Only Nola

Yeah, I’m Getting Old

Saturday night Jonathan and I got a babysitter for the first time in many moons. We had heard that people still gathered in social situations that did not, in fact, center around 8 year olds and/or giant, pizza-eating rats. We decided to investigate. We were invited to go to some local thing, charmingly called the 'Pub Crawl', with our wonderful neighbors. I pretty quickly discovered two things... a) a Jaegerbomb tastes as bad as you'd expect, and b) ...

My twenties were a loooooooooong time ago.

First off, it was the Saturday before Halloween. This meant, of course, that grown people (I won't say 'adult' because, well... bitch, please.) were dressed in all manner of costumes and running around the streets like monkeys on crack. Mostly naked monkeys on crack. Because the whole 'costumes' thing? Totally used loosely. Costumes now appear to be less about assuming a different persona and more about making sure that complete strangers can see your episiotomy scar. From across the street.

I'm not kidding. I saw more T & A Saturday night than Ron Jeremy does during a hard (ha! I said hard. heh.) days work. And some of it? Had NO business being out there. But liquor does amazing things to some people. This one chick looked like the survivor of a horrible accident involving potato peelers and various kinds of toxic waste, but did that slow her down? Hear the sound of my retinas sizzling? That would be a NO. She was not daunted. She proudly sported her prostitute costume down the curb, greasy, stupidly grinning boyfriend (with a fine set of tooth, might I add) in tow, apparently believing that she was... hot.

The mind boggles.

Now, before I get hate mail or something, let me clarify... I'm not suggesting all women who aren't complete babes should stick their head in a bag and stay home for the rest of their natural lives. I'm not even suggesting that good looking women are in any way better than those who are more... something else. I'm merely pointing out that one should work with what one has... and if what one has is a pouch that hangs down over one's pubic hair, a face that roughly resembles corned-beef hash, hair that looks like a weave left on the floor of a bar the night before, body odor that clears a path roughly five feet in any direction, and a nose that would make Dustin Hoffman positively weep... one might want to reconsider dressing in the most revealing of outfits and strolling down an avenue populated by college-age blondes with brand new breasts and asses that have yet to be introduced to gravity.

The bitches.

Anyhoo. I managed to contain myself and not get too drunk. I only had a few drinks, although considering what I was drinking? A few was plenty. I had forgotten the cardinal rule in drinking and made the mistake of letting my neighbor buy me a shot at the first bar we went to. The cardinal rule? Drink what you started with. Whatever alcoholic beverage you sucked up at the beginning of the evening is going to be, if you're smart, the same drink you have for the rest of the night. So choose wisely, young Skywalker.

I didn't.

I inhaled the absolutely vile concoction that my neighbor provided without taking the cardinal rule into account. I was very, very sorry later. Shit tastes like children's chewable vitamins. Not a bad taste... IN A FUCKING VITAMIN. In a DRINK? Not so much. It was blaaaaaaaaaarrrrrghhhhhhhh. And I mean that. But there I was, stuck. Drinking Jaegerbombs. *sighs*

I also remembered, in fairly short order, the things I hate about going to clubs. Some things I like. I like the general social thing. I adore dancing. I like a good drunk once in a blue moon. I like dressing up to attempt to look vaguely hot (phhhhtttt). These are good things.

Then there are the assbags...

I hate those. The arrogant pricks (and pricklettes... can't forget the pricklettes) that act like you're not fit to breathe the same air that they do. The same ones that, I'm sure, drive BMW's and figure that since you don't? You should be rounded up and shot. Or at least forced to do their landscaping. The guys who will wear what has to be a $500 outfit (great linen jacket, fabulous slacks, killer shirt, perfect shoes), like they're the Sinatra of the new age, then thoughtlessly (and rudely... fuckers) step on/bump into/run over any girl they figure doesn't rate on their scale while trying to get to the girls who do. This is not something real men would do. Real men, in my humble opinion, don't figure that it's okay to be mean/obnoxious/physically careless to a woman just because she's not registered on the fuckable radar. News flash, fuckwit... you're probably packing about 3 inches in those Armani pants and have more credit card debt than a 3rd world country... you're no catch, yourself, see, so you should be nice to people around you.

