Terror Alert Level

Geez...we're at Bert--and Ernie for mass transit. Screw it; I'm driving to my conference.

Turn and Face Your Coworkers

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Well...it's been a noisy week here in Lake Woebecominrightatcha, my (reluctantly) adopted hometown.

I've been forceably relocated at Eviljob. As in while I was not there, someone moved my stuff elsewhere. Not that I really care; I mean, I'm not there enough to care. But I turned up bright and early to answer stupid questions today, and all of my crap was gone. Just a note that I've been moved "out of necessity" to Communal Room IB4E (ok, I'm obfuscating again, but they have a silly room numbering system, and I'm now stuck in a group area with six other people who aren't in my functional group, not that this matters. But it took me ten minutes to find IB4E, 'cos no one calls the rooms that, and that's my point. Plus, it's not a "room"; it's a big, ambitious cubicle. Hyperbole annoys me when I'm not the one dishing it out).

Hmmm. We'll see how that one plays out. I don't know what to think yet.

At my other job, Nastypants is leaving. And I've made (somewhat) peace with her. This happened on Wednesday. We had a business lunch-y thing, and I met her for drinks afterwards. I don't usually drink during the day, but hell...we both needed it. So we ate bar fruit, drank, and just talked. It wasn't too bad. Then I ran a quick errand (whilst praying I didn't get pulled over), and then we went shopping. It was...actually kind of cool. I wish she were more normal, or had been, so that I could have been able to better tolerate her. But she's changing programs. I wish her all the best, but the peace will be enjoyable, as much as it sends me on a guilt trip to admit it.

I have this whole in-depth analysis thing of what's going on at my second job (I need to come up with a better name than Stupidjob, 'cos it's getting too complex to actually be stupid), but I just don't feel like dealing right now--this being moved at Eviljob thing has thrown me for a loop in a way. But on the other hand, I'm about to take off and shouldn't be obsessively worrying about it--so I won't. If I get the boot, I get the boot, and it's not like there's nothing else I could be doing with my time. So nyah.

I said I wasn't going to think about this, and I'm not.

So back to the topic of Stupidjob. RCG has been thus far phenomenally unproductive, in a people-are-starting-to notice way. I have to admit, I'm disappointed all-around. I had expected more, but then apparently so had The Powers That Be. He wasn't like this in classes, so I'm surprised; but by the same token, I see how the casual, joking attitude I *did* observe could potentially bottom-out into a lazier "why bother if there's nothing in it for me, heh-heh-heh" attitude. They're not that far removed from each other. Too bad he's so cute. What a waste.

I'm just not in a mood to deal with any of it at all. I don't mind working around other people at Eviljob since most everything I do anymore is independent, but I am wondering why in the hell I had to be moved. As much as I'm trying to not let it, it's bothering me.

I'm going to go hug Squoosh and watch TV. I need to quit thinking for a while. I *had* gotten on with the intention of knocking out some things for the presentation I have to give whilst away, but...I just don't freaking feel like it. I'm starting to get into a paranoid funk. Sigh.

Squoosh Pops Bubbles!

Squoosh Pops Bubbles, with sincerest apologies to Book Of Love.

Squoosh thinks I'm magical
cause bubbles bloom with my touch
that's mathematical
Squoosh thinks I blow too much
Squoosh pops bubbles
If you try to talk with Squoosh
if you try to copy his
pocket full of pounces
you still can't pop Squoosh's bubbles
Squoosh pops bubbles
Squoosh pops bubbles
Squoosh pops bubbles
Squoosh pops bubbles
I think Squoosh is magical
cause bubbles pop with his touch
but claws are just not practical
Squoosh thinks bubbles pop too much
Squoosh pops bubbles

So I sing to my cat(s). Feh. I'm probably the only one on Earth who even remembers the words to that song...and I didn't even like them to begin with. So how in the hell does it stay stuck in my head for all these years? I dunno.

I blew bubbles for Squoosh today, and he loved it. :-)

My whole day actually went pretty well. I think. I've got yet another project, and I'm not even remotely finished with the other ones... But being needed is A Good Thing, I guess. :-) And I even got to gently deliver a zinger to Sophie--my favourite kind, since she doesn't realise she's been insulted until about five minutes later.

Ok, so I get off on irritating her right back...it was a very good day. Heh. For once.

Very Alarming

I am not sure why the police aren't trying harder to find out who is doing this. Some of the pictures are disturbing.

Cat Mutilations

Sick motherfuckers. I hope whomever is doing this dies an unimaginably horrible death(s), and I wish there were a hell, so they could rot in it for all eternity.

Needless to say, keep your cats indoors. This is in several states.

Now I'm going to go write some more. But I'm angry.

The Cat Who Would Be Dog

Hey, lookit--someone who overanalyses things like everyone says that I do:

Temporal Anomalies In Popular Time Travel Movies

Oh...wait; he says he has a family. Crapmuffin. Oh, well. ;-)

For the record, I don't think Donnie Darko was about time travel as such. But that's not meaning that what he says is in any way incorrect. And it's not like it was clearly explained in the film, so it's all opinion.

