Adopt A Highway

Today, on the way home, we passed a sign for the Adopt-A-Highway campaign. The program itself is a good one--albeit expensive, as the organization must pay for the signage to be placed, and then periodically provide the people to clean up the crap that accumulates along their assigned stretch of highway.

This particular area includes a very busy intersection.

The KEYSTONE BLIND ASSOCIATION has paid for this sign, in this location.

Does that seem right to you? Blind people out along the highway, including this busy intersection, collecting litter and garbage to keep America beautiful?

How would they find the garbage? It's not like litterbugs are going to put beepers on their trash. How would they know if they were along the highway, or in it? Other than the blaring horns and swish of passing vehicles, I mean. I would be very nervous walking along this road--and I can see. How fair is it to ask the blind to go out there and do this?

It's funny--at first. But if you think about it, it's just assinine to think that the blind association is really a good match for this beautification program.

It's Happened!

Last night, the Toad had his final high school Christmas Concert.

I sat there, watching my boy sing (and rap. OMG! He's too white for that!), and all I could think was, "OMG! Look at that girl's hair. And that one's. Do they really think that's attractive? And those clothes! Could she show any more skin and not get arrested? His mother let him out of the house in THAT?"

Those were my thoughts during the concert. Each thought lasted seconds as the next moved up to take it's place...until the final blow: This sounds so familiar (the voice in my head, not the Christmas music).

OMG! It's happened! I sound just like my mother.

*sigh*

I had been doing so well.

The Christmas Dress

The Howler goes to preschool. The preschool is included in the Christmas Concert program. I find out on Friday before the Tuesday concert. I have to get my schedule at work changed, and I have to find the Howler a Christmas dress.

Of course, the Howler announces to me, that Friday, "I need the prettiest dress, Mommy. I can't be wearing just any old thing--I'll be embarrassed."

So, the Howler and I go on the hunt Sunday. We hit, I kid you not, 5 stores--trying on at least 6 dresses--before I find dresses that are not too long, and fit her little overfed puppy belly--and, most importantly, that aren't sleazy. Yes, dresses in 6-6X are SLEAZY these days.

I find 3 that are cute, but I can't make the decision. A red one, a green one, and a purple one. The red one just doesn't do justice to the Howler. The more I looked at it, the less I liked it. The green one is big girl looking, without being sleazy like some of what I've looked at today. The purple one is cute, but I don't like it as much. It's got a bigger collar in cream with purple and cream rosettes, and while it's cut way looser, I just like the green one best.

She and I agree that Daddy can have final say.

Daddy chose the green. We did, however, decide that since the Howler adores the purple dress so very much, we will give that to her for Christmas from us. We haven't bought her any dresses since last year, and so 2 new, fancier dresses for church this winter will not be a terrible thing.

My mother, however, decided that the green dress is too long, the red one is nicer, and that the Howler should wear the red one. I told her how much EACH dress cost (and while I do not begrudge the cost, as she will get that much wear out of the 2 we are going to keep), and that my aunt is going to pay for one dress, my mother still is insisting, Tuesday afternoon, that the red dress is THE DRESS the Howler will wear. She even tries to incite the Howler to riot over it. (Luckily, the Howler knows ME well enough to know that if I say she'll wear the green one, no amount of fit pitching will get her into any other dress).

As for "too long" I took a tape measure and measured from the shoulder, at the collar, on each dress. The red dress, deemed "shorter", was actually 32" long to the hem, and the green dress, deemed "too long", was 31.5" inches, including the crocheted hem. My mother, when informed, told me I measured wrong.

So, my mother, at this time, also decides that she will come down and put rollers in the Howler's hair. Fine. The concert is at 7pm. My mother is here to roll the Howler's hair at 2pm. At 4pm, when there are no rollers or curls in the Howler's hair, my mother is peeved.

How hard is it to figure out that the Howler is an exorbitantly active child, excited about the concert, has a slight cold, AND is opposed to ANYTHING that is put IN her hair--the rollers will NOT be long lived? It's not like this is a surprise. I put the rollers BACK in her hair at 4pm.

My mother, at the concert, actually walked past me, barely acknowledging that I was there. She sat, ignoring me, until the preschoolers came out and onto the stage.

The Howler had curls in her hair, and the GREEN dress on. On a stage full of little girls in red, red & black, and red & white, the green was outstanding!

By the end of the concert, my mother was fine. By yesterday at 5pm, my mother was absolutely fine. She learned the hard way, 2 years ago, that if a tough, angry old bird wants to pitch tantrums at me, she will sit, by herself, and stew until she tenderizes.

The red dress, btw, was returned, unworn, yesterday morning, and my mother is happier today than she was yesterday.

"Who the hell do you think I am?"

Early this week, I was given a priviledge I do not often receive.

I got to be at the Customer Service desk. In the 6+ years of working at this store, I am allowed to be at Returns, on register at the front of the store, in lumber and outside lawn & garden. I am rarely allowed to be at customer service. (I believe it has something to do with not playing well with others.)