Gah. I hate it when I get all off and tangenty. Well, sometimes I hate it. Sometimes... I embrace my inner lunatic. In this case, I can't help it. See, I may think that the seriously ugly woman with personal hygiene issues made a serious fashion mistake (and mating mistake... what, she couldn't find one who could chew?), but that doesn't mean I think it's open season on her while she's out doing her thing. I would never have been mean or hateful to her, if for some reason the moment had presented itself when I'd needed to speak to her or been in line with her or whatever. I wouldn't condone anyone else who did, either. Bad form, fuckers. But going into the local big damned deal hot spot of the moment dance club, I was suddenly thrown back to several hideously embarrassing moments in Atlanta, and it reminded me that there is a reason I generally prefer smaller and less 'popular' places to do my drinking/socializing/dancing/falling down. Better class of people, man.

Yep... I'm officially getting old.

The Difference Between Men and Women…

... is SO apparent. Even beyond the basic plumbing which, obviously, kind of stands out. Pun fully intended. I know we've done the whole 'Evil of the Penis' thing (which, by the way? Never really ends. I'm sure I'll have the time to add to the existing list before too much longer. I mean, really... there's just no end to the material there.), but this is slightly different. There are situations that come up, from time to time (read: every freaking DAY) that one can't help but compare the way men do things to how women do things. Men, I'm sorry to say, make about as much sense in these situations as your average Armadillo (that's POST abrupt-meeting-with-a-HUMVEE-Armadillo, FYI), but I suppose that being penis afflicted, well...

One can only expect so much from them.

Take a luncheon. Or any form of organized event involving name tags, guest speakers and questionable food. Now, if a woman knows the event starts at a certain time (as in, the food will be on the table and you'd better shovel it in as fast as you can so you're not caught crunching croutons when the first person says 'Is this thing on?'), and is also aware that she still has to a) check in at the reception desk to b) pay her fee to attend said luncheon and c) get a handwritten receipt so she can then d) find her name tag in the sea of self adhesive ugliness that is spread all over the table and eventually e) go in and body slam some nameless blonde in order to get a decent seat, well, a WOMAN would show up at said event early... that's right, I said EARLY, people! She'd do the math and realize that, contrary to any wishful thinking on her part, there will NOT be one attendant per attendee, there to do nothing but wait on her and ONLY her, hence making her entrance take about 2.6 seconds. She'd know that, in actuality, there is likely to be one, possibly two warm bodies on hand to meet/greet/shake down the swarm of hungry/bored/forced-to-show-up-under-threat-of-death-by-their-bosses individuals and plan accordingly. A man, on the other hand?

Not so much.

A man will see 'Hmm... says food is served at 11:30,' and show UP at... you guessed it... ELEVEN FUCKING THIRTY. This leads to a barrage of shouts for name tags, wrestling matches over receipts, complaints of delay and/or massive coronary on the part of one (or both... could be both. Never rule out the possibility of BOTH.) of the women behind the reception desk. There is shoving and glaring galore. The smell of food wafts through the open doors to the auditorium, and from there?

It just gets ugly.

Bear in mind that, if asked, any of the men currently stepping on the nuts of the poor schmuck they knocked down to get the head of the line will tell you that the situation is not, in any way/shape/form, their fault. It's the event planner. The chick behind the desk. The dick who wouldn't get out of the way when he was attempting to park his truck (the dick in question having the audacity to have gotten there first and all...). The weather. The color of the goddamned carpet. Or even better? It's the OTHER 97 assholes that won't behave like civilized people... not him. So what if he's standing on JohnBoy's nuts? Like that proves something? YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY?

Egads.

Men have issues. Issues with, apparently, exercising some common sense. And forethought.

What a festive day I had today.

8 More Days…

8 days until my benefits kick in... color me breathless with anticipation. My hormones are doing the chacha again and I haven't had a physical (for both regular stuff AND the ever-so-lovely girly stuff. Weren't you just dying to know that?) in, oh, about *counts on fingers* four and a half years? Jesus. My body is the flesh and blood equivalent of a Pinto. A rusting Pinto.

Oh, I'm feeling so very optimistic about what the doctor's going to say to ME. Downright fuckin' CHEERY. Can't you TELL? Don't the CAPS give me AWAY?

Gah.