I think time travel is interesting, though I am a skeptic. In saying that, I mean that it's fine entertainment, and worthy of speculation; however I don't believe that, for example, John Titor was anything but a hoax. And no, that's not an a priori dismissal; JT specifically doesn't withstand close scrutiny, in much the same way that many of his allegedly temporally displaced compatriots don't. But it is still interesting, and I do concur that 12 Monkeys was really all that. :-)

I've thought about what I'd do if given the opportunity to time travel, and came to the conclusion that if I went back in time, I'd succumb to the temptation to correct everything in the Universe and end up correcting nothing--I'd spend the rest of my life with my grade six self in different incarnations, obsessed with trying to teach her how to diagram sentences. :-) Not that I'm a control freak, or anything.

Well, at least I'm an honest control freak.

So when they start offering time travelling junkets, I'm going to the future. I'll get a nice laser zappy gun, and take care of bidness. Everyone'll be happier (excepting the people I zap), especially my grade six self, who didn't understand the drawing lines thing and didn't care to learn it, either.

Butsoanyway.

Interesting day today, but not worth wasting pixels on. Squoosh somehow managed to dismantle his Mouse-Go-Round. How he figured it out, I don't know; he's like MacGyverkitty. One of these days, he might build his own laser zappy gun out of kitty litter, the cardboard from a toilet paper roll, and Jell-O. I'm just hoping he didn't get hurt. He seems ok. I can't wait until he's older and I don't have to be so worried for him all of the time.

Umm...yeah, I do believe that day will come. No, really. Quit laughing.

Grr.

I'm not going to buy him a Swiss Army knife. He doesn't need encouragement. He already has decided that Dog The Bounty Hunter is like, his idol or something. I personally don't care much about Dog The Bounty Hunter (plus, I once roommated with someone who could be Beth's twin and had my fill of that although I still love her from a distance), but Squoosh looks forward to watching it on Wednesdays. I found this out when I was channel-surfing by accident a few weeks ago. So now I usually am typing something, and Squoosh watches Dog and family catch bad guys. I'm not sure if Dog is a better influence on Squoosh than Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger, but at least Dog has good moral values.

Well, for cat-rearing purposes.

And so Squoosh has a new role-model. Sigh. Whenever Dog is talking, Squoosh pays attention. It's kind of cute. :-) I've told Squoosh that if I ever run into Ozzy Osbourne, I'll ask him to record a theme song for Squoosh, too (I am Indestructible, the big, bad Indestructible..."). Squoosh says that Indestructible is a better bounty hunter name than Squooshable. After we watch Dog, Squooshable practises on the two Measles--he pretends they're FTAs and tries to apprehend them.

In turn, they smack the crap out of him.

If he gets too excited by all of this (Meg calls him "the overexcited little midget cat"), I will put him up for a time out. For the record, this is what usually happens. I love him, but he suffers from delusions of indestructibility. And delusions of being a future bounty hunter.

I haven't the heart to tell him he's a kitty.

Happy Birthday

To my blog!

My Measle!

Meg took a picture of Romeo with her phone and sent it to me by email. :-) She said she was trying to do something with it, and he kept posing. :-) That's my Measle! Eventually I'll transfer my other Romeo and Squoosh pictures.

Now I've got to get to sleep...

Things Could Be Worse

I'm better today. I have my "I'm overwhelmed" days, and yesterday was one of them.

:-) I'm feeling much better!

I bought (as a present to myself) the Corner Gas DVD collection, and it just showed up today. Oh, joy! :-) Next on my To Buy list is seasons 1 - 4 of Trailer Park Boys, though Meg'll probably steal it. She's not a big Corner Gas fan (how?!?), but I've feeling my TPB DVDs are as good as gone. I'll have to hide them.

A lot of my frustration comes from the fact that Meg's going off to another tournament as soon as her summer term's over, which coincides with my trip. I want to go with her, and she wants me to go. I'll be two states away, but still she wants me to drop by.

Needless to say, visiting a poker tournament is not something that I can write off as a business expense. Plus I'll not have *that* much free time. But she wants me to show up anyway. So I'm trying to make that work. So that's something that's added into the mix.

Romeo's doing wonderfully, though he's being a grumpy and contrary measle when it comes time to take his antibiotics. So I picked up some lobster for him. Yes, I'm resorting to bribery; I can't grab the scruff of his neck and *make* him take it, since that's where he's had his surgery. But I managed to get the tomalley-laden lobster he loves, so that should make him happy. Pain in the ass. But I love him. :-) Even though he's raised being grumpy and contrary to an art form.

As it stands now, I could visit with Meg for about a day and a half (read: I watch her play, maybe play in a cheap satellite or two, and try to convince drunk guys that I'm actually married and not interested), and then go on my merry way. I think this is what I will do, because I like playing, I like seeing Meg do well even more, and drunk guys aside, I actually do like hanging out and meeting some of these people. Earlier this year, I had a blast and drank very little whilst hearing all of the good war stories. Yes, I sat and talked to old guys (as Meg would say). It was great. From all I'd learnt from them, I saved her somewhere along the lines of $80 a night in room expenses, and got her all kinds of free crap. Plus I got her into a private game. Call me the Ambassador of Venial Sins; Ancodia, Your Cruise Director sounds too damn perky.

And I was going through my not-blogging months, so I didn't get to explain in elaborate detail how I started hanging out with The Guys. I was trying to get away from Carl Spackler.

Well, he might as well have been.

