A Masculine Entry
My brother Tommy, aka TT-Dog, im'ed me today telling me that while he enjoys reading my journal, could I please make my entries a little more masculine? He didn't appreciate feeling like a girl while reading it.

So here's my attempt at a masculine entry.

Hmmmm.

Masculine entry.....

Doesn't that sound, I don't know, sort of dirty?

All I can think of is to talk about boobs, beer and NASCAR. I know it's a stereotype, but still. That's all I can come up with. Sorry, TT. I AM a girl, after all.

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So today I called a housecleaning service, at my husband's insistance. It's not that our house is a total pit - really, I swear. I've put myself on a cleaning/straightening schedule that maintains the place - and Jase has his chores that he does regularly. But floors need washing. And my husband doesn't want to do them, and I'm just pregnant enough that the idea of me on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor is just offensive and wrong (though I'm sure there's a chat room devoted to just such activities somewhere - sickos).

So we didn't Rent Yentas this time, because the last time we did - they were on the expensive side and while they did an okay job - it just didn't seem quite worth the cash. So I had no idea who to call.

See, I have to be in the house the whole time the cleaning is taking place, because I'm working. And I am creeped out having strangers touching my shit when I'm not home. But Jase has to be elsewhere with the Booster Shot (my new nickname for him, which I think is awesome) because Boo and the vacuum do NOT get along. So I really need the cleaning to occur in as short of time as possible. So I need a team to come in, do their thang, and leave me with a bleachy pine scent.

So I called one of those companies - like Molly Maid but it's really not them. Anyway I made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.

Here's where the problem comes in. Before I called, Jase specifically told me not to give them information like a credit card number or a soc number (or my blood type or my mother's maiden name). So in the middle of the call, she asked me for my credit card information.

And I gave it to her.

Not only did I give it to her, but I gave it to her to 'hold my spot' which was never even designated to me. I was given a 12-5 time slot, like the cable company does. If I call tomorrow at noon, I can get a more specific ETA.

Now, Jase was livid. He watched me do the whole thing. He was gesturing to me, by waving his hands like an umpire would if I just slid safely into home, to NOT, under any circumstances, give out that credit card number. "ABORT!! ABORT!!" his eyes were screaming at me!! I flat out ignored him, saying, "It's a Visa...???"

So I got off the phone and Jase was so pissed - there was a little white spittle collecting in the corner of his lip as he proceeded to lecture me of the art of fraud. It was kind of funny - one of those where we were both smiling while we tried to plead our cases.

But come on - I had no case. He specifically asked me not to do it. I did it anyway. And totally right in front of him. And he totally called me out - he said, "I know why you did it. You did it because you didn't want to make the high-school dropout data-entry appointment setter uncomfortable. I guess it's better to make your husband, who you live with and spend 24 hours a day with, uncomfortable. Aren't you comfortable NOW??"

He was right, of course. My need-to-please put me on automatic, giving the nice lady whatever information she needs - not wanting to cause waves or make her job difficult. So now this company has my credit card information and can do whatever it wants with it.

I pleaded my case to Matt, who at first agreed that Jase was making way to big of a deal - that a credit card number is the safest thing to give out, all things considered, and the most I'll be liable if any fraud occurs is $50.

But then Jase gave him the little bit of info I omitted in my case. The fact that Jase specifically asked me not to disclose such information.

My case was shot. GUILTY.

Ah well. At least tomorrow I'll be able to see my guilty, need-to-please face in my kitchen floor.