Friday, September 30, 2005
I sold the Renoir and the TV set
I’ve had a busy week. It wasn’t *supposed* to have been a busy week, but it turned out that way. Everyone was *supposed* to be all occupied with a conference (at which our program was, well, involved in about a million different ways—everything from playing host to presenting crap, to directing tourists to the bathrooms, regardless of whose group you belong in). Of course, I bowed out of all of the hostie stuff, ‘cos I have things to do, and can maybe actually GET THEM DONE FOR ONCE with everyone occupied. Them all being this occupied meant that I was free to do all of the little petty things I am usually too busy to do, like actually getting signatures instead of forging them (oh, let’s not talk about that—it’s all in the past, really), having two THREE HOUR LONG WITH NO BREAK sit-down talks with DURR about the state of Job II’s union, fixing everything DURR wanted fixed (even if it isn’t mine), writing this, and that, and other stuff, and sleeping once or twice. That sort of thing. Plus going out to this conference (which was fairly local sort-of, which is why We-Alls were playing hostie and asked to volunteer to be on thrilling projects like the Coffee Kitty Committee…screw it; we were the slave labour) and listening to people talk and trying to not fall asleep because I’d only had three hours’ worth of sleep the night before.
‘Pants was there—she came in especially for this ‘cos this is the last round of stuff with us that she has her name on, and plus her new advisor has authored like, ten books in this field, so she had to go with her new group, besides. But she ended up hanging around me for the whole time, ‘cos I’m cooler. ;-) Seriously though, she was with me 98% of the time, and it wasn’t unpleasant. She’s changing, and I’m happy about that. Well, at least I *hope* she’s changing; I *think* she’s changing. We had a couple of decent snack minutes and liquid lunches in this beautiful area there, and that was nice. And she got a kick out of the stupidity, which she has the luxury of doing now that it’s not affecting her directly. Go to hell, ‘Pants, and I mean that with love.
Butsoanyway.
And it’s annoying, but I also had to show up at some really boring-ass presentations (think: Planning to Plan and Seventy-eight Reasons Why Dust Is Your Friend) for purely political, “who loves you, baby?” reasons. Those are the worst of all, ‘cos you want to fall asleep the most. They suck. If they’re boring (which they all too often are), the lack of sensory input to your ears results in you focussing on things like how numb your butt is getting, how your feet aren’t comfortable in any position, how hungry you are, how much you are paying for parking, &c.
Plus, I was looking forward to getting away from the convention centre off and on because some things were just too brutal to have to face. Whether it was the weird guy who kept making comments that were a little quasi-perverse and asking me if I wanted to go swimming (no, I am not kidding) to wanting to duck-and-cover after one of our group’s presentations, ‘cos I had nothing to do with it and I thought it went horribly, and it was clear that A Certain Person was talking out of her ass, and yet here she’s got our project’s RCMP logo on her presentation…oy, vey. Made me just want to run out with the presentation schedule in front of my face, saying “No pictures! No comments!” Notes scribbled with ‘Pants read,
Ancodia: omg, pls tell me she didn’t just say that!
‘Pants: Holy shit
Ancodia: get me out of here! they know I’m with her!
‘Pants: Holy fucking shit!!!!
Ancodia: omg omg omg why won’t she shut up?!?
‘Pants: Oh, this is bad
Ancodia: why in the hell did you let me sit up here? we can’t sneak out!
‘Pants: That was your idea to be supportive, not mine.
Ancodia: oh, shut up.
Aha! *That* is why they gave me this conference bag—to hide my head in! :-) They should cut eyeholes in them. Bastards.
And naturally, *my* stuff has the same logo, don’chano.
So on the last day, today, I went out early; the plan was to wear a wig and fake moustache (ok, I’m kidding) go to two lectures, and then go get roaring drunk for a few hours with ‘Pants in a nearby Overpriced Hotel Bar, then maybe go walk around and make asses of ourselves, and maybe hit their local mall or something and drink some more.
Like I need to go shopping whilst drunk. Yeah.
Then I remembered as I was driving out there this morning that I *can’t* do shit, ‘cos I have to leave at two to drive back to campus to talk about What Ancodia is Doing to a smaller undergrad “lab group” (I wouldn’t call it that, but whatever), something I volunteered to do about a month ago. ‘cos they need the experience, or whatever. Long story. Anyway, I had remembered it faithfully for all this time, to have it slip my mind at the last second. Typical.
Butsoanyway.
And I *needed* to get drunk, ‘cos I’ve put a billion miles on my car this week, I’ve sat through things that have been hellish, and I had to put up with Sophie’s stupidity and temper tantrum, which is an epic novel in itself. I’ll write about that later.
So my week just vanished, I’ve little to show for it ‘cept this nice commemorative bag that I have poked eyeholes in whilst sitting in the back row of a lecture using one of the gift envelope openers one of the vendors was handing out, and I didn’t get to get drunk. Phooey.
And I have to get to sleep, so that I can get to Eviljob tomorrow. Oh, hell.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Izzit a word?
I didn't want to do it, but I've just turned on word verification for comments. It's to keep the spammers out. If it doesn't work, then I'll take it back off. For now, if you're human, just cope.
Sigh.
Asshole spammers.
Sigh.
Asshole spammers.
It is a common word down our way...
Giggle!
Quote of the Day: If I had any feelings, you would have just really hurt them.
No, I didn’t say it; it was New Guy, when we were teasing him about getting into (yet another) car wreck. Ok…enough fun, and back to work! :-)
I have a list of things to do that is literally a mile long…okay, maybe not *literally*. But if it were double-spaced in eighteen-point font, it would probably wallpaper a small bathroom. Maybe.
Oh, whatever.
Today after our meeting, I wandered over to our friendly Dep’t of University Rules, Regulations, and Nonsensical Bureaucracy to find out why one of my proposals had vanished into a black hole. For the record, it was because I had changed the title (ummm…no), and they became confused (oh, do tell!). So I have to reprint my addendum (which they decided was not an addendum, but a revision) with the “correct” title, and resubmit it ‘cos to do otherwise wouldn’t be bureaucratic enough. Augh! But I see the errors of my ways; I shouldn’t have assumed that I was dropping off the equivalent of a memo, and just stuck a header on there that was supposed to be an identifier. But no. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
And since I was there, I picked up a bunch of other people’s (from our group) that they’d not been notified about. Or, well, they had. Some of them had been told multiple times, a couple from as far back as July. Good ol’ DURR has been emailing my TPTB, and the word hasn’t been being passed on. *Why* it hasn’t been passed on is a whole ‘nother issue. TPTB says it is because they weren’t received; DURR says they were received. I don’t know, and I am staying out of it, although I have my theories. Nevertheless, I rescued them from perdition, and their owners can now redeem them. Or whatever.
And when I got home, I found that Squoosh had taken his tiny catnip-filled stuffed teddy that he beats the living shit out of, and drowned it in his water dish. The poor little lifeless teddybody was just floating around. This would have taken concentrated effort—picking it up in his mouth and carrying it into the room where the water dish is.
Whyfor you do this, Squooshable?
So the DURR stuff was what I was working on until I got bored just now. Ok, ok…I was fixing some of them. Well, it is sort-of in my job description. Sort-of; I am supposed to lend guidance, not do the whole damn thing, but some of the changes are piddling. Plus, I felt like being nice.
But now I am bored and tired. And laughing again…someone I work with has just sent me a list of “student malapropisms”, and they have me in tears. One of my favourites (and I’ve not made it all the way through yet!) is, "The researcher in the lab coat told the volunteers to deliver shocks. The dependent variable was Millograms of obedience."
Oh, that’s really *quite* funny, and I think I’ve stumbled upon a new method of measuring blind obedience to authority—Milgrams! LOL! As in, “I finally had my hedge pruned back after our Homeowners’ Association applied about a thousand Milgrams of pressure”. Oh, brilliant! :-)
Oh, and another one: “Subjects were randomly assigned to gender”.
Ummm…I think I know that student.
Another one: “[The informed consent form] mentions that the study is entirely voluntary and that animosity is assured”.
I want to take that quote and nail it to the goddamned front door of DURR—I’m not so bad after all! HA! And didn’t they mean contrafibularity? Though I confuse the two, as DURR keeps mentioning, so I’m not the authority to consult by any means with regard to the difference between animosity and contrafibularity. Even if you’re gunning to be dead wrong, I’m not the girl to ask! And as I told them, I am anaspeptic, frasmotic, even compunctuous to have caused them such pericombobulation. Which, of course, I am. Deeply. Rilly.
Butsoanyway.
Please to Rate as Most to Least Synthetic Dep’t: “Next, subjects responded to questions on a Lycra scale.”
Well, I’m Single and Lonely Dep’t: “I had a student define the independent variable as the "factor that the experimenter fondles".
Tukey the Turkey Wishes You a Happy Bonferroni Dep’t: “I had heard of this rare bird, but only last week spotted it in the wild, perched innocuously in a doctoral student's comp exam on research methods: THE TURKEY TEST”.
…a Fud student?!?! Shit…must be one of ours.
Perhaps That’s What I’m Doing Wrong Dep’t: “when the variables that are of interest to researchers cannot be easily observed, many times researchers will turn to surgery."
You Make My Brain Hurt Dep’t: "Name three axes of the DSM", a student replied "Germany, Italy, and Japan”.
And If That Doesn’t Work, We Dose You With Singerin Dep’t: "This experiment was about labelling emotions. The researchers administered doses of Schachterin."
STOP SAYING WORDS! Dep’t: “If it wasn’t for people who didn’t want to confirm, imagine what America would be. We would believe everything in the media, there would be no performance artists or courtrooms. Even worse, we would still be England”.
Have You Been Talking To Sophie? Dep’t: “In Stage 2 [sleep], 50% of your body is asleep”.
Ummm…That Would Have Been Me, and It Was Just A Little Meth Dep’t: “On Friday I attended a presentation given by a psychology professor on crack cocaine”.
I SAID, STOP SAYING WORDS! Dep’t: “This is a field that I find very interesting for the fact that to my knowledge I never knew about it”.
And lastliest:
Out of the Mouths of Babes Dep’t: “One of the primary goals of behavioural research is to get your work published in a journal”.
Don’t be ree-dik-u-luss…why in the hell else would one do it? Although my secondary goal is to bring World Peace through empirical research, and my tertiary goal is to pick up hot chicks. But that’s just me—I’m magnanimous like that.
God, if there is a god, save me from undergraduates, if there are undergraduates …or something like that.
Lord, I’m addicted; I haven’t laughed this hard in…well, actually I laugh a lot, but I’ve got abysmally low standards.
:-P
Quote of the Day: If I had any feelings, you would have just really hurt them.
No, I didn’t say it; it was New Guy, when we were teasing him about getting into (yet another) car wreck. Ok…enough fun, and back to work! :-)
I have a list of things to do that is literally a mile long…okay, maybe not *literally*. But if it were double-spaced in eighteen-point font, it would probably wallpaper a small bathroom. Maybe.
Oh, whatever.
Today after our meeting, I wandered over to our friendly Dep’t of University Rules, Regulations, and Nonsensical Bureaucracy to find out why one of my proposals had vanished into a black hole. For the record, it was because I had changed the title (ummm…no), and they became confused (oh, do tell!). So I have to reprint my addendum (which they decided was not an addendum, but a revision) with the “correct” title, and resubmit it ‘cos to do otherwise wouldn’t be bureaucratic enough. Augh! But I see the errors of my ways; I shouldn’t have assumed that I was dropping off the equivalent of a memo, and just stuck a header on there that was supposed to be an identifier. But no. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
And since I was there, I picked up a bunch of other people’s (from our group) that they’d not been notified about. Or, well, they had. Some of them had been told multiple times, a couple from as far back as July. Good ol’ DURR has been emailing my TPTB, and the word hasn’t been being passed on. *Why* it hasn’t been passed on is a whole ‘nother issue. TPTB says it is because they weren’t received; DURR says they were received. I don’t know, and I am staying out of it, although I have my theories. Nevertheless, I rescued them from perdition, and their owners can now redeem them. Or whatever.
And when I got home, I found that Squoosh had taken his tiny catnip-filled stuffed teddy that he beats the living shit out of, and drowned it in his water dish. The poor little lifeless teddybody was just floating around. This would have taken concentrated effort—picking it up in his mouth and carrying it into the room where the water dish is.
Whyfor you do this, Squooshable?
So the DURR stuff was what I was working on until I got bored just now. Ok, ok…I was fixing some of them. Well, it is sort-of in my job description. Sort-of; I am supposed to lend guidance, not do the whole damn thing, but some of the changes are piddling. Plus, I felt like being nice.
But now I am bored and tired. And laughing again…someone I work with has just sent me a list of “student malapropisms”, and they have me in tears. One of my favourites (and I’ve not made it all the way through yet!) is, "The researcher in the lab coat told the volunteers to deliver shocks. The dependent variable was Millograms of obedience."
Oh, that’s really *quite* funny, and I think I’ve stumbled upon a new method of measuring blind obedience to authority—Milgrams! LOL! As in, “I finally had my hedge pruned back after our Homeowners’ Association applied about a thousand Milgrams of pressure”. Oh, brilliant! :-)
Oh, and another one: “Subjects were randomly assigned to gender”.
Ummm…I think I know that student.
Another one: “[The informed consent form] mentions that the study is entirely voluntary and that animosity is assured”.
I want to take that quote and nail it to the goddamned front door of DURR—I’m not so bad after all! HA! And didn’t they mean contrafibularity? Though I confuse the two, as DURR keeps mentioning, so I’m not the authority to consult by any means with regard to the difference between animosity and contrafibularity. Even if you’re gunning to be dead wrong, I’m not the girl to ask! And as I told them, I am anaspeptic, frasmotic, even compunctuous to have caused them such pericombobulation. Which, of course, I am. Deeply. Rilly.
Butsoanyway.
Please to Rate as Most to Least Synthetic Dep’t: “Next, subjects responded to questions on a Lycra scale.”
Well, I’m Single and Lonely Dep’t: “I had a student define the independent variable as the "factor that the experimenter fondles".
Tukey the Turkey Wishes You a Happy Bonferroni Dep’t: “I had heard of this rare bird, but only last week spotted it in the wild, perched innocuously in a doctoral student's comp exam on research methods: THE TURKEY TEST”.
…a Fud student?!?! Shit…must be one of ours.
Perhaps That’s What I’m Doing Wrong Dep’t: “when the variables that are of interest to researchers cannot be easily observed, many times researchers will turn to surgery."
You Make My Brain Hurt Dep’t: "Name three axes of the DSM", a student replied "Germany, Italy, and Japan”.
And If That Doesn’t Work, We Dose You With Singerin Dep’t: "This experiment was about labelling emotions. The researchers administered doses of Schachterin."
STOP SAYING WORDS! Dep’t: “If it wasn’t for people who didn’t want to confirm, imagine what America would be. We would believe everything in the media, there would be no performance artists or courtrooms. Even worse, we would still be England”.
Have You Been Talking To Sophie? Dep’t: “In Stage 2 [sleep], 50% of your body is asleep”.
Ummm…That Would Have Been Me, and It Was Just A Little Meth Dep’t: “On Friday I attended a presentation given by a psychology professor on crack cocaine”.
I SAID, STOP SAYING WORDS! Dep’t: “This is a field that I find very interesting for the fact that to my knowledge I never knew about it”.
And lastliest:
Out of the Mouths of Babes Dep’t: “One of the primary goals of behavioural research is to get your work published in a journal”.
Don’t be ree-dik-u-luss…why in the hell else would one do it? Although my secondary goal is to bring World Peace through empirical research, and my tertiary goal is to pick up hot chicks. But that’s just me—I’m magnanimous like that.
God, if there is a god, save me from undergraduates, if there are undergraduates …or something like that.
Lord, I’m addicted; I haven’t laughed this hard in…well, actually I laugh a lot, but I’ve got abysmally low standards.
:-P
Saturday, September 24, 2005
I get the sensation of...wanting to throttle you.
Not much today, just the typical Eviljob crap…maybe I should turn this into a political blog, or something. :-) Well, I *do* have a new excuse to eat peppermint patties for dinner, even were I to be a diabetic heart-disease ridden cancer survivor.
Ready?
Because peppermint is calming. Everyone knows this. Lavender is calming also, but lavender and chocolate wouldn’t taste as good.
Thanks, Mom; I didn’t know that.
And she will still argue with me that chocolate-covered raisins count as fruit.
Sigh.
Yorks and Andes for *everyone*!
Ready?
Because peppermint is calming. Everyone knows this. Lavender is calming also, but lavender and chocolate wouldn’t taste as good.
Thanks, Mom; I didn’t know that.
And she will still argue with me that chocolate-covered raisins count as fruit.
Sigh.
Yorks and Andes for *everyone*!
Friday, September 23, 2005
umm-hmmm, umm-hmmm.