And since Meg was mostly busy, I sought salvation in older guys. Really old guys are great. All they want to do is talk, I'm a great listener, and they chase off drunken lechers. Yay, that. So it all worked out, and I actually did learn an incredible amount. Plus they appreciated my helping them--saving seats, holding stuff and whatnot, when I wasn't playing. I didn't play a whole lot, because I'm just not good enough; it's a waste of entry money. So I spent a lot of my time talking to them, playing craps, and trying to dodge Carl Spackler like a gopher. :-D Oh--and trying to trade a recipe for poutine for a recipe for awesome bread pudding after tossing back a few too many sangrias, but that's a whole 'nother story. Let it suffice to say that Binion's didn't see the need for a high calibre poutine recipe, and I *still* think that bread pudding had amaretto as one of its ingredients, a theory that I've not been able to test, but shall eventually. I'm not big into things like bread pudding, but this was freaking *wonderful*.

And I'll print the god damned recipe here when (if) I get it right. Neener.

So speaking of eating, I'll be eating some of the expense of this trip, which I didn't want to do. But I think I'll benefit from the break, even if it's only for a day or so. And I'm still iffy about maybe leaving a day or so earlier, so that I could have a little more time before I have to get to actual work. So this might be ok. But I will miss Romeo, Weebie, and Squoosh. And that will suck. And I'm fighting the urge to go buy a smaller laptop; mine is a widescreen, but a pain in the butt to travel with like this. Sigh. I need to save my money to bail Squooshable out of storage. I don't *want* to put him in storage, damnit. But I'm afraid that if I don't, he might get his clock cleaned by one of the measles and get really hurt. And that would break my heart.

And I have got to get to sleep...sigh.

SFDPH

I'm prepping for travel in a few weeks.

I have a migraine. A really evil, raging one that could beat the stuffing out of an Excedrin headache. My fucking *eyes* are ringing. Not my ears, my *eyes*. Augh.

I don't want to go. I love travelling, but for *fun*. Not for work. I don't like keeping others' schedules. I'm not that anal. I don't like other entities' travel rules. They make no sense. And I don't want someone else to arrange it all for me, 'cos they'll fuck it up like they always have when I've let them in the past. And I don't want to leave Squoosh, so I'll have to board him--he's too young to leave loose for almost two weeks, especially when the other cats hate him still. And I'm nervous about travelling, and I'm nervous about Meg joining me for part of it and travelling alone, and geez...everything. And this is kind of a two-part travel thing, and I'm also worried that the second part might not go well.

And I have a migraine.

I *want* a vacation. I want to go take two weeks and go drive somewhere. At this point, I don't even care where. I want to run away. I hate this shit. And when I get back, Squoosh isn't even going to remember me. Romeo will be glad for the break--and as long as Weebie gets fed, she couldn't care less whether I'm here or not. But after almost two weeks, Squoosh is not going to know who I am. And what if I die? Who'll take care of Squooshable? And Rome and Weebie, but...I'm more worried about Squooshable in that respect.

Well, I guess Meg would take care of them. But it's not the same.

And I would be excited, really. One part of the trip thing is actually kind of an honour in the sense that it's flattering that they think I'm competent and all that, and everything. And it could be fun. But there's so much to worry about. What if Squoosh catches kennel cough? What if my house burns down? What if I say something stupid, or something...

I totally want to do this, but I don't want to do this. One good thing is that I'll get to sightsee some, and one of the places I will go is somewhere I have wanted to see for practically ever. I mean, as a child I actually got in trouble for stealing a magazine that had a picture of the place. I know...stealing is wrong. But I was a child, I wanted it, and I had no money of my own, and if I were to have asked that it be bought for me, I didn't think my answer would be good enough. But that's beside the point--there are good facets to this trip, but... I wish everything could be easier. That's all. Just easier. I think. I think that's it.

I have to give Romeo his antibiotics (from his tooth cleaning) and go to sleep. This is all just too much. I need to win the lottery and quit my jobs, just write stuff and teach in my spare time, and travel at my convenience. For pleasure.

Sigh.

Seventy mental reasons

::singing::

I love you...for seventy mental reasons...they may incarcerate me...

Ok, ok. I'll quit.

I don't know if that's a real (parody) song or not; one of my grandfathers used to sing it, to the tune of Sentimental Reasons. I wish I could remember all of the words. I'm singing it to Measle.

Romeo is fairly ok. He's sleeping a lot, but overall he looks to be doing pretty well. :-) Poor Measle. This was such an indignity. He's just climbed up with me to cuddle, so I should go.

g'niht

Remove The Wrenched Ankle For 100 Points

Dr Romeo Detroit, COMS, has his surgery tomorrow. It's to remove a benign growth and clean his teeth. I know it's minor, but I'm nervous.

Sigh.

Weirdos I Work With

In addition to the people I've had to call (or who have called me) in the course of working whilst dying that have told me I sound sexy, I actually had a coworker on Saturday tell me that. To my face!

As I'm gasping for breath and trying to stand six-or-more feet away in the hall and hoping that the rattling in my chest isn't too distracting, he gives me a "By the way...I know you don't feel good, but your voice sounds really sexy!" Oh, yeah? What am I supposed to wheeze to that? I just gave him a tight smile, and said, "well, thank you, I guess." To which he felt the need to continue with something along the lines of, "yeah...you really, really sound sexy! Your voice is driving me crazy!"

Please don't share. Jesus Christ. Don't make me hit you.

Freak.

Ancodia, the Barr's Baby

I'm still disease-ridden. My strep is gone-ish, but I have the Headcold From Hell, with a cough that Shall Not Die. It feels like my lungs were wallpapered, and someone's ripped all the wallpaper off.