Because I'm a)relatively tired/stressed/looking for a sharp weapon, and b)feeling roughly about as funny as a goddamned COMA, I'm going to cheat tonight and paste in here a little something I wrote while at work today. I wrote it with the intention of mass emailing it to the other employees, but decided afterwards to keep it restricted to a few select readers in the office. I figure, hey!, no one's currently trying to kill me, so why tempt fate? But I thought that you, my beloved, loyal readers, might get a kick out of it. I'm pretty sure it won't need a lead in, soooo...

Once upon a time, there was a little blue ink pen. The little blue ink pen lived on a desk at the front of the office. It was a happy little blue ink pen. It had its friends, Stapler and Datestamp. There were many gatherings involving games and lots of beverages their mothers warned them about. It was festive.

Then one day, from out of nowhere, the little blue ink pen was scooped up from its favorite place on the desk (hiding behind the coffee\... ahhh! Good times!) by a stealthy hand. The hand, unfortunately, refused to implicate its owner, thus rendering the little blue ink pen unable to point fingers and name names. Also rendering it unable to take out a hit. You kind of need a name for that.

Thus the idyllic life of the little blue ink pen came an end. The rest of its days were spent among strangers (and it soon learned that new Stapler wasn\'t nearly as friendly as OLD Stapler. Strong words were exchanged. Threats were made. Foreign objects were waved\... it wasn\'t pretty.) and it pined away, yearning for its old home\... the one ON THE FRONT DESK OF THE OFFICE.

(\...)

Great story. ISN\'T IT?

WHAT?!? I can't get tired of people wandering off with every pen I manage to pry out of the supply closet's dank, dark depths? I went just last week and pretty much sold my soul to Satan to get my hands on 8 new pens. And these aren't Cross pens, people... freakin' BICS! It's not like stealing one of my pens is going to finance your retirement to RIO. Anyway. I got 8 pens, right? Guess what I had this morning? ONE. ONE FUCKING PEN. For the love of... what do I have to do, paint 'Heil HITLER' on my pens to make sure they don't leave my desk?

(...)

Hey, that actually might work... sure, I'd get the hairy eyeball and possibly a car bomb or two, but... PENS! I'd have PENS!

*sighs*

I liked my little story, though. It tickled me. Then again, I'm borderline psychotic, so... what amuses me doesn't necessarily amuse other (read: normal) people. Don't ask.

Okay, I'm going to go worship my new bed and comforter in the manner they so richly deserve. Assuming I can carve out space around my cats. Have I mentioned that they love the new bed/comforter with a passion heretofore unwitnessed by man? Bordering on obsession? I don't think the comforter's going to make it. I actually bought a second one (since the price was AMAZING! Woohoo sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond!) for backup once I saw the mad love the cats were showing the first one... their BACK CLAWS INCLUDED. I am now the proud owner of a comforter that is less than 3 weeks old and looks like it's been attacked by a particularly vicious gang of mites weilding axes and hacksaws. Mites on a mission to...

(...)

Holy Mary Mother of God... have I also mentioned that the office? Wherein resides my computer? The computer on which I'm currently composing this stunning entry? Also houses the litter box? No? Well, one of my feline friends just saw fit to offer up an editorial on my subject of discussion.

Must.

Leave.

Room.

Fumes

are

burning

out

my

EYEBALLS!

Fuckin' cats...

Can I Be Sedated For This?

Okay, first off? Where the hell did all my commenters go? (No, Nyt, I don't mean you... EGADS!)Tragic farm equipment accidents? Locusts? Spontaneous combustion? Some rat sneak in while y'all were sleeping and gnaw your freaking FINGERS off? Where's the love? Where's the devotion? Where's my ability to post a sentence that doesn't end in a question mark?

I think I left it at the hospital.

Yes, one of us got to spend a festive afternoon taking one small, skinny, focus-challenged monkey boy to the hospital. Why?, you may ask... well, let's just say that when an 8 year old gets into a heated argument with a protruding pointy metal object of indeterminate origin sticking out of the side of the wall of the school bus? The metal object wins.

It wins BIG.

I got a phone call while at work informing me that I just might want to come and pick my son up. Since he'd had a bit of an accident. That involved bleeding. And possibly required stitches. I lost the ability to coherently put words together to form sentences after the word 'stitches'. I was only capable of uttering short bursts of random cursing, which actually wasn't much different than my USUAL drive home. Have I mentioned I hate other drivers?

