Can I tell you a secret?

Promise not to tell?

I have bad days, too. Yes, yes. I know you think that life is all sunshine and fresh baked bread here in my fragile little mind. Good things have been happenin' a plenty to me lately. Either my karma has racked up some serious points, or I am just that good. One way or another I am very fortunate.

I also have those not so good in the head days. Where my brain and my actual life don't mesh. I worry. A lot. I fret. I agonize. I cry. I wail and moan. I do a fair amount of whining. I replay past mistakes in my head. I regret many things. I obsess and ponder. Mostly I obsess, and obsess, and obsess.

When I get like that, I tend to pace. Then I clean. I clean closets. Bathrooms. Garages. I clean silver. I vacuum. I mow. I rake up the crumbling leaves jammed in the corner of my yard. I dig out the old, dead annuals in the pots. In the process of all this, I clean my mind of all the problems and troubles bouncing around inside.

Would it make you feel better knowing that my little self curls up in a ball inside my head? Would you like to hear how my brain shuts down and I completely stall, sputter and break down from time to time? Well I do. It is during those times when I spend far too much time doing the things I shouldn't be doing, and far too little time on the things I should.

One thing I don't do, well, not that often at least, is share my bad days with you. Don't take it personally. I just don't think my little problems stack up so good against all the crap the rest of the world dishes out. Because, really now, how can my problems compete with current events?

Kind of puts it all in perspective, doesn't it?

Where the hell have you been?

Heavily medicated?

Exotic vacation?

Smarmy prison cell?

Nope. Nah. Not so much.

Well, perhaps a little of medication... Googly-moogly. How time flies during playoff season. My usual delay in posting has been prolonged by a series of mitigating factors, some of which I'm sure my dedicated reader and stalker will forgive me for after you hear my tale.

First, yes, indeed, it is college hockey playoff season. Is this an excuse? Not really. But most of my time not working has been spent dissecting the intricacies of the WCHA, and now the NCAA, brackets. Much study, debate and cursing has ensued over the past week. One of my other personalities, Mrs. Helen P. McGookin, will discuss this in detail in a following post. She is rather fired up of the lack of coverage in the Denver dailies (or should we call them the crappies? Helen there, not me)

Second, it seems that when a self-employed person goes out into the world in search of a paying contract, that she gets what she asks for. Waah. Yes, I can hear all six of you crying for me. I have had a tish of billable hours last week and for the next several weeks. Bloggin' may suffer. My apologies in advance.

Third, there are some people out there that take you seriously when you offer to volunteer for things. Like the Colorado Beagle Rescue. I have just finished their bi-annual newsletter (not posted online yet). There are reports from the field that it is the best newsletter the CBR has ever had. Thank you. Thank you very much. Now on to the other 1,469,125 organizations that want my pro bono time.

Fourth, migraines suck. A lot. Especially during the aformentioned college hockey playoff season. Thank you Merck. I know you killed a couple of people with some of your other meds, but my Maxalt is a-ok. Keep up the good work.

Fifth, Sonic has eliminated their Sweetheart Blast. Good for waistlines everywhere. Bad for mid-afternoon cherry-chocolate cravings.

Sixth, the IRS can kiss my squirrel. So can Intuit. When you make Quicken, QuickBooks and TurboTax for Mac, wouldn't it make sense to make TurboTax for Business for the same OS? Wouldn't it? Well? They know that us creative types are already put off by numbers... they are in cahoots with the IRS, I tell you. After 17 hours of decrypting the Form 666 and related publications, we think we owe them money. Or a monkey in a tutu. One can never be sure when reading the 10,000,000,001 pages of the IRS Publications. Please refer back to a section that has you refer to this section for an answer.

That's about it. If I get through this tax season alive, you can contact me on a small sand-covered island without phone service.

Is this bad?

I had a pint. Of hooch. At lunch. On a Thursday. Not so bad, right? Good.

I like being the boss of me. Although I can see how people become alcoholics. Booze is yummy. Especially during the day. Yum. Yum. Yum.

Been doing a lot of soul-searching this week. I'm coming to terms with the fact that I have some "issues." Naw, get out! You say. Yes, I have some issues to work through. Confrontation skills. Forgiving myself for bad choices. Letting go of a few obsessive behaviors. That kind of stuff.

I went to my leads group all member breakfast yesterday. They gave me a display table at which to pimp myself. I was pretty proud of myself for throwing together a booth with less than three days notice. Anyway, the speakers talked about how we all perform within one to two points of how we see ourselves conceptually. So if you imagine you're an 8 on a scale of 1-10 in terms of achievement, skills, self esteem, etc., you will actually work to the level of 6 or 9. I gave myself an 8 because I didn't think I "should" give me a 10. How wrong is that? It was just me in my little head and I couldn't even give myself a fricken 10 when no one would know but me. See? Issues.

So I'm waking up today thinking, "I'm a 10, damnit!" I'm waking up every day thinking this. When you think of yourself as a 10, you become a 10. I'm a 10, damnit. You're a 10, too. We're all 10s. Damnit.

Now pass me a pint of hooch.

Happiness of The Insured

Those of you who have gainful employment and are tired of all the crap, upset with the lack of direction/future/hope... take heart. Your insurance it better than mine.

I spent the better part of last week trying to get a perscription filled at my local drugstore. I submitted it on a Sunday. It was denied. So they called my doctor on Monday. My doctor call my insurance on Monday. The pharmacy called my insurance on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. On Friday, the so called "insurance company" denied my script. Why? Non-formulary, you ask? Naaaa. Every perscription -- every one of them -- has to be filled by mail order.