Yeah, these parallels actually do just pop into my mind.

Yeah, I feel sorry for me, too. It's confuzzling in here ::knocks head::.

So I'm swilling cough syrup straight from the bottle as if there were no tomorrow. And I'm listening to DJ Screw for ambience.

Ok, ok...so I'm drinking Robitussin and listening to Drudge.

Yeah, yeah--I'm *so* unhip, it's a wonder my bum doesn't fall off. All the cool kids gots da purple stuff, and I'm stuck with this NASTY ASS tasting stuff that barely works. But I'd have to get a prescription for *real* cough syrup. Errr...lean. I forgot I'm turning this misery into meta-coolness. Yeah. But both of those would involve extra effort to get to the doctor. And then I'd have to make it. Neither of which I'm up to doing. ::cough, cough::. I'd make a pathetic junkie. No, really. It's why my doctor loves me. :-) But come Tuesday or Wednesday, if I still can't inhale without coughing up a lung, then I'll go back to see him. That has to be one of the worst ways to be awakened that I can think of.

Work was hell; when I left today, I gassed my office with Lysol and closed the door; I probably used three-quarters of the can. No, seriously. And Saturday I had to make a lunchtime run up to the drug store to get more cough suppressant; the clerk did the "how're you today?" thing, and all I could do was smile, or else I'd go into a coughing fit.

And I'm wheezing when I breathe. And I feel like Mike Tyson's been doing punch drills on my chest.

Romeo is just standing--he won't come near me--looking at me as if to say, "Geez; I hope you don't die."

Yeah; me too, Rome. Stand clear.

::cough, cough::

Poking Squooshable

Today Squoosh got his first round of kitten vaccinations; a different vet saw him, and gave him a thorough going-over in consideration of his history. He passed with flying colours! And he didn't make a fuss, or anything--when this vet was feeling his torso and stuff, Squoosh just looked at him as if he were saying, "Why you pet so hard?", and then started purring when the vet petted him normally. :-) And this was after the fecal exam, which he protested a little bit. Not that I can blame him on that one. Bleah. And I don't think he even noticed the shot; he just stood quietly and took it.

Yes, we're pretty secure and convinced that everyone in the world loves us. Must be nice. :-)

He even kissed the receptionist twice. I asked her to hold him for a second so that I could put my stuff back in my purse, and she as she held him, she looked down to talk to him and he gave her two kitty kisses. Shameless flirt.

I pried him away from his new girlfriend, and let him sit on my shoulder all the way home. I know it's bad to let him loose in the car, but he screams bloody murder when I put him in a carrier. Plus, he likes riding--he doesn't pant or anything, just looks out the window--cockheadedly--the entire time.

So we had Round One of the shots, plus a preventative deworming (he doesn't have them, but this is Just In Case), plus another Revolution treatment, and we weigh 4.09 lbs (which is double what we weighed last time, thereby accomplishing having almost literally doubled our weight every time we've been weighed. We manage this because our favourite food is food.), and we just generally had a very busy day today.

So I dropped him off at home, and met Meg and an attorney friend of hers who also teaches at her school for lunch around the corner. I figured Squoosh needed food and peace for a while, and I needed a break...and food. This place has the most incredible guacamole in the universe, bar none. It's perfectly seasoned, and you're not left still tasting it seven weeks later. What more could you ask for in a guac? They were on a break of sorts, and so we didn't have more than about an hour and a half, which was okay with me, 'cos I wanted to get back home to work and make sure Squoosh was all right after the vaccinations. I know the likelihood is minimal, but...hell; I worry. So I didn't take them up on their offer to go back to campus with them and keep chatting.

Now this morning I spent at Eviljob; I am still trying to avoid everyone in case I am still contagious. I'm on Biaxin but I still have the sore throat, gummed-up ears, sniffles, and General Misery 'cos I hate being sick. And I was told today that I am intimidating. Uh-huh. Intimidating. WTF?

Actually, I was told that I'm not as intimidating when I'm sick. I was sitting at the end of a table by myself, and had told everyone to steer clear (I couldn't avoid this short meeting), and I explained that I was sick. And promptly got told that that's okay as long as I stay "down there", they like me better sick anyway 'cos I'm less intimidating. I of course took it as a silly attempt at humour and smiled, then another person chirped up with a "Yes, you sure are", or somesuch. I had to wonder what in the hell is up with that...I don't think I'm intimidating. Now, a work-friend from another department that I used to work in--she's seen as intimidating. But me? Me? Her people under her have given her the nickname "Five-O" because they see her as wanting to put the screws to everyone for no reason--which is untrue, but whatever; you can fight City Hall, but you can't fight popular stereotypes. She just has a very strong work ethic, deplores laziness, and doesn't put up with bullshit. And she's a little too invested in silliness like goals and numbers, but that's her thing. Were I her subordinates, I'd rather work for someone like that, 'cos that way I don't get stuck holding the bag all of the damn time, and doing other people's work for them like I used to always get stuck at Eviljob. Everyone puts in their fair share and does the right thing, or everyone can take a walk.

But back to this intimidating thing; I'm distressed. I don't see myself that way, and I'm going to have to get a second opinion on this. Or a third. We'll see.