But, I got to spend my day there.

With the Head Cheese sitting in the office, near the end of my shift, this woman motors up in one of the courtesy carts. Sitting down, she is about as tall as the cart itself. I want to refer to her as a midget, but I think it would give midgets a bad name.

Me: Can I help you?

Woman: I have an order I need to pay for. {slaps credit card on counter}

M: Can I have your phone number please?

W: {rattles off phone number}

M: {I read her name from the screen; I hit the total key; I read her the total}

W: {shoves card across counter}

M: {looks at back of unsigned card} Do you have your ID with you today?

W: Jesus Christ. I need this shit from you today. {slamming purse on counter; pulls out ID, slams it down on counter} JUST WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK I AM?

M: {quietly} I don't know, ma'am. Your card isn't signed, that's why I asked for your ID.

W: {continues on rant} This is bullshit. Like it matters if I have my ID. I hate these computers and I hate this place. I wish you'd just go back to doing everything on paper.

M: {completes sale; hands her the card and her receipt} Thank your for shopping at *******. Have a nice day.

She motors away, still muttering and ranting.

The guy sitting behind me laughs. I laugh.

The Head Cheese calls me into the office and wants to know why I'm laughing.

Geez.

I wanted to ask "Do you think she was that mean because she was that short, that fat, or because she came past the mirrors and realized she paid someone to do that to her hair?"

The Beast

There's a reason I do not like that car.

First, it was Kevin's car. He drove it, so it was totally his choice. Fine. I can live with that, as long as I don't have to drive it much.

So I don't.

Then, Kevin buys a truck (before you get all excited thinking that I have lots of money, we've had the car 3 years, and it's paid off). We decide that since the Toad is getting his driver's license, and we said we'd buy him a car, we'll give him this car instead. Toadwort likes that idea--he wanted that car anyway, and any other car we attempt to buy him will cost us what this one is worth... either the car itself will cost that much, or keeping the new heap on the road will.

I continue to happily drive my van, except for a few occasions, the most memorable of which I've already reported here.

So, in a continuing effort to give the Toad driving time, I take him to work in *his* car, so he can drive. Joy. I am slowly coming to hate the Beast.

Why?

We've been keeping in my neighbor's garage. She doesn't have a car and doesn't drive, so she's totally fine with that.

So, Toad goes to work. I drive home.

The problem? The garage is situated such that it's best to back in to park.

I hate backing the Beast up more than I hate driving it. I voice my concerns to Kevin, and he, being the epitome of quick thought and correct memory, tells me, "Back it up. Don't be a sissy."

I pull into the driveway. I pull ahead, then commence backing up procedures.

I hit the freaking house! (Did I mention that it's an attached garage?) Luckily, I didn't damage the house.

Toad driving: $45 permit
Toad car: $3500
Mom backing Toad car into house: $45 damage
Kevin having a good laugh at my expense: PRICELESS

The Fish Slayer

First let me begin by saying that from the beginning of the Toad's childhood, fish seem to have extremely limited lifespans when in my house.

He won a goldfish at the fair. It died within days. Not really a big shock, but we purchased a replacement fish. It died within days, spawning a new childhood rhyme:

One fish
New fish
Dead fish
No fish

If my mother is in charge of feeding the fish, there's a good chance we'll come home to a cloudy fishtank and dead fish. The Fish Slayer gene is apparently hereditary.

Kevin, the Howler, and I left on a Wednesday evening. The Toad was given specific instructions: feed and water the cats, feed the fish. The cats are easy--if the bowls are empty, fill them. Feeding the fish, however, seems to be akin to doing brain surgery--how much is a pinch? What do you mean by "Twice a day"? Too hard....must kill fish.

We get home on the following Sunday afternoon, and the fish tank is not only cloudy and populated with half-and-half fish. Half are dead, and the rest look like they are dying.

Kevin cleans the tank, all the while muttering about Theo the Fish Slayer. He fishes (HAH!) out the dead ones and we hope for the best. More fish die.

Kevin is now singing along with cartoon theme songs, changing the words to reflect the Toad's new title: Fish Slayer.

Squirrel Bait

There was an article in our local paper this week about a mail carrier in the Oil City, PA, area who was attacked by a squirrel.

It made me wonder why there are not more attacks on people by squirrels, at least in the tri-county area I live in.

My mother has the uncanny ability to attract crazy people. I call 'em "Squirrel Bait." These women are nuts.

Their sense of entitlement is surpassed only by their warped sense of reality. Their children, in jail and out, are, small wonder, nutcases themselves--at least from what I hear in the endless parade of stories featuring these people.

One lives on the same street I do. Her adult son, and his preschooler daughter, live with her, in a cramped two bedroom house. She's currently angry because the only *daycare* in the area that provides free busing does not have openings. She refuses to believe that this *daycare* is Head Start, because Wes, her son, told her it's not--even though when Head Start called and left messages for him regarding this, they identified themselves as Head Start.

