I walked out of the elementary school this morning, after dropping Nick off for his first day of full-day kindergarten, and realized that I’ve rarely seen so many smiling faces at the schoolhouse. Not the kids. The moms. All the moms dropping off their K5 kids, trying not to stomp-dance, fist-pump, and yawp-yawp their happy until they were out of sight of the minions.

I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. I felt like the Joker.

The day didn’t start out so great because Jesse is so very stressed out. She got out of the car when I dropped her off at middle school and stood next to the car, refusing to put on her backpack and grab her things. She also punched me. But I managed to stay patient (on the surface anyway), and eventually she loaded up. She was worried about how to find her classroom. So we marched over to the principal, Dr. Smith, who was outside at the car line to greet kids and parents. Dr. Smith, who is sometimes the topic of much complaining, has been nothing but delightful with Jesse so far. This morning, when I told her Jesse was worried she wouldn’t be able to find her class, Dr. Smith jumped in cheerfully and without hesitation. “Well then I’ll walk with you to your classroom!” She barely took notice of me, focusing all her attention on Jesse. I can see why that might bother some parents, but I think it’s delicious. Jesse and Dr. Smith turned their backs on me and were gone. I wiped my hands of that one.

Nick wanted to go home to play with me for half an hour before it was his turn to go to school. I had to hold stuffed animals (a chicken, a bird, a frog, an octopus) that were attacked and eaten in turn by Nick’s giant snakes. The fact that he would be gone for almost seven hours didn’t make it any more bearable than usual. When it was time to head off to school, Nick finally showed his nervousness and hid his face on the sofa. But he’s Nick, Mr. Easy-Peasy, so off we went after a few seconds with nervous smiles and giggles. I took him to the elementary school gym, he found his teacher, and then he had no need of me. I wiped my hands of that one as well and headed out the door with the cheek-hurting smile. I literally laughed for the sheer pleasure of my freedom as I drove off.

I had all sorts of plans for work I was going to accomplish today, for our renovation. I have a list. But the plumber is here doing major work to get everything hooked up in its final form, so the water is going to be off much of the day. Almost everything I wanted to do will require water for proper cleanup. I can’t even wash the breakfast dishes.

What a shame. Looks I can’t do much manual labor after all.

I’ve made myself a new list.

1. Take a nap (euphemism for: “lie in bed and watch something stupid on Netflix”).
2. Play games on an iPad.
3. Write this blog post.
4. Go grocery shopping (euphemism for: “eat lunch at Whole Foods”).
5. identify and possibly order some fixtures for bathrooms, like towel bars (euphemism for: “surf the web”).
6. Go to Benjamin Moore and find some paint for one of the bathrooms (euphemism for: “choose colors without Anthony looking over my shoulder”).

Gosh, that seems like an awful lot. I’m not sure I can fit that all in to the 6 hours I have available. I may have to stick to numbers 1 through 3.

These are glorious days, these first days of school.

It’s back to school tomorrow! Yay! Both my kids are finally going to be in school full-time this year. They have staggered starts because they’re in different schools — Jesse’s school day is 7:50 to 3:02, Nick’s is 8:50 to 3:35.

No typos. Those are the real school hours. I have no explanation.

The staggered times reduce the scope of my freedom, but still, it’s a good thing. After a decade, approximately five days a week I will be minion-free for six hours. What to do, what to do? No doubt, grumble about it.

As the school year begins, here are the two things that are really sticking in my craw.

1. People asking me whether I’m going back to work.

Seriously, don’t ask me that. I’ve spent a decade in the company of children. I am neither marketable nor interested. Also I need a vacation. I’ve spent a total of five nights away from Jesse since she was born. Two of them, I was in the hospital giving birth to Nick. Doesn’t count. I still had a kid with me, and also, childbirth. Three of them, I was in California because Mom had a stroke. Those are the only three days I’ve been away from Nick. Also doesn’t count. I’ve had technical vacations, but they’ve been with the kids. As any parent can tell you, going on vacation with little kids is not rejuvenating.

Another reason I won’t go back to work? Jesse. Just… Jesse. High-needs child = low probability of success in a job requiring that I keep regular hours. I need to be available to her when she has need of me, no questions asked. And for that matter, I’d like to offer this same service to Nick.

No no no, an income-generating job is not to be my fate. Instead, I’m giving myself a stay-cation. I’m going to spend the next couple months slumped on the sofa in a housecoat and hair rollers, martini glass in one hand (full pitcher nearby) and a cigarette in the other, watching NCIS reruns and burping occasionally.