Sigh… As I type, I’m talking to Nastypants, who is deserving of a new name. I will get around to it. She is at her new school, in her new program, and happy, so I guess that’s good. I have been talking with her for over an hour, and not writing anything here, so I’m just “umm hmmm”-ing her right now. :-) Well, I was all interactive before. I have a maximum, and I have met it; plus, she doesn’t know a difference. Maybe (I am hoping) she and I can have a normal relationship now that she’s happy and…more distant.
Wow…an hour and forty-minute conversation. Lord. Ok, I have hung up now. For the record, she quit on me, not the other way around. :-)
Butsoanyway.
I shopped with chickens at this (here’s where I get strange, fasten your seatbelts) hardware store (I know; hard to picture me in a hardware store) in this cute little town I like so much. It’s a mom-n-pop store, and they have all kinds of weird things; a few years ago I bought an incense burner that came with pine incense for like, $5 or less; not more than a year ago, I saw the *exact same* log-cabin incense burner in (I think) an LL Bean or Land’s End catalogue for something like $20. I just love this hardware store. :-) And they have chickens running around outside. And a fried chicken place that is also in the same plaza, so it’s like, triply perverted to see these chickens running around.
Butsoanyway.
So I shopped some, and hung out in this town (I just love the Main Street, USA look), and then I drove home and dyed my hair whilst watching more episodes of Cold Case Files than I could count. No, I don’t want to be Clarice Starling, I just love that sort of thing; it satisfies my Inner Stage Manager to see how some of this stuff gets worked-through, I think. Plus I think serial killers and criminals are interesting. I didn’t say *cool*, I said *interesting*. I didn’t dye my hair black, like I wanted to, but way darker than it was. It was fun. Now I have to go back and do a protein treatment and then some Ineral to keep it from frizzing out. Eventually.
Fluffer had a fight on Monday with our TPTB, and then didn’t show up for our meeting today. I guess time will tell as far as what is going on. I still think she’s a vacuous bitch, and I hope she falls off a mountain. Not that I would wish ill on anyone… Oh, who in the hell am I kidding? Die, Fluffer; die.
Butsoanyway.
Even ‘pants agreed with me that she’s very disrespectful, rude, and self-centred (Yes, I said ol’ ‘pants *agreed*. That is when you know it’s bad, geez….).
I got my hair done today, and she cut it a little short, but I guess I’ll live. It’s still a fantastic cut, I’m just accustomed to long hair and as of this afternoon, it’s only just beneath my shoulders. I’ll have to remember to tell her not to do that next time, but it’s really not important—she’s still Goddess of the Shears. :-)
And today I had to do double-time to turn something in electronically, and had to sign up in another class to present something…I don’t know what. Eek. Hope I figure it out before November 4th, or whenever.
And I’m now *officially* behind in a side-project that I took on over the Summer. This is what I get for screwing around so much.
And I have to be at Eviljob all weekend…again. Pfft. I had better get some sleep.
Wow…an hour and forty-minute conversation. Lord. Ok, I have hung up now. For the record, she quit on me, not the other way around. :-)
Butsoanyway.
I shopped with chickens at this (here’s where I get strange, fasten your seatbelts) hardware store (I know; hard to picture me in a hardware store) in this cute little town I like so much. It’s a mom-n-pop store, and they have all kinds of weird things; a few years ago I bought an incense burner that came with pine incense for like, $5 or less; not more than a year ago, I saw the *exact same* log-cabin incense burner in (I think) an LL Bean or Land’s End catalogue for something like $20. I just love this hardware store. :-) And they have chickens running around outside. And a fried chicken place that is also in the same plaza, so it’s like, triply perverted to see these chickens running around.
Butsoanyway.
So I shopped some, and hung out in this town (I just love the Main Street, USA look), and then I drove home and dyed my hair whilst watching more episodes of Cold Case Files than I could count. No, I don’t want to be Clarice Starling, I just love that sort of thing; it satisfies my Inner Stage Manager to see how some of this stuff gets worked-through, I think. Plus I think serial killers and criminals are interesting. I didn’t say *cool*, I said *interesting*. I didn’t dye my hair black, like I wanted to, but way darker than it was. It was fun. Now I have to go back and do a protein treatment and then some Ineral to keep it from frizzing out. Eventually.
Fluffer had a fight on Monday with our TPTB, and then didn’t show up for our meeting today. I guess time will tell as far as what is going on. I still think she’s a vacuous bitch, and I hope she falls off a mountain. Not that I would wish ill on anyone… Oh, who in the hell am I kidding? Die, Fluffer; die.
Butsoanyway.
Even ‘pants agreed with me that she’s very disrespectful, rude, and self-centred (Yes, I said ol’ ‘pants *agreed*. That is when you know it’s bad, geez….).
I got my hair done today, and she cut it a little short, but I guess I’ll live. It’s still a fantastic cut, I’m just accustomed to long hair and as of this afternoon, it’s only just beneath my shoulders. I’ll have to remember to tell her not to do that next time, but it’s really not important—she’s still Goddess of the Shears. :-)
And today I had to do double-time to turn something in electronically, and had to sign up in another class to present something…I don’t know what. Eek. Hope I figure it out before November 4th, or whenever.
And I’m now *officially* behind in a side-project that I took on over the Summer. This is what I get for screwing around so much.
And I have to be at Eviljob all weekend…again. Pfft. I had better get some sleep.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Yay!
Blogger doesn't want to cooperate, so fine; i'll email from my phone. Had fun today. Went shopping with chickens. Real ones. B'gok! Bought stuff for Meg and my cats. Wanted to bring Squoosh a chicken, but the owner said no. Buzzkill. came home and watched Cold Case Files and dyed my hair burgundy. Meant to drink, but forgot to. End trans. :-)
Eek! I'm older!
Even though I have cleared today off for me-things, I still woke up early. Sigh. I can’t help it, as much as I want(ed) to sleep in for a while; I was awakened just a little bit ago by another Ancodia Weirddream®. Usually—recently—I don’t remember my dreams. They’re probably just as peculiar as they’ve always been, I’m just not recalling them when I wake up, and that’s really not been bothering me as much as one would think it would, or should. It saves me the trouble of dismissing them as meaning nothing at all (I am an activation-synthesis-believing-in kind of girl) and then spending time wondering if perhaps any of it had even a hint of meaning (I am trying to keep an open mind).
So check out what I have to put up with: I was in my car, one of my old cars, I think alone. It was night, and I was driving around in a subdivision that was confusing. Then, out of nowhere comes three red compact cars—the ninja cars—and they start trying to chase me, and then the subdivision police/security start chasing all of us. I had to do something covert in the sub-d, and the red ninja cars were trying to stop me (they are ninja cars because they didn’t just stay on the road, they jumped and flipped and were all stealthy), so I was having to dodge them. That part of the dream was like a video game, and it seemed to last a really long time; it was a very involved chase. Finally, I ditched them for a moment, so I parked my car in the shadows and took off on foot, ‘cos I figured that I would be harder to find that way. And I was carrying a bag of frozen vegetables, so that I would blend in better; I think it was a bag of broccoli.
This is usually about where I become pretty certain that dreams don’t mean much of anything. See my point? Frozen broccoli makes one nondescript?
Butsoanyway.
So I’m walking through this maze of sidewalks in one of the sub-d’s islands of houses—there are no roads here, so the ninja cars can’t see me, though they’re going to figure it out soon and go looking for me on foot, I’m sure. I have some mysterious destination that I am headed towards at a casual-but-speedy power-walking pace and then all of a sudden, a voice asks me “what are we going to do?” it was a friend of mine who died many years ago. In my dream, I wasn’t shocked or surprised—she’d been with me the whole time, or just showed up…I don’t know. I told her I was working on that, and then we saw a woman out walking. I figured that I could invite the both of us back to her place and that way we would get away from the ninja cars, so I went up to her and started talking, and she invited us back to her house. When we got there, it was obvious that she lived with other people. This woman went into another room to do something, and my dead friend started being nosy, looking through shelves and drawers in the living room, even though I told her not to, since we didn’t want to piss the woman off and get thrown out. Dead-friend comes bouncing up to me holding a DVD box that she found in a drawer of one of the end tables, and asks me if that looks familiar; I glance at it, say no, and tell her to put it back. She pushes the box in my face, and tells me to *really* look at it, so I do, just to shut dead-friend up, ‘cos she’s getting loud. Then I realise that it is a porn DVD, a homemade, locally produced job, and it is starring the woman we have come home with—only she’s not a woman, she’s a guy. She’s dressed on the cover of the DVD too, only with a different wig on and the box clearly announces that it’s by, for, and about transvestites, or somesuch.
So I’m trying to convince dead-friend to put it back, and the “woman” comes back in the room. I can tell now that it is a man, though. What can I say? It was dark outside, plus I’m tall, so who am I to be all suspicious? :-P Anyway, she sees that dead-friend and I are looking at her DVD, and gets pissed off at us for snooping, and tells us to leave. I have to think fast, so I start complimenting her, and then we start making out. Dead-friend makes a comment that she can’t understand how in the hell I always do this—meaning either the saving us, getting us into a mess in the first place, or the hooking up with people (which I used to be like, so it could be any of the above)—and goes off into the other room to watch tv while I was…ummm…busy.
Then I woke up. O-kay, then.
But the cool thing is, in my dream the woman was wearing the coolest gloves like, ever. They were *very* long and black and ended up gathering on the upper arm a moderate amount (in a very cool way!), and when we had been outside, I had thought they were polka dotted, but they were actually studded—not like an appliqué, or glitter, but actually studded. I so want those gloves! I wonder if I have seen them somewhere, or something. Hmmm. If I ever have a life again, they’d be completely fabulous to go out in.
I *need* those gloves. Like truly.
Now if or when I tell Meg (which I probably will not, ‘cos it would be to no end other than to fuel her criticism of me), she would make the nasty comment that I even shop in my sleep, and that’s completely pathetic. I just know she would. So in defence, I’d like to point out that I *wasn’t* shopping, just admiring. However, I may go shopping later. Nyah.
Yesterday was Mom’s birthday, and she was too busy for me during the day, so I did all the little errands that I’d been putting off for too long, like renewing my tag, getting an oil change, and so on. At the dealership that does my car, they talked me into putting nitrogen in my tires; it is some new thing that is supposed to be good for tires. Oh—and plus, NASCAR does it. As if that was a selling point with me, or something. Huh? The only thing I know about NASCAR is that I am relatively sure that they drive around in circles at high speed. I think.
Ok, so I wouldn’t bet money on it.
I have nothing against NASCAR; I just don’t watch it, follow it, or care about it. Or get it. If it’s in circles, how in the hell do you know who has won? You’d have to keep watching it almost constantly to count up who’d done the most circles, right? Why broadcast that? When there’s a commercial break, someone might do a couple of circles and take first place, and when they rejoined after the break, one wouldn’t know the new person was first, ‘cos it all looked the same. Of course the announcer would tell you, but at that point, why even watch? You could just have someone tell you. And why are they doing it in the first place? Who cares who can go in circles the fastest?
Butsoanyway.
So I have nitrogen in my tires, and it’s kind of cool; they seem overfilled (which I like), and that alone is really neat. And now I have to have a green cap-thing on my tires, and I don’t like that, but I guess I’ll live. Well, it kind of ruins the way the car looks ‘cos the green is so out of place, but I’ll get used to it. It’s not a bad trade-off if I get to keep the tires overfilled! :-)
So then I had dinner with Mom at this place she likes, and she seemed to have a good time. I gave her presents, and there was much rejoicing and all. It was just the two of us, ‘cos Meg had to work, and my brother lives in another state.
Today, I’m going out wandering. I think that I am going to drive out of the city, over to a nearby town that is just so cute…I always have fun there; they have some very cool shops, and I just like walking around there; it’s pretty. Plus, they have a pet store there that’s not a big-name store, and maybe I can find a new toy for Squoosh there. :-)
And those gloves…I am so very on the lookout now! :-D
So check out what I have to put up with: I was in my car, one of my old cars, I think alone. It was night, and I was driving around in a subdivision that was confusing. Then, out of nowhere comes three red compact cars—the ninja cars—and they start trying to chase me, and then the subdivision police/security start chasing all of us. I had to do something covert in the sub-d, and the red ninja cars were trying to stop me (they are ninja cars because they didn’t just stay on the road, they jumped and flipped and were all stealthy), so I was having to dodge them. That part of the dream was like a video game, and it seemed to last a really long time; it was a very involved chase. Finally, I ditched them for a moment, so I parked my car in the shadows and took off on foot, ‘cos I figured that I would be harder to find that way. And I was carrying a bag of frozen vegetables, so that I would blend in better; I think it was a bag of broccoli.
This is usually about where I become pretty certain that dreams don’t mean much of anything. See my point? Frozen broccoli makes one nondescript?
Butsoanyway.
So I’m walking through this maze of sidewalks in one of the sub-d’s islands of houses—there are no roads here, so the ninja cars can’t see me, though they’re going to figure it out soon and go looking for me on foot, I’m sure. I have some mysterious destination that I am headed towards at a casual-but-speedy power-walking pace and then all of a sudden, a voice asks me “what are we going to do?” it was a friend of mine who died many years ago. In my dream, I wasn’t shocked or surprised—she’d been with me the whole time, or just showed up…I don’t know. I told her I was working on that, and then we saw a woman out walking. I figured that I could invite the both of us back to her place and that way we would get away from the ninja cars, so I went up to her and started talking, and she invited us back to her house. When we got there, it was obvious that she lived with other people. This woman went into another room to do something, and my dead friend started being nosy, looking through shelves and drawers in the living room, even though I told her not to, since we didn’t want to piss the woman off and get thrown out. Dead-friend comes bouncing up to me holding a DVD box that she found in a drawer of one of the end tables, and asks me if that looks familiar; I glance at it, say no, and tell her to put it back. She pushes the box in my face, and tells me to *really* look at it, so I do, just to shut dead-friend up, ‘cos she’s getting loud. Then I realise that it is a porn DVD, a homemade, locally produced job, and it is starring the woman we have come home with—only she’s not a woman, she’s a guy. She’s dressed on the cover of the DVD too, only with a different wig on and the box clearly announces that it’s by, for, and about transvestites, or somesuch.
So I’m trying to convince dead-friend to put it back, and the “woman” comes back in the room. I can tell now that it is a man, though. What can I say? It was dark outside, plus I’m tall, so who am I to be all suspicious? :-P Anyway, she sees that dead-friend and I are looking at her DVD, and gets pissed off at us for snooping, and tells us to leave. I have to think fast, so I start complimenting her, and then we start making out. Dead-friend makes a comment that she can’t understand how in the hell I always do this—meaning either the saving us, getting us into a mess in the first place, or the hooking up with people (which I used to be like, so it could be any of the above)—and goes off into the other room to watch tv while I was…ummm…busy.
Then I woke up. O-kay, then.
But the cool thing is, in my dream the woman was wearing the coolest gloves like, ever. They were *very* long and black and ended up gathering on the upper arm a moderate amount (in a very cool way!), and when we had been outside, I had thought they were polka dotted, but they were actually studded—not like an appliqué, or glitter, but actually studded. I so want those gloves! I wonder if I have seen them somewhere, or something. Hmmm. If I ever have a life again, they’d be completely fabulous to go out in.
I *need* those gloves. Like truly.
Now if or when I tell Meg (which I probably will not, ‘cos it would be to no end other than to fuel her criticism of me), she would make the nasty comment that I even shop in my sleep, and that’s completely pathetic. I just know she would. So in defence, I’d like to point out that I *wasn’t* shopping, just admiring. However, I may go shopping later. Nyah.
Yesterday was Mom’s birthday, and she was too busy for me during the day, so I did all the little errands that I’d been putting off for too long, like renewing my tag, getting an oil change, and so on. At the dealership that does my car, they talked me into putting nitrogen in my tires; it is some new thing that is supposed to be good for tires. Oh—and plus, NASCAR does it. As if that was a selling point with me, or something. Huh? The only thing I know about NASCAR is that I am relatively sure that they drive around in circles at high speed. I think.
Ok, so I wouldn’t bet money on it.
I have nothing against NASCAR; I just don’t watch it, follow it, or care about it. Or get it. If it’s in circles, how in the hell do you know who has won? You’d have to keep watching it almost constantly to count up who’d done the most circles, right? Why broadcast that? When there’s a commercial break, someone might do a couple of circles and take first place, and when they rejoined after the break, one wouldn’t know the new person was first, ‘cos it all looked the same. Of course the announcer would tell you, but at that point, why even watch? You could just have someone tell you. And why are they doing it in the first place? Who cares who can go in circles the fastest?
Butsoanyway.
So I have nitrogen in my tires, and it’s kind of cool; they seem overfilled (which I like), and that alone is really neat. And now I have to have a green cap-thing on my tires, and I don’t like that, but I guess I’ll live. Well, it kind of ruins the way the car looks ‘cos the green is so out of place, but I’ll get used to it. It’s not a bad trade-off if I get to keep the tires overfilled! :-)
So then I had dinner with Mom at this place she likes, and she seemed to have a good time. I gave her presents, and there was much rejoicing and all. It was just the two of us, ‘cos Meg had to work, and my brother lives in another state.