My doctor's visit was uneventful. I've learnt three new bad jokes, and took an upbraiding for not making an app't with another doctor that I've been putting off. So I pouted and told him not to scold me when I'm dying, and so he told me jokes. Sigh. He's funny. I guess working in an emergency room for twenty years can do that to you. :-) He's a lefty besides having awful handwriting, so I'm sure it's easier to ask than decypher his own writing, so he asked me if I'm allergic to anything. I told him that I'm only allergic to stupid people, and he said he was too, and that he's heard about some experimental drugs from Guam that he's looking forward to getting his hands on. What a nut. I love him--he's awesome.

And needless to say, when I went to cash the prescription the pharmacist looked at it like I'd had Squooshable write it and asked me if I knew what it was for, or if he needed to call. :-) Hee. I told him it was for a loopy thing and a big squiggle, BID. :-D

Sigh.

I am so sick, so sick, so sick...

What's with this? I clean with bleach, I get strep throat. It's like fricking clockwork. I can tell it's strep, 'cos I can feel it crawling up into my ears (and nose, but especially ears). This observation and correlation has been pooh-pooh'd by the medical community (including those in my family) whenever I've stuck it out before, but I'm telling you--I guarantee that I'll swab for strep.

I once bet a doctor at one of those walk-in clinics and won. :-) He insisted I had to get swabbed and wait; I just wanted the antibiotics and to leave, 'cos strep also gives me a raging headache. So I bet him the cost of the swabbing. He was good-natured about it; he just made a joke about how he figured I was one of those who want lay people to have powers of prescription.

Funny you should mention it...

Well, I'd be prudent with it.

But I don't get it: Bleach, cleaning, strep. Where's the connection? Maybe the bleach is simply irritating (much like myself), and the irritation allows an opportunistic and ambitious strep bacterium to get further than it normally would? That's personally what I'm figuring, though that would mean there's strep all over freaking everything practically, 'cos this happens honestly like every other or every third time I clean with bleach. Though it feels like it's every time. Maybe I need to quit licking things, no matter how much joy it brings me. :-) Kidding, kind of. I have a bad habit of sticking things in my mouth. Who in the hell knows why. It's something I've always done, since I was a child, and used to get slapped in the face to knock whatever it was out of my mouth so I wouldn't turn up with so many throat infections. My father's methods may have stunk, but his intentions were just. I guess.

I cleaned out Squoosh's bathroom (it's no longer the hall bathroom, it's Squoosh's bathroom), and completely disinfected everything mercilessly. I let him out a lot more now, but I'm keeping him up for the most part until Romeo's ear infection is gone (I figure another ear infection is the last thing Squoosh needs), and I get Squoosh vaccinated--which I was going to do today, but I just felt too crappy 'cos of this strep throat. And I'm kicking myself for going and putting my fingers in my mouth, and pens, and holding my keys there, and whatever else, because I'd made a mental note not to do that (like I always do), and then promptly forgot (like I always do).

Sigh. I deserve it. I'm going to have to try to find time to go to the doctor tomorrow, somehow. But at least with my regular doctor, he knows me well enough by now that he'll take on faith that I'm disease-ridden and let me off with a few bad jokes. :-) I love my regular doctor, even though I've been avoiding him for a few months now because I'm supposed to go get something done, and I'm dreading it. I'd talk about it, but it's not life-threatening, and I prefer to not think about it.

Damn, my throat hurts. And yes, I've gargled and stuff; no luck. But while I was in the bathroom, I did manage to almost step on Squoosh's head--he darted under my heel just as I was putting it down, and I didn't step much on him, but I screamed and that scared him, I think. Sigh. It's always something.

I hope I don't infect many people at Eviljob tomorrow. I'd call in sick, but it's only for a few hours, and it's not work getting a "demerit" (not their word, but it might as well be) on my "permanent record" (ditto) so that I can get coached about it at the end of the year.

Rock, rock, rock, rock, Rock-N-Roll Eviljob... Just call me Riff Ancodia. My Invisible Coworker can be Kate Rambeau.

Ok, sorry. Had to. This place drives you to it.

This is why everyone comes to work sick--you get penalised for being normal and staying home when you're sick. And freaking *everything* with them is a pattern. I'm not under such tight scrutiny anymore, but I could be again at any minute--it's all about who your manager is, and what they're going to enforce. Mine enforces almost nothing, but that's not the issue; someone I get later could go back to now and enforce things, which is seeming like a more real possibility every day--I am getting the feeling my manager is leaving. I haven't said anything to anyone, but I just have that vibe. This would be a major upheaval in our department, especially seeing as how we don't exactly have a really clear-cut one at this point in time.

But I'll worry about that when it happens. Right now, I'm focusing on not being miserable, and I'll just try to avoid everyone tomorrow and get to the doctor afterwards. And to not fuss at everyone tomorrow who tells me that I sound sexy. WTF is up with that, anyway? Disease-ridden people sound sexy? Psychos.

Especially on the phone, I get the "you have a really nice voice"; "you sound sexy"; "man, you sound hot", etc... It comes in varying degrees of offensive, depending upon how far away physically that person is, and how likely they think it is that I'll complain. Yeah--we all had to sit through two--count 'em, two--separate classes featuring Sexual Harassment Panda. Well, it would have been cooler if Sexual Harassment Panda had been in it ("That makes me a saaaad panda!"). And in person I still get the occasional comment, but I think it's the facelessness of the phone that pushes some people across the line of Things That Are Sane To Do, And Things That Are Just Freaking Nutty. Trying to pick someone up because you like their voice is Freaking Nutty. Particularly so if you haven't ever seen them. But yet, I get it. Sigh. I would think that, from an evolutionary perspective, we would shun the disease-ridden, and be able to pick out diseasled aspects of the voice...but apparently not. Go figure.