The only exception to this are drugs for "emergencies." Does a raging migraine fall into that? No. That would be silly. Send away for it, wait three weeks and by then the migraine will be gone or my brain will have exploded. See, all better.

All this for one lousy script. And hubby pays for this so called coverage. With real money, not those pesos everyone keeps talking about. I eagerly anticipate the day I qualify for Medicare. Oh boy.

After I got done calling the alleged insurance company, the pharmacy, the doctor's office and then the pharmacy and insurance company again, I cried. Then I made a martini. 'Cus if I'm going to have a migraine, I might as well get pissed.

For those of you playing along at home, this is, indeed, my second post of the day. Unheard of. Don't get used to it. I'll back to my regularly scheduled absence tomorrow.

How To Make Things Happen.

From time to time in a graphic designer's life, one has to make impossible things happen. Like, say, a sign made in 3 hours. This can not be done! some would say. Alas, they don't have my special way of making things happen.

How does one make things "happen"?

Cookies.

Fudge.

Candy.

All used at the right time, in the right way, and things mysteriously "happen" at the sign shop. Grumpy, gruff old bearded women suddenly perk up. The "cookie lady" just placed an order. Get it done now!

That's right, I'm talking about bribes. Bring 'em fudge for the holidays, take cookies every time you pick up a rush job, and you have 'em eating out of the... well, you get the idea.

Off to pick up my sign made in less than 3 hours...

Shameless Dog Posting

Because I have little to share this week, I offer in lieu of humorous humor: dogs!

My Typical Day.

It starts at approximately 7:21 am. Sir Rockafeller enters stage right. Our Protagonist, ever a model of haute couture, is sitting at her desk in bright pink bunny slippers and sweats.

SR: (scratching door jam) whimper

Protagonist: (type, type, type) (slurp hot tea) hmm?

SR: (scratch) prolonged whimper

SR begins to pace the floor, he grows disgruntled. Being ignored is not an option. He walks closer to P and sits down next to her desk.

SR: (scratching desk) whimper

P: Oh, alright. I'll get some pants on.

At this point, P stands up and walks stage right, to the bedroom. SR follows her. In the bedroom, Princess Samantha Pants is sprawled out on her oversized pillow-top bed.

PSP: (slightly lifts head)

huh
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

SR: whimper (circling around P)
P: hold on, let me get some damn pants on...

When P pulls the pants out of the closet, SR gets anxious. He knows what's about to happen when those pants go on.


canwegonow
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

SR: whine, low gurgle (tail wags)


prettyplease
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

He jumps onto P and tries to help her get her pants on.


pleeeease
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

Maybe some barking will get her to move faster.

SR: Arrrrrooooo!
PSP: Arrrroooooo!


barkin
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

Finally, our slow moving Protagonist gets her arse in gear and they get on the road.


success
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.


Fini.

I (don't) wanna hold your hand...

At what point does helpful end and being taken advantage of start? I struggle with this constantly, especially now that I am a bid'nez owner. I'm generally a nice person. When pushed too far, however, I'm can be a complete beeeatch.

From time to time my friends and stalker ask me for help. This, I do not mind. I am happy to dish out info to appreciative people. I'm happy to host a party, or give directions (although I don't guarantee you'll actually get where you want to go), or hand out favors, hook people up with contacts, and so on. This, I actually enjoy. I feel good when I help people.

Then there are "those" people. The people who take, and take, and take and take and take and take... I've learned to recognize the signs. One too many questions. Can you send me this? Can you do this? Where is? How do you? What is the difference between this and this? How do I..? Multiply it times 100, every single day, and you get the idea.

At this point there may be one or two of you reading this thinking, is she talking about me? No. No. No. Chances are, the people who read this are not part of the Takers clan. Takers never notice that they are, in fact, Takers. Takers live in their own little gimme world. Always expecting, never giving. I dislike this. Very much.

Two examples...
1...a "client" who I can recognize as a Taker. She is constantly asking for more. It's almost to the point where I don't want her business. She is asking how to place files in Word docs. Hello? Do I have Microsoft Help Desk stamped on my forehead? She hasn't actually "signed on the dotted line" for me to do her project, yet she's acting like I'm her info desk. The other day she called me twice, once to leave a message. When she didn't get a response within 2 minutes, she called again. This time I was able to answer (I hadn't even listened to the message she had just left). She had a flash of inspiration for her logo and wanted to share it with me. What did I think? She asked. Hmm, well, sign the contract and I'll think about it all you want.

2...my former "house guest" who taught me the true meaning of the Taker philosophy. My in-person friends have all heard about her and right now they are groaning, not that story again... Yes, that story again. I don't think I've ever blogged about her before. If I only had a blog during that hellish two months of my life. That would have been some good snark material, I tell ya. The story... an old friend of mine from college moved to town and needed a place to stay while looking for a job. Neither hubby nor I imagined we were adopting a 30-year old helpless, cheap ass, lazy, selfish, child. I finally kicked her out after two months and finding out she was turning down job offers. Never lifted a finger to help around the casa. Wore a hole in the couch. Ate all our food. Never left the house.

I do realize that I put myself in some of these positions by offering to help and the Takers see this as a green light to keep on a-takin'. I need a graceful, yet firm way to say, I'd love to help, just as soon as you sign the contract. Or, get off my couch you selfish freak.

Actually, most of my clients are wonderful. They love me. I love them. They love my work. They pay me real US dollars. I am happy. They are happy. My CFO is happy. The IRS is pretty damn happy.

But, every once in a while, a Taker gets by the security screen. They are never happy until they've sucked every ounce of your happiness out and replaced it with cold, bitter resentment.

Keep an eye out for them. They're sneaky bastards.