Wes, apparently, only lies to the police, girlfriends (current and exes), work, and credit card companies. He does not lie to her--even though, in her stories about Life With Wes, there are contradictions galore.

The stories are mind-numbingly the same, and numerous.

Squirrel Bait 1, has lifted off and left town for a while. She is apparently spending time at the home colony in Florida.

There is no rest for the wicked....Enter Squirrel Bait 2.

It's like being forced to watch reruns of really really bad CBS sitcoms--or what I'm getting now, a whole brand new season of SSDT (same stupid, different twit). Of course, it all seems so familiar somehow.

Much like a wild animal caught in a trap, I'm considering chewing my own foot off.

Yet again

More than anything, all I want is to be allowed to do my job, and to have the things I need in order to do that.

Nothing more, nothing less.

It is impossible to be at the farthest reaches of the building without a working phone. I've done it--I know that it doesn't work.

And I hate to do the phone dance.

Yet again this year, the protect-you-from-the-wind house is up, and yet again this year, something on that register BROKE, making it more difficult to do the job.

It's frustrating, especially knowing that we've all known for months that the phone was hanging on by, literally, a wire, and that it could, at any time, snap.

It snapped today. Friday. When ALL the plants are clearance priced--and with all those clearance prices needing an override to input them.

The only other working phone is 10 yards away.......in what will become, yet again, a slalom of people and plants (and once the house is up, it is necessary to pull those carts, or your sorry ass into the doorway of the house so that I am trapped in there....)

Ugh. They'll all be surprised, yet again this year, when I get really really bitchy by the end of my shift. Even after I told them today to NOT be surprised!

This is a classic example of "if you keep doing what you've always done....why are you surprised when you keep getting what you've always gotten"!

I think I will adopt the mantra "Resistance is futile" for the weekend, though. I think they'll appreciate it.

Tagged

WTH does that mean? It means I answer questions and then tag someone else--as if I have friends. Do I strike you as a people person? Do I look like someone who can do the technical stuff like that?

Thanks loads, Jen!

Anyway, to oblige:
What do you like most about where you live?
My neighbors, who pee in their yard, are moving back. It's been so quiet and I am actually looking forward to the entertainment they provide.

What's one of your all time favorite music albums and why?
Hmmmmm. August & Everything After by Counting Crows. Little Creatures by Talking Heads. Inside Job by Don Henley.

Did you have a passion for something as a kid that you still have now?
Reading and writing. Not that I get to do much of either.

What do you like most about having a blog?
It's a good way to vent my frustrations, document stupidity, and, in general, deal with the stuff that's inside my head. It also keeps me from feeling like I have to respond to comments. I just put myself out there--the world (you know who you are) can like it or lump it.


Katie you're up.

Happy Birthday to Me

My birthday always sucks.

If we make plans, someone gets violently (read: projectile vomiting) ill, major appliances explode, something gets set on fire...and not because of the candles on the cake.

What do I want for my birthday? I want to hear "Happy Birthday" often. That's it. No prizes, no cards, no nothing special. Just "happy birthday" is good for me.

This year, what I got was a pap smear. Just what you want to hear about--my cootch. lol.

I did not choose this date for the exam, but after 3 cancellations earlier in the year (2x the doc's; 1x mine), I am glad to have gotten it FINALLY over. And, next year, joy of joys, I can start with rectals and mammograms.

If I'm lucky, next year, I'll get to have a root canal, too.

Hun, I Need To Take A Shower

Kevin: Man, I need a shower.
Me: Okay.
K: I need to take a shower.
Me: Okay. Take a shower.
K: When's supper?
Me: You've got time.
K: Are you sure?
Me: Yes. Go take your shower.
K: Okay. I'm gonna go take a shower. {wanders into livingroom, sits down}
Me: Supper will be ready in 20 minutes.
K: Okay. I'm gonna go take a shower.
Me: Okay.
K: {moving from LR back into Kitchen} Do you need help with anything?
Me: No, thanks. Go ahead and take your shower. You have time.
K: {still standing there} Okay. I'm gonna take a shower.
Me: Okay.
K: {heads towards basement} I'm gonna have a smoke first.
Me: Okay. Then take your shower.
K: Okay. {goes down to basement}
Me: {I continue fixing supper, amusing Howler, setting table, etc.}
K: {coming up from basement} I need to fix that thing down there. {heads back to basement}
Me: Okay. Supper in 15 minutes.
K: {putter putter bang rattle putter}
Me: {continue what I was doing}
K: Okay. I'm gonna go take my shower.
Me: Okay.
K: Okay. Do I still have time?
Me: Yes. {starting to sound exasperated}
K: Okay. I really need a shower.
Me: Okay.
K: Do you need help with anything?
Me: Nope. Go ahead and take your shower.
K: Okay. {turns to head to the stairs} Oh. I forgot to bring up the dry laundry. {heads, again, to basement}
Me: yah huh.
K: What?
Me: Nothing. Go take your shower.
K: Yeah. I need a shower.
Me: I'll go get the laundry. {heads to basement}
K: Thanks.
Me: {in basement, getting laundry}
K: {bang rattle rustle jingle}
Me: {back from basement} I thought you were going to take your shower.
K: Yeah. I am. {said with his head inside a cupboard, God alone knows why}
Me: So, go take your shower.
K: I am. Do you need anything?
Me: NO. GO take your shower.
K: Okay. Thanks, I really need a shower.
Me: Okay. Supper will be ready when you're done.
K: Okay. {heads to stairs....stops in LR, starts to fold clothes}
Me: I thought you were taking a shower?!
K: I am. I want to fold these first, though.
Me: Yah Huh. {roll eyes}
K: What?!
Me: Nothing. Fold the clothes, take you shower.
K: Is supper ready?
Me: Yes.
K: I thought you said I had time to take a shower.
Me: You DID. Now you DON'T.
K: I really need a shower.
Me: SO TAKE THE SHOWER ALREADY!
K: Did I do something?
Me: {says nothing, just beat my own head into the wall}