Today, I’m going out wandering. I think that I am going to drive out of the city, over to a nearby town that is just so cute…I always have fun there; they have some very cool shops, and I just like walking around there; it’s pretty. Plus, they have a pet store there that’s not a big-name store, and maybe I can find a new toy for Squoosh there. :-)
And those gloves…I am so very on the lookout now! :-D
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Happy Birfday!
A very Happy Birfday to Ms Grammarian, who deserves to go out and party something fierce! :-) If I ever figure out how to put links on my blog (it's probably terribly simple, so I'll have to be honest and admit that I've not looked for instructions yet), she is definitely on my link list! Thank you for being sweet, funny, and intelligent--in short, thank you for being you! :-)
Tomorrow is Mom's birthday, and then mine the very next day. Woo-hoo! And my TPTB made Fluffer cancel this "urgent meeting" on my birthday. Could life get any better? Plus Fluffer was pissed off, and started screaming (I am not kidding) at TPTB, and so TPTB just started screaming right back at her! About damn time, I say. Especially 'cos Fluffer admitted that it was better for her schedule to make me come in on my birthday, since this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday she has to be in some extreme mountain biking competition, or some crap like that. Excuse me? Physical labour--particularly *voluntary* labour--takes precedence over my birthday like, never.
I make the rules since I'm always the only one who celebrates it, natch. :-)
Well, I try to celebrate it somewhere in the vicinity of the correct day. Usually. Most of the time. This year, I don't know what I want to do. Well, I *want* to go to Disney. Or a big mall. Preferably both. But I *wanted* to go to Disney. As if that were going to happen. So I will go do something that I will probably decide to do on the spur of the moment Thursday morning.
And I have already bought my present to me, so it has to be something cheap. Yes...::hangs head::...I've been watching the Home Shopping Network again. I didn't mean to do it!
Well, that's what I'm going to tell Meg.
HSN and I go way back. When I was in that 3-class series that Fluffer's finishing, I went through it with a kooky girl and another Arab girl, kind of as friends. The Arab girl and I worked, and the kooky girl and I laughed, and it all worked out. But the Arab girl and I shared the same hobby--shopping on HSN and QVC. It was sad. We even unintentionally ordered the exact same stackable ring set once, and had a debate over who would remove theirs so the other could be original. :-) It sounds bad in the repeating, but it was in good spirit. I gave in, by the way. She was kind of stuffy, but was really working on trying to get better about that. I liked her.
Butsoanyway.
So I was on my sofa zoning out and trying to fall asleep after Eviljob and school but before trivia, and saw a sapphire ring and thought, "what the hell". Plus, I was having fun trying to figure out if Paul (the host) is gay. My gaydar was saying "no", but I was thinking that his eyebrows have a great shape, and he was enjoying talking about the jewellery way too much without sounding like a car salesman (not necessarily used), which is often how straight males have come off when I'm in a store buying. But on the other hand, he's left his suit coat unbuttoned, and his tie was positively threatening to steal the show away from him at times, a very hetero thing to do. Hmmm... I almost asked the operator when I called, but decided not to; I was having far too much fun guessing. Then he had to ruin my fun by mentioning that he's married to Judy, who was the host of the previous hour. I don't know, Judy...he may be a switch hitter. Watch him, or stock up on toys to keep him from getting bored. I think he's only a few margaritas away from gettin' jiggy wit it, and I'm trying to help. :-)
Butsoanyway.
I have to go to sleep now, 'cos I have to spend all tomorrow at Eviljob, then all tomorrow night with Mommy. What she'll want to do for her birthday, I don't know. Every year she's different, and she'll swear she never changes. Sigh.
And putting the dog down was awful, and I'll maybe talk about it later. Sigh.
Tomorrow is Mom's birthday, and then mine the very next day. Woo-hoo! And my TPTB made Fluffer cancel this "urgent meeting" on my birthday. Could life get any better? Plus Fluffer was pissed off, and started screaming (I am not kidding) at TPTB, and so TPTB just started screaming right back at her! About damn time, I say. Especially 'cos Fluffer admitted that it was better for her schedule to make me come in on my birthday, since this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday she has to be in some extreme mountain biking competition, or some crap like that. Excuse me? Physical labour--particularly *voluntary* labour--takes precedence over my birthday like, never.
I make the rules since I'm always the only one who celebrates it, natch. :-)
Well, I try to celebrate it somewhere in the vicinity of the correct day. Usually. Most of the time. This year, I don't know what I want to do. Well, I *want* to go to Disney. Or a big mall. Preferably both. But I *wanted* to go to Disney. As if that were going to happen. So I will go do something that I will probably decide to do on the spur of the moment Thursday morning.
And I have already bought my present to me, so it has to be something cheap. Yes...::hangs head::...I've been watching the Home Shopping Network again. I didn't mean to do it!
Well, that's what I'm going to tell Meg.
HSN and I go way back. When I was in that 3-class series that Fluffer's finishing, I went through it with a kooky girl and another Arab girl, kind of as friends. The Arab girl and I worked, and the kooky girl and I laughed, and it all worked out. But the Arab girl and I shared the same hobby--shopping on HSN and QVC. It was sad. We even unintentionally ordered the exact same stackable ring set once, and had a debate over who would remove theirs so the other could be original. :-) It sounds bad in the repeating, but it was in good spirit. I gave in, by the way. She was kind of stuffy, but was really working on trying to get better about that. I liked her.
Butsoanyway.
So I was on my sofa zoning out and trying to fall asleep after Eviljob and school but before trivia, and saw a sapphire ring and thought, "what the hell". Plus, I was having fun trying to figure out if Paul (the host) is gay. My gaydar was saying "no", but I was thinking that his eyebrows have a great shape, and he was enjoying talking about the jewellery way too much without sounding like a car salesman (not necessarily used), which is often how straight males have come off when I'm in a store buying. But on the other hand, he's left his suit coat unbuttoned, and his tie was positively threatening to steal the show away from him at times, a very hetero thing to do. Hmmm... I almost asked the operator when I called, but decided not to; I was having far too much fun guessing. Then he had to ruin my fun by mentioning that he's married to Judy, who was the host of the previous hour. I don't know, Judy...he may be a switch hitter. Watch him, or stock up on toys to keep him from getting bored. I think he's only a few margaritas away from gettin' jiggy wit it, and I'm trying to help. :-)
Butsoanyway.
I have to go to sleep now, 'cos I have to spend all tomorrow at Eviljob, then all tomorrow night with Mommy. What she'll want to do for her birthday, I don't know. Every year she's different, and she'll swear she never changes. Sigh.
And putting the dog down was awful, and I'll maybe talk about it later. Sigh.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Shoot this dog and win an iPod...
I had a longer post, or what was preparing to be a longer post, earlier, but...sigh...time flies so quickly that Friday's stupidity is silly to mention now, almost. Basically, I managed to get into a fight-of-sorts with Fluffer 'cos she thinks that the entire god damned world revolves around her. Basically, she wanted me to arrange for Meg to tutor her for free in a course, and when I didn't want to do that, she wanted me to agree that it was a good idea for her to drop this problematic class and take it with Meg next term, which I'm not going to do, sorry. Neither one of them. Tough rocks.
I think she thinks Meg would be easy for the same reason that she thinks that I don't know what I'm talking about...because we both look "sweet", or "nice", whatever. Sorry again; I rarely open my mouth unless I'm quite certain I'm in the right, and Meg's reviews on RateMyProfessor are...mixed--some of them are very positive, and others are extremely negative. Considering that Meg teaches tough classes (in popular opinion), and the only people to go on RateMyProfessor are on a mission (positive or negative), well...
Don't get me wrong; Meg's fair. Completely fair. But that's all she is. She isn't a pushover, or a cakewalk, or anything else that a lot of her students think when they first look at her. Her abiding principle is that she works, and she expects her students to work--completely fifty/fifty. She isn't really crazy about the teaching part, anyway; if she could, she'd get a position that is strictly research, but that's a while away, if ever. In the meantime, if you don't pass--deservedly--then Meg will fail you. I think Fluffer taking her is a dumb idea, because Fluffer's not motivated enough; that's why she's having problems in the class she's in. She just wants the class under her belt, so that she can heave it around and claim expertise; she doesn't want to *learn* it. How do I know with such certainty? Well, number one is 'cos I know Fluffer. Number two, I completed the series (plus three classes above) as a undergraduate. Barring dramatic career changes and the like, if Fluffer Cared she would have done it then. It is only a 2000-level class, anyway, and rightly so; it's challenging, but not hard...especially if you study and do your freaking homework, and I speak from experience.
And if I were to hear Fluffer badmouthing Meg (as she currently is badmouthing the prof of the class she's in), I'd have to beat the snot out of her. If you fail Meg, it's 'cos you wanted to fail, or your Piagetian Window of Learning is nailed shut; it's not for Meg's lack of trying.
And plus, Meg can't stand her.
Fluffer's tough to take; she did whine and gripe enough that I'm having to come in on my birthday...MY BIRTHDAY...to meet with her about some RCMP stuff. ON MY BIRTHDAY. Because any other time in the whole damn week just isn't convenient for Fluffer. Screw anyone else and anything they may want. I'm sure as soon as she figured out that I didn't want to do this on my birthday, it became all-important that she prove that she can *make* me by kvetching about anything else that might have been offered up as a compromise. And did I mention this is occurring ON MY BIRTHDAY?
bitch.
Butsoanyway.
I'm not bitchy in person; I'm really trying to be stoic about the things that Fluffer and Sophie do, otherwise they'll see that they get a rise out of me and do annoying things more often. They're just That Way. Too bad that they can't get along with each other for more than five minutes.
Butsoanyway.
Son-Friend was approved for Disability, thank god. He should start getting whatever assistance within the next thirty days. And there will be much rejoicing in my bank account.
Then his dog attacked him today. It really is always something.
Son-Friend has the most horrid dog in the world. No, really. This dog is...well...to say that it is a behaviour problem really fails to convey the full impact of the animal; that's a heavy burden for two tiny words like "behaviour problem' to bear. The dog is fucking mental. I have hated that dog for the past four years. The dog has bitten people, it barks constantly, and runs pointlessly around Son-Friend's apartment as if its ass were on fire--which I often wish were the case. It breaks things, chews things, tears anything apart it can get its mouth around. The only thing that this beast doesn't do is go to the bathroom all over the house; I'll have to give it that. It does at least go outside, which is kind of like wearing a ball gown to the lot-owner's meeting at the trailer park, or hanging a pine tree air freshener in an outhouse. If the dog spoke English, I'd ask it why it bothers to wait to be walked; in doing so, it is forfeiting its claim on the title of Worst Pet on Earth.
Butsoanyway.
So it bit the fuck out of Son-Friend today, for no reason, with no warning. Five times. Son-Friend said that they are bad bites, too; on his shoulder, arms, and hands. He said that the deepest puncture stopped bleeding, but the other ones were still bleeding a little bit a few hours later.
What this all means is that Son-Friend is having to put the dog down tomorrow.
No, I'm not happy. But I can't think of anything else. Son-Friend was already looking for a new home for her to avoid being evicted. No, really--the manager of his complex (heh, heh...his complex *needs* a manager. Ok, sorry) gave him the ultimatum that either SatanDog goes, or Son-Friend *AND* SatanDog go; this happened after SatanDog attacked a smaller dog about a month ago (I'm serious--the dog is *that* bad). So Son-Friend has been looking. Even SatanDog's vet, when told of Son-Friend's predicament (pre-attack) suggested putting the dog to sleep. And the Humane Society has a sign up that says that they won't take behaviour problems for placement, though they will put them to sleep for only $25. The pet rescue people wouldn't take the dog after meeting her, etc.; and this was all pre-attack.
So I had to deal with this at Eviljob today. Son-Friend got attacked and locked the dog in a bedroom, and then of course called me at work to discuss what he should do. For what it's worth, I tried to think of alternatives to putting the dog down; since Son-Friend was so upset, I even offered to take the dog to the Humane Society myself (since I'm not covered in dog bites) and just tell them that I was moving, and not mention anything about the attack. But--to his credit--Son-Friend rejected that idea because if the dog were to be placed in a household that has children and the dog hurt one of the children, Son-Friend said that he would feel responsible. I'm actually kind of proud of him for thinking through that; he's usually not that lucid in his thinking. I think it's his medications. Well, that and some flagrant stupidity.
Now, in reality I would never do such a thing to another person. What I was going to do was to take the dog to Dr Vet, tell him the truth, and let him either accept responsibility for the dog, or pay him to put her down, his choice. I was just going to *tell* Son-Friend I'd gotten her adopted away. Ok, so I'm a bitch. But I would trust Dr Vet's decision, and I have a feeling it would be similar to SatanDog's vet's suggestion, though if anyone wanted to give the dog a chance, they have my blessing.
And an offer of bandages and ear plugs.
So I am sad over this; I am not happy that the dog will probably die tomorrow, but I guess it's better than some enraged father beating it to death after it has ripped his kid's face off, which might be my reaction were I ever in that position, knock wood.
And I know that Son-Friend is going to go have a ton of seizures, and shit... But the only thing that I could think of to do about that is to lie to him and take the dog myself and do it. As god-awful as that animal is, Son-Friend is attached to her. Why I don't know, but he is. I wish I could think of something else, but I'm also concerned that Son-Friend needs to be on antibiotics, or something; from what he and his girlfriend said, they are not superficial bites. I guess I'll see him tomorrow and take a look, because he wants me to go to the vet with him (I offered to pay the vet's charge so that Son-Friend didn't have to go to someplace unfamiliar, like the Humane Society), and then I have to go buy a pair of shoes for him, 'cos the dog has chewed up his last pair. And somewhere in there I have to fit in going to another urgent meeting (heh) and getting an oil change. Not that I'm belittling anything that is going on, it's just...it's just always *everything*. All at once, it seems.
Sigh.
And yeah, my title's callous. I know.
Sigh.
I think she thinks Meg would be easy for the same reason that she thinks that I don't know what I'm talking about...because we both look "sweet", or "nice", whatever. Sorry again; I rarely open my mouth unless I'm quite certain I'm in the right, and Meg's reviews on RateMyProfessor are...mixed--some of them are very positive, and others are extremely negative. Considering that Meg teaches tough classes (in popular opinion), and the only people to go on RateMyProfessor are on a mission (positive or negative), well...
Don't get me wrong; Meg's fair. Completely fair. But that's all she is. She isn't a pushover, or a cakewalk, or anything else that a lot of her students think when they first look at her. Her abiding principle is that she works, and she expects her students to work--completely fifty/fifty. She isn't really crazy about the teaching part, anyway; if she could, she'd get a position that is strictly research, but that's a while away, if ever. In the meantime, if you don't pass--deservedly--then Meg will fail you. I think Fluffer taking her is a dumb idea, because Fluffer's not motivated enough; that's why she's having problems in the class she's in. She just wants the class under her belt, so that she can heave it around and claim expertise; she doesn't want to *learn* it. How do I know with such certainty? Well, number one is 'cos I know Fluffer. Number two, I completed the series (plus three classes above) as a undergraduate. Barring dramatic career changes and the like, if Fluffer Cared she would have done it then. It is only a 2000-level class, anyway, and rightly so; it's challenging, but not hard...especially if you study and do your freaking homework, and I speak from experience.
And if I were to hear Fluffer badmouthing Meg (as she currently is badmouthing the prof of the class she's in), I'd have to beat the snot out of her. If you fail Meg, it's 'cos you wanted to fail, or your Piagetian Window of Learning is nailed shut; it's not for Meg's lack of trying.
And plus, Meg can't stand her.
Fluffer's tough to take; she did whine and gripe enough that I'm having to come in on my birthday...MY BIRTHDAY...to meet with her about some RCMP stuff. ON MY BIRTHDAY. Because any other time in the whole damn week just isn't convenient for Fluffer. Screw anyone else and anything they may want. I'm sure as soon as she figured out that I didn't want to do this on my birthday, it became all-important that she prove that she can *make* me by kvetching about anything else that might have been offered up as a compromise. And did I mention this is occurring ON MY BIRTHDAY?
bitch.
Butsoanyway.
I'm not bitchy in person; I'm really trying to be stoic about the things that Fluffer and Sophie do, otherwise they'll see that they get a rise out of me and do annoying things more often. They're just That Way. Too bad that they can't get along with each other for more than five minutes.
Butsoanyway.
Son-Friend was approved for Disability, thank god. He should start getting whatever assistance within the next thirty days. And there will be much rejoicing in my bank account.
Then his dog attacked him today. It really is always something.
