Bees in My Bonnet

I have several.  I'm on a Quixotic tear.  By the way, Quixotic doesn't rhyme with "neurotic" or "psychotic."  It's pronounced like "exotic."  Thank god I checked.  I'm still cringing over my gaffe involving fiefdom (long e, not i).  I'll blame my ineptness with the spoken language on my extensive reading, not my lack of intelligent conversation.  I swear, I read "schadenfreude" in the Wall Street Journal long before it became so hip.  Not that I ever indulge in it.  I also learned "hubris" from WSJ.  Sophrosyne (its antonym) is from Dictionary.com.

In re my windmill-tilting, let's just say I'm furious with a certain corporation which is complicating my life.  I can't go into details because I don't want to be sued for libel, but let's just say I'd bet the house that said corporation is the next Enron.  When I called their executive office yesterday, I got connected to some poor corporate schmo-drone who told me not one, but two, bald face lies.  Or is it bold face?  Either way, he lied to me.

When someone tries to bullshit me, I kick into auditor mode.  Which usually means I look at Edgar filings (SEC reports).  Turns out that poor, lowly, benevolent corporation, who hires liars and barely squeaks by, doled out $67 million in stock and stock options to management in the first nine months of 2011.  Wow.  Wonder what their Christmas bonuses were like...  But since there's a vesting schedule, this number doesn't show up on the financial statements  .  I had to do a little math.  I'll try to put it in layman's terms:  Instead of paying cold, hard cash to their executives, they give them chits which enable them to manipulate the expense on the financial statements.  This method also ensures that the recipients stay with the company until they can cash out their chits.  And that they don't rat out the crooked company, because if they did, their chits would be worthless.

I've decided to take a break from my investigation.  No one wants to avenge anything on the weekend.

On a really fun note.  When I was cleaning out the detritus of my life, I found a kite.  It's windy today.  When Deb brought The D back from lunch, I forced her to walk to the big field adjacent to the Good House.  The D wouldn't come outside because he was watching the Kentucky/Tennessee basketball game.  Yuck.  Wish they could both lose.

Deb and I got the kite aloft.  Lots of screaming and shouting and falling.  I was the one who fell, and Deb thought I had twisted my ankle, but it turns out that I have lots of practice in the falling department, so I bounced right up.  Hey, maybe "pratfall" is derived from "practice falling."  I think a few cars slowed down to look at the spectacle of two middle-aged women acting like silly kids.

Deb got the kite tangled on the church's power line.  All I could think of was The D sitting in a cold, dark church tomorrow morning because of his goofy progenies.  Luckily, I thought to break the string and let the kite fall off.  Deb had some sort of delusion that she'd catch the wind and make the kite do a 360 degree flight.

We got the kite down without severing the power line.  Then we called it quits.  We came in the house, breathless, pink-cheeked, and laughing.  I felt like I was 11 years old.  Oh.  I found my shoes and didn't step on a nail or dog poop.  That's the 50 year old woman in me.  An 11 year old wouldn't think about that.

So here I sit.  A desolate Saturday night looming.  Maybe I should figure out something to do with The Daddler.  Unfortunately, this is his Bill Gaither Trio night and I just can't bear it.  I think I'll take a hot bath and order pizza or Chinese.  Maybe call Angela and see if I can hit her hot tub.  I refuse to play Words With Friends or more Antiques Roadshow.  I'm feeling like such a loser.  Plus, I have to reboot my router every 13 minutes or so.

I'll figure something out.

All for now...