I blog to relieve my feelings when companies are stupid.

So I'm pretty ticked at bill collectors today. Want to hear why? Thanks, you're such a good listener.

Jessie and I are good, responsible citizens. We pay all our bills on time, in full, 99% of the time. So we get a letter from a certain power company that shall remain nameless (I'm looking at you, Rocky Mountain Power) saying that during our move, there was a 14 dollar fee that got overlooked for disconnecting or some such thing. It was a very polite letter. They made it sound more like they forgot to bill us and would we pretty please pay it than YOU ARE LATE, EVIL POWER LEACHING MOOCH, PAY US NOW. So we got this letter dated September 8th a few weeks ago. Through a bit of miscomunication between the hubby and I, we hadn't sent a check yet. Yesterday, a collection company calls to harass us over this fourteen dollars we owe them. Are you kidding me? They claimed they had sent us a letter. Which we got today. So kudos to you, power company, for taking two faithful, reliable customers who forgot a 14 dollar bill while in the midst of moving, sending us one reminder letter, and then not even waiting until we can send you a check before reporting us to collections people who don't even wait for THEIR letter to arrive before calling to accuse us of ignoring them. Cool your heels. We were going to pay it. We're not wrecking our credit over fourteen bucks.

Then, we get a statement from our HOA. We tried to pay our fees online, because they kind of were really excited about that option in our last monthly statement. We put in our information and got an electronic receipt that said, hey, you're the best, thanks for paying your HOA fees, you're so awesome. Then after several weeks, we notice the money never came out of our bank account. And get a statement in the mail for next month with two month's worth of fees, plus a 5% late fee plus interest at 18% APR. And I sit there wondering if the world is out to ruin our credit. We tried to give you the money, people. You said you were good. You gave us a receipt. Do you want us to call you every two days after that and say, "But did you really mean it when you said we paid our fees or were you kidding?" Because we should have assumed they were lying. Silly us. I'm officially sick of people being stupid.

Anyway, thanks for listening to Cami's daily rant. Your check is in the mail. But I'm not paying interest if you refuse to cash it for six months. You've been warned.

My Girl's Night. By Myself.

Tonight I got to watch Gilmore Girls. This is a semi-rare occurence, because the husband hates Gilmore Girls. A lot. A LOT. Unfairly, I think, because he's only ever seen five minutes of it. But he maintains that they talk way too fast and there is too much drama and he just can't take it. (Incidentally, he's probably right. But I like that they talk too much and have too much drama. It makes me feel like my life is nice and put together and simple.) So anyway, in deference to his feelings and sanity, I only watch it on days he has class or study groups. Which means that sometimes I really don't know how the heck things got the way they are, because I'm skipping through every fifth episode. I'm like, woah, when did they break up? When did Rory decide to go to Yale instead of Harvard? Why is the grandpa dude listed as a special guest when he's in every episode? You'd think I would know these things from watching it when it first aired, but I was in my pretending-I'm-not-a-girl-who-likes-drama-and-love-stories-and-attractive-men stage. So I still don't know what the heck is going on, and I have to go look it up on wikipedia. And when you look it up on wikipedia, you lose the witty banter and fast talking and emotion-manipulating background music, and it just sounds like a soap opera, and I wonder why I'm reading about Gilmore Girls instead of the page on blue whales or Dick Van Dyke. Maybe I'll quit watching the show altogether and just rewatch all seven seasons of The West Wing. Because it's got plenty of drama and fast talking too. But Jessie likes that one. Hypocrite.

I struggle in the morning. What else is new?

So when I was pregnant, I had this crazy idea that motherhood would force me to be a morning person. I've never been one in any sense. In college, making it out of bed before ten was a major accomplishment, and usually only happened if I had a nine o'clock class where attendance was part of our grade. (I only ever had an eight o'clock class once, my first semester, and I quickly learned from my mistakes.) I figured a baby with her own schedule would force my body to adjust. In a way, it did. I never stay up past eleven anymore, ever. But I discovered that just because your body is up and moving and taking care of a kid before 8 am doesn't mean your brain is. Basically, Madeline and I don't really start our day until we've been up a few hours, because morning coherency will never be a skill I can master. Jessie just laughs at me, as I sit on the couch, glassy eyed and unresponsive, trying to figure out why Madeline is so dratted chipper when the sun hasn't come up yet. It's six thirty and she wants to go play in the backyard in her pajamas, and I'm thinking, where does that door go again? We have a backyard? We have a kid? Don't make me face these realities before at least noon. I was in the middle of a great dream about throwing spaghetti at some bullies from high school, and I'd like to find out how it ends. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to accept the fact that I'll never be one of those mothers who gets up at five thirty in the morning to jog five miles and make homemade bread for the kid's school lunches. I'll be the mother who takes her children to the bus stop in pajama bottoms and ratty hair. I'm okay with that.

My two cents on the most overblown talent show ever.

So we watched the finale of America's Got Talent last night. I thought I had become a country music convert, but chicken chaser man bugged the heck out of me. Was I the only one on the planet who thought he was just the smallest bit off on every prolonged note he sang? My poor ears were suffering. Needless to say, we won't be going to the strip to listen to him bawl his sad songs out of tune. I think Barbara Padilla got shafted because fat opera man won last year, so everyone was sick of opera. Sad day, because she was twenty times the singer he was. Sometimes I think America cannot think for itself and should always listen to me. But I do commend them for not choosing lewd swearing grandma to win. News flash, lady. Acting inappropriately crude for your age isn't that hilarious. Okay, I'm done critiquing. I'll go back to watching quality television. Madeline loves watching her Arthur.

Update

My husband noticed I hadn't cleaned the house. Drat. Good news is, he cleaned most of it himself. So maybe I am smarter than I thought.

Also, I am not really all that sick anymore, for those of my loyal fans who were worried. It's nice to feel like a person again. I might do it more often.

And I haven't dyed my hair yet. But Jessie told me I should. As long as my sister does it instead of him, because last time we tried it didn't turn out so well. So if you meet a familiar looking person in the next few weeks you don't recognize, it's me. Make a silly face to say hello. And then if it's not really me, feel very ridiculous.

Cami takes a sick day.

I admit it. I am one of those sporadic bloggers. So sue me. At least I don't have any ads, so I don't have to worry about maintaining readers. How good it is to have no ambitions. Anyway. I'm only blogging now because doing anything else will take too much energy. Basically, I've been fighting headaches and backaches and everywhere aches and fevers and chills for three days, and I decided an hour ago to just give up and be sick. Because any morning where it is seventy degrees in your house and you are wearing a jacket and thick socks under a quilt to keep warm, there is no hope for your day. So I'm being lazy. Doing nothing. And rationalizing it by making dinner. Because if your husband comes home to a hot dinner, maybe he won't notice the piles of laundry. Right? I'm afraid my husband might be too smart to fall for that, but I'm going to try it anyway.

So basically, instead of doing all the cool housewifey things I'm supposed to be doing, I alternate between taking pills and reading Anne of Green Gables. Apparently I own the whole set and it's been hiding for the last five years. I won't name names. But one of my many sisters had it stashed on her bookshelf for safekeeping. What a nice sister. And now I'm pretending I'm in junior high again. I love Anne. She makes me want to have red hair. Not bright red, which is good, because my hair would never consent to go that shade. Maybe I'll dye my hair. Then my husband won't know it was me who was lazy all day. Good plan.