Okay okay, I’m making that up. This is the 21st century — replace the cigarette with my iPhone.

I’ll try to stop drinking by about 1:00 pm so that I can drive safely and pick up the kids without the noticeable stench of booze on my lips.

2.  School lunches.

I hate making school lunches, but I have to do it. Jesse’s egg allergy is prohibitive; I can’t let her eat the “hot lunch” offered by the school. Nick’s need for real food is prohibitive; I can’t let him eat the school-offered lunch either.

Making school lunches right now is a head-scratcher, because I have no kitchen. I really can’t do much. I certainly can’t do this shit, from a website called “mommy’s fabulous finds, everything mommy loves!”

Lunches so clean and pretty!

But they are not fabulous, and they are not everything I love. By the time my kid carts one of these pristine containers to school and dumps it in his or her locker, and then drags it down to the cafeteria and pries off the lid, it’s going to look like the inside of a garbage can. That yogurt in the bottom right will have smeared itself all over everything else; it’ll look like vomit. The ritz crackers on the bottom left will be soggy from touching the meat and cheese kabob for four hours at room temperature. And that pretty red strawberry? It will stain the kabob disgusting pink colors, guaranteeing that no ordinary kid will touch it without gagging.

Bon Appetit has weighed in on school lunches. Their editors think kids would actually eat a roasted broccoli and mozzarella sandwich.

Men are from Venus, Women are from Mars (do I have that right?), and Bon Appetit is from the Dumbbell Nebula some 1,360 light years from Earth.

And also this: “Spread a slice of toasted raisin bread with nut butter and raspberry jam. Top with bacon and sandwich with another slice of toasted raisin bread.”

BAHAHAHAHA. Remember that scene from The Princess Bride, where Vizzini the short bald kidnapper drinks the poison cup and then laughs insanely until he suddenly falls over dead? That was me going through the Bon Appetit lunch list. Only I’m not bald.

I especially like the way B.A.’s photo of the raisin-raspberry-nut-bacon sandwich includes weird jam drippings that look like blood spatters. That’s exactly what my head would look like after my kids bash it in because I sent this shit to school for them to eat.

* * * * * * *

Well then, I’m off to an excellent grumpy start. Wish me luck delivering my kids on time to their first day of school tomorrow.

Yeah yeah yeah, I know I should stay off politics, but when you’re a half-breed like me, it’s hard to stay quiet on the issue of immigration, in this age of anti-immigrant trash talk.

My high school math teacher, Mr. C–, is a spectacular human being. Or at least, he was when I knew him. I think it’s no exaggeration to say that he changed the actual hardwiring of my brain. He was part mentor, part teacher, part friend. I already had a natural love of mathematics when I met him, but he added an element of joy to it for me, a sense of its connection to music and poetry, and a notion that it was okay to have a wide-eyed (or perhaps wild-eyed) curiosity about the magic of it all. He also loved wilderness, and he passed that on to me and many other students lucky enough to pass his way.

Hold on a second. I don’t remember where I was going with this.

Oh! Right. Life is so transformed by Facebook. A lot of peeps like to complain about Facebook, but I think it’s an amazing free amenity. I’ve reconnected with some really important people in my life thanks to it, including family members. And also Mr. C–, who eff-bee-friended me. So I get to see his feed now.

I’ve totally lost the thread of my thoughts. Maybe it’s the thinset I’ve been working with that’s making me woozy. Give me another second.

Oh! Right. So Mr. C posted up a photo.

Get it? Native American. Telling other people in America… You get it.

I’m not sure it had the intended effect on me. What it got me thinking about is fear. It doesn’t take much to make an illegal into a legal. The way I figure it — sitting here tonight in my ignorant, unread, off-the-cuff mindset — you only need three elements. One, a well-armed military that’s willing to kill a lot of people to free up some land. Two, a government that orders it to go ahead and do that, even when it’s in contravention of legal treaties. And three, a civilian population willing to go cultivate and live on the now-unpopulated land.

That’s how we did it here in the You-Ess-of-Ey. In middle school, I learned about Manifest Destiny. I remember the history teacher saying the two words over and over again, and having no idea what she meant. “What is the manifest destiny?” I kept wondering. Is it a document? A theory? A government policy? it didn’t seem like that’s what she was describing. I still remember the epiphany, the moment when I realized that all it meant was “what white people want.” Also it meant “GREED.” It was a strange feeling, being 13 and realizing this is how we justified taking all the land between the Pacific and the Atlantic.