Son-Friend has the most horrid dog in the world. No, really. This dog is...well...to say that it is a behaviour problem really fails to convey the full impact of the animal; that's a heavy burden for two tiny words like "behaviour problem' to bear. The dog is fucking mental. I have hated that dog for the past four years. The dog has bitten people, it barks constantly, and runs pointlessly around Son-Friend's apartment as if its ass were on fire--which I often wish were the case. It breaks things, chews things, tears anything apart it can get its mouth around. The only thing that this beast doesn't do is go to the bathroom all over the house; I'll have to give it that. It does at least go outside, which is kind of like wearing a ball gown to the lot-owner's meeting at the trailer park, or hanging a pine tree air freshener in an outhouse. If the dog spoke English, I'd ask it why it bothers to wait to be walked; in doing so, it is forfeiting its claim on the title of Worst Pet on Earth.
Butsoanyway.
So it bit the fuck out of Son-Friend today, for no reason, with no warning. Five times. Son-Friend said that they are bad bites, too; on his shoulder, arms, and hands. He said that the deepest puncture stopped bleeding, but the other ones were still bleeding a little bit a few hours later.
What this all means is that Son-Friend is having to put the dog down tomorrow.
No, I'm not happy. But I can't think of anything else. Son-Friend was already looking for a new home for her to avoid being evicted. No, really--the manager of his complex (heh, heh...his complex *needs* a manager. Ok, sorry) gave him the ultimatum that either SatanDog goes, or Son-Friend *AND* SatanDog go; this happened after SatanDog attacked a smaller dog about a month ago (I'm serious--the dog is *that* bad). So Son-Friend has been looking. Even SatanDog's vet, when told of Son-Friend's predicament (pre-attack) suggested putting the dog to sleep. And the Humane Society has a sign up that says that they won't take behaviour problems for placement, though they will put them to sleep for only $25. The pet rescue people wouldn't take the dog after meeting her, etc.; and this was all pre-attack.
So I had to deal with this at Eviljob today. Son-Friend got attacked and locked the dog in a bedroom, and then of course called me at work to discuss what he should do. For what it's worth, I tried to think of alternatives to putting the dog down; since Son-Friend was so upset, I even offered to take the dog to the Humane Society myself (since I'm not covered in dog bites) and just tell them that I was moving, and not mention anything about the attack. But--to his credit--Son-Friend rejected that idea because if the dog were to be placed in a household that has children and the dog hurt one of the children, Son-Friend said that he would feel responsible. I'm actually kind of proud of him for thinking through that; he's usually not that lucid in his thinking. I think it's his medications. Well, that and some flagrant stupidity.
Now, in reality I would never do such a thing to another person. What I was going to do was to take the dog to Dr Vet, tell him the truth, and let him either accept responsibility for the dog, or pay him to put her down, his choice. I was just going to *tell* Son-Friend I'd gotten her adopted away. Ok, so I'm a bitch. But I would trust Dr Vet's decision, and I have a feeling it would be similar to SatanDog's vet's suggestion, though if anyone wanted to give the dog a chance, they have my blessing.
And an offer of bandages and ear plugs.
So I am sad over this; I am not happy that the dog will probably die tomorrow, but I guess it's better than some enraged father beating it to death after it has ripped his kid's face off, which might be my reaction were I ever in that position, knock wood.
And I know that Son-Friend is going to go have a ton of seizures, and shit... But the only thing that I could think of to do about that is to lie to him and take the dog myself and do it. As god-awful as that animal is, Son-Friend is attached to her. Why I don't know, but he is. I wish I could think of something else, but I'm also concerned that Son-Friend needs to be on antibiotics, or something; from what he and his girlfriend said, they are not superficial bites. I guess I'll see him tomorrow and take a look, because he wants me to go to the vet with him (I offered to pay the vet's charge so that Son-Friend didn't have to go to someplace unfamiliar, like the Humane Society), and then I have to go buy a pair of shoes for him, 'cos the dog has chewed up his last pair. And somewhere in there I have to fit in going to another urgent meeting (heh) and getting an oil change. Not that I'm belittling anything that is going on, it's just...it's just always *everything*. All at once, it seems.
Sigh.
And yeah, my title's callous. I know.
Sigh.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Squooshrise, Squooshset...
It’s…bizarre!
Just a few minutes ago, just a few short minutes ago, the Kitty Formerly Known As Eight-Fang was still Six-Fang.
Now he is Five-Fang.
Ohmygoodness.
Is this the little Squoosh I carried?
Is this the little Squoosh at play?
I don’t remember getting older…when did he?
Just a few minutes ago, just a few short minutes ago, the Kitty Formerly Known As Eight-Fang was still Six-Fang.
Now he is Five-Fang.
Ohmygoodness.
Is this the little Squoosh I carried?
Is this the little Squoosh at play?
I don’t remember getting older…when did he?
Shilled Thritless
I had a (generally nice…hmmph.) Mr Computerman person from Job II (ironically, isn’t Quality Job I? What’s Job II? I’m not certain, but it isn’t Quality. Ok—that is my new Not Eviljob joke.) come over and show me how to change some of the things that have been bugging the hell out of me on my laptop, which is what I’m primarily working from anymore; it’s just too complicated to transfer things to my desktop at home, and that’s even with a jump drive, which only serves to illustrate how pathetic and lazy-as-hell I am about certain things. I am a very “path of least resistance” girl. Rilly. Usually.
I pulled up something I am typing for my online class. Red squiggles did abound. Make it stop yelling at me, I told him; I am usually correct. ;-)
You could learn how to spell, he suggested. Oh, a wiseacre.
My other one doesn’t yell at me half as much, I pointed out.
So he looked at my desktop and fixed Word, PowerPoint, and the others on my laptop. Now it doesn’t yell at me as much. I am telling you, I am in awe.
Or I was until he started making fun of Squoosh. Or me, rather.
“Do you carry that cat everywhere?”
“Only when I’m home,” I said; “he likes it.” He got a concerned look on his face; “What’s the matter?” I asked, looking at Squoosh.
“Well, it’s probably nothing.”
“What?!?” Now I am worried, and Dr Vet is not open around the clock, you know.
“Well, it’s that look on his face.”
“What look?!?” I make Squooshable look at me
“That look that says, ‘help me please’.”
“Help me?” Squoosh looks normal to me.
“Yeah. ‘Help me please’.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I’m just a kitty. Help me please. Make her put me down.”
“He is not ever saying that!”
“I just want to walk…I think I remember how…help me please.”
“You’re not funny!”
“Help me please.”
So I put Squooshable down and hit him. “See?” I pointed out, “Squooshable does so know how to walk!”
Squoosh immediately ran over to Romeo and pounced on him.
“Pick it back up, babe,” Romeo said, “I’m about to give rein to a smackdown on his ass.”
I just cannot win.
But Word on my laptop is not yelling anymore, and so I got to type seven pages (single-spaced!) for this god-awful class (it would have been around three, but we’re short a few people. Ok, literally a couple; “a few” is three, isn’t it? So I’m given to exaggeration. By one person. Hmmph.) in relative peace. That rocks. What is funny is that I generally despise the spelling/grammar checker for its stupid Flesch-Kincaid feature (which, considering that I am closely-ish associated in a work-sense with one of the aforementioned or the fruit of their intellectual loins [I’m obfuscating here], is a little non-“go-team-ish” of me; one would think that I would be wholly supportive, but I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate it because it tells me that I am stupid.), but I have figured out something about it today—it appears to be heavily reliant upon the number of sentences (should I have paid better attention when this may or may not have been told to me? Perhaps.) that are in a paragraph. I tried to make my seven pages as generic as possible (since they’re supposed to be the work of four people, not one dumb Ancodia), and so I left some things as one whole paragraph that I normally would have broken up, and I’ll be damned if the stupid thing didn’t finally say that my writing level was above Grade 5. Grade 12, to be exact. Woo-hoo! Yep—it’s too early to say for certain, but I may not be completely stupid. :-) Therefore, the lesson of this is that one sounds more intelligenter when one speaks long-windedly. :-P I think.
To celebrate, I am going to go scrub my face with apricot crap and slather charcoal on my face. And take Squooshable with me; he loves to play in the shower curtain. Yay.
I pulled up something I am typing for my online class. Red squiggles did abound. Make it stop yelling at me, I told him; I am usually correct. ;-)
You could learn how to spell, he suggested. Oh, a wiseacre.
My other one doesn’t yell at me half as much, I pointed out.
So he looked at my desktop and fixed Word, PowerPoint, and the others on my laptop. Now it doesn’t yell at me as much. I am telling you, I am in awe.
Or I was until he started making fun of Squoosh. Or me, rather.
“Do you carry that cat everywhere?”
“Only when I’m home,” I said; “he likes it.” He got a concerned look on his face; “What’s the matter?” I asked, looking at Squoosh.
“Well, it’s probably nothing.”
“What?!?” Now I am worried, and Dr Vet is not open around the clock, you know.
“Well, it’s that look on his face.”
“What look?!?” I make Squooshable look at me
“That look that says, ‘help me please’.”
“Help me?” Squoosh looks normal to me.
“Yeah. ‘Help me please’.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I’m just a kitty. Help me please. Make her put me down.”
“He is not ever saying that!”
“I just want to walk…I think I remember how…help me please.”
“You’re not funny!”
“Help me please.”
So I put Squooshable down and hit him. “See?” I pointed out, “Squooshable does so know how to walk!”
Squoosh immediately ran over to Romeo and pounced on him.
“Pick it back up, babe,” Romeo said, “I’m about to give rein to a smackdown on his ass.”
I just cannot win.
But Word on my laptop is not yelling anymore, and so I got to type seven pages (single-spaced!) for this god-awful class (it would have been around three, but we’re short a few people. Ok, literally a couple; “a few” is three, isn’t it? So I’m given to exaggeration. By one person. Hmmph.) in relative peace. That rocks. What is funny is that I generally despise the spelling/grammar checker for its stupid Flesch-Kincaid feature (which, considering that I am closely-ish associated in a work-sense with one of the aforementioned or the fruit of their intellectual loins [I’m obfuscating here], is a little non-“go-team-ish” of me; one would think that I would be wholly supportive, but I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate it because it tells me that I am stupid.), but I have figured out something about it today—it appears to be heavily reliant upon the number of sentences (should I have paid better attention when this may or may not have been told to me? Perhaps.) that are in a paragraph. I tried to make my seven pages as generic as possible (since they’re supposed to be the work of four people, not one dumb Ancodia), and so I left some things as one whole paragraph that I normally would have broken up, and I’ll be damned if the stupid thing didn’t finally say that my writing level was above Grade 5. Grade 12, to be exact. Woo-hoo! Yep—it’s too early to say for certain, but I may not be completely stupid. :-) Therefore, the lesson of this is that one sounds more intelligenter when one speaks long-windedly. :-P I think.
To celebrate, I am going to go scrub my face with apricot crap and slather charcoal on my face. And take Squooshable with me; he loves to play in the shower curtain. Yay.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
The 2005 Holiday Season Commences!
Ok, I haven’t had much time to write, ‘cos I have been busy doing nothing productive. But now I’m back and…everything’s just like it always has been. Or so it feels. Today is Son-Friend’s birthday. Happy birthday, Son-Friend! As (quite practically) always, I’m belatedly celebrating it…later. He already knows this, and I have already given him a sort-of present yesterday, and I’ll make up the rest when I belatedly do whatever it is that I’ll be belatedly doing. I don’t have this all planned out quite yet, although I am declaring that the 2005 Holiday Season starts today. Yes, today. So sing holiday songs out loud, go decorate something, and start shopping. This is your Captain speaking. :-)
Ok, on to our regularly scheduled post.
Online courses suck ass, and group-work sucks ass.
No, rilly. They do. And there’s just no describing what group-work conducted in an online class does; it’s vile, morally reprehensible, and illegal in states that allow sodomy. No, rilly.
I am currently a busy worker bee (I’m waiting for a gicunda .pdf to load) trying to throw something together for an online class that I have to take this term to count towards a certificate that I’m doing in addition to my major. After this class, I’ll only have one more (thank god), and then I’ll be all certificated and stuff. But this one is a requirement, and this one is only offered online. Pfft.
And this one has group-work. We’re divided up into groups of four, and out of our group of four, only two of us are actually working. It seems like this happens EVERY FREAKING TIME THAT I HAVE TO DO GROUP-WORK. Grr.
But of course, I’m wrong. It doesn’t happen *every* freaking time; it only happens *half* the freaking time—the other half of the freaking time, I get someone who wants to do everything wrong, or make “happy to glad” changes until the project is past-due. What’s kind of funny is that, this time, when the other person and I met, I nominated her to be Team Leader; I’m so sick of leading anything that I could just puke. I think she was happy with that, because she thought that I wanted to be Leader…which I don’t. I just started the group emailing so that no one would say later that I didn’t do anything. So our Fearless Leader emailed the group that slacking off will not be allowed, and one of the slackers-off responded by saying that she resented the tone of the email. Sigh. You can’t respond to anything else, but you can email to say what you resent? Well, you just resent away and rock on with yo’ bad se’f. And I just *know* that el Slacker-off will use this as an excuse to do nothing. People like that are just gunning for a reason to not participate; I’ve dealt with too many of them to be naïve and think that it’s because they’re genuinely offended. If they weren’t offended by that, they’d be offended by something else, so that they don’t have to participate ‘cos they’re too busy being offended.
Butsoanyway.
In Other News, Squooshable is now over six pounds, but isn’t thrilled with his food any more; he just picks at it. I know that he’s supposed to seem as if he’s eating less because it’s Science Diet, Iams, Eukaneuba, Authority and all that I’m feeding him, but I kind of wish he’d go back to being a great big pig, like he always has been. He’s by no stretch of the imagination undernourished, it’s just that…well…I worry about him. He had eight fangs (his adult teeth coming in), but then the two baby fangs on the bottom fell out, so now he only has six fangs. :-) He thinks he’s dangerous. And he’s gnawing on everything, including me. And Meg made fun of me for looking for his baby bottom fangs that fell out. I was going to go get a little baby tooth holder and keep them, but I couldn’t find them anywhere. I hope he didn’t eat them! Meg now calls him Six-Fang.
I am doing the Blogger for Word posting, and it’s a pain in the butt to use emoticons, because Word converts them, and they don’t show up properly in Blogger. I would turn the conversion off, but I don’t know offhand how to turn it back on if I want it, and I know me—I’d put off reading Help until I *desperately* needed it, and then it would be all complicated, and stuff. But at least by using Word I can preemptively address my allegedly god-awful spelling and some fragments, and stuff.
During the time that I wasn’t posting, I didn’t do anything really phenomenal, so that’s why I’m skipping over it. I didn’t miss Eviljob in the slightest. Mike is still in New Orleans, but he calls his mother (and wife, and sometimes others) often. He’s doing ok, and with things a little more under-control there, I’m less concerned. What can I really do about it, anyway?
And I have another business-travel-thing coming up in a little over a month. Sigh. It’s always something. I guess in a way it’s good that I only have the online class and another class that meets once a week, or I’d be back to Totally Drowning (I’m rounding out my required credits with a Directed Readings class for which I am forever Reading Directedly, but I can do that anywhere, and it’s all things that I would have to be reading even if not directed to do so). :-)
And I don’t know what I want to do for my birthday, which is coming up; I want to do something really fun and special, but I can’t think of anything, at least not yet. I am absolutely, positively, decidedly, and unwaveringly taking the day off…I just don’t know what I am going to do with it.
And for now I have to finish reading this humongous .pdf and get back to work. Sigh.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!
Ok, on to our regularly scheduled post.
Online courses suck ass, and group-work sucks ass.
No, rilly. They do. And there’s just no describing what group-work conducted in an online class does; it’s vile, morally reprehensible, and illegal in states that allow sodomy. No, rilly.
I am currently a busy worker bee (I’m waiting for a gicunda .pdf to load) trying to throw something together for an online class that I have to take this term to count towards a certificate that I’m doing in addition to my major. After this class, I’ll only have one more (thank god), and then I’ll be all certificated and stuff. But this one is a requirement, and this one is only offered online. Pfft.
And this one has group-work. We’re divided up into groups of four, and out of our group of four, only two of us are actually working. It seems like this happens EVERY FREAKING TIME THAT I HAVE TO DO GROUP-WORK. Grr.
But of course, I’m wrong. It doesn’t happen *every* freaking time; it only happens *half* the freaking time—the other half of the freaking time, I get someone who wants to do everything wrong, or make “happy to glad” changes until the project is past-due. What’s kind of funny is that, this time, when the other person and I met, I nominated her to be Team Leader; I’m so sick of leading anything that I could just puke. I think she was happy with that, because she thought that I wanted to be Leader…which I don’t. I just started the group emailing so that no one would say later that I didn’t do anything. So our Fearless Leader emailed the group that slacking off will not be allowed, and one of the slackers-off responded by saying that she resented the tone of the email. Sigh. You can’t respond to anything else, but you can email to say what you resent? Well, you just resent away and rock on with yo’ bad se’f. And I just *know* that el Slacker-off will use this as an excuse to do nothing. People like that are just gunning for a reason to not participate; I’ve dealt with too many of them to be naïve and think that it’s because they’re genuinely offended. If they weren’t offended by that, they’d be offended by something else, so that they don’t have to participate ‘cos they’re too busy being offended.