Anyhoo. I went and picked up Connor and took him to the hospital. Well, not immediately took him... first I had to have about 40 minutes of, um... heated, yeah, we'll call it heated... discussion with the school's principal over the way the whole thing was handled. It's a long story, but suffice it to say? There's new policy going into effect as we speak thanks to yours truly. FYI? Our state only requires that each school bus' first aid kit has... gauze and band-aids.

(...)

Yeah, 'cause the entire medical profession knows that a band-aid fixes everything. Why wash out a gaping flesh wound? Just stick a band-aid on it and VOILA! Dirt and germs you can't see? Totally don't exist. Ask any FUCKING THREE YEAR OLD.

Jesus.

Apparently, they used to stock anti-biotic cream of some sort in the first aid kits, but one kid, somewhere down the line, had an allergic reaction to it. Their response? Make it state policy to not let ANY kid have anti-biotic cream or antibacterial cleanser of any kind. One kid has a bad reaction and the other umpteen hundred can all rot in HELL... that's the logic inherent in the system. Isn't it lovely? And I'm sure finances have something to do with it, too. Don't they always? My son has a HOLE in his FACE and the powers that be figure that all that fancy stuff like, oh, anti-bacterial wash and antibiotic ointment, is totally unnecessary and a waste of money that could be put to better use elsewhere. Like in SWITZERLAND. (I know my readers, and a large part of you are SO going to get that. HA!) So there he is, out on a field trip over an hour from the school and... no appropriate materials to tend his wound.

I'm all over it.

The principal, a very nice man who is new to the school and seems very earnest, is as horrified as I am. The bus system isn't under his control and he had no idea that that was how they equipped their first aid supplies (and I use the word 'supplies' loosely... BOY DO I USE IT LOOSELY! GAUZE AND BAND-AIDS, PEOPLE... GAUZE AND FREAKIN' BAND-AIDS!). He has taken the issue to the director of transportation and the superintendent already, so I hope this means things will change. If not?

Watch out for impending Nola On a Mission.

I was speaking to the principal a bit ago, after I got Connor home and safely planted in front of the Playstation, and my exact words to him?

"If you meet any resistance whatsoever in changing policy for the first aid kit requirements? I WILL MOBILIZE."

HA!

Those people have NO idea who they're dealing with. I was SO not fucking around with him when I said that. I will rally every mother (we'll leave the fathers out of this... exactly as they prefer. They really just want to be left alone, watching their football and scratching their balls contentedly while lying on the couch.) in a five mile radius and make the administration quiver in fear like the fuckwits they are. I will batter them with logic. I will reason. I will, when that fails, make vague threats against any bits of their anatomy they'd prefer to keep safe.

And ATTACHED.

Oh, and by the way? I've figured out why it's so fucking expensive to go to a damned doctor these days.

I took Connor to a local urgent care facility. One attached to a MAJOR health services provider. *coughs*Cox*coughs*. The urgent care facility is new. It's easily accessible. It's a nice alternative to a 4 hour wait in the E.R. It's...

(...)

Decorated nicer than my house?

The lighting in the new urgent care office? Is fabulous. Monorail systems with awesome brushed nickel, animal and aeronautic themed elements. That cost? Hundreds of dollars. Each. One monorail with 4 hanging elements costs, roughly, (not including the cost of installation, which, if you know what electricians cost, is about the same as buying a KIDNEY), $1200.

(...)

TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS. For ONE, count it, ONE small line of lights. You know how many of these were in the waiting area? In the neighborhood of a dozen. Give or take. IN THE WAITING ROOM. I didn't even look in other areas. We're talking about fifteen grand, people... BEFORE installation prices. In ONE office, out of an entire medical building. JESUS H. CHRIST. And get this...

They have a goddamned INTERIOR DECORATOR.

You've got to be kidding me. Form and function, assbags, FORM AND FUNCTION. It's a doctor's office, not the HILTON. (Ugh, that made me think of Paris... DAMN HER!) If it means I can get in and out of the doctor without going bankrupt, I can totally live with plain old ugly fluorescent lights and a really, really unattractive couch. And bad linoleum. This place... god. It didn't stop at the lighting, obviously. The floors were entirely too cool to belong in a doctor's office and the walls and doors and columns...? (COLUMNS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!) We won't even talk about it. I feel exTREMEly safe in saying that the decor for that office cost more than my entire house. And car. And TUBAL LIGATION.