I think bullies fear being bullied. And we’re a country of bullies. We kept human slaves long after most of the so-called “civilized world” had abandoned the practice. We got much of the land we wanted by taking it illegally, in violation of treaties we signed. Right from the beginning, our government and our military slaughtered and abused civilians and innocents, intentionally and with eyes wide open. We lied and made false promises. Our settlers moved into Indian territories and waited for the government to come get rid of the redskins. We took land that belonged to others. We did it by force, and we resorted to actions that, in the 21st century, would be called war crimes and terrorism. We are a world superpower, and we stand on the shoulders of people who engaged in great evil. It’s in our national DNA.

I don’t really think it’s economics or nationality or language issues or whatever that drives anti-immigration sentiment. Deep down, I think it’s simple fear. It’s no wonder so many Americans fear illegal immigrants. We know what we’re capable of. Maybe we think they’re capable of it too.

Forward HO, goes the renovation! It’s Mechanicals Week at the P-C abode. While Erick and Dan continue to look a little confused outside…

…plumbing, electricity, and HVAC runs have been filling the wall cavities inexorably, like colonizing mold spreading through the house.

Look at all that PVC and, and… what’s it called? FU cable? That can’t be right… UF-B. That’s it. Stern electrician guards the mechanicals.

All that junk is for just half the kitchen and mudroom:

Here’s some of the kitchen lighting going up into the ceiling joists. I thought those round things were called “recessed lights,” but if you’re a really cool construction cat, you call them “cans.” I thought a “can” was a toilet, but now I know it is also recessed lighting.

Check out all these lines. They are hanging down into our basement right now.

Eventually they’ll be attached to this monster circuit panel, which is as long as Nick is tall.

We also have some new HVAC runs, and a special HEPA filter on the furnace now.

I’m really excited about the HEPA filter. It felt like Christmas when Rick the HVAC guy carried it into the basement. I actually didn’t know Kristi-the-designer had spec’ed that in. I investigated it last night. There’s a massive cylindrical filter inside that needs to be changed every couple years. It looks to be about 18 inches in height and diameter, or thereabouts. If our dog got sucked into a vent (which is hypothetically possible because she’s so small), I know where to go looking for her in the HVAC system.

This cool flat metal thingy attached to the kitchen subfloor is where heating and a/c will blow into the kitchen, from under a cabinet’s toe kick. I didn’t know they could do that.

And just to make sure I know, the HVAC guy even labeled one of the new under-cabinet vents.

Mike the head electrician appears to really enjoy his work. He gets really, really into it. When he’s going on, talking about whatever electrical or lighting issue has captured his fancy in the moment, not even me calling him “Mr. Sparkles” stops him. And I like that he has blunt and honest reactions. I suggested an unattractive solution to a thorny problem involving where to put a light switch. He looked at me for about a 2-count, his face blank, and then said. “No. I won’t do that.”

I tried to get a good photo of Mike, but he kept turning away. I finally managed though, after he got an unanticipated shock from a live wire and was struck dumb for a moment. He wasn’t looking his best.

A little singed. Here’s  Mr. Sparkles before that incident, caressing some UF-B.

Just a few linear feet of cable in this frame, but Mike enthusiastically informed me a few days ago that by the time they’re done wiring up the new addition and replacing old wiring that’s been exposed, his crew will have installed MORE THAN 2000 LINEAR FEET OF CABLE. Whooooaaaa.

Last week I promised better photos of Bob the Plumber. Here he is posing in front of the weird shrink-a-dink dumpster. It’s something like two feet tall, but extremely long.

And his helper.

And here is Bob peering out the window of our future master bathroom. Everyone’s giggling in this picture and I don’t remember why.

Bob and Mike are perfect characters in my grumpy story. Each of them is a little grumpy, but under the veneer they’re delightful and honest. There’s no false friendliness that I can see, just false grumpiness. One day some guy I’d never seen before poked his head in from the garage. “Is the plumber here? I need him to move his truck.”

No one knew where Bob was so I yelled his name. “Bob? BOB??”

“What,” grunted a grumpy voice from somewhere nearby. It sounded and felt like my long-gone Dad was in the house. He used to sound just like that, grumpy outside and marshmallow inside.