Butsoanyway.
In Other News, Squooshable is now over six pounds, but isn’t thrilled with his food any more; he just picks at it. I know that he’s supposed to seem as if he’s eating less because it’s Science Diet, Iams, Eukaneuba, Authority and all that I’m feeding him, but I kind of wish he’d go back to being a great big pig, like he always has been. He’s by no stretch of the imagination undernourished, it’s just that…well…I worry about him. He had eight fangs (his adult teeth coming in), but then the two baby fangs on the bottom fell out, so now he only has six fangs. :-) He thinks he’s dangerous. And he’s gnawing on everything, including me. And Meg made fun of me for looking for his baby bottom fangs that fell out. I was going to go get a little baby tooth holder and keep them, but I couldn’t find them anywhere. I hope he didn’t eat them! Meg now calls him Six-Fang.
I am doing the Blogger for Word posting, and it’s a pain in the butt to use emoticons, because Word converts them, and they don’t show up properly in Blogger. I would turn the conversion off, but I don’t know offhand how to turn it back on if I want it, and I know me—I’d put off reading Help until I *desperately* needed it, and then it would be all complicated, and stuff. But at least by using Word I can preemptively address my allegedly god-awful spelling and some fragments, and stuff.
During the time that I wasn’t posting, I didn’t do anything really phenomenal, so that’s why I’m skipping over it. I didn’t miss Eviljob in the slightest. Mike is still in New Orleans, but he calls his mother (and wife, and sometimes others) often. He’s doing ok, and with things a little more under-control there, I’m less concerned. What can I really do about it, anyway?
And I have another business-travel-thing coming up in a little over a month. Sigh. It’s always something. I guess in a way it’s good that I only have the online class and another class that meets once a week, or I’d be back to Totally Drowning (I’m rounding out my required credits with a Directed Readings class for which I am forever Reading Directedly, but I can do that anywhere, and it’s all things that I would have to be reading even if not directed to do so). :-)
And I don’t know what I want to do for my birthday, which is coming up; I want to do something really fun and special, but I can’t think of anything, at least not yet. I am absolutely, positively, decidedly, and unwaveringly taking the day off…I just don’t know what I am going to do with it.
And for now I have to finish reading this humongous .pdf and get back to work. Sigh.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Well, hmmph!
Meg has a recipe for Russian stuffed eggs that she won't give to me.
I'm gonna drive over and pour pancake syrup on her car.
Ok, maybe not. I don't have any pancake syrup. It's yucky.
I'm gonna drive over and pour pancake syrup on her car.
Ok, maybe not. I don't have any pancake syrup. It's yucky.
I go drag queen, save the world!
Ok, so I'm doing nothing today. Nothing involves having a microwave burrito and Diet Coke for breakfast (throwing my whole system on tilt, 'cos it isn't accustomed to eating before, oh, any time from about two p.m. on), then doing piddling little things like looking for a good recipe program, to store all of my recipes on my 'puter, and changing my desktop, and IM buddy icons, and all of that.
Oh--and deciding if the Holiday Season will start early this year; that's a pressing issue.
Butsoanyway.
I have AOL. I'm not ashamed. Well, ok, perhaps a little ashamed. But I've had it forever, plus I was offered a superty-duper deal a few years ago (probably 'cos they felt sorry for me not having moved on to a real ISP), and so I have access for around ten or eleven dollars a month; I forget which. And I've tried other ISPs (whilst keeping AOL), and wasn't *that* overwhelmed with their offerings. Some of it was cool, but not worth increasing my monthly rate by (usually more than) about ten dollars. I'm of the belief that you don't *buy* cool; you're either cool or you're not, and I declared that I was cool when I was eleven-to-twelve years old.
Eleven-to-twelve was like, a banner transition for me. I dyed my hair for the first time at a sleepover (and upon return was immediately slapped around and dragged off to the hairdresser's, but that's not the point), smoked pot for the first time, started smoking cigarettes, skipped school, ran away from home for real for the first time, got drunk, took Valium, and made out with an adult. Among other things. I was too cool for frickin' words. The kind of cool your ISP just isn't going to take away from you. So I have AOL. And the AOL Translator is, sadly, true. That's why my main screen name is blocked to everyone but people I know. :-D
And I can live with the "walled garden". They're currently changing it (I have a friend who does Betastuffs), but I don't care. Freaking minimise it if it bothers you so much; that's what I do. Plus, sometimes I like the stuff in the garden. I'm ok with being dorky at times; I've racked up enough eccentricity points being cool that I can be dorky without fear. :-) Same goes for clumsy, stupid, and moody. All of which I exercise. A lot.
Butsoanyway.
So I've changed my AOL desktop to falling leaves, and I'm looking to change my buddy icon. And I haven't changed it in *forever* 'cos I've been busy, so I'm just looking at all of the new icons. AOL has "Superbuddy" icons that are animated--people, animals, rainbows, rocks, you name it. When you say a certain word or phrase, they act it out; so if you say in IM "damn, that really stinks!", the Superbuddy will act like they're smelling something bad. It's kind of cute; the baby turtle is my favourite.
Butsoanyway.
Under "guys", they have "John". Aptly named, that. He looks...well, strangely like a john. No, really. Kind of creepy, in truth. I guess that one's for hanging out in the Britney Spears chatroom. ::shiver:: Picture a disembodied Jack Horkheimer cartoon head with orange hair and moustache, and an extra 100 pounds on him, mostly grunting and humming. It's pretty scary; all they'd need to do is make him sweat, and it would be complete. Screw Katrina finger-pointing; I think we need to find the person responsible for *this*. They might be dangerous.
And under the category "gals", they have a goth girl (I was tempted, but it's a kindergothgirl, and that's not totally Ancodia), and other girls (club girl, PMS girl...ok, I'm kidding about PMS girl). Under guys, they have a superhero.
Ok, what's up with that shit?
Where's the girl superhero? Huh? Sexist motherfuckers! I mean, it's not like I have a superpower yet, or anything, or even a cool superhero outfit,but one has to start *somewhere*, so I figured that I'd start with my buddy icon. Geez.
So I figured fine--I can have a boy Superbuddy. I'm all about equality, even if AOL isn't. Whatever. So I tested Mr Superhero out, listening to his actions, to see if they are cool.
Ummm...
Maybe I need the ear wax cleaned out of my ears, but Mr Superhero says some peculiar things. I may call for his resignation from the Justice League of America. Just as soon as I'm admitted, I mean. :-)
One of the stranger things Mr Superhero says comes on for "sleep". He says, in between snores, "I go drag queen, save the world".
Well, that's sure what it sounds like.
I guess when you have the luxury of being a guy, you can flirt with nutsy ideas in your sleep, whereas we girls have to scramble to come up with a good superpower.
Pfft.
I picked another Superbuddy. Mr Superhero is a little too freaky for me. Not that I have anything against drag queens; some of them are really hot. Though that wouldn't be a consideration with Mr Superhero. Eew.
But I'm going to have to ask one of my gay friends what in the hell he's talking about; it may be something I need to know as a superhero.
:-)
Oh--and deciding if the Holiday Season will start early this year; that's a pressing issue.
Butsoanyway.
I have AOL. I'm not ashamed. Well, ok, perhaps a little ashamed. But I've had it forever, plus I was offered a superty-duper deal a few years ago (probably 'cos they felt sorry for me not having moved on to a real ISP), and so I have access for around ten or eleven dollars a month; I forget which. And I've tried other ISPs (whilst keeping AOL), and wasn't *that* overwhelmed with their offerings. Some of it was cool, but not worth increasing my monthly rate by (usually more than) about ten dollars. I'm of the belief that you don't *buy* cool; you're either cool or you're not, and I declared that I was cool when I was eleven-to-twelve years old.
Eleven-to-twelve was like, a banner transition for me. I dyed my hair for the first time at a sleepover (and upon return was immediately slapped around and dragged off to the hairdresser's, but that's not the point), smoked pot for the first time, started smoking cigarettes, skipped school, ran away from home for real for the first time, got drunk, took Valium, and made out with an adult. Among other things. I was too cool for frickin' words. The kind of cool your ISP just isn't going to take away from you. So I have AOL. And the AOL Translator is, sadly, true. That's why my main screen name is blocked to everyone but people I know. :-D
And I can live with the "walled garden". They're currently changing it (I have a friend who does Betastuffs), but I don't care. Freaking minimise it if it bothers you so much; that's what I do. Plus, sometimes I like the stuff in the garden. I'm ok with being dorky at times; I've racked up enough eccentricity points being cool that I can be dorky without fear. :-) Same goes for clumsy, stupid, and moody. All of which I exercise. A lot.
Butsoanyway.
So I've changed my AOL desktop to falling leaves, and I'm looking to change my buddy icon. And I haven't changed it in *forever* 'cos I've been busy, so I'm just looking at all of the new icons. AOL has "Superbuddy" icons that are animated--people, animals, rainbows, rocks, you name it. When you say a certain word or phrase, they act it out; so if you say in IM "damn, that really stinks!", the Superbuddy will act like they're smelling something bad. It's kind of cute; the baby turtle is my favourite.
Butsoanyway.
Under "guys", they have "John". Aptly named, that. He looks...well, strangely like a john. No, really. Kind of creepy, in truth. I guess that one's for hanging out in the Britney Spears chatroom. ::shiver:: Picture a disembodied Jack Horkheimer cartoon head with orange hair and moustache, and an extra 100 pounds on him, mostly grunting and humming. It's pretty scary; all they'd need to do is make him sweat, and it would be complete. Screw Katrina finger-pointing; I think we need to find the person responsible for *this*. They might be dangerous.
And under the category "gals", they have a goth girl (I was tempted, but it's a kindergothgirl, and that's not totally Ancodia), and other girls (club girl, PMS girl...ok, I'm kidding about PMS girl). Under guys, they have a superhero.
Ok, what's up with that shit?
Where's the girl superhero? Huh? Sexist motherfuckers! I mean, it's not like I have a superpower yet, or anything, or even a cool superhero outfit,but one has to start *somewhere*, so I figured that I'd start with my buddy icon. Geez.
So I figured fine--I can have a boy Superbuddy. I'm all about equality, even if AOL isn't. Whatever. So I tested Mr Superhero out, listening to his actions, to see if they are cool.
Ummm...
Maybe I need the ear wax cleaned out of my ears, but Mr Superhero says some peculiar things. I may call for his resignation from the Justice League of America. Just as soon as I'm admitted, I mean. :-)
One of the stranger things Mr Superhero says comes on for "sleep". He says, in between snores, "I go drag queen, save the world".
Well, that's sure what it sounds like.
I guess when you have the luxury of being a guy, you can flirt with nutsy ideas in your sleep, whereas we girls have to scramble to come up with a good superpower.
Pfft.
I picked another Superbuddy. Mr Superhero is a little too freaky for me. Not that I have anything against drag queens; some of them are really hot. Though that wouldn't be a consideration with Mr Superhero. Eew.
But I'm going to have to ask one of my gay friends what in the hell he's talking about; it may be something I need to know as a superhero.
:-)
Blogger for Word
Ok… I’m just screwing around online, and I found (like it’s sitting right there, first thing on the Dashboard, I really had to search, heh) the Blogger for Word download. Cool. Now I’m going to go back and finish playing Polar Bowler. :-)
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
My diplomacy, my security, my hope and my ice-cream
Well, I'm still employed by Eviljob, although I'm (voluntarily) off for a bit. I just need a break from those people, and I'll see them again next week. Gosh, I already miss the bureaucracy.
...not.
This is only the second temper tantrum I've thrown there in more years than I can count without wondering what in the hell is wrong with my mind. To make a long story short, my manager tried to correct me on several things at once, one of which was not my fault, and another which wouldn't have happened if I had any support at all, ever. Plus I'm stressed-out. So I lost it and walked out; turned off my cell, and went shopping. I bit back the urge to go buy an NWA cd, so that I could blast it on the drive to the mall.
Yeah, I am an angry woman, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah...
No, I didn't go get a streak in my hair. :-) Though that's like, my freaking theme song. Well, anymore, it seems.
So I shopped, and I didn't think about anyone but myself (well, ok, and my cats a couple of times), and then I went to play trivia, and then I turned my cell back on about 11:30pm, and had six voicemail messages. And another Foamy t-shirt (Tech Support II is due out on my birthday!), a new Pandora charm, a bunch of new underwears, and a few shirts, a pair of earrings, yet another Fossil watch (as much as an agnostic can, I swear to god that I'm not collecting them!), an Anne Klein watch that was on clearance and was calling me, and more Clinique Timeliner eyeliner (roast coffee and khaki) that I had to buy to get the PWP, but we'll not talk about that. It's all in the past, really.
So early this morning, I didn't go in to Eviljob; I called my manager instead (two of the messages were from her). From the messages I could tell that she didn't think I had quit, but I had been wondering if I was fired. In short, no--though she told me that it's not cool to yell at her. :-) I know that, and I did apologise. I stay quiet most of the time there (hard to picture, idnit?), and I am always ok with the "constructive criticism" stuff, so I mostly just freaked her out when I snapped; that was the last thing she was expecting.
Me too, actually. It just happened.
So I took vacation (her idea) 'cos I'm stressed out. At first I thought she was saying to apply for approved medical leave for stress, but she wasn't; she had just wanted to talk to me before she put the vacation in for me herself. I'm calmer now, listening to Midnight Syndicate's Vampyre, and considering declaring the Christmas Season early this year. It normally begins on September 21st, but I may declare a state of holiday emergency and start it in the next few days. I'm in consultation with my top cabinet advisors on this one.
Romeo: No, Babe. Change is bad.
Weebie: Will I get more food if we declare an early holiday season?
Squoosh: What's Christmas? Can I kill it?
:-)
Ok, on to new things.
So we had a group meeting at my *other* job today, and we were divvying up responsibilities (and thereby authorships) for a bunch of articles we'll be submitting to...ummm...Reader's Digest.
Work with me here.
So the projects were all thrown on the table, figuratively speaking, and we all set upon each other like ravening wolves. Or lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number, to get Our Fair Share. 'cept me. I'm not good at that sort of thing. It just reminded me of Lions after Slumber. Am I on a freaking Green binge, or what? But in things like this, it's mine, mine, mine. Everything is mine. Or theirs, rather. It has nothing to do with expertise, or experience, or...anything but cutting everyone else out.
We initially divided these all up at the first of the Summer semester. I immediately wrote my sections and handed them in. TPTB asked me to re-send a few weeks later, 'cos she couldn't find them. Apparently not many others did theirs, 'cos today we again tossed them on the table and let everyone have at what they wanted. Fluffernut claimed that she'd already written the exact same thing that I had written. Ummm...sorry to hear that, I said; perhaps you can cannibalise it for something else later.
I'm sure we all can guess what Fluffer did. Yep, she got nasty and pitched a little hissy fit. This is hers by Divine Right, because TPTB said so, and she's already done it, and because Ancodia sucks and she doesn't. So there. Black letter law, as far as Fluffer's concerned.
I just sat there. I'd ejaculated all my festering rage yesterday. So I let Fluffer win. Fluffer's wrong. I remember, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the room in which we were in, being cut out of the only article on which I would have really wanted my name, and accepting responsibility for a part that no one wanted after one of those "Bueller... Bueller..." moments. But I let it go. I had a cunning plan.
So after our meeting, I went to see my TPTB; I asked if what I had written was really bad, or something, and everyone had been afraid to tell me. She checked, and lo and behold...there's what Ancodia wrote, right on her 'puter. She'd just forgotten about it and allowed Fluffer to take it over, 'cos Fluffer had decided she wants a Readers' Digest publication asap. Fluffer sent hers in a few weeks before me. Ummm...no, I didn't say--that later date stamp on mine is from my re-sending of it, as requested of me about a month before I left. But I didn't say anything about that; I don't want to get into petty fights. TPTB suggested that perhaps Fluffer wasn't in the meeting where I'd taken it over. Well, yes, she was, I also didn't say. Fluffer was having one of her "I'm just soooooooo busy and sought-after!" indulgences, and couldn't be bothered to accept any assignment other than that which she was already completing.
I have this wonderful remembery. I know stuff like this.
So I said, knowing what I wrote is better than what Fluffer wrote ('cos from my Hawai'i escapade last year, I have some references that Fluffer doesn't; I'm not squirrelling them, I just don't feel the need to share when so many things in this group become so cut-throat. I'll use them for Group Good when I'm the one writing it. Ok, ok--I'm squirrelling them away. Shoot me.) because she's notorious for doing things like crappy keyword searches, and then only reading abstracts, not the whole paper, so I said that was fine, Fluffer could have it. And TPTB felt guilty, and even stopped herself in the middle of saying that Fluffer had kind of marched in and taken this over (I'd figured as much), 'cos one shouldn't say that about people.
IRL, I mean. In-blog, it's all fair game. Mwahahaha!
