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.