I can’t blame anyone for being grumpy doing construction work. God knows I would be. I get grumpy just cleaning a toilet. But I observe that these mostly-monosyllabically-monikered peeps from different trades have an easy rapport with each other and get along really well. That’s such a pleasure to see, and it feels like good karma is flowing into the nooks and crannies of our soon-to-be-refurbished home.

It’s been a long spring and summer. I looked through calendars and blog posts today to see if my mind is stretching the time unfairly, but no. We first started ripping out carpet in April. That’s also when we all five (two parents, two kids, dog) started sleeping in one room as we began preliminary DIY demolition for this interminable project. So we’ve been sleeping together for almost five months now.

No wonder we’re all going crazy. If you’re thinking about going full-on paleo and sleeping in a room together with your extended family like cavemen did, just go for it why don’t you. My bet? You’ll start embracing the idea of rapid evolution soon enough. I’m certainly ready for the next evolution in my life.

The professional crews started visiting us mid-June, and internal major demolition kicked off in early July or thereabouts. Everything moved along smoothly until some electrical issues arose. We need to upgrade to 200 amp service because of the change in where the power line comes into the house. That’s really a good thing, but it required several iterations of inspection and work, inspection and work. I can’t recall all the details, but here are the parts that really matter (I think I mostly have the facts right, but you’ll forgive me if my grumpy got in the way of me remembering some details squarely):

Our carpenters did as much work as they could before the electrical line was moved. They left it where it was, which means it was coming out of a hole in the roof. Can you see the line in this picture? It’s a little fuzzy, but it hits the house just where the blue tarp abuts the new plywood roof sheathing:

The plumber and electrician won’t do their major work until the roof is on. I get it. They can’t do their work and then have it get all wet. The roofer couldn’t and wouldn’t do the roofing until that line was moved. Because you know, it’s coming out of a hole in the sheathing. I get it.

So work ground to a halt. I got the feeling everyone was stunned and paralyzed by our city and utility company for taking so long. Because what could we do about it? Meanwhile, every time it rains, water comes in the house. And, although prior Augusts have been pretty dry around here, for the past couple weeks we’ve been subjected to torrential thunderstorms, dumping kazillions of gallons of water every couple days on our poor, unprotected shell and leaving our newly installed studs and subfloors saturated and puddling.

* * * * * *

It turns out this is what was going on with the electrical stuff, timeline-wise:

Last week of July: our electrician Mike installed a new circuit panel for 200 amp service, and then he called the city’s contracting inspection service to set up the “service rough” inspection, “OH to OH”, which I think means overhead-to-overhead in reference to the line coming into the house. This inspection had to happen before WE Energies could come move the line, so that then our roof could go on.

Monday, August 3: the inspector came to our house. The carpentry crew greeted him and he did his thing. Which apparently was a “rough electrical” inspection instead of what Mike asked for. But it is obvious just standing in the kitchen entry that there has been no rough electrical work done. There are bare lines, exposed during demolition, dangling everywhere. They look like this:

And this:

You don’t need any electrical expertise to “fail” this inspection. Any reasonable inspector would have suspected something was amiss and called around to make sure he was doing the right thing. But no. This inspector “failed” us and then “failed” to post anything in the house to inform us, like the big red “FAIL” sticker our contractors look for.

Tuesday, August 4: Mike called the city to see what happened, because the inspector left no evidence of his visit. The city lady shuffled papers and told Mike everything was fine.

The rest  of the week, Mike hassled various people trying to find out when WE was going to get to our house to move the line.

Monday, August 10: Mike called WE again to find out why in the world they weren’t scheduling our work. Duh, said WE. You failed your inspection.

Whaaaaa?

Mike followed up immediately with the city and learned what had actually happened a week ago. The inspector scheduling lady told him we’d have to have a new inspection now, because the inspector did the wrong thing. So Mike ordered that.

Wenesday, August 12: The inspector finally called Mike back to schedule the inspection. For Friday, August 14. Yes, at least two weeks after Mike’s first request for an inspection.

This is when the shit hit my fan and I emailed our alderman to complain. I don’t know if it made any difference, but it was necessary to release Snarla from her cage so that my body didn’t fall into an apoplectic fit and stroke out.

Friday, August 14: The inspector finally came! He refused to make eye contact with me when he came into the house; in fact, he refused to acknowledge I existed, eve though I was standing one foot from him as he walked through my basement. I don’t know if that’s normal for him, or if it’s because of what I understood to be some nasty conversations between him, the inspection company, and some city employees earlier in the week, as a result of my email.

