered

So I finally made my move. Today, I filed for divorce. The big "D" as it has also come to be known in my everyday lingo. I have been putting this off for weeks and weeks and weeks. I bought the giant, "How to File for Divorce in NC" book three months ago at Barnes & Noble. It is now dog-eared with post it notes sticking out of every other page. I even bought new pens (fine point) in various colors (purple, blue, and pink) so that I would enjoy the process a little more. I think divorces would be much more fun if one were allowed to complete the paperwork in bright, fun colors. After all, for me, this is when the party starts! We should celebrate! Why can I only sign things in black ink?

My kitchen table has become the ultimate mecca for paperwork. I have had stacks of papers that are paperclipped together with their own multi colored labels and reminders attached. "Sign and date on page 2," "Get notarized," "Make copies on yellow paper." Getting divorced has become a part time job. I have been stressed out beyond belief worrying about whether the margins have printed out correctly on the do-it-yourself forms that the court e-mailed to me. What if something is misspelled? (i.e. My name...yup, did that...had to reprint for the fiftieth time.)

I am convinced that the court system leaves a lot left to be determined in matters like this. It was very hard to make sure that I had all of the correct forms, and I am not finished yet. I have to wait for Rat Bastard to receive the papers and respond. I don't even know what respond means. And what if he doesn't respond? I can't imagine that he's going to know what that means if I didn't even know, because I am clearly in a higher intelligence bracket than he is. It will all work itself out. The hard part is over. I am waiting to feel relieved. There are still a zillion matters of custody and child support, etc etc to be dealt with. Perhaps when those are out of the way, I will feel a little more elated.

I admit, one of the things that freaked me out the most about all of this was having to actually drive to the courthouse and go inside. I was worried about finding the correct office, bringing enough cash (they don't take debit...what the hell?), looking like a total dumbass. Plus, there were things that had to be notarized. The ladies at the bank that I use for my business account told me that they offer notarizing for no fee because I also have a personal account. But because that branch is so far away, I drove to the closest one to my house. Of course, there was no notary there. The teller referred me to one of those mail center stores (like Kinkos, but smaller) in the same shopping center. When I left, I drove through the ATM to take out cash for this ordeal, and the ATM was not working. So I had to go back inside the bank, where they were probably getting tired of me at that point. Then, I wandered around aimlessly trying to find the notary, determined not to be frustrated. At first, I took the wrong paperwork in. (If I had read my post it notes, I would have known it was not correct.) Then, the notary proceeded to quiz me about my impending divorce. "Oh, you weren't married very long, huh? Oh, you did the paperwork yourself? Oh, there is a child involved. That's really sad." Yeah, not as sad as watching her mom be miserable for eternity. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. $15 later, I was on my way to the courthouse.

Ooops. I forgot to mapquest the courthouse. Crap. I decided to wing it. This city is not that big. I knew the general vicinity, and it shockingly only took me a few minutes to locate it. Parking was a different story. Omigod...they expected me to parallel park?! I considered driving home and calling a cab. But I finally found a parking lot a block or so away. Crisis averted. The courthouse itself is enough to make me have a panic attack. There are just all of these sketchy people milling around. As I went up the stairs, this completely hot guy walked by, and as I was checking him out, I reminded myself that the courthouse is probably not the best place to pick up men. Unless they're lawyers. He had to be a lawyer. I went through a metal detector, got called "ma'am" by a couple of police officers, and set off to find the clerk of courts office. Who knew there are so many clerks? Criminal, civil, you name it. Everyone was so nice, giving me directions and not making me feel like a complete dumbass. Except the clerk who I was looking for. She was a little evil. I asked her how much the fee was to file. "$165," she said. "Unless you want the Sheriff to serve the paperwork, too." I told her I would just have it sent via certified mail. "Well, I can't tell you about that," she said. "I'm not an attorney." Well, no shit. I didn't recall asking a legal question in my statement. I replied, "I am aware of that. I know I can send it. Thanks." Bitch. She was ugly, so there.

Overall, I think it was a pretty successful day. I am pretty damn proud of myself for getting this done. Hopefully, everything else will go smoothly from here on out. Cross your fingers for me.

Some Things Never Change

This is a blog about something I have not told any of you. Well, except Jen. (And Emily. But I don't think Emily reads my blog. So just Jen...)

I had this boyfriend in high school/college who kept popping in and out of my life throughout my twenties (wait, I'm still there, but just barely...). And I loooooooved this boyfriend more than I loved the man I eventually married. But, sadly, this boyfriend did not love me like I loved him, which was seriously the most stupid thing he ever did because no man had ever been loved as much as that.