So TPTB said she'd come up with something amenable to both parties, and/or make it up to me. I guess we'll see what happens.
Oh, yeah.
...not.
This is only the second temper tantrum I've thrown there in more years than I can count without wondering what in the hell is wrong with my mind. To make a long story short, my manager tried to correct me on several things at once, one of which was not my fault, and another which wouldn't have happened if I had any support at all, ever. Plus I'm stressed-out. So I lost it and walked out; turned off my cell, and went shopping. I bit back the urge to go buy an NWA cd, so that I could blast it on the drive to the mall.
Yeah, I am an angry woman, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah...
No, I didn't go get a streak in my hair. :-) Though that's like, my freaking theme song. Well, anymore, it seems.
So I shopped, and I didn't think about anyone but myself (well, ok, and my cats a couple of times), and then I went to play trivia, and then I turned my cell back on about 11:30pm, and had six voicemail messages. And another Foamy t-shirt (Tech Support II is due out on my birthday!), a new Pandora charm, a bunch of new underwears, and a few shirts, a pair of earrings, yet another Fossil watch (as much as an agnostic can, I swear to god that I'm not collecting them!), an Anne Klein watch that was on clearance and was calling me, and more Clinique Timeliner eyeliner (roast coffee and khaki) that I had to buy to get the PWP, but we'll not talk about that. It's all in the past, really.
So early this morning, I didn't go in to Eviljob; I called my manager instead (two of the messages were from her). From the messages I could tell that she didn't think I had quit, but I had been wondering if I was fired. In short, no--though she told me that it's not cool to yell at her. :-) I know that, and I did apologise. I stay quiet most of the time there (hard to picture, idnit?), and I am always ok with the "constructive criticism" stuff, so I mostly just freaked her out when I snapped; that was the last thing she was expecting.
Me too, actually. It just happened.
So I took vacation (her idea) 'cos I'm stressed out. At first I thought she was saying to apply for approved medical leave for stress, but she wasn't; she had just wanted to talk to me before she put the vacation in for me herself. I'm calmer now, listening to Midnight Syndicate's Vampyre, and considering declaring the Christmas Season early this year. It normally begins on September 21st, but I may declare a state of holiday emergency and start it in the next few days. I'm in consultation with my top cabinet advisors on this one.
Romeo: No, Babe. Change is bad.
Weebie: Will I get more food if we declare an early holiday season?
Squoosh: What's Christmas? Can I kill it?
:-)
Ok, on to new things.
So we had a group meeting at my *other* job today, and we were divvying up responsibilities (and thereby authorships) for a bunch of articles we'll be submitting to...ummm...Reader's Digest.
Work with me here.
So the projects were all thrown on the table, figuratively speaking, and we all set upon each other like ravening wolves. Or lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number, to get Our Fair Share. 'cept me. I'm not good at that sort of thing. It just reminded me of Lions after Slumber. Am I on a freaking Green binge, or what? But in things like this, it's mine, mine, mine. Everything is mine. Or theirs, rather. It has nothing to do with expertise, or experience, or...anything but cutting everyone else out.
We initially divided these all up at the first of the Summer semester. I immediately wrote my sections and handed them in. TPTB asked me to re-send a few weeks later, 'cos she couldn't find them. Apparently not many others did theirs, 'cos today we again tossed them on the table and let everyone have at what they wanted. Fluffernut claimed that she'd already written the exact same thing that I had written. Ummm...sorry to hear that, I said; perhaps you can cannibalise it for something else later.
I'm sure we all can guess what Fluffer did. Yep, she got nasty and pitched a little hissy fit. This is hers by Divine Right, because TPTB said so, and she's already done it, and because Ancodia sucks and she doesn't. So there. Black letter law, as far as Fluffer's concerned.
I just sat there. I'd ejaculated all my festering rage yesterday. So I let Fluffer win. Fluffer's wrong. I remember, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the room in which we were in, being cut out of the only article on which I would have really wanted my name, and accepting responsibility for a part that no one wanted after one of those "Bueller... Bueller..." moments. But I let it go. I had a cunning plan.
So after our meeting, I went to see my TPTB; I asked if what I had written was really bad, or something, and everyone had been afraid to tell me. She checked, and lo and behold...there's what Ancodia wrote, right on her 'puter. She'd just forgotten about it and allowed Fluffer to take it over, 'cos Fluffer had decided she wants a Readers' Digest publication asap. Fluffer sent hers in a few weeks before me. Ummm...no, I didn't say--that later date stamp on mine is from my re-sending of it, as requested of me about a month before I left. But I didn't say anything about that; I don't want to get into petty fights. TPTB suggested that perhaps Fluffer wasn't in the meeting where I'd taken it over. Well, yes, she was, I also didn't say. Fluffer was having one of her "I'm just soooooooo busy and sought-after!" indulgences, and couldn't be bothered to accept any assignment other than that which she was already completing.
I have this wonderful remembery. I know stuff like this.
So I said, knowing what I wrote is better than what Fluffer wrote ('cos from my Hawai'i escapade last year, I have some references that Fluffer doesn't; I'm not squirrelling them, I just don't feel the need to share when so many things in this group become so cut-throat. I'll use them for Group Good when I'm the one writing it. Ok, ok--I'm squirrelling them away. Shoot me.) because she's notorious for doing things like crappy keyword searches, and then only reading abstracts, not the whole paper, so I said that was fine, Fluffer could have it. And TPTB felt guilty, and even stopped herself in the middle of saying that Fluffer had kind of marched in and taken this over (I'd figured as much), 'cos one shouldn't say that about people.
IRL, I mean. In-blog, it's all fair game. Mwahahaha!
So TPTB said she'd come up with something amenable to both parties, and/or make it up to me. I guess we'll see what happens.
Oh, yeah.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Home again, home again...
Hmmm...
I'm not certain, but I think that I may have just quit Eviljob.
:-)
Had to come home to pick up a package delivery slip and hug Squoosh. And submit my timesheet before they lock me out and I have to submit through my manager.
Fuck this shit. I'm going out for lunch and shopping.
I'm not certain, but I think that I may have just quit Eviljob.
:-)
Had to come home to pick up a package delivery slip and hug Squoosh. And submit my timesheet before they lock me out and I have to submit through my manager.
Fuck this shit. I'm going out for lunch and shopping.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Skull Crucible
I'm actually more concerned now than I was when I heard Mike had forsaken law school and was working as a patrolman in Pritchard, AL; Pritchard is only rough--this is hell. When even the police spokesman (Sgt. Paul Accardo) is committing suicide (a/k/a, plathing the bejeezus out of one’s self), you have to believe that there are problems:
Thin Blue Line Stretched Taut
This is one of those times that I really wish I could fast-forward to like, the day before Halloween, or something. Some things would be back to normal, I'd know where my brother was going, or he'd already be there--wherever that may be; Mike would probably at least have air-conditioning and be somewhat safer, or even be Elsewhere, with his wife; Son-Friend would have either been awarded Disability, or I would have beaten him to death and hidden the body craftily. And so on. Plus, I like Halloween.
Ok, ok; I’m aware that was flippant. It’s ummm…artistic licence; I’m deviating slightly from civillty in order to achieve a desired effect.
Oh, ok, *fine*--I’ve never been voluntarily civil a day in my life, and I absolutely relish being abrasive when I can get away with it, usually. Except for today, but that’s a wholly different story that’s on its way; apparently, I’m “unclear and hard to understand”. There’ll be more on this event later, if I don’t become completely and enthralledly enrapt by my escapist trivia game in a pathetic attempt to forestall plathing the bejeezus out of me ‘cos I just can’t take it anymore.
Yes, I’m only venting, and no, I’m not trying to make light of anything that has occurred with anyone else. This is the only place that I can waste time focussing on myself and not feel horribly guilty, and today is damn close to a banner day for that. I am so stressed out that my neck and jaw actually hurt from being clenched for so long (not that I had meant to do that; I just noticed that they hurt, and then realised that I’ve been holding them clenched), enough that it is painful to move my neck and my throat hurts, and I’ve got a lovely drilling headache. My *everything* is pulled taut. I know; whine, whine, whine. No, I don’t want any cheese.
Ok, so—on the Le Event. I had a problem at Eviljob today; there was a fight. Not anywhere near me or what I do; I didn’t know about it until I was stupid enough to leave the safety of my cube-the-size-of-a-bedroom (which I have to myself—mostly—most every Sunday) and go hunting for a lime or lemon Diet Coke. Damn the son of a bitch who can’t just stock one machine with one type, always, all the time. You—I blame *you*. So I became involuntarily involved, because I was convenient; I went one floor up, and over to the other side of the facility hunting Diet freaking Coke.
So I went hunting, and get summoned by a matchstick-thin girl who tells me that I have to come “back over there”, and quickly, so I do. To make a long story short, two gentlemen (I’m being sarcastic) are arguing, with about six other people gawking---errr…standing around watching the fireworks; it apparently had started over something work-related, and escalated into some personally-based dispute, and as I’m walk-running up they are starting to get into the leaning forward and yelling shit, from which pushing, then hitting, will imminently follow—you can just tell. So as we’re walking over, I tell Miss Size Zero±ib to go get Larry, the Heavyset Guard. Why she didn’t do that in the first place, I have no idea; I’ll be damned if I’m taking a poorly-aimed uppercut to the jaw just to keep someone from getting written up or terminated.
Well, ok; we don’t actually have a Larry the Heavyset Guard, but work with me here.
My brain can withstand only so much swimming in cerebrospinal fluid I think, because whilst mentally bedraggled from Diet Coke Deficiency, I decide the smartest course of action will be to insert myself between them, a manoeuvre which immediately has absolutely no effect whatsoever. I’m 5’ 10”, but one of them is about my height, and the other is a little taller, and they pay me no mind at all, continuing to yell at each other around me, and across the top of my head. I advise both of them to back off and sit down; eventually one of them does, leaving the taller one yelling at the shorter one (who had retreated), trying to incite him to get back over there and…I dunno—pop him in the mouth? So I, in a moment of Pure Brilliance, turn to the taller one, and tell him to go sit down whilst he can. So he starts yelling at me--at *me* he yells. Then another manager and security wander in, and I immediately beat a path the hell out of there…and spend the next hour writing up the taller guy (it’s difficult to be anonymous when one’s name is dangling from one’s lanyard) for calling me a couple of choice names. As if any name someone called me mattered. Heh. And then just before I leave I get an email from a SHIT (that’s Supervisor Helper In Training…ok; it’s an acronym I’ve just made up, but my point is that it’s from no one who has any business emailing *me*--they should wait and run it past their supervisor or manager and see what to do before making with the challenging emails to *me*) telling me that the tall gentleman, who is now in Deep Shit, is claiming that I was “unclear” and “hard to understand” when I was telling him to sit the fuck down and shut up, and that’s now his defence and excuse for why he was an asshole. Ummm…no. In addition to the fact that I have overstepped my authority (SHIT’s words, although less well-chosen) and should not be pestering Department Y’s workers, anyway. Oh, how fucking dare you?
So I lost it and returned to him a blistering email that was cc’d to his manager explaining that I could bring sexual harassment charges up against this imbecile (some of the things he said were way out-of-bounds), that I have the right to walk anywhere in the building I wish (ummm…that’s why *my* ID will scan into *anywhere* in this facility as well as two others, and yours will get you into Dep’t Y and the cafeteria, buttmunch), AND if it’s such an intrusion, why weren’t you there to prevent your monkeys from pummelling the crap out of each other? And I’m so deeply sorry for the distress it must have caused you Mr SHIT, particularly when I know that you don’t know how to handle such a situation. Perhaps I should have stayed to help you learn how to fix something like this and send someone home for the day.
God, I’m such a nasty bitch.
I’ve never mentioned the SHITs, I don’t think. We have some real shits, but no SHITs in our department. I don’t hate all of them; some of them are ok, but many are just annoying. They have no real power, their average tenure is around 3 years, and they’re supposed to be “helpers”, but they overstep their bounds more than I care to pay attention to, because if I did, I’d go batshit. What they’ll end up doing is either quitting or becoming a supervisor and eventually a manager. In theory. Many quit, ‘cos it’s not as easy to move up that way as they think. It’s a ridiculous internshippish program that was begun about four years or so ago. So they get into these positions, and just annoy people randomly. On weekends (but especially Sundays) there are SHITs all over, ‘cos the actual management wants the damn weekends off, duh. And from that perspective, I’ve always wondered how stupid you have to be to buy into that, because all of a sudden you’re yanked out of your Monday-Friday, 9-5 schedule and end up working weekends, holidays, and all the times that actual supervisors and managers don’t want to work.
Butsoanyway.
And if my little self-indulgence (no, I have no illusion that my nastygram was anything but self-indulgent) backfires, who cares? From what I can figure, I may be headed out the door, anyway. So I have nothing to lose. Pfft. And no matter what, my kitties still love me.
Speaking of which, Squoosh had his second round of vaccinations, and his second FeLV/AIDS test; he did fine with the shots, and he’s negative—no diseases. Yay, Squooshable! And that’s the only good thing that has happened to me all week. And really, Squooshable is damn close to the only good thing that has happened to me all year. We’ll see what the rest of the year holds, I guess. It can’t get any worse—or if it can, I don’t want to be here for it. This is just…overwhelming, stupid, crazygonuts, increasingly soulless times….and I’m finding it annoying.
Of course from this—all of this—I, this country, and everyone will emerge just that much better, won’t we? Because, of course, we know what priceless treasures emerge from these skull crucibles, after all.
Thin Blue Line Stretched Taut
This is one of those times that I really wish I could fast-forward to like, the day before Halloween, or something. Some things would be back to normal, I'd know where my brother was going, or he'd already be there--wherever that may be; Mike would probably at least have air-conditioning and be somewhat safer, or even be Elsewhere, with his wife; Son-Friend would have either been awarded Disability, or I would have beaten him to death and hidden the body craftily. And so on. Plus, I like Halloween.
Ok, ok; I’m aware that was flippant. It’s ummm…artistic licence; I’m deviating slightly from civillty in order to achieve a desired effect.
Oh, ok, *fine*--I’ve never been voluntarily civil a day in my life, and I absolutely relish being abrasive when I can get away with it, usually. Except for today, but that’s a wholly different story that’s on its way; apparently, I’m “unclear and hard to understand”. There’ll be more on this event later, if I don’t become completely and enthralledly enrapt by my escapist trivia game in a pathetic attempt to forestall plathing the bejeezus out of me ‘cos I just can’t take it anymore.
Yes, I’m only venting, and no, I’m not trying to make light of anything that has occurred with anyone else. This is the only place that I can waste time focussing on myself and not feel horribly guilty, and today is damn close to a banner day for that. I am so stressed out that my neck and jaw actually hurt from being clenched for so long (not that I had meant to do that; I just noticed that they hurt, and then realised that I’ve been holding them clenched), enough that it is painful to move my neck and my throat hurts, and I’ve got a lovely drilling headache. My *everything* is pulled taut. I know; whine, whine, whine. No, I don’t want any cheese.
Ok, so—on the Le Event. I had a problem at Eviljob today; there was a fight. Not anywhere near me or what I do; I didn’t know about it until I was stupid enough to leave the safety of my cube-the-size-of-a-bedroom (which I have to myself—mostly—most every Sunday) and go hunting for a lime or lemon Diet Coke. Damn the son of a bitch who can’t just stock one machine with one type, always, all the time. You—I blame *you*. So I became involuntarily involved, because I was convenient; I went one floor up, and over to the other side of the facility hunting Diet freaking Coke.
So I went hunting, and get summoned by a matchstick-thin girl who tells me that I have to come “back over there”, and quickly, so I do. To make a long story short, two gentlemen (I’m being sarcastic) are arguing, with about six other people gawking---errr…standing around watching the fireworks; it apparently had started over something work-related, and escalated into some personally-based dispute, and as I’m walk-running up they are starting to get into the leaning forward and yelling shit, from which pushing, then hitting, will imminently follow—you can just tell. So as we’re walking over, I tell Miss Size Zero±ib to go get Larry, the Heavyset Guard. Why she didn’t do that in the first place, I have no idea; I’ll be damned if I’m taking a poorly-aimed uppercut to the jaw just to keep someone from getting written up or terminated.
Well, ok; we don’t actually have a Larry the Heavyset Guard, but work with me here.