Typical.

What's going on in my life? Nothing. Everything is the same as always, for the most part.

Ummm...let's go watch the grass grow.

Whee.



Ok, now that that's over: My Aunt broke her knee and is in the path of the stupid hurricane, so she had to be moved into some convalescent center, and she hates it. But I can't hear about it because I guess she can't get to a phone right now. Or perhaps she's on the phone to another relative. As much as she kvetches (she *is* related to my mom, after all), they've probably taken away her phone and locked her in a broom closet.

This is like, proof positive that I come about my bent to bitch honestly, through the wonders of genetics. The only difference is that I'm diluted enough paternally that the only place I do it is here, for the most part. And in my head. :-)

Ok, ok--and to my cats.

Butsoanyway.

I am pretty sure that Aunt is ok. At least, she's more ok there than she would be just about anywhere else. Whatever it is has a generator and I'm sure is sturdily built, and all of that. So I'm kind if worried, but not like a total Ancodia-worry. It rates probably a four on a Likert scale. :-) I can live with fours. And I'm certain she'll call me bright and early tomorrow to tell me all about how abuzled she is there.

Squoosh is getting bigger!

I took some pictures of him (and Romeo and Weebie). I'll get around to posting them, but right now it'd involve getting up. Getting up is bad. My heels hurt. :-\ I think it's my damn shoes, combined with the fact that I didn't get to stop all weekend; Eviljob was a-hopping. But I'm glad that I got some pictures of him before he goes and gets all huge and stuff. His coat is so soft and shiny! I guess I have Science Diet and genes to thank for that. He has hidden tabby stripes, and some sprinkles of white fur that make him look like he's going prematurely grey. :-)

Dr Romeo Detroit, COMS, is just his regular grumpy self. He has a little ear infection that cropped up after the respiratory infection went away, and is grumpy 'cos he has to take eardrops twice a day.

Miss Weebie is her normal Princess Headbutt self. She sleeps, eats, and headbutts. I call her my invisible cat. She's very low maintenance, as long as you're ready for possible assassination attempts. If enough food accumulates in the house, she just might go for it one day. Princess Headbutt is a very mercenary little girl. Favourite phrase: "Will kill you for chicken! My chicken!" And she's stealthy; if the Navy SEALs ever start recruiting felines, Weebie's already half-trained--as long as the enemy doesn't try to pet her. When you pet her, she gets very loving and sheds a lot. And headbutts you. A lot.

And I'm crampy. Very, very crampy. Being crampy blows goats.

I have to figure out what in the hell I'm going to do. I know what I want to do in a life-sense, but...well...I'm having motivational issues. My actual career part is going as ok as it can be going right now, but there are still things I want to do. And I'm not doing them. And that annoys me.

So why don't I do them? I don't know. I really, honestly don't. Last year I swore to myself that I would, and I haven't. And all this weekend I've been grumpy at myself because of it. Maybe it's me being passive-aggressive towards myself; maybe it's fear. I really don't know.

:-) Maybe I should force myself to do it 'cos I want Squoosh to be proud of me.

Well, what's a better reason?

Oh. My. God.

This is one of those things that makes you wish that you could go back in time and do something, anything:

The Fifth Nail


I am sorry for his struggle, but... No; I don't have empathy. None at all. Whether he wants to be or not, he's Evil.

This post is bloody late, but unbowed.

All heathen children aside, I'm actually kind of fond of this country. We don't do everything right. We actually don't do a *lot* of things right (according to me), but this is still the greatest country on Earth. I hope it stays that way for a very, very long time.

I wanted to get all patriotic for the Fourth, but didn't get around to it. I'm not patriotic by nature; I've got this streak of dark, wary, cynical Eastern European humour that's been genetically bred into me as a result of generations of genes adapting to their environment, perhaps. And this cynicism makes me fear Papa Government, but do it whilst laughing because he's probably going to get us all anyway. Papa Government can do evil, evil things if left unchecked. Papa Government is to be feared.

We've got myriad problems here; each half of the country thinks the other half are fanatical idiots, and sometimes it seems as if both halves hate the government for transparently selfish reasons. We ignore the weak and sick, and laud the rich and powerful. If you cup your hand to your ear, you can hear our collective reading level dropping by the second. In this country, people who want to work can't, and people that don't want to work are subsidised. Animals starve to death and waste away from disease here every day--but what's more alarming is that humans do, too. In this Land of Plenty.

The greatest injustice and discrimination in this country today is not based on gender, race, religion, sexuality, or ideology--it's economic. And it's the Snuffleupagus of the -isms; it's not being addressed quickly enough because many don't think it's The Big One. Or sometimes that it even exists. We get distracted by shinier, sexier prejudices that are easier to point at and say, "come see the violence inherent in the system!"

But, economic bonds aside, we are free. If a sufficient number of people invest themselves in a cause, they actually can change the way that things are done here. We can turn all of this around at any moment. And there's no despot that needs to be unseated, no revolutionary bloodshed that has to be endured. All of that has already been done. We actually can get pretty far by using reason. By talking to the other side. Through compromise. And no one has to get thrown in prison for being a dissident, no one gets diagnosed with "sluggishly progressing schizophrenia", and no one get executed by firing squad because they say that Papa Government is to be feared.