I had dim hopes that WE would arrive Friday afternoon to do their thing and move that blasted power line, but they didn’t. So over the weekend, I released Snarla once more and she sent a nasty-email-gram to the city inspection guy, encouraging him to inspire WE to come on Monday. I embraced a somewhat tacky tactic: I used words and phrases I thought might get a rise, like “mold,” “water damage”, and “increased costs resulting from the delays caused by your inspector’s failure to complete the inspection properly.” I made no direct threats. But I admit that litigation has crossed my mind frequently in recent days

Monday, August 17: Around 9:00 a.m., someone knocked on the door. When I answered it, I saw a fellow in a hard hat and utility trucks on the street. I opened the door and hit the hallelujahs. “You’re heeeeere!!” I keened. “I am sooo happy to see you that I could hug you!!! But I won’t because you would think that’s weird, huh??? You are making so many people happy by being here today!!!”

Hard hat man nodded drily and tried to look nonchalant, or maybe he looked a little anxious and aloof. At least that’s what I thought at first, but then I remembered he was a Wisconsinite. He warmed up quickly and wandered the house with me to figure out what they had to do. As I told him about our travails with water in the house and how long it had taken to get this work scheduled, he asked incredulously, “Why did it take your contractor so long to get us out here?”

* * * * * *

But we’re back on the map now. The plumber and carpenter are working again. The electrician should start soon. The roofing guys are apparently stuck in a scheduling nightmare (because they understandably moved on to other work while our job stalled out), so our trusty carpentry crew stepped in — the three musketeers. The three stooges? Los tres caballeros?

Oh no I didn’t! That’s just rude, Carla.

Here they are, Erick, Dan, and Talon, doing their thing. Three men and their ladders, not too macho to extend a loving hand to each other:

Erick doing his Fiddler on the Roof thing:

Dan implores Erick/Tevye to rethink his position on his daughter Hodel’s engagement:

I caught the guys doing their daily Construction Pilates class this afternoon, even as they began installing the final layers of the roofing. Core strength is so important.

As they wind down with their stretching in the shot below, you can see Bob the Plumber peaking out the window — he’s a bit shadowy, but it’s the best I could do. I’ll get a better pic of this friendly plumber soon:

By the way, look at this lovely architectural detail on the exterior of the addition, to capture the peaked lines of the house and deflect attention from the flatter, uglier shed dormer line. Hand built piece by piece, by Erick and crew.

Bob has been busy doing plumber stuff. Lots of angles and bends. I don’t get how they do it, but look at this beautiful work:

I can already imagine our family’s poo and pee going down that massive drain stack, and sewer gas going up the new vent stack.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile, we’re still struggling to keep it together in this deconstructed home.

Here’s the view from our living room these days:

Yup. That’s the inside of the garage at the end of the view (past the still-boxed kitchen cabinets and the hollowed out future mudroom). Al fresco.

Here’s our future garage door, sitting approximately 8 feet away from its eventual location.

“Door, install thyself!”

And the hole that will eventually be the door out of the kitchen to our back yard:

At the end of each work day, the crew attaches a piece of plywood there to keep out large critters. The little ones make it in through the garage, but Jesse has caught all the toads and taken them back out to the woods.

It’s all good.

Jesse asked me to find her a pair of white socks this morning. I told her to go look in the laundry basket, which has 3 loads of unfolded, but clean, clothing stuffed in it. She looked at me and shrugged helplessly, so I went to stare at it myself.  

Aha. Whites at the bottom. I thanked my lucky stars that Jesse hadn’t done the digging, which would have sent laundry flying like flour in the wind. 

I dug down and hunted, finding one little white sock at a time. I kid you not, these are the socks I pulled.   Seven socks and not a single match! This day isn’t starting out on a good sock. 

I’m on hold with my bank right now. I’ll won’t tell you which bank, because someone might be trolling my blog to collect a bunch of personal data about me and do stuff to me and steal all my money. I’ll call it… The Bank. (I’m feeling inspired.)

Exactly every 30 seconds, a recording of a lady’s voice interrupts the muse-ACK to tell me this: “Thank you for holding. All of our specialists are busy assisting other customers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.” My phone tells me this call has lasted 39 minutes so far. I spent the first 10 speaking with a rep before he put me on hold, so I’ve now heard the lady speak her lines almost 60 times.