*sighs*

I need a drink. Again.

Diggin’ Up… Blech

I got home from work today, in my oh-so-fashionable black heels, black and white herringbone hip-hugger slacks, and black long sleeved shirt with the cute shoulder slits, and what do I decide goes best with my outfit and hyperactive stress level? (...)

Lots of mud and copious amounts of cursing while landing on my ass in the mulch.

Yeah, 5:30 in the evening is the PERFECT time to set about some serious landscaping detail. Really. Okay, so I've been putting it off for weeks, and I really, really hate the fucking shrubs that arewere gracing the front of my new house, but still... 5:30 at night? After a loooooooong day at the office?

At least I changed clothes first. Now if only I'd thought ahead and taken up DRINKING...

It really wasn't that bad. For a girl (okay, rapidly-approaching-midlife-crisis-person-with-ovaries) who detests all things bug-ish (and even the sight thereof), I did amazingly well. I totally deserve a cookie. Or a Valium. One of those. There were icky, crawly things hiding under that weed barrier thingy that don't bear thinking about. But we all know how I feel about these things, so let's just move right along...

I'm now officially rid of the 3 bushes in the front that most pissed me off. I have removed the metal barrier/edge thingy that was working my last nerve and returned my garden area to a natural border. I expanded my flower bed to line my sidewalk and meet the driveway (not actually go IN the driveway, of course, 'cause that would just be incredibly stupid. What do I look like?).

Next will come the fun part of getting new green things for me to kill. I'll plant them, tend them, hover over them... lull them into a false sense of complacency before murdering them with my ginormous black thumb. Alright, so that's not entirely accurate... I only have a black thumb when it comes to a plant in a pot. Of any kind. Whatsoever. Put it in the ground and it's got a pretty good chance... put it in a pot and you might as well cut out the middle man and stick it straight in the trash can by the curb.

Pick up day is Thursday.

Anyhoo. That was my evening. I'm soooooooo tired. Hence the startling lack of the funny. Going to bed. Fall down go boom.

Oh, and before I forget?

No more Refrigerator Nazi. Anyone I spoke to on the phone about this (and you know who you are), bear in mind, before posting a comment regarding said conversation or the subject in general, that there ARE people at my office that have my blog address. RESTRAINT is your FRIEND. It also keeps me from getting FIRED. *stares at you pointedly* The long and short of it is that my boss told me the refrigerator is not my responsibility after I approached her to explain just how done I was with the whole Refrigerator Nazi issue. Her show of support was so surprising (my expectations of pretty much anyone in the human race are, needless to say, very low) that I nearly fell over on the spot. When I managed to stay on my feet and discovered that I wasn't having an auditory hallucination, that she was, in fact, backing me up, I came alarmingly close to professing my undying love right there on the spot. Fortunately, I was distracted by the smell of buttered popcorn (mmmmmmmmmm, butter!) and managed to escape with some shred of dignity, but it was a close thing. I'm fairly certain she didn't see me blowing kisses at her office for the remainder of the day.

Fairly.

Guess Who I Am

Apparently, life has great fun at my expense. Great fun. I'm embarking on a new career at the age of 36. I'm an administrative assistant. I'm a receptionist. I'm the unflaggingly 'spunky' personality that ensures that a great deal of that office gets what it needs, in both work performed and supplies... supplied, to run smoothly and effectively. News flash for the office? Perky and homicidal are NOT mutually exclusive. Just so you know. Now, to top it all off, you know what else I am?

The Refrigerator Nazi.

Seriously. You think I'm kidding? My office has somewhere in the neighborhood of 70 people in it. Give or take. Not counting the ones that wander in from shop or the visitors or employee hopeful's (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA)... it all adds up. Regardless, it's a lot of people. With? One refrigerator to share between them.

ONE.

Now, these are, allegedly, grown people using this refrigerator. Adults (and I use the term loosely) that are supposed to use this cooling device to store their lunches and drinks for the day, and take the remains either a)home with them at the end of the day, or b)to the nearest trash type receptacle. Whatever works. Instead?