This is a cool country. We've done the best we can. Even the wrong things that have been--and are being--done stem from the right reasons. We care. We think we're right. We believe it with the courage of our convictions--and over and over we've proven that we will sacrifice our fathers, sons, and brothers because we--collectively--believe that we are Right. As peculiarly as it may manifest itself sometimes, this country has always allied itself with freedom and liberty. And in this country, even the ones who disagree do so with civility. That is to be admired. As annoying and outrageous as some self-proclaimed "pundits" and "public intellectuals" may be sometimes, it should be acknowledged that they spoil us--they behave civilly. We have no coup attempts, no bombings, no raids. None of us live in fear of being arrested for what we have said; we will not lose our jobs and homes for what we have written against Papa Government. We have the potential to do *anything*, both individually, and as a country. And that is a great and awesome thing.

For all of my griping, I do love this country. There are more benefits and advantages here than anywhere else in the world. There is so much that needs to be changed--but if it's going to change anywhere, it has the best chance of changing here. And even though it happened a long time ago, I'm sure that those that made it happen were no different from us. They weren't necessarily smarter, or more disciplined, or more politically savvy. They just believed that Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness were worth fighting for before it became a popular idea. And they made a very cool country. The coolest.

Or, possibly, we're all inmates in the largest psikhushka ever conceived, and we all have sluggishly progressing schizophrenia. I guess it could happen.

Ok, ok...I can tamp it down for a bit, but I can't control it forever. Geez. :-)

Searching for Billy Pilgrim

Well, the group-thing went great, and I arrived home in time to not miss a single minute (it seemed) of my loofly redneck neighbour children and some of their friends letting off their own fireworks.

How cute.

I tried to go to sleep because I had to be back at Eviljob early, but I couldn't. I live in fear of one of those little heathens doing something clever like sticking a firecracker up a neighbourhood cat's ass.

No, I'm not being mean--there are some pretty horrid children over there.

So I decided to do my civic duty and keep my front lights on and sleep on the sofa in the front room; I end up there often enough, trying to fall asleep by listening to boring people on CNN, anyway. One more night won't kill me, and from there I can listen for whispers of "Hey! Grab the cat!!". I finally did manage to get to sleep, and immediately launched into the strangest dream... I was walking down the streets of Dresden, back in 1945. It was so real, I could smell the bratwurst.

Ick. Bratwurst.

I woke up when the bombing stopped, in time to see the lights of the Gestapo parked outside!

Holen Sie die Juden heraus! Wir wissen, daß Sie die Juden haben! *

Oh, waitasec...someone finally called the police.

I went outside, blearily bathrobed, to make sure all cat asses were firecracker-free, and had a yard klatch with my neighbour, Barbara. Barbara and her husband are probably in their mid- to late-fifties, and most of the time when I meet Barbara, it's when we've stepped outside to see what the rednecks are up to this time. Barbara has a behemoth cat named Molly who prefers it outside some nights. All of my cats are indoors only, but it'd been Molly I was actually most concerned over; if one of the redneck children went after Molly, she might not run away, figuring it was too much work. Molly's trucking a pretty hefty load, and I guess you have a different set of cost-benefit ratios to consider when you're a cat as big as Molly. Thankfully, Molly was parked at Barbara's feet.

I asked (quietly, 'cos voices really carry at night, so you can imagine the fireworks) what was going on, and Barbara swore me to secrecy--she'd finally had enough and called the police. I told Barbara about my dream, and she said that although she wasn't in Dresden in 1945 either, she expects it sounded much the same. Apparently our beloved neighbour-monkeys confused the 4th of July with New Years Eve, and had a spectacular finale all set for after midnight. One that seemed as if it were prepared to continue for quite a while. I guess the finale part of "spectacular finale" escapes our young varlets.

Barbara put up with about ten minutes of it, and then called the Gestapo. I don't blame her--it does no good to try to talk to anyone in that family; previous attempts to gently coax Him and Her into (for example) not calling the monkeys home by making a loud TWAAARRRPPPP! somehow on some speaker-thing their truck has did nothing. Nor will explanations of the leash laws in this county. It's all a waste of breath.

Though I'd not been so clever as to think of calling the police--I'll have to remember that one. And hope they move. Soon. My nerves can't take this much longer. I don't live in Dresden for a reason.

It warms my heart to see that our country's independence means so much to these kids. No, rilly--it does. I wonder what they think we have independence from... Chinese dragons that we scared off with firecrackers?

I'm tempted to take a video camera over there, and interview them, kind of like when Howard Stern quizzes strippers. I think it would be both rewarding and educational.

And lord knows I can't wait for Kristallnacht...errr...New Years. I know, I know...it happened before Dresden, but I've come unstuck in time. These things happen.







*I'm half-Jewish; I get to make jokes like this. Yes, I think it's funny. Yes, I probably need therapy. And yes, I did too lose relatives. As with everything else, I figure laugh or cry--your pick. And I don't speak German fluently or well (nor do I care to), so it's for purposes of ambience, anyway. :-)

Happy Squoosh of July!

I have today off, yet my plate is full. Auk!

Today I have to write a script--basically directions--for the channelling Rin Tin Tin thing; I've put it off all weekend, and it's supposed to be in tomorrow. And I've got to write something impressive for the other thing I'm working on--that one I've been dragging my feet on for a week. Pffft.