Now, it must be said that my mom did not like this boyfriend. Not because she met him and he didn't meet her standards on cuteness or manners or anything, but because he treated me like dog doo and I let him do it. And my mom knew that I did not deserve to be treated like dog doo, even though, at the time, I really didn't think that he treated me as such. (This is the same mom who tried to talk me out of marrying a man who also treated me like dog doo. But that's a different blog.) Over the course of a decade...yes, as in ten years...this boyfriend came and went many, many times, and every time he popped back into my life, I thought that it was meant to be and that we were going to live happily ever after. Then, we married other people and had kids of our own, and yet I still wondered, "What if?"

Then, a little over a year and a half ago, I was a newly separated single chick, and you-know-who came crawling out of the woodwork. He was also separated, and according to him, he missed me. He had always loved me (blah blah blah). And this began a six month love affair that was the best of my life. I really felt loved. And then, one day last May, he dropped off the planet. (Please see the scrapbook page....I worked really hard on it.) The same Mom who never liked him before suddenly liked him a little less. She and I concluded that he was doing drugs, maybe dealing them. My naive self was so clueless that this had probably been going on for years and years that it was an absolute shock to my system. Things like that don't happen with people I know, I thought to myself.

Fast forward to a couple of months ago. I got an email from this former-boyfriend. You can guess what it said. I love you, I miss you, I realize now that I don't want to live without you (blah, blah, blah). And what was the difference this time? I didn't buy it. Not to say I didn't listen to it, but for the first time in ten years, I didn't want to hear it. In the past year and a half, I have learned how to be a single girl again. I have learned more about who I am than I have ever known in 28 years. I have recognized that I deserve to be with people who want to be with me. I spent almost seven years with someone who just simply didn't understand how truly amazing I am, and I wasn't going to repeat that. It really kind of pissed me off that he called me. I got the same sob story that I have always heard. His wife left him, he lost his job, he had nothing, etc etc. He was staying with a friend, trying to get back on his feet. I kept waiting for the ball to drop. I could feel something on the horizon. I kept my distance. A girl can just sense these things.

Then the ball dropped.

Not even two weeks after he contacted me, the former boyfriend's roommate called me. Former boyfriend had stolen his car. As in, borrowed it for the day and driven away with it to infinity and beyond. He also told me that my former boyfriend had been in rehab for drug addiction and that he was still using. I felt like I was transported to another universe. This situation was suddenly beyond comprehension for me. Within a couple of days, former boyfriend called me from somewhere beyond the rainbow and asked me to come rescue him. He said he wanted to come stay with me. He loved me, he wanted to be with me, I was the only one for him. I didn't buy it. And I did something that would shock anyone that knows me.

I said, "No."

That world, the one he was trying to drag me into, was not going to work for me. That didn't fit into the puzzle that my life had become. As screwed up as I have found my existence to be at times, it's not that screwed up. To me, "screwed up" happens when I flatten a tire driving home at 2 a.m. from work when I have to be back at 6 a.m. for inventory. "Screwed up" is finding out that my ex-husband once again is refusing to pay Kylie's YMCA tuition. "Screwed up" is a bad hair day. I don't need his kind of "screwed up." This girlfriend doesn't do drugs. (I don't even know how to smoke a cigarette, okay?)

This has been a wild month or two for me. I have had crazy health issues, crazy man issues, and crazy work issues. I think most of what has happened to me was put into my path to serve as a distraction from crazy former boyfriend issues. Because in the long run, I was so damn busy dealing with my own craziness that I didn't have time for his.

Lastly, while my Mom is probably blown away that I didn't tell her any of this before, I'm sure that she understands that I just needed to process it all. And that she doesn't have to say, "I told you so" because I never doubted her infinite man-wisdom. And that I know she is really proud of me for standing up for myself. (I learned how to do that from her.)

That's "Carrie" with a "K"

I am having name issues.

I hyphenated my last name after I got married because I didn't want to be known as "Carrie Springer." I have heard enough "rhymes-with-Jerry" jokes to last me until I am reincarnated twice over. Even when I was still enraptured in wedded bliss (wait, was I ever?), I resorted to dropping Springer altogether. It was just easier, except that people can't get Loper right either. Lopez? Roper? Jesus.

The funny thing is that I never changed my name on my checks after I got married. I am still using the same set with the kindergarten drawings that I ordered pre-2005 before I tied the knot. The checks outlasted my marriage. I always joked that the checks were a sign that my honeymoon wouldn't last, and boy was I right! Now, I'm down to my last book. I'll probably change the artwork, but the name will certainly remain the same!

Having a really long, complicated last name can be very frustrating. The simple act of getting a prescription filled is an hour long ordeal. I tell the pharmacist, "It's filed under 'Loper,' 'Springer,' or 'Loper-Springer.' " They always look at me like I have lost my mind because I clearly do not know my own name. And then I feel as though I must defend myself and explain that I am, in fact, incredibly intelligent with the exception of that dreadful decision to get married and change my name. By the time I am finished, the pharmacist is encouraging me to transfer my prescriptions somewhere else.