What Makes Me a Target?

I can only guess.

I have not always been so well behaved, but, as of late, I am VERY well behaved.

I go to work on time. I do my job. I do my job extremely well. I don't complain (much) and I don't spend time bitching about what--or who--I do not like. I don't whine or holler or gossip.

Sure, I find some of the people the company has hired to be weird. Unnervingly weird. I also find a good many of them to be barely competent--as in, "You've worked here how long?" But I don't complain, even if that's who I will be spending a good portion of my very busy day with.

I talk fast, and the more angry or rushed I am, the faster I talk. That, I'm working on. I'm trying to remember that most people cannot listen as fast as I can talk.

I have made great strides in letting lots of things that used to bother me slide--and not carry them 'round with me. (Of course, the really crazy things, I do share with others.)

BUT, what I don't get: Why am I THE chosen target of women managers who, while not entirely the smartest tack on the board, seem to be competent. That's taking into consideration that everyone makes mistakes.

I have no illusions regarding the department. I don't believe that managing approximately 30 people--most of whom are women--is easy. Especially not when you have to deal with personalities, competence levels, and work all that into a schedule that puts bodies where they need to be, when they need to be there.

I don't, however, understand what it is about ME that causes these women to have complete and total breakdowns in logic and basic thinking skills. If it's got my name on it, it's got to be wrong.

After something close to 3 years, you'd think that, as a department manager, she'd figure out that I am competent. And that messing with me--my schedule, my head or company policy--is NOT the way to get anywhere.

This is a woman who began her tenure with me (Plankton) by messing up my schedule, sneering and snorting at me, snipping at me, shorting my lunchtimes and breaktimes, lying to me, and stranding me at the end of my shift without coverage (can't leave my post without it). At the time, she was salaried, meaning, she got PAID to be there, regardless of her actual posted shift, until HER job was done. That job includes MY end of shift coverage.

She punched out and went home--AFTER I had made no less than 2 phone calls to her in less than 30 minutes.......and the ONLY reason I got coverage at all was because I called the Manager on Duty. My manager was already LOOOONG gone by that time--punched out and left, without making so much as a phone call to GET me coverage.

That's just the beginning.

She has, in the years following that, proceeded to continue playing the schedule games, and has kept me past my shift, at close of business for that day, while sending home others who were scheduled later. She has also singled me out to do jobs that even the store manager doesn't ask those in my position to do.

She can't tell time. One of her scheduling games is to send me on a 15 minute break immediately upon my return from my lunch. She does that when ever I have a longer shift, and would, therefore, work close to or exceeding 4 hours then, without a chance to go to the bathroom. If I were to call and request such an opportunity, she'll say "I don't have the coverage.", but I insist, I will see for myself that her not having coverage means that she has 3 other people justing standing around, making weak efforts to look busy.

This is "par for the course" and are certainly things I'm used to. She's not the first, and God knows, she won't be the last.

What sets this one above the others would have to be her blatant attempts to get me written up and/or fired.

Employee policy be damned! If she wants to ring out her own purchases on my login, that's okay.

If she makes schedule changes while I'm on vacation--changes that put me ON the schedule while I'm on vacation, well, SURE! DO IT! Do it everytime I'm on vacation--and not actually going to be IN the building to check the schedule.

Totally disregard my availability, which has been in place for a year! A YEAR! I know that I have, myself, on at least 6 separate occassions clued her in....and so had HER manager. But, hey, that's not really when I'm available, you know. It's more of a suggestion of a request of when I don't want to be there. It's not like I don't have a babysitter or other places to be, really.

Geez.

What I wouldn't give for a big bag of clues to hit her with.

This is "Why I Don't Advertise"

I need to seriously vent on this one.

On a forum I frequent, someone mentioned that they had attended church, but their 3 year old just could not sit still.

Several people offered encouragement and suggestions for quiet toys and ways to help their 3 year old last the hour needed for the family to be able to stay through a service.

One genious seems to think that church is an all-adult activity and actually made fun of me for saying that the Howler, at 4 years old, participates in the service and especially enjoys helping with the collection.