Then I want to get around to taking pictures of Squoosh, then I want to get ready to go do the group fireworks thing. I hope like hell they're amenable to food, since I'll not have had the time to eat until then. Double plus pffft. I know I could do something about it right now, but that involves stopping what I'm doing. Or maybe I can pour a glass of soymilk while all six thousand .pdfs I've requested by interlibrary loan are downloading. Yeah...that sounds like a plan. Why it takes a gazillion years to log on remotely to an allegedly state-of-the-art system at my university, I'll never know--but at least I'm halfway logged on now. Woo-hoo! And I should be grateful that I don't have to telnet anymore, like we did a few years ago; that logged on faster, but was fraught with more problems than I could even begin to address in this little box, and I avoided using it whenever possible.

And I'm glad to put the spooky poultrygoose behind me! Eek. This Blogger poultrygoose should have waited until Halloween, when it was more appropriate; I'm obviously being haunted by a poultrygoose (or poultrygeese!) with no sense of timing, or poultrygoose panache.

Ya Rabotayet

Sigh. Had to sit through one of Sophie's meandering explanations of etymology today. Not that I think she's a native speaker of English, or anything. Well, I have my doubts. I've mentioned before that she's an expert in everything, yes? Well, almost everything. Anything in which she is not a self-proclaimed expert is worthless--and that's why I had to sit through three hours of Sophie and Fluffer arguing today. Sophie knows everything there is to know (she thinks) about computers and such, and thinks knowing about celebrities is worthless. Fluffernut McWhinymuffin knows about celebrities (though to her credit does not claim to be an expert), and thinks our group should leave the computerstuffs to a smaller group that is culled from computer-types, and the Sophie should focus and stay on task--her task, which is not computerstuffs.

As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree with Fluffer on this one.

But Sophie has a hard time focusing and staying on task, because she has the attention span of a radish. It's not like an ADD-thing, it's like a she's an undisciplined, unfocused, little flit thing. Needless to say, most of the things Sophie believes herself to excel in are typically self-induced delusions. But whatever; I've become accustomed to her, and know not to take on faith most of the things that come out of her mouth. I can only hope that I'm still around when she gets her well-deserved kick in the tush for being a know-it-all.

That's why I didn't correct her when she went off on her ridiculously pedantic explanation of how a certain word comes from something it just simply doesn't. Something very similar to saying "dynamic" comes from the word "dynamics". Sigh. Why should I bother to correct her? I mean, true, she makes us look like idiots when she says things like that, but she does this stuff all of the time, so what's one more thing? Plus, when you do try to correct her she usually gets defensive. So I don't bother usually, just like I'm trying to train myself off getting irritated at either of them; there's no point in it.

And as usual, I'm up again way too late. Time for bed and hopefully I won't dream of a three-hour Clash of the Titan Egos; that would be too awful. :-)

Apres-poultrygoose items

I was so distracted by the poultrygeese last night, that I forgot to post anything I'd thought about posting! Clearly I was scared out of my wits! :-)

I am going with a group from Eviljob out to watch fireworks. Now that's different. And I mean in a good way; I feel all included and stuff. :-)

Yeah, I don't usually feel included, sort-of. I say sort-of because I usually really *do* have too much to do to be able to justify going and doing whatever with whomever. But I've accepted, which I don't often do.

I think it will be fun!

Blogger Possessed By 1870 US Congress

Ok, that does it--I'm calling Art Bell.

This is some freaky, spooky stuff whose freakiness is exceeded only by its spookiness! I've got goosepinkles just thinking about it!

I posted my standard "why must Sophie continue to breathe, I think if put to popular vote, it would be found unnecessary" (Ya Rabotayet) whine on 1 July. It *posted* on 1 July.

Now Blogger lists it as posting 4 July.

Right now, it's 2 July--swear to peanut brittle. This is almost as weird as when Blogger changed my font to black. And I think I was actually *visited* by UFO Phil! That's like, tres way cool, but in a spooky kind of way that is both...well, spooky and cool.

Oh, quit. You know what I mean.

And I just saved this post, to see where it would go, and it went under 2 July, behind the 4 July post that wasn't. It's THIS kind of stuff that makes this better than a diary! I mean, I'd probably pay a *lot* for a goth emo punk haunted diary on eBay. Really--I haven't comparison shopped or anything, but I'd bet that one would be bidding against like, casinos and stuff for it. Plus, it would probably be already written in; I'd also think that just any ol' regular canned-spirit goth emo punk haunted diary that wasn't written in would have just some old assembly-line spirit haunting it. And, I mean...how spooky is that?

Not very.

I would think that an assembly-line spirit would probably not give it more than a lick and a promise, as far as hauntings go. I mean--what's their motivation? Exactly! It would be a total jobsworth spirit, saying "Woooo. Boo already." in a very bored voice whenever you opened it up, then that'd be it. That's not a *good* haunting; that's like a dollar-store ghost-in-a-jar haunting ("Wooo. I am a spooky haunted jar. Wooo."). But what's happened here, well...that's not just some *ordinary* haunting. Probably assembly-line spirits don't go moving things around and stuff. They probably don't even have a union, or anything. So for truly authentic hauntings, you have to go with something that's *actually* haunted or possessed--not those assembly-line spirits that get smooshed into jars and diaries in third world countries by five year olds operating heavy machinery in sweatshops run by Kathie Lee Gifford for three cents a week.

So this is a real haunting, for sure. WoooOOO0000ooooOOoo!

I think Blogger has poultrygeese.