The tic in my right eye is going strong.

I called The Bank because I need a February statement for a savings account. I need it to give to The Other Bank, which we’re using to refinance our mortgage and fund some renovations. (Ssssshhh, don’t tell anyone, I don’t want to jinx the projects.) The Other Bank has our November, December, and January statements, so naturally it wants February as well now.

I do on-line statements whenever possible. I don’t see the point of getting paper statements that I throw directly into the trash. With something like a savings account, I don’t even really look at a statement ever. I use the on-line app for The Bank, and whenever I log in I see the summary page with my account balances. As long as the numbers look familiar, I’m good, right?

Right. But now we have to give The Other Bank a bunch of financial paper, so I’ve been visiting The Bank’s website to grab PDFs of my on-line statements for 3 accounts — one checking, two savings. It was all fine until I was told I needed to provide February statements. I shimmied on over to the on-line banking site, and I navigated my way to the on-line statement section, and then I selected one of the savings accounts, and I discovered that the most recent statement was from January. Hm.

It’s mid-March now. This wasn’t right. So I called The Bank. The friendly rep, I’ll call him Mr. Rep, told me that there was no February statement because this savings account had been switched over to quarterly statements.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Did you request it?”

“No. I don’t think so. Can I do that?”

“I don’t know.”

And so it went. we figured out that there’s no way for a customer to select quarterly statements via the on-line system. So someone in PNC, or a ghost in its machines, switched this particular savings account to quarterly statements. Mr. Rep switched it back to monthly statements, so now we’ll get a March statement in a couple weeks. But what about February? Mr. Rep thought PNC wouldn’t be able to generate a February statement.

I explained to Mr. Rep my problem. “Mr. Rep, The Other Bank needs paper from me for underwriting on our refi. So far The Other Bank seems to be, uh, RIGID about what they require. So if The Bank can’t generate a February statement, I’m going to have a problem because The Other Bank will think I’m withholding a statement for some reason. I think The Bank should be able to figure this out. You are, after all, The Bank.”

Mr. Rep agreed. He put me on hold and said he would be back. That was, oh… 46 minutes ago.

“Thank you for holding. All of our specialists are busy assisting other customers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.”

(30 seconds)

“Thank you for holding. All of our specialists are busy assisting other customers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.”

(30 seconds)

“Thank you for holding. All of our specialists are busy assisting other customers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.”

Why would I ever follow a link to one of those stupid quiz apps that floats across Facebook? What’s your true personality? (psycho) What percentage slob are you? (100%) What’s the perfect dog for you? (obviously not the one I have) How powerful is your purple Id? (kind of mauve) Can this app guess when you last pooped? (recently, but I won’t say more)

So why did I click the link to go see what my name’s hidden meaning is?

C – A – R – L – A. And here’s what I learned about me:

I AM VERY HYPER.

No. Say it ain’t so.

The description of my name’s hidden meaning goes on from the hyper thing thusly: “You never slow down, even when it’s killing you. You’re the type of person who can be a workaholic during the day… and still have the energy to party all night. Your energy is definitely a magnet for those around you. People are addicted to your vibe.”

Stop. All stop. First and most important, no one — NO ONE — is addicted to my vibe. I am not a magnet, unless it’s for food waste that weirdly removes itself from my kids’ faces and places itself on my clothing. Also I can’t party all night. I’m 48 years old and I have two young children. Jeez. I’d just like to sleep all night for once. That would feel like a party to me.

And anyway, don’t you think “hyper” is a gender-based insult? Do guys get called hyper? I don’t think so. Only women get called hyper. Also small dogs. Men get called “energetic” or some shit like that.

I know how to test this theory. Hold on a minute while I go open a new Safari window and use that stupid hidden name meaning app on my male counterpart. C – A – R – L. My grandpa, after whom I was named. Carla is just the female version of Carl, and vice versa, so the outcome should be the same right?

I’ll be right back.

Oh come ON. CARL the MAN is “usually the best at everything.” Carl “strive[s] for perfection” and is “confident, authoritative and aggressive.” He has the classic Type A personality.

Well hose me down with a stream of skunk piss. I’m just a hyper workaholic, killing myself and partying too much at night. If I were a MAN, I’d be the best at everything and confident AND authoritative AND aggressive.

Damn. Who writes those stupid quiz apps anyway? What a strange way to make a living.