We have new forms of life that are developing and plotting our eventual destruction. IN that refrigerator. Enter at your own risk. And wear GLOVES. Hell, wear a HAZMAT suit. Remember the setup at the end of E.T., when they've wrapped the entire house in a giant Ziploc? There you go. Now, you get one guess as to who got informed that 'Oh, yeah, by the way? Part of your job is to clean the refrigerator out once a week. Did we forget to mention that?' a few weeks ago. If it takes you more than that, you're obviously new here.

Yeah, that would be me.

First off, let me tell you that grown people? Suddenly turn into 3 year olds when someone starts to clean up behind them. Sure, they don't want to clean up their own area of contamination and PLAGUE... but are they going to appreciate someone else doing it?

(...)

See, normal people would think the logical answer there would be 'YES! Yay! Someone's going to clean up after me and allow me to continue my rampage of filth unhindered! Woohoo! Lack of personal accountability lives on! Next I'm going to run with SCISSORS!'

I am not dealing with normal people. Actually, 'dealing with' implies that there is rational discourse being had. That would be a nasty misconception. Rational is far the fuck OUT THERE from what happens when I clean the refrigerator at work. Salvador freaking DALI couldn't wrap his head around what happens when I clean the refrigerator at work.

I send out multiple emails throughout the day, warning of the impending Frigidaire invasion. I inject humor (as only I can) to try and make it as painless as possible. I offer outs! I tell people that if they will SIMPLY call me or email me to let me know that they want something saved, it will, in fact, BE SAVED. I do everything short of leading each employee by the hand to said refrigerator and singing a eulogy over their chunky substance that was once, in a former life, MILK, before throwing it in the garbage. And what do I get for this? Thanks? Appreciation?

(...)

A chunk torn out of the side of my ASS?

Yeah, that last one. It never fails. After each cleaning I have someone, or multiples, approach me in a heated confrontation over some ever-so-precious food product (that was rapidly approaching sentience) that I had the absolute GALL to lay hands on with ill intent. 'Ill' being the operative word. Today was the topper. I've put up with this for weeks now (again, 'put up with' might be a wee bit off, since the refrigerator was behind the incident that caused me to go nuclear in my boss' office a couple of weeks ago. We won't talk about that.), and thought I'd finally gotten everyone kind of settled into the rhythm of the whole 'Friday, everything GOES' edict.

I thought wrong.

Sent out the emails. Two of them. Cleaned the fridge. Went back to my desk. Half an hour later? I've got this woman I work with all pissed off and yelling at me because I threw out her fucking BACKWASH.

Okay, okay... she called it Pepsi, but let's be real. The Pepsi in question had MAYBE a quarter of its contents left, and we ALL know what THAT is...

Fuckin' backwash. A world of ewwwwwwwwwww.

I was enormously angry. I can't even describe how mad I was. Here I am, doing a job that NO ONE in that office either wants or can be COERCED into doing (you should have seen the condition of that refrigerator when I got there... it had only been like two weeks since its last cleaning, and it already looked like I'd found North Korea's secret testing grounds...), and for my trouble (and nausea) I get paid back with confrontations and massive amounts of whining/bitching/unknowingly-suicidal behavior. (They really have NO idea who I am. Or how far away they should stand to allow them a good head start when they need to RUN.) It's insane. These are my coworkers? Feels more like I'm BABYSITTING. And babysitting children raised by people who don't believe in spanking, no less.

*sighs*

Oh, and the recruiting manager (who was responsible for adding fuel to my already hot temper because he just HAD to make sure I knew that this chick had gone directly back to the recruiting office and gone OFF about me because I'd actually done. my. goddamned. JOB.) said that thing that just annoys the shit out of me, which proves that men have no sense of timing (and limited senses of self-preservation)...

"Don't worry about it. You can't let it get to you."

(...)

There aren't enough words to describe how much that was the WRONG thing to say. EVER. I hate that whole train of thought. But I'll go into it more later. Right now? I'm going to go drown my sorrows (and hopefully the sorrow will drag the nuclear mushroom of anger down with it for the ride) in a large, cherry-vanilla coke. 'Cause sugar? Makes everything better.

Oh, shit, before I forget... I had a great comeback moment this morning. I asked a guy at work to hand me a knife (for the pound of butter I was getting ready to slather on my honey bun before throwing it in the microwave... WHAT?!?!) since he was closest to the drawer. He was standing there with this girl from accounting and he turns to me, with the knife, and says, "Here, you want this in your back?" She laughed. He laughed. I zinged back, without a second's hesitation...