My middle name is another story. Jo. At least it is short, so it counters the really long first name and last name. My mom said she named me after my aunt, Betty Jo. I endured years of being called "GI Joe" in middle school. Even now, the theme song for the cartoon runs randomly through my head. "GI Joe, American hero! GI Joe...go Joe!" Now, one of my guy friends has taken to calling me "Long Toe Jo" because, you guessed it, I also have long assed toes. That's what I get for wearing flip flops to work.

My first name is great. I have tweaked it a little bit over the years, which I think every kid does, except that I am almost 30. The downside is that people always ask me if I have two middle names. "Carrieanna" is spelled differently on my birth certificate than the way my mom always spelled it, which I never knew until I turned 15 and needed to get my learner's permit and had to request a copy of the certificate to take to the DMV. I had a little identity crisis when I saw that the state of Michigan had spelled "Carrie Anna" as two separate words. So I figured that the error gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted with it. I always wished for "Carrie" to start with the letter "K" instead of a "C." Maybe that's why I insisted that my daughter be given a name that started with a "K." All of the cool kids in school had names that started with "K." Or they ended with an "i." Like "Carri." A few months ago, I met someone who spelled "Carri" just like that, and I'll admit, these days, I think it's kind of stupid. Like there is something missing. Her mother was clearly an idiot.

In a few months, I will be able to file whatever complicated form is necessary to legally change my last name back to my maiden name. (Does anyone else hate the word "maiden?" It makes me think of towers and those wimpy assed princesses waiting for their knights to show up.) Over the years (like everyone else on the planet) I have considered changing my entire name to something that I would have chosen for myself. But then, my brother would no longer be able to call me "Scary Carrie." And "Long Toe Elizabeth" just doesn't have quite the same ring to it. I guess I'll just stick to what I have.

But Springer definitely has to go.

Smell Me

Early this afternoon at work, I sent a text message to a guy friend and asked if he had been hit on at all today. (If this seems random, please understand that we ask each other this question everyday.) He replied, "no" and asked the same of me. Nope, not a chance. And now I wonder, why do I jinx myself?

No more than an hour later, the associate that I was working with went to the stockroom for exactly two minutes and thirty four seconds. In that time span, the creepiest man alive came into my store and approached me at the cashwrap. Of course, I didn't realize that he was the creepiest man alive until he started to talk to me.

Him: "Hey, can I ask you a question?"
Me: "Of course!"
Him: "Well, I've been all over this Godforsaken mall. And it is HUGE! And I have been to three perfume places, and none of them have the cologne I want. All they have is this body spray. And I just don't know if I want to spend $57 on body spray if it's not going to last. You know what I mean?"

I was not quite sure where this conversation was going. I was, however, suddenly aware that I could smell the body spray in question. I have been fighting a headache for weeks, and just when it had vanished, in walked Mr. Smelly.

Me: "Yes, I totally understand. $57 is a lot of cash."
Mr. Smelly: "And you have to use a lot more of the spray than the cologne. So I was wondering...this may be kind of weird, but could you, you know....smell me?"
Me: "Um, yeah, okay."

In an effort to always try to make other people comfortable, I did not let on to this crazy creature that I did, in fact, think he was behaving a little high on the bizarre meter. I really wanted to spare his feelings. I mean, somewhere along the line, his mother taught him that he should try to smell nice for the ladies. So I leaned a little closer and pretended to sniff this body spray, as though everyone within a fifteen mile radius had not already done so. It did not smell bad by any means. On anyone else, it would have been perfectly fine. But this man was a total stranger, and therefore I did not really want to smell his body spray.

Me: "It smells fine to me."
Mr. Smelly: "Good. That's good. Yeah. Um." awkward, awkward, awkward...
Mr. Smelly: "So I don't want you to think that I came in for this or anything because I really wanted to get an opinion on the body spray, you know. But can I buy you dinner?" awkward, awkward, awkward...

This is the point where Hot Sunglasses Guy would normally rush over and ask to borrow something random like scotch tape in an effort to save me. However, he picked this week to take a vacation (in Alaksa, no less). Luckily, it was so awkward and hard for this guy to get the words out that I had my response planned before he finished saying "opinion on the body spray." It must truly suck to be a guy.

Me: "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm married. But that was so nice of you to ask." (Don't judge me, people. Technically, the married thing isn't a lie.)
Him: "Oh, yeah. Okay. That's really not why I came in here anyway, you know. But I just thought I'd ask."
Me: "Yeah, really, no problem. And the body spray is good stuff, too. Definitely get it."
Him: "Great, good. Okay. Bye."

Right after he left, my associate came out of the stockroom. I have forbidden her to ever go pee again. And I was already re-texting my friend. Two words. "I win."