My brain can withstand only so much swimming in cerebrospinal fluid I think, because whilst mentally bedraggled from Diet Coke Deficiency, I decide the smartest course of action will be to insert myself between them, a manoeuvre which immediately has absolutely no effect whatsoever. I’m 5’ 10”, but one of them is about my height, and the other is a little taller, and they pay me no mind at all, continuing to yell at each other around me, and across the top of my head. I advise both of them to back off and sit down; eventually one of them does, leaving the taller one yelling at the shorter one (who had retreated), trying to incite him to get back over there and…I dunno—pop him in the mouth? So I, in a moment of Pure Brilliance, turn to the taller one, and tell him to go sit down whilst he can. So he starts yelling at me--at *me* he yells. Then another manager and security wander in, and I immediately beat a path the hell out of there…and spend the next hour writing up the taller guy (it’s difficult to be anonymous when one’s name is dangling from one’s lanyard) for calling me a couple of choice names. As if any name someone called me mattered. Heh. And then just before I leave I get an email from a SHIT (that’s Supervisor Helper In Training…ok; it’s an acronym I’ve just made up, but my point is that it’s from no one who has any business emailing *me*--they should wait and run it past their supervisor or manager and see what to do before making with the challenging emails to *me*) telling me that the tall gentleman, who is now in Deep Shit, is claiming that I was “unclear” and “hard to understand” when I was telling him to sit the fuck down and shut up, and that’s now his defence and excuse for why he was an asshole. Ummm…no. In addition to the fact that I have overstepped my authority (SHIT’s words, although less well-chosen) and should not be pestering Department Y’s workers, anyway. Oh, how fucking dare you?
So I lost it and returned to him a blistering email that was cc’d to his manager explaining that I could bring sexual harassment charges up against this imbecile (some of the things he said were way out-of-bounds), that I have the right to walk anywhere in the building I wish (ummm…that’s why *my* ID will scan into *anywhere* in this facility as well as two others, and yours will get you into Dep’t Y and the cafeteria, buttmunch), AND if it’s such an intrusion, why weren’t you there to prevent your monkeys from pummelling the crap out of each other? And I’m so deeply sorry for the distress it must have caused you Mr SHIT, particularly when I know that you don’t know how to handle such a situation. Perhaps I should have stayed to help you learn how to fix something like this and send someone home for the day.
God, I’m such a nasty bitch.
I’ve never mentioned the SHITs, I don’t think. We have some real shits, but no SHITs in our department. I don’t hate all of them; some of them are ok, but many are just annoying. They have no real power, their average tenure is around 3 years, and they’re supposed to be “helpers”, but they overstep their bounds more than I care to pay attention to, because if I did, I’d go batshit. What they’ll end up doing is either quitting or becoming a supervisor and eventually a manager. In theory. Many quit, ‘cos it’s not as easy to move up that way as they think. It’s a ridiculous internshippish program that was begun about four years or so ago. So they get into these positions, and just annoy people randomly. On weekends (but especially Sundays) there are SHITs all over, ‘cos the actual management wants the damn weekends off, duh. And from that perspective, I’ve always wondered how stupid you have to be to buy into that, because all of a sudden you’re yanked out of your Monday-Friday, 9-5 schedule and end up working weekends, holidays, and all the times that actual supervisors and managers don’t want to work.
Butsoanyway.
And if my little self-indulgence (no, I have no illusion that my nastygram was anything but self-indulgent) backfires, who cares? From what I can figure, I may be headed out the door, anyway. So I have nothing to lose. Pfft. And no matter what, my kitties still love me.
Speaking of which, Squoosh had his second round of vaccinations, and his second FeLV/AIDS test; he did fine with the shots, and he’s negative—no diseases. Yay, Squooshable! And that’s the only good thing that has happened to me all week. And really, Squooshable is damn close to the only good thing that has happened to me all year. We’ll see what the rest of the year holds, I guess. It can’t get any worse—or if it can, I don’t want to be here for it. This is just…overwhelming, stupid, crazygonuts, increasingly soulless times….and I’m finding it annoying.
Of course from this—all of this—I, this country, and everyone will emerge just that much better, won’t we? Because, of course, we know what priceless treasures emerge from these skull crucibles, after all.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Out of the Loop
I've been completely walled-in at Eviljob all day, once again. I was going to watch more news, but I can't deal anymore. And I've just blown the last of my mad money on Son-Friend's rent for September. Technically, mad is anything that isn't a bill, savings, or Squoosh chow, and this really fucking sucks. How can you go an entire month and not have your damn rent?
Ok, well, I know how...but I'm so over it that I could just scream. I could have flown to Vietnam and back almost six times on what I've given him so far this year. Well, assuming mid-range fares, but that's not the point. And I only know how much it costs to fly to Vietnam because Te-Te (I have no clue as to how to spell or pronounce her full name; similarly, I'm sure I'd present a challenge to her, also) where I go get pedicures is saving up to do it.
Yes, I tip her a lot. I've got guilt that way.
I've also got guilt because it sounds like I want people to die. I don't want anyone to die. Really. Especially not my brother.
And, rest assured, the very fact that I want something ensures the exact opposite will occur. Things just work that way. And that's why I'm angry, and dread-filled, and...well, everything else.
And I just can't deal with more news at this point, and I haven't been able to handle talking to my brother in months, and...I'm just upset. As if it mattered at all what I feel. I mean, I'm aware that in the grand scheme of things, how *I* feel has the least value of all.
My brother became angry with me when I was away; he called me finally, because I hadn't called him in over a month. He thought I was at home, and was upset that I hadn't told him what I was doing. At that point in time, I was in the middle of the Grand Casino; he asked where I was (he could hear the background noise), and I told him I was on a business trip. He mentioned that I hadn't said I was leaving, and I just got angry. I told him that I don't have to check in with him. He said he would call back later, when I was normal, or some other snide remark (his hint that he's about to hang up on me...he always hangs up on me), and I told him to not bother, since he's obviously too busy. He hung up, and two minutes later I felt guilty, with that "winning the battle but losing the war" guilt. Then he rings back maybe fifteen to thirty minutes later, and I was going to try to apologise to him, but it was my nephew (well, one of my nephews--I have two. He is six, and didn't call me; my brother was either trying to be funny, or who knows. Piss me off more, maybe, but I love my nephew. Even though you can barely understand a word he says on the phone). I talked to my nephew, waiting for my brother to get on the line, but he didn't. I even asked my nephew if Daddy was there, and he said "uh-huh". But Daddy never came on the line. After a while of talking to my nephew, I heard my brother tell him to tell me goodbye, and he did. Then my brother hung up on me...again.
And I have refused to talk to him since. Sort of. When I was at my mother's house, the phone rang; she told me to get it, and it was him. He just asked for her, and I told him to hold on. I figure that if he wanted to talk to me, he had a chance right there. He might have thought I was Meg, for all I know; we sometimes sound alike for a few minutes. He didn’t ask, which I take to mean that he didn’t care. He hasn't called me. That's my whole point. He's busy, and I usually call him (and I usually manage—unintentionally—to ring him when he's extremely busy), but if he wanted to talk to me, he could call me. He obviously doesn’t want to talk to me.
And all of this doesn’t mean that I love him any less. He’s a hard person to love. And maybe I am, too. I don’t know. But I’m angry at him. He does everything he does not even caring how it will make someone feel.
I don’t know; I’m not really angry, but anger is the closest way to describe it, and no matter what I do, it is going to be the wrong thing. If I do leave to go over and spend a weekend with him, he’ll just pick one fight after another with me. I just know it. He’s never nice to me until he thinks he’s won, or something, until he has me so upset that I’m sobbing or raging. Well, I won’t use absolutes…I don’t mean *never*, just a lot of the time. And if I don’t go over there, he might have been planning to be nice, or something. I don’t know. I just don’t. And I’m really bogging down in details, and I need to look at the bigger picture, and I’m being boring, and I’m saying things I’ll regret, and whatever else. And it’s taken me this long to say anything about it, for exactly all of those reasons. I know these things. I just screw them all up always anyway.
And Romeo just crawled up in my lap for a rare cuddle session, so I’m ending this. It’s pointless to mull over, since whatever I do in this situation will be wrong.
Ok, well, I know how...but I'm so over it that I could just scream. I could have flown to Vietnam and back almost six times on what I've given him so far this year. Well, assuming mid-range fares, but that's not the point. And I only know how much it costs to fly to Vietnam because Te-Te (I have no clue as to how to spell or pronounce her full name; similarly, I'm sure I'd present a challenge to her, also) where I go get pedicures is saving up to do it.
Yes, I tip her a lot. I've got guilt that way.
I've also got guilt because it sounds like I want people to die. I don't want anyone to die. Really. Especially not my brother.
And, rest assured, the very fact that I want something ensures the exact opposite will occur. Things just work that way. And that's why I'm angry, and dread-filled, and...well, everything else.
And I just can't deal with more news at this point, and I haven't been able to handle talking to my brother in months, and...I'm just upset. As if it mattered at all what I feel. I mean, I'm aware that in the grand scheme of things, how *I* feel has the least value of all.
My brother became angry with me when I was away; he called me finally, because I hadn't called him in over a month. He thought I was at home, and was upset that I hadn't told him what I was doing. At that point in time, I was in the middle of the Grand Casino; he asked where I was (he could hear the background noise), and I told him I was on a business trip. He mentioned that I hadn't said I was leaving, and I just got angry. I told him that I don't have to check in with him. He said he would call back later, when I was normal, or some other snide remark (his hint that he's about to hang up on me...he always hangs up on me), and I told him to not bother, since he's obviously too busy. He hung up, and two minutes later I felt guilty, with that "winning the battle but losing the war" guilt. Then he rings back maybe fifteen to thirty minutes later, and I was going to try to apologise to him, but it was my nephew (well, one of my nephews--I have two. He is six, and didn't call me; my brother was either trying to be funny, or who knows. Piss me off more, maybe, but I love my nephew. Even though you can barely understand a word he says on the phone). I talked to my nephew, waiting for my brother to get on the line, but he didn't. I even asked my nephew if Daddy was there, and he said "uh-huh". But Daddy never came on the line. After a while of talking to my nephew, I heard my brother tell him to tell me goodbye, and he did. Then my brother hung up on me...again.
And I have refused to talk to him since. Sort of. When I was at my mother's house, the phone rang; she told me to get it, and it was him. He just asked for her, and I told him to hold on. I figure that if he wanted to talk to me, he had a chance right there. He might have thought I was Meg, for all I know; we sometimes sound alike for a few minutes. He didn’t ask, which I take to mean that he didn’t care. He hasn't called me. That's my whole point. He's busy, and I usually call him (and I usually manage—unintentionally—to ring him when he's extremely busy), but if he wanted to talk to me, he could call me. He obviously doesn’t want to talk to me.
And all of this doesn’t mean that I love him any less. He’s a hard person to love. And maybe I am, too. I don’t know. But I’m angry at him. He does everything he does not even caring how it will make someone feel.
I don’t know; I’m not really angry, but anger is the closest way to describe it, and no matter what I do, it is going to be the wrong thing. If I do leave to go over and spend a weekend with him, he’ll just pick one fight after another with me. I just know it. He’s never nice to me until he thinks he’s won, or something, until he has me so upset that I’m sobbing or raging. Well, I won’t use absolutes…I don’t mean *never*, just a lot of the time. And if I don’t go over there, he might have been planning to be nice, or something. I don’t know. I just don’t. And I’m really bogging down in details, and I need to look at the bigger picture, and I’m being boring, and I’m saying things I’ll regret, and whatever else. And it’s taken me this long to say anything about it, for exactly all of those reasons. I know these things. I just screw them all up always anyway.
And Romeo just crawled up in my lap for a rare cuddle session, so I’m ending this. It’s pointless to mull over, since whatever I do in this situation will be wrong.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Praying for Pestilence
So I’m watching Fox News. Geraldo is at the Convention Centre in New Orleans…although as far as I know, he could be in Cincinnati.
Yeah, you heard me, Geraldo. I'm amazed they let you out without a GPS tracker on a collar around your neck.
Could this guy scream any louder? O’Reilly even had to tell him to calm down at one point. If it had been me, I’d have told him to call me back when he wasn’t an overexcited little midget cat and hung up. Whenever someone attends to the evac of personnel from Charity Hospital, could they pick up some fucking Valium for Geraldo and drop it off? I’m concerned for his well-being at this point. He seems more traumatised than the people who’ve been there for five days.
Thank you.
And I don’t want to go to the New Orleans Convention Centre next year now. It’s pretty gross. And I know the people are suffering, but so is everyone else, everywhere in New Orleans.
And for the record, Lawrence Guyot is a fucking retard who made a total fool of himself in his interview with O’Reilly. Guyot needs to get off his fat ass, quit preaching hate and get his tremendously obnoxious self down there and start helping if he’s soooo interested. Go help evacuate the elderly, sick, and children—black OR white—you self-righteous fucknut.
As my grandmother used to say, I wouldn’t pee down his throat if his guts were on fire. What a waste of primordial ooze.
And Jabbar Gibson—the twenty-year old who hotwired the school bus and evacuated people on his own to Houston—Mr Gibson deserves a medal. And help getting his life together, ‘cos he’s got potential. That’s exactly—or damn close to—what I would have done. Good going, Guy. One more person who understands that “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you” really is a funny, funny joke.
“I really don’t know how you’re going to organise a rescue in this town…” But yet you’re going to complain about what’s being done? Go get some sleep, Shepard. You’re turning into an overexcited little midget cat, also.
Yep—them’s the rules: If you want to criticise, you have to offer viable alternatives that don’t rely on hindsight. Didn’t your Mom teach you that?
Ok, now that being said, hoo-boy, isn’t this a cock-up? I can’t say that I know what should be done, but I am amazed that no one had ever considered that such a thing might happen and oh, maybe had a plan, or something. Christ; I LIVE to worry—let me handle your urban planning, and I’ll have thought of every possible disaster from hurricanes to alien abductions to unexplained sock disappearances from local Laundromats. I just worry like that.
Ok, now all *that* being said, I have good news that I might interrupt to make fun of Geraldo if the opportunity presents itself. Although, despite how my comments may seem right now, I do believe that the media has been essential in this instance. Where in the hell else is anyone communicating? Well, besides that one blog. So much for planning ahead and installing some kind of disaster-proof communications system (yes, it can be done). Let’s just cross our fingers and hope Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC show up, eh?
Ok, I promise I’ll keep the blogging in front of the television to a minimum from now on.
My brother is on alert. This is a good thing. My brother is also in Napa Valley, on vacation right now. He has to call in any time he changes where he’s located, or every (howevermany) hours, whichever comes first, to advise of where he is. He says that this is becoming more of a “when “than an “if”. He may have to return to Texas, or wherever else they tell him he has to go, in order to respond to the Katrina disaster.
This is a very, very good thing. It's a good thing because until now, my brother was supposed to be going over to Iraq.
Now he’s irritated. He’s a military doctor, and has been doing double time to get to that elusive “somewhere” for a while. You know—the whole money-power-prestige thing. I mean, after all, that’s the only reason people want him around, right?
Ok, in fairness, the days of going into private practice as a GP are over. That won’t keep your kid in diapers and your wife in Pottery Barn these days. I acknowledge that. Really. And I'm glad he has an area of specialty, and I'm glad he's feathering his own bed.
And I’m not saying that I’m not proud of him. He's obnoxious, but in my own way, I'm proud of him. He’s been—in addition to his practice—active as a researcher; he’s written articles, and even a chapter in a text. He’s managed to steadily increase his responsibility on his undertakings to where he has wholly run many of them. He was supposed to go help run a hospital in Iraq. This, he says, would be It. Doing something like that would make him, career-wise.
And that’s why I’ve been angry at him for a few months. That's when we found out that he was going, even though nothing is official yet.
I don’t want him to go. I didn’t want him to go into the military in the first place. No one asks what I think. I think it’s a good way for me to be without a brother. And, as obnoxious as mine is, I’ve grown attached to him. I don’t want him to get his ass shot off by a sniper when he tries to go out for lunch. I don’t want him to get abducted and be beheaded because he’s an American. I don’t give a damn that this is a chance of a lifetime. I don’t care that he would have his pick of places when (if!) he gets back. Fuck the Iraqis. Let them all get hoof and mouth disease and die. What the fuck do I care about them?
Ok, so I have a pretty solidified opinion on this. So shoot me.
But if he has to go do this, he can’t go do that. At least not when he’s supposed to, which was any time from the end of September to November. That’s why he and his wife went on vacation right now. It was supposed to be their last before he left. And if he can’t go when he’s supposed to, maybe things will have changed later. Maybe they’ll need someone to do what he was going to do immediately, and send someone else. He has a moderate amount of experience with infectious disease. That's what these evacuees are going to be full of, if things keep going the way they are.
And so that’s what I’m hoping for. I guess we’ll see what happens. It's a moral dilemma: You benefit only when others suffer. I guess it's clear what my choice is. I'm not ashamed of it. Anyone who wants to judge me can go right ahead. This is my BROTHER we're talking about sacrificing for some third-world country that couldn't give a shit less whether he lives or dies. Enough said; I am not going to try to apologise for my feelings. Hopefully we'll have a few good cases of bubonic plague or something, and my brother will be safe for a little while.
And on top of everything else, it turns out that I do know someone on the New Orleans police force. So I suck as a person to know; I can’t keep up with everyone everywhere. And last I knew, he was a police officer in Alabama. Ok, so it turns out that that was a long time ago, and he and his wife moved so that she could go to med school. And it turns out that I’ve been told this several times. So I forgot. Ok? I admit it. I forgot. I’m a suck person.
