This is possibly the only time I’ve reloaded my browser at the end of one of my auctions—and literally jumped back from the screen, thrown my hands up, and exclaimed, “Holy shit!”
Holy Crapamoly!
I just won a $500 gift certificate to GiftCertificates.com!
A few weeks back, Sky Bank posted a survey on our intranet site regarding our corporate culture. The big gimmick to get people to complete said survey was a drawing for one of 27 gift certificates, ranging from $1000 to $100. I got back from vacation just in time to finish the survey before the deadline, and I didn’t give it any more thought once I’d finished.
Until today.
One of my cube-mates was checking out the intranet site (“Sky Central”) and informed me—once I’d gotten off the phone with whomever I was helping at the time—that I’d won something. So, I reloaded Sky Central, clicked on the story link… and found that I’d won freakin’ $500. Damn!
Aaron and I haven’t figured out what we’re going to buy yet, although household appliances and computer upgrades are at the top of the list.
There was an amusing e-mail conversation today between myself and Rob Wozniak (of RCC Special Projects Team fame, who works in my department). Yesterday, he called a radio station and won the new Velvet Revolver CD—he told all of us in the office that he’d make us a copy, since we were all so intrigued by the idea of Guns N Roses meets the dude from STP. So, today, after the office discovered my newfound booty…
Rob:
You can buy your own cd now with your mighty 500 dollar gift certificate!!!!!
Show off!!!Me:
*ppppppppthbt*
Sherry?s been telling Scott that he should be nice to me ? maybe I?ll buy something for my co-workers… (right.)Rob:
My thoughts exactly.
Buy something that?s gold plated. Just because its overly flashy.Me:
I wonder if I could get a gold-plated video capture card…?
In other “holy fuckamoly” news, my Smurf auction is up to $94 with a little under two hours to go.
Nice.
Journaling
When Mom came to visit a couple of weekends ago, she brought with her the final two boxes of my stuff still living at her and Gary’s apartment, including all my journals and diaries from age 7 through early college. I had been thinking this evening that it would be fun to quote from one of them, on today’s date however many years ago—but I apparently never wrote on September 9th before. *shrug*
Looking through them again reminds me that I wasn’t terribly good at recording the most important things in life. For instance: When I was 14 years old, my stepdad Tom (above left, circa 1989) threw a giant yelling fit and kicked us out of the house. It was the beginnings of Mom and Tom’s divorce, as the only time we returned to the house after that night was to pack up our stuff and move out. Scary, traumatic time for everyone. Did I write about it in my journal? Nope. There are some entries in July 1990 where Mom and I were visiting Grandpa and Grandma Cook in Centerville, with no mention of Tom; then there are some entries in August where I talk about church Girls’ Camp and various dreams I had; then, finally, on September 7, my entry starts with, “I never mentioned—Mom & Tom separated. I go to Buckeye H. S. now.”
WTF? I didn’t feel the need to mention the surreal scene in the kitchen with Tom banging his palm on the table, his nose inches from Mom’s face, insisting that we leave even though Mom’s welfare check had paid the rent for that month? Nothing about my messy bedroom being the straw that broke the camel’s back? No hysterical frightened tears, nothing about staying with the Thomases from church for the weekend while we found somewhere to live? That was all really kind of important at the time, and is something I hope I never forget. But not a word about it in the journal.
What made me think about all this in the first place—journaling, I mean, and the importance of it—was my thoughts today at work about where I want my blog to go and what I want it to be. I mean, it started out as a means to communicate with all my out-of-town friends, all at once. But now that it looks moderately more impressive, do I want it to be something else? Do I need to write well-thought-out essays on Life and Philosophy and Web Design and things like that?
I seriously considered it.
But, no. I know my audience, and I’m not expecting a bigger one anytime soon. I’m kind of playing a Sour Grapes kind of game with myself by convincing myself that wanting a larger audience would make me somewhat of an exhibitionist. Nope—y’all are my audience, and y’all get a cool new design, just for being you. And I’m going to continue to write about the important (and not-so-important) things in my daily life, as if I were writing to any one of you. (In fact, I’ve been known to take e-mails I’ve sent to Aaron or Amy and repost them as blog entries, in case you hadn’t noticed.)
So, the interface looks kind of cooler, and the content-management is kind of sweeter, but the content itself stays basically the same: normal, everyday Diana-type stuff.
And I’m OK with that.
Being Predictable
Finish this sentence: “People who really know me can count on me to…”
Is your first thought a positive one? Because it doesn’t have to be.
I’ve been contemplating this today, especially considering this weekend’s checkbook-balancing debacle. Aaron wasn’t entirely surprised when I almost bounced a check or two—in fact, he’d jokingly berated me about my checkbook register habits not a day before I discovered my big whoopsie. (That’s how he calls my attention to something that bugs him: he jokes about it.)
I feel like I’m known for the things I’ll screw up. I’m known for procrastination to the extreme; for leaving dirty dishes to pile up unchecked for unhealthy periods of time; for leaving my clean clothes in the basket or on the floor; for having piles of papers stacked around my desk; for never unpacking boxes of random crap that I’ve been moving around since college; for staying up too late and sleeping too long; for being late (or almost-late) to work… and the list goes on.
Of course, I guess I’m also known for having relatively spiffy web designs and taking good photographs. I hope I’m known for telling it like it is, in a lighthearted and tactful way. I was once known for using really long words in conversation, and I’m still known for being able to spell them all.
Still, though, it’s troublesome to know that these more negative things are thoroughly expected of me. Even more disturbing is the fact that I’ve been trying to change these aspects of myself for years and years. How many times do I have to go on a self-improvement kick before something finally sticks in my thick skull?
And how long before I realize that beating myself up over my faults doesn’t make them go away?
My Incompetence Is Infuriating
*fuming*
Aren’t bank employees supposed to be able to balance their own fucking checkbooks? Yes?
No.
Not me, who forgot to record the PayPal purchase of two class reunion tickets, made a ten-dollar math error, forgot to record my $30 NSF (non-sufficient funds) fee resulting from said math error, and still had to adjust my checkbook for over $20 I couldn’t find. Not me, who is now over $50 in the hole—and that’s after transferring funds from my savings.
I’m OK for now; we just can’t mail off our car payment just yet. It’s not due for another week, though, so we’re OK.
*runs off to root through box of eBay-ables*