First, let me explain.

We are a small church. There are, in regular attendees, about 28 people, including the Howler and the newest family of 3, which includes an almost-toddler. The Howler attended her first service there when she was 6 days old. She has, in her 4 years, missed perhaps a dozen Sunday services.

She knows the Our Father, she is learning many of the simpler hymns and knows the service--what order things come in. She kneels when we kneel and stands when we stand. She is not, however, "church mouse" material, and she does do some talking, and she does sing little made up songs about Jesus and God during service--she sings quietly, and she certainly isn't bothering anyone.

I can honestly say that the oldest member of our congregation (and easily one of the grumpiest people on the planet) misses her when she isn't there. This is a man who admits to not liking his own children and grandchildren when they were children.

Yet, this narrowminded know-it-all loudmouth thinks I attend a "weird church" because my daughter participates in the services as well as she can.

WTF? Jesus himself is quoted as saying, "Suffer the little children to come unto me." Does this Queen of the Dumbed think that he was misquoted?

I highly doubt I'm a model of Christianity, but doesn't her attitude totally go against what we're supposed to be as Christians? I take the Howler to church so that she can be exposed to some terrific and kind people--I'm not sure I'm up to standard needed to produce one myself. The Toad is more active than many adults would ever be, but that's because my sister started taking him (I was a slug and got dragged in reluctantly....discovered something and stayed) when he was 18 months old.

If I had waited until "he was old enough" I'd probably still be waiting.....and neither the boy nor I would have what we have.

I know this is just some judgemental nutjob, but it's still irritating. And it gives those of us who don't advertise, but do try to live up to the Christian name, a bad name.

My EYES! My EYES!

About two weeks ago, I had to drive to a town that is about 40 minutes from my house. I had to go a different way than I normally do, because of road construction and traffic.

I'm driving through a small borough, where the houses are stacked up pretty close to the road. So of course, I slow down, especially on the curves.

There she is--a chubby teenager, bending over, wearing a cropped top and low-rise jeans.

Now, on my planet, chubby people, regardless of lack of age spots, sags, stretch marks, et al, do NOT wear this kind of combo. It's not attractive. It makes normal people look like they are too cheap (or too stupid) to buy clothes that fit.

She was not an unattractive girl. She just didn't have the size 3 anorexic look to her (which isn't attractive anyway), but this combo made her look like the worst kind of trailer trash. Now, maybe she is trailer trash, I don't know. The eyeful of her bulging flesh that I got leads me to believe that someone, somewhere, told her that, "Even if you're not a slim girl, honey, you wear exactly what you want--even if it doesn't fit. Even if it leaves semi-permanent marks on your body, and even if it is damaging to your spleen. Who cares? It's what your skinny BFF and younger sister are wearing."
Even refugees look better than this.

What possesses women to do this to themselves? She looked like she was about to burst out of her clothes, and there she was by the road. She's lucky a semi did not end up in her parents living room.

Along with that rant, I just don't get what parents are thinking when they let their children out of the house wearing this kind of outfit. Do they actually think, "Sure, hunny, go on out dere lookin' like trailer trash. Y'all might even git a date out of it."

Watch My Lips Move

I have to say that the only thing more annoying than a Know-It-All is a Know-It-All Man.

Even the tested and certified dumbest man on the planet can be smart enough to learn that not every time a woman says something that is less than happiness about anything does not mean that she needs advice nor does it mean she's upset.

Men, wise up. Not everything you say is about sex or sports, so why why why would you assume that everything a woman says is about her being upset.

Sometimes, it's just a vent. Sometimes, it's a funny description, and sometimes, by God, sometimes it's just an observation.

Fellas, get a hobby--the more highly educated you are, the more likely you are to need a release that doesn't involve whatever it is you were highly educated in.

Either learn to speak *uterus* or don't bother answering unless you've been addressed by name.

One last thing--and it can't be said often enough--just by virtue of being born with XX chromsomes and having (or having had) a uterus does not, contrary to the word origin, mean that women are hysterical when we speak.

Why Would You Do This?

A woman is married. She raves for years about how wonderful he is. Then, suddenly, she says, "Well, I've had enough of this man. He's a jerk, he's not nice to live with or be around, he treats me badly, and I'm throwing him out!" then, "We're still going to be friends, he'll live here until he has a place. When he moves out, though, most of his stuff will stay until he gets around to getting it."

Now, we're up to "I called him and in kidding around, I asked him if he was seeing anyone. He said 'yes' and I asked how many. He told me 'four' HOW DARE HE? Then I asked him if he was sleeping with any of them, and he said 'yes'! I'm so mad! I told him to come get the rest of his crap. He said he'd get 'round to it, so I told him I'll bring it to him. He threatened me! He said if I did, he'd never see me again AND he wouldn't pay the mortgage!" (btw, we've previously been told that the dump they live in is theirs, debt free. Liar Liar Pants on fire!)