"What, like you think you're going to find ROOM?"

Ha!

Hell = Shopping

I have discovered (read: repeatedly and painfully been reminded) that shopping is a sport best served by the young. Me? I mostly avoid it like the plague. Unless it's Lowe's. I admit to kind of having a thing for Lowe's. But we won't talk about that. My credit card's still smoldering from the last trip I made to Lowe's. It may never recover. I barely avoided an intervention. But today I went forth and entered the gaping maw of...

The Mall.

While, in theory, I like the mall (many stores! many goods! all centrally located! With food!), the reality is a far different matter. Along with all the conveniences and whatnot (you have to love a place where you can buy a bra, a car battery, a choke collar and a Strawberry Julius (hopefully not to be used in conjunction with one another... not that I'm judging you or anything. Sicko's.) all in one stop) comes the one evil that pretty much trumps all else...

People.

See, malls are funny like that. They'll just let anybody in. If I was in charge, this wouldn't be an issue. Unfortunately, pesky little issues like money and, well... money... keep the current system in place. Fine. I can live with the other customers. I might be secretly envisioning them flattened against the front bumper of my car, but I can live with them.

Can we now work on the fucking staff?

I nearly went across the counter and force fed hypo-allergenic, scent-free, lab rat-approved soap to the cunt selling Clinique today. I'm too tired to go into all the details (and it would lose something in the translation anyway. (Especially the part where she was trying to up-sell by pushing the gift pack that contained *insert drumroll here* ... a pump for the toner bottle! Taking all your worry about not having the exact right amount of toner on your cotton ball RIGHT off your mind! Is she fucking KIDDING me?) I need a visual blog. With hand puppets and thought bubbles.), but suffice it to say that when I noticed she was giving my niece the wrong toner and asked her (NICELY, might I add. It almost killed me, but... NICELY) to switch to the one my niece wanted, and she responded with "Oh, NOW you want the number 3 INSTEAD?" (you'd have to have heard the tone... like I was trying to pull a fast one and topple the balance of world power by undermining her supply of toner number 3... someone call Bush!), I nearly came unhinged. No, I don't want the number 3 instead, you fecund COW, I wanted it in the FIRST goddamned place. Hence me HOLDING UP THE BOTTLE of number 3 toner when we first approached your wizened, sorry ass and saying the words "We'd like the small bottle of NUMBER 3 TONER." See how that works? Picture aid and all and she just felt totally justified in placing HER fuck up on MY shoulders.

Maybe you had to be there. I wish someone had been there... just to witness my restraint and give me a COOKIE.

Then there's the chick working the Lancôme counter. She's the one who gave my niece a makeover. I wandered over to the Estee Lauder counter to get some skin care stuff I needed and came back to my niece's exercise in torture just in time to hear the walking fashion mistake tell my niece about how blush changes color on each person because... the oils in their skin make the colors completely change.

(...)

She didn't really just say...

I damned near bit my tongue in half. Had to just walk away. Fast. Otherwise, mayhem would ensue and there'd be eye gouging and fishnets (yes, this chick was wearing fishnets. Bad fishnets. With worse boots. And totally age (and figure) inappropriate miniskirt/bra/lace top combo thing from HELL. Where did they find this chick? Dollar-hooker General?) flying... not a pretty sight. And she had to outweigh me by a good 40 pounds (not counting the 10 pounds of spackle on her FACE), so...

I just blog about it later. Wheeeeeeeeee!

Oh, but FYI? I kicked ASS finally buying bedding for my new bed! Found a $150 comforter (shams and bedskirt and all... HA!) marked down to THIRTY DOLLARS! I almost peed down both legs in sheer, unadulterated glee. Hey, when you consider a)the quality (it's a VERY good set, just so you know. Sure, not one of the freaking $400 monsters, but still... what am I, STUPID?), and b)the alternatives, you, too, might have peed down both legs. It's a lovely sateen finish comforter. Very squishy/comfy (so many comforters are stiff and unyielding... much like... nevermind) and the material is a dream. I actually had to pay more for the freaking sheets than I did the comforter itself. Don't ask.

For anyone that's interested?