Butsoanyway.
His name is [removed; he andfamille a re doing fantastically]. And I’m not obfuscating on this one. If anyone reads this and feels like thinking of someone, please think of []. His wife is safe in Georgia. He’s called his mother a few times to tell her he’s still on duty and still ok. I hope for his continued safety, as much as I hope for anything else.
And I hope he stays away from Geraldo; I think that man may have rabies.
Yeah, you heard me, Geraldo. I'm amazed they let you out without a GPS tracker on a collar around your neck.
Could this guy scream any louder? O’Reilly even had to tell him to calm down at one point. If it had been me, I’d have told him to call me back when he wasn’t an overexcited little midget cat and hung up. Whenever someone attends to the evac of personnel from Charity Hospital, could they pick up some fucking Valium for Geraldo and drop it off? I’m concerned for his well-being at this point. He seems more traumatised than the people who’ve been there for five days.
Thank you.
And I don’t want to go to the New Orleans Convention Centre next year now. It’s pretty gross. And I know the people are suffering, but so is everyone else, everywhere in New Orleans.
And for the record, Lawrence Guyot is a fucking retard who made a total fool of himself in his interview with O’Reilly. Guyot needs to get off his fat ass, quit preaching hate and get his tremendously obnoxious self down there and start helping if he’s soooo interested. Go help evacuate the elderly, sick, and children—black OR white—you self-righteous fucknut.
As my grandmother used to say, I wouldn’t pee down his throat if his guts were on fire. What a waste of primordial ooze.
And Jabbar Gibson—the twenty-year old who hotwired the school bus and evacuated people on his own to Houston—Mr Gibson deserves a medal. And help getting his life together, ‘cos he’s got potential. That’s exactly—or damn close to—what I would have done. Good going, Guy. One more person who understands that “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you” really is a funny, funny joke.
“I really don’t know how you’re going to organise a rescue in this town…” But yet you’re going to complain about what’s being done? Go get some sleep, Shepard. You’re turning into an overexcited little midget cat, also.
Yep—them’s the rules: If you want to criticise, you have to offer viable alternatives that don’t rely on hindsight. Didn’t your Mom teach you that?
Ok, now that being said, hoo-boy, isn’t this a cock-up? I can’t say that I know what should be done, but I am amazed that no one had ever considered that such a thing might happen and oh, maybe had a plan, or something. Christ; I LIVE to worry—let me handle your urban planning, and I’ll have thought of every possible disaster from hurricanes to alien abductions to unexplained sock disappearances from local Laundromats. I just worry like that.
Ok, now all *that* being said, I have good news that I might interrupt to make fun of Geraldo if the opportunity presents itself. Although, despite how my comments may seem right now, I do believe that the media has been essential in this instance. Where in the hell else is anyone communicating? Well, besides that one blog. So much for planning ahead and installing some kind of disaster-proof communications system (yes, it can be done). Let’s just cross our fingers and hope Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC show up, eh?
Ok, I promise I’ll keep the blogging in front of the television to a minimum from now on.
My brother is on alert. This is a good thing. My brother is also in Napa Valley, on vacation right now. He has to call in any time he changes where he’s located, or every (howevermany) hours, whichever comes first, to advise of where he is. He says that this is becoming more of a “when “than an “if”. He may have to return to Texas, or wherever else they tell him he has to go, in order to respond to the Katrina disaster.
This is a very, very good thing. It's a good thing because until now, my brother was supposed to be going over to Iraq.
Now he’s irritated. He’s a military doctor, and has been doing double time to get to that elusive “somewhere” for a while. You know—the whole money-power-prestige thing. I mean, after all, that’s the only reason people want him around, right?
Ok, in fairness, the days of going into private practice as a GP are over. That won’t keep your kid in diapers and your wife in Pottery Barn these days. I acknowledge that. Really. And I'm glad he has an area of specialty, and I'm glad he's feathering his own bed.
And I’m not saying that I’m not proud of him. He's obnoxious, but in my own way, I'm proud of him. He’s been—in addition to his practice—active as a researcher; he’s written articles, and even a chapter in a text. He’s managed to steadily increase his responsibility on his undertakings to where he has wholly run many of them. He was supposed to go help run a hospital in Iraq. This, he says, would be It. Doing something like that would make him, career-wise.
And that’s why I’ve been angry at him for a few months. That's when we found out that he was going, even though nothing is official yet.
I don’t want him to go. I didn’t want him to go into the military in the first place. No one asks what I think. I think it’s a good way for me to be without a brother. And, as obnoxious as mine is, I’ve grown attached to him. I don’t want him to get his ass shot off by a sniper when he tries to go out for lunch. I don’t want him to get abducted and be beheaded because he’s an American. I don’t give a damn that this is a chance of a lifetime. I don’t care that he would have his pick of places when (if!) he gets back. Fuck the Iraqis. Let them all get hoof and mouth disease and die. What the fuck do I care about them?
Ok, so I have a pretty solidified opinion on this. So shoot me.
But if he has to go do this, he can’t go do that. At least not when he’s supposed to, which was any time from the end of September to November. That’s why he and his wife went on vacation right now. It was supposed to be their last before he left. And if he can’t go when he’s supposed to, maybe things will have changed later. Maybe they’ll need someone to do what he was going to do immediately, and send someone else. He has a moderate amount of experience with infectious disease. That's what these evacuees are going to be full of, if things keep going the way they are.
And so that’s what I’m hoping for. I guess we’ll see what happens. It's a moral dilemma: You benefit only when others suffer. I guess it's clear what my choice is. I'm not ashamed of it. Anyone who wants to judge me can go right ahead. This is my BROTHER we're talking about sacrificing for some third-world country that couldn't give a shit less whether he lives or dies. Enough said; I am not going to try to apologise for my feelings. Hopefully we'll have a few good cases of bubonic plague or something, and my brother will be safe for a little while.
And on top of everything else, it turns out that I do know someone on the New Orleans police force. So I suck as a person to know; I can’t keep up with everyone everywhere. And last I knew, he was a police officer in Alabama. Ok, so it turns out that that was a long time ago, and he and his wife moved so that she could go to med school. And it turns out that I’ve been told this several times. So I forgot. Ok? I admit it. I forgot. I’m a suck person.
Butsoanyway.
His name is [removed; he and
And I hope he stays away from Geraldo; I think that man may have rabies.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Typical.
I know someone in NYC who is a typical New Yorker.
Typical New Yorkers think that the sun rises and sets on their Fair City, and that civilisation ends somewhere around Trenton—you know, out in the boondocks. To the typical New Yorker, there is nothing else. Or, nothing else with any *meaning*, rather.
Trying to talk to a typical New Yorker, one gets the impression (of course, since I’m using the impersonal “one”, I can’t possibly mean “me”, don’chano. I mean “anyone with sense”. Well, that’s the subtle inference behind the impersonal “one”.) that they’re a little miffed that their claim to disaster has been diminished.
Look; I’m just reporting the facts. Or impressions.
Thankfully, after Katrina everyone I know over That Way is, for now, okay. My in-laws in LA are alive and surviving, my family in AL and New Orleans are alive and safe. That’s what’s important. Well, I should say my sort-of family in New Orleans; I’m talking about my ex-cousin in-law (is there such a thing?).
A long time ago, my scarybear cousin did the only correct thing in life that he’s ever going to do—he married Juliette, a born-and-raised native of New Orleans. He was in a band, and they played in New Orleans. Walking to work that night in the FQ, a brick must’ve fallen on Juliette’s head. She survived, clocked in, and fell in love with my cousin. She laid every trap known to Womanhood, and he fell for it.
I remember meeting Juliette when I was a child (my parents had me way-late); my cousin was touring, and Juliette had quit her job and gone with them when they wandered up Our Way. I remember thinking she was the sexiest thing I had ever seen—she was completely different from any other woman within a hundred miles. She had dark hair, dark makeup, and showed more cleavage than Elvira. I’d never heard an accent like hers before, and within five minutes I realised that there was no predicting what was going to come out of that mouth. But in a good way—the girl had class, but a kind of class that was completely alien to me at the time.
My parents thought she was unique. I did, too—only I liked her. Juliette was with me at my first Mardi Gras.
To make a long story short, they married, he fucked her over, and they divorced. She moved back to her beloved city. She’s sworn she’ll never get married again, and so far she hasn’t. I’d take Juliette’s word on anything; she’s not ever going to be married again. She’s found someone else though, and they’re living together. He loves her, and that’s good. She deserves it. Most of my family still love her and think of her as family, and she’s ok with that. Plus she and my cousin had a child, so she is still family in more than a heart-sense.
As my Aunt called to tell my mother, who called to tell Meg, who then called to tell me, Juliette got out of New Orleans early; she didn’t want to, but her (boy)friend made her. They went to spend time with his family, and it looks like it’s going to be a long stay for them. But they didn’t lose much; Juliette has also sworn that she will never own a house again (the saga of what my fuckup cousin did to her is worthy of a book, but this is related), and so they lost only what they didn’t take from their apartment.
My brother’s wife’s family is from LA also (what is it about the men in our family and Southern women?), and her family is okay. We haven’t heard much more than that yet, but then again, I have been at work all day; but since I’ve heard nothing, no news is good news—if something bad had happened, I would have gotten at least a text message.
Most everyone to whom I’ll admit to being related is smart enough to leave when something is looking bad; it's some kind of genetic meme handed down by the Jewish genes in our family. However, all of them are solvent enough that they *can*. Most of them could take several months off and not feel the pinch financially. However, most of those who are now stuck in that area are not in that situation.
Why didn’t the governing body in charge use their buses when the evacuation was first announced to get the people out who couldn’t leave on their own, whether it was because of physical or financial reasons? Why could they not help people who didn’t want to leave their pets to go into a shelter? Why is all of this being done *after* the fact? On one of the news stations, they mentioned that people on welfare were probably too broke to leave—their checks come on the 1st or 3rd of the month. There were reports that some of these poor people went to pawn shops and rent-to-own businesses they patronise to ask to borrow money to buy gas so that they could leave, and most were turned down. Why could all of these buses not have been brought out then? Hearing about an elderly man who couldn’t leave on his own, and didn’t want to leave his cat and dog to go to a shelter broke my heart. I wouldn’t have left my pets, either. To some people—especially our ageing population—pets are like people! Why was this not considered and prepared for? I mean, for crying out loud, my mother is older and she wouldn’t leave her cat Arby if the National Guard was trying to drag her away; either Arby goes too, or no one goes. There are a lot of people like that.
Well, in my mother’s case, it is somewhat self-serving; Arby is the only one in the family who understands her. No, rilly—the rest of us haven’t a clue.
Butsoanyway.
And I can understand the looting. Maybe not the stealing of electronics and such, but certainly of food, clothes, and shoes. I mean, if these people didn’t have enough money to buy gas enough to leave because their welfare checks hadn’t come in or whatever, I doubt that they had the money to stock up on food and water.
Everyone has seen the pictures by now; it’s devastating. And the lack of preparation on the part of the officials is shocking. How can you govern a city where so many poor live and issue an evacuation order without considering the schedule on which the government pays welfare?
I’m not religious, and I don’t think it does any good to pray for them, but they are in my thoughts. And I feel for them all.
And I am kind of hoping that my brother will have to work over there, or something. Hopefully. It’s better than the alternative, which I’m still not dealing with, and I’m still angry at him. I’ll deal later.
And so as I’m exchanging IMs with my Typical New Yorker friend, of course Katrina comes up. He points out that September 11th was far more devastating, because it was a man-made disaster, and unexpected, plus everyone came out and helped each other, and didn’t run around looting. And I’m appalled. We’re trying to get a corner on the market for disasters? How revolting. How…typical.
Typical New Yorkers think that the sun rises and sets on their Fair City, and that civilisation ends somewhere around Trenton—you know, out in the boondocks. To the typical New Yorker, there is nothing else. Or, nothing else with any *meaning*, rather.
Trying to talk to a typical New Yorker, one gets the impression (of course, since I’m using the impersonal “one”, I can’t possibly mean “me”, don’chano. I mean “anyone with sense”. Well, that’s the subtle inference behind the impersonal “one”.) that they’re a little miffed that their claim to disaster has been diminished.
Look; I’m just reporting the facts. Or impressions.
Thankfully, after Katrina everyone I know over That Way is, for now, okay. My in-laws in LA are alive and surviving, my family in AL and New Orleans are alive and safe. That’s what’s important. Well, I should say my sort-of family in New Orleans; I’m talking about my ex-cousin in-law (is there such a thing?).
A long time ago, my scarybear cousin did the only correct thing in life that he’s ever going to do—he married Juliette, a born-and-raised native of New Orleans. He was in a band, and they played in New Orleans. Walking to work that night in the FQ, a brick must’ve fallen on Juliette’s head. She survived, clocked in, and fell in love with my cousin. She laid every trap known to Womanhood, and he fell for it.
I remember meeting Juliette when I was a child (my parents had me way-late); my cousin was touring, and Juliette had quit her job and gone with them when they wandered up Our Way. I remember thinking she was the sexiest thing I had ever seen—she was completely different from any other woman within a hundred miles. She had dark hair, dark makeup, and showed more cleavage than Elvira. I’d never heard an accent like hers before, and within five minutes I realised that there was no predicting what was going to come out of that mouth. But in a good way—the girl had class, but a kind of class that was completely alien to me at the time.
My parents thought she was unique. I did, too—only I liked her. Juliette was with me at my first Mardi Gras.
To make a long story short, they married, he fucked her over, and they divorced. She moved back to her beloved city. She’s sworn she’ll never get married again, and so far she hasn’t. I’d take Juliette’s word on anything; she’s not ever going to be married again. She’s found someone else though, and they’re living together. He loves her, and that’s good. She deserves it. Most of my family still love her and think of her as family, and she’s ok with that. Plus she and my cousin had a child, so she is still family in more than a heart-sense.
As my Aunt called to tell my mother, who called to tell Meg, who then called to tell me, Juliette got out of New Orleans early; she didn’t want to, but her (boy)friend made her. They went to spend time with his family, and it looks like it’s going to be a long stay for them. But they didn’t lose much; Juliette has also sworn that she will never own a house again (the saga of what my fuckup cousin did to her is worthy of a book, but this is related), and so they lost only what they didn’t take from their apartment.
My brother’s wife’s family is from LA also (what is it about the men in our family and Southern women?), and her family is okay. We haven’t heard much more than that yet, but then again, I have been at work all day; but since I’ve heard nothing, no news is good news—if something bad had happened, I would have gotten at least a text message.
Most everyone to whom I’ll admit to being related is smart enough to leave when something is looking bad; it's some kind of genetic meme handed down by the Jewish genes in our family. However, all of them are solvent enough that they *can*. Most of them could take several months off and not feel the pinch financially. However, most of those who are now stuck in that area are not in that situation.
Why didn’t the governing body in charge use their buses when the evacuation was first announced to get the people out who couldn’t leave on their own, whether it was because of physical or financial reasons? Why could they not help people who didn’t want to leave their pets to go into a shelter? Why is all of this being done *after* the fact? On one of the news stations, they mentioned that people on welfare were probably too broke to leave—their checks come on the 1st or 3rd of the month. There were reports that some of these poor people went to pawn shops and rent-to-own businesses they patronise to ask to borrow money to buy gas so that they could leave, and most were turned down. Why could all of these buses not have been brought out then? Hearing about an elderly man who couldn’t leave on his own, and didn’t want to leave his cat and dog to go to a shelter broke my heart. I wouldn’t have left my pets, either. To some people—especially our ageing population—pets are like people! Why was this not considered and prepared for? I mean, for crying out loud, my mother is older and she wouldn’t leave her cat Arby if the National Guard was trying to drag her away; either Arby goes too, or no one goes. There are a lot of people like that.
Well, in my mother’s case, it is somewhat self-serving; Arby is the only one in the family who understands her. No, rilly—the rest of us haven’t a clue.
Butsoanyway.
And I can understand the looting. Maybe not the stealing of electronics and such, but certainly of food, clothes, and shoes. I mean, if these people didn’t have enough money to buy gas enough to leave because their welfare checks hadn’t come in or whatever, I doubt that they had the money to stock up on food and water.
Everyone has seen the pictures by now; it’s devastating. And the lack of preparation on the part of the officials is shocking. How can you govern a city where so many poor live and issue an evacuation order without considering the schedule on which the government pays welfare?
I’m not religious, and I don’t think it does any good to pray for them, but they are in my thoughts. And I feel for them all.
And I am kind of hoping that my brother will have to work over there, or something. Hopefully. It’s better than the alternative, which I’m still not dealing with, and I’m still angry at him. I’ll deal later.
And so as I’m exchanging IMs with my Typical New Yorker friend, of course Katrina comes up. He points out that September 11th was far more devastating, because it was a man-made disaster, and unexpected, plus everyone came out and helped each other, and didn’t run around looting. And I’m appalled. We’re trying to get a corner on the market for disasters? How revolting. How…typical.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