What kind of self-esteem does a person who does this sort of thing have? What would possess you to call up the guy you suddenly claim you hate, he beat you up, and he's an alcoholic and ASK HIM WHO HE'S BANGING?

Seriously. What?

Hmmm. I really hate him. But we're going to just be friends. He beat me up, but he can still live here. He's an alcoholic and he wants the booze more than he wants to be with me, but I call him every week, and TEASE HIM. WTF? How does that thought process work?

Isn't it more normal, if you've reached the place in your sucky relationship to put him out, to put him, and all his shit, OUT? Isn't it more normal, even if you're getting a DIY divorce to ONLY speak to this jerk when you have to?

And if he's such a jerk, and you've lived with him for YEARS, don't you know that he's going to tell you nasty crap, whether it's true or not? Especially if he's a drunk?

Why then, oh, dear God, WHY would you even ASK if he's shagging anyone? Why? And why would you care?

Even if you hit on the ol' crack pipe and then call him, WHAT goes through your head before you open your mouth? "Hey, he's the drunken a-hole who beat me up, and I'm getting rid of his sorry behind. I think I'll JOKE around with him and ask him if he's getting any tail." How many hits does it take to get to the center of a irrational thought?

And then, I can't believe I'm even bothering to think about this, SHE GETS MAD!

Then she gets online and starts posting about it--on several forums!

"OMG! He's so mean to me. He's such a jerk. And now I'M MAD! I'm going to go online and rant about this, so that next week, when I talk to him again, and he pays the mortgage--which I've told them I don't have--I can tell them how sweet he's being and how much I miss him."

But she's mad! Stay tuned, loyal readers. I'm sure, after my response, I'll hear from her soon!

"I'm Gonna Grab Him and HUG HIM!"

The Howler arrived home today, after spending 6 days at Grandma & Grandpa's house.

She mentioned going to the county fair.

They are planning a Halloween party for October when we are up for our next family visit.

She told me she's getting married.

She's decided, at 4 years old, that she's going to marry "Tommy Too", the son of a friend of my SIL.

How exciting!

I'm sure it will be especially exciting at Tommy Too's house--I don't think he's been informed yet.

When I asked Kevin if he'd thought to ask if Tommy Too would be invited to the Halloween party, she informed me, "I'm gonna grab him and HUG HIM!" She looked so very girly when she said this. Scary--the Howler has decided she likes Tommy Too.

Pavlov's Cat

We've been opening the windows with the screen on the top half, because we're gone all day and it's warm (very warm)...yet, if a rain comes up, it ALWAYS comes in the windows. So, the screen moves up, and we open the windows from the top and if it rains, not-so-much wet.

The Toad is not the King of Observation. Hell, we're lucky he doesn't walk into the wall first, bumping along, until he finds the door some days. He, apparently, hasn't noticed this window switch we've been doing.

I asked him, yesterday, to open windows (if we don't ask, they don't get opened at all). He did. He opened them around noon.....from the bottom.

Here's the scenario. No screen on the bottom of the windows. Three cats, one of whom is usually desperate to get outside and RUN--RUN AWAY--RUN AWAY NOW! Neighborhood cats wandering about, sometimes during the day--and one of those cats is known at my house as "mean cat" or "bitch cat" because she doesn't seem to care much who she fights with, as long as she fights 'em.

I realize, about 30 minutes after I get in the house (by this time, it's almost 5pm), that the windows are open--really really open.

I try and count cats, but can only find 2 of 3. Not good. I shake the treat can. I get 2 cats. Well, heartless as it seems, trying to find the wanderer outside will simply make her bolt and hide. So, I'll just keep checking the porches and when she rolls her skinny butt home, I'll get her inside--if I can.

Pretty soon, here comes the wanderer. From upstairs. She is, apparently, too stupid to realize that she's "home free" if she just gets up in a window.

Now, this is a cat who has made several attempts at freedom through an UPstairs window. You can still see the patch/repair work on my kitchen ceiling from several years ago when she made a break for it out the bathroom window and the contractor had to lurch to catch her, and ended up stepping between the rafters (he'd gutted the entire bathroom) because there's no floor. He saved the cat and had to pry himself out of the kitchen ceiling, then fix that too.

Second story windows are okay to jump out of, but the first floor ones aren't? I think this cat really is retarded. (Same cat from previous posts about the Howler stuffing her into drawers and things)

Go figure. She's so used to the screens being there, she just believed they were there and never tried to escape.

Poor stupid Pavlovian kitty.

The Never-Ending Peanut Debate

First, we got *the letter* from preschool.

It reads, in part:

-Please note that our classroom must be a nut-free environment due to the life-threatening allergies of one of our students. It is our desire to create a safe and healthy environment for this little one. There are other food products to which the child is allergic, but to a lesser degree. We appreciate the kind care that we know you will all display on behalf of this child. If you send a snack for a special occasion, please be sure it free of all nut products. It would also be very helpful if you would send a list of the ingredients in the snack, including brand names, so we may be sure it does not contain one of the other food intems to which the child is allergic.