The picture doesn't do it justice, but I was too excited to wait till tomorrow to take a picture in better lighting. And also too lazy to iron that bedskirt, for those of you who think maybe I didn't NOTICE how wrinkled it is. Noticed, and just do. not. CARE. It's a bedskirt, for the love of GOD. What, am I going to get graded on this?

I need a drink.

New Bedding

My new comforter

Another Day, Another… Something

Well, work went better today than it did the last... week? I should clarify here. Work itself hasn't been bad the last week, but my mental state while at work? (And home... and in the car... and at the grocery store... oh, why don't I just go crawl under a rock already?) That's been a bit unstable around the edges. Today, finally, I had a day of relative peace. Sure, the boss (read: owner) tossed a "small" project my way at 2:30 that he wants done tomorrow... a project that is "small" in the same way your eyeballs suddenly popping out of your face and landing on your Wheaties is "common", but... whatever. I'll manage.

I may maim someone in the process, but isn't that what they have workman's comp for?

My niece is coming to visit Friday, so this means that tomorrow night I'll be doing the psychotic-break cha-cha all over my house, preparing it for impending company. I can't stand for people to see my house when it's not at its best. Which would be now. Also, Saturday?

They bring the new bed! *dances around the computer desk like a complete fucking moron*

(...)

I may sprawl out on that bitch (the bed, not the niece... okay, now I've just disturbed myself... oh, I'm so not recovering from THAT one) for the REST of my natural life, I'm that excited. Woohoo! for a bed that doesn't hate my everliving GUTS! Woohoo! for the possibility that my husband may be restored to his previous, non-comatose/irritable/full of burning misery self! Woohoo for...

Shit. I just remembered I have to buy new bedding for the new bed.

Do you KNOW what they charge you for bedding these days? I'm fairly certain I've written about this somewhere in the recent past, but I don't care. It's NUTS! And the materials? I can easily remember the days when almost anything you could put on a bed could go in the washer. Now? 80% of what you can put on a bed can only be washed by a special group of nuns (The Sisters of Our Lady of Dontyoudareputyourfuckingfeetonthat) that faint at the sight of Tide and were actually sent into violent fits of hysteria when accidentally exposed to a Maytag catalogue.

I hate that shit.

I want to put my stuff in a WASHER, and, heaven forfend, an actual DRYER. I want to know I don't have to ship it off to China (along with the remainder of my savings) to have it de-furred and returned to its former perky self. I want to know that should something, um... marital happen on said bedspread, I'm not going to have to file a fucking INSURANCE claim to recoup my losses. I recently saw bedding on the Target website (Target, for the love of GOD! I was thinking I'd find bargains... oh, naiveté doth die hard) that had, apparently, confused itself with a NEW CAR. Jesus H. Christ, people, it's a COMFORTER, not a KIDNEY TRANSPLANT!

I have two options: Go ahead and buy the really cool looking comforter that is made from some material that knows its entirely too good for human contact (and will punish you severely for any slip ups on your part... we won't even THINK about the CAT factor... *rubs temples*) or buy the "I don't care if you wash me in the CREEK with a ROCK and some LAVA!" comforter that looks like, well... does the phrase 'short bus' mean anything to you? Helloooooooooo, equivalent!

I'm not liking my options. This should be just a whole new level of festive.

Really.

So Tired…

I'm bone tired. On my way to fall down go boom. I'll post something up to par, or so one can hope, tomorrow. I've had a shitty night and am hoping to escape into something other than a recurring nightmare. I need to lobby to make Nitrous Oxide available over the counter...

Oh, and FYI? Check out Yeah, What She Said. Bear in mind it's the inaugural post and hasn't had all the kinks worked out (new format and all... not like I'm stretched thin or anything), but still, I think it's going to go well. We're going to toy with a couple of different posting methods and then pick the one we like best. Make sure to check out the 'All About the Site' page to get a handle on the new stuff going on over there, and the 'Personalities' page to meet someone new. Well, new to YOU... I've known him for 27 years. Jesus.

I'd like to say critiques are welcome, but...

*coughs*

Oh, and to those of you who commented on my last post? Thank you. I'm still in the middle of a rough patch, but I appreciate the support and input. I can't get benefits fast enough to suit me, but at least I don't feel quite so... abnormal now. You guys are the best. Ya weirdos.

WHAT?!?