I used their exact wording, including italics and bolding. I thought is was a decent way to get the message to parents (the letter is the monthly newsletter the school sends).

Now, I posted this on one forum, and while there has been MUCH MUCH MUCH debate, and many heated discussions, I posted it as a possibility of how the situation could be handled in a polite, pleasant way. Parents are apprised of the situation, and ASKED to cooperate in helping the school and family manage this allergy--which is, in part, how the child in question will learn to deal with his or her allergy in time.

My premise is that a child of 3 or 4 years of age simply CANNOT deal with this entirely on his or her own--even the most mature and capable child is not going to be able to police all products he or she comes in contact with on their own--a 3 or 4 year old child.

Certainly, a child of 4 can be expected to know that he or she cannot eat these products and can even be relatively relied upon to communicate to others--children and adults--that he or she may die because of it due to an allergic reaction. BUT, he or she is still a child, and a child of that age cannot be relied on to have the reasoning skills and ability to be as viligant as an adult.

It's up to the adults in the world to realize this.

In all honesty, it effects us very little, as the Howler doesn't eat nuts. She doesn't eat much chocolate and she doesn't eat cake, or most pastry. So, barring the numerous other products that she might eat that would contain peanut oils and such, I'd have to say, geez, louise, this is was a fairly decent way to make me aware, and to ask me how I can help.

If it were my child, I'd hope that others would respect it, and understand that my goal would be to have help in teaching and protecting my child.

I would not expect to have my child ostracized or not allowed to attend schools and such based on it. No one would consider it silly if it were a disease or disability.

While I also think, generally speaking, America has bent over backward to accommodate a few with needs out-of-the-norm and we've made it so that any nutjob (pardon the pun) can come along and inconvenience whomever he or she pleases because "It will make me sick."

I think that, for adults, you need to understand that while *you* are special, I'm not your mama and I'm not going to adjust my entire life to suit *you*. Learn to deal with life and people and the public, or stay home.

But when we're talking about a child, one who could die because of stubborn pig-headedness, I think we need to evaluate WHY we're being so self-centered.

If my child had special dietary needs, I'd hope that the school would be able to help work with us.

Again, it's not fair to ostracize a child, and it's not right to expect a 3 or 4 year old to manage their own condition.

IF the Howler were still in need of breathing treatments, I'd expect that the school would be having an aide or someone learn how to help her administer them, and they'd use it as an opportunity to teach the other children as well. We haven't been in that position, but if we ever were.....

It's a shame that I can't post something, like that paragraph from a letter, on a topic like that with out it becoming a debate about the "nut free environment" instead of a discussion about how the school CAN help families teach their children about managing medical conditions.

I'm also appalled that the people doing the loudest braying about this are the very ones who shriek for special treatment for their own reasons...

Things to Teach Our Daughters

Of all the things we need to teach our children, there are some basic things that seem to NEVER get talked about--at least not in public.

Let's be real here, people. We have daughters. Those daughters deserve the truth from us--and that truth involves teaching them certain things about hygeine and beauty.

First and formost:

Makeup should NEVER EVER under any circumstances be put on 1) in a moving vehicle, especially if she is the one driving; 2) in the dark; 3) after drinking any amount of alcohol or taking any kind of drug that is labelled "do not operate machinery". I also think that after a certain age, say, 90, women should not be allowed to purchase makeup. It's sad, but it just makes things worse. At least require a mental "with it" test of some sort. Please!

I've seen it, and it's not pretty. Well, okay. Pretty is used in describing it, but not in the classic sense, but in the "pretty ugly" and "pretty scary" sense. Either way, it's not something I need to see or experience in any way.

For example: a few weeks ago, in the heat of summer, a woman comes in to the garden center. First, she's about 70 years old (it was hard to tell, but I'll explain that in a minute) and she's wearing ALL BLACK. And, it looked like she paid someone to dye her hair that same black-black shade. Now, in my opinion, that's worse than dying her hair blonde. It's elder abuse. The thing was all pasty, where she wasn't black--and she had on what appeared to be clown makeup without the white pancake makeup. Splotches, really really BIG splotches of a very brightly reddish pink rouge and bluish eye shadow (I won't even discuss THAT), and very very red lips. She looked, quite honestly, like HELL. When she dies, I hope to God they let the makeup artist at the funeral home make her look "natural" and not what-in-God's-name she looks like when she's all dolled up on shopping day.

It made my eyes hurt just looking at her, and it makes me wonder, did she wake up before dawn and do this to herself, hoping to save $0.30 on her electric bill, or was she drinking that early in the day?

Either way, it's an image that is burned into my brain. My next rant will involve "Things to Teach our Daughters about their bodies and fashion". I hope to God I never see THAT sort of trainwreck again, either.

The Phone Dance

In the garden center, the only phones are the phones at the registers, two cordless ones for the people on the floor to use and one phone on the post immediately outside the sliding glass doors.

The one on the post has been MIA/OOA since sometime last fall.

Usually, of the three phones that are available at the three registers, two work. Sometimes only one works, and when that happens, it's the one farthest from the most convenient register for cashiers and customers to use.

If, by chance, the phone stops working during the busiest time of the year, you have 3 registers running and ONE phone. How fun is that? To use the phone to summon customer service of any kind, that doesn't involve the point-and-shoot method of ringing customers out, you must dance between customers, customers' stuff, customers' children, other personnel and whatnot.

It's certainly a intersting most days.

We spent the better part of two weeks with 2 phones at the registers working--and that's all the phones we were allowed to have.

This is important to know. The company, apparently, is gathering video (it's supposedly a live link to HQ) for use on America's Funniest Home Videos. Hours of silent movie-like entertainment. Please pass the popcorn.

A few days ago, I spent some time in an different arena. A place that also has 3 registers. And two phones. Of course, one of those phones was immediately next to a service desk area that is polluted with at least 3 other working phones.

The way this area has been remodelled is the wonderful--it's the way the Yahoo who decided where to put things when the place was built should have put them--BUT the main register, the one that would be used most often, does not have a phone.

While there, it was recommended that I spend my time in the "No Phone Zone." I declined.

As much as I love doing the Phone Dance, I have no desire to dodge customers, customers' VERY long and bulky stuff, and whatnot, all in an area that sometimes has forklifts zipping along through it.

I do not have a death wish--and it's the Phone Dance, not the Death Wish Dance.

Beating Your Head into a Wall While on Company Time

2 men walk from the inside of the building to the register at the garden center gate...Thank God I had no customers at that moment.

The big smart looking one asks "Don't you have a section out here of just clearance stuff?"

I point up the aisle to the HUGE sign that reads "SALE 1/2 off plants this table only"

And genuis man says "I don't mean plants! NO! NOT PLANTS! Something ELSE!"

So, after spending the day being the smartest person I talked to all day....I say, "Like What?"

The stupid looking one is standing beside him smirking as he repeats, "NOT PLANTS! NOT PLANTS!"

I respond with "It's a GARDEN CENTER, sir, what did you expect to find out here?" (yes, I really did)

He says "Clearance stuff. Not plants."

I think I've got the *not plants* litany down by now, so I repeat MY litany.

"This....Is...The...GARDEN CENTER. This is where the PLANTS AND SOIL ARE. If you mean patio furniture, torches and things, those are inside--the way you just came."

He points behind me and says, "Not plants *I'm rolling my eyes here* like those statues back there." He points behind me, about 20 feet away, to the garden statues (resin and ceramic) on the shelves.

I turn slowly, look back at him and say, "OH! THOSE! The ones with the yellow price tags are the clearanced statues."

Smirk boy isn't even looking at me now. But Genius Man isn't done yet. No, not by a long shot....He continues, "Don't you have ONE section out here for that stuff?"

"Yes sir. ALL the statues are on THOSE shelves over there."

He left. I wonder what he was looking for.

EH?

I spent I don't know how much energy on one customer who had a hearing aid in....but I don't think he had it turned on, so it was basically, a clogged ear.

He wanted to know about treated 2x4s. He kept insisting that they were 1.97.

First, those were the landscape timbers, and that was 2 months (or longer) ago.

So I read him the list. THEN he wanted to know the priced for EVERY 2x4 in the building.

So I started to read him the prices...and then he tells me, just the cheapest ones.

So I tell him 2.97. He starts talking to himself, doing *math* in his head--"so, that's about 1.50 a board..."

I say, NO. IT'S $3 A BOARD.

"So, at 1.50 a board..."

Get the idea? It gets better.

How? How could it POSSIBLY get better? Let me tell ya--He's buying a small roll of chicken wire. It's $6+ PLUS TAX.

I tell him the final cost. $7.40. He hands me $6. Takes it back, asks what the cost of the wire (before tax) was. I tell him, and add "PLUS TAX".

So he hands me $5.

I keep saying $7.40. 7 DOLLARS AND 40 CENTS. over and over and over.

Finally, he hands me $11 (2 5's and a 1) and then he starts digging out change.

"20 cents?"

40 CENTS

"20 cents or 30?"

FOR-TY CENTS.

He finally gets his poop in a group enough to hand me $11.50.

I wonder if he found his car.

It's All About the Benjamins

After sitting in L&G for 2.5 hours without seeing a soul....

A guy comes in, chooses 2 trees for a total of $42. +change. He hands me a gift card, and then goes with the associate to get them loaded into his vehicle. The gift card only has 17 cents on it! I swipe it again, this time typing in the $$ amount I need taken off.

~INVALID CARD NUMBER~

I type in the $$ amount AND the card number.

~INVALID CARD NUMBER~

I call the 1-800 number to verify the amount on the card.

$00000000000000000000000000

I have to walk out into the parking lot and have him come back in....I ask him how much he thought was supposed to be on the card.

$50.

I call the 1-800 number AGAIN. I get cut off. I dial AGAIN. I type in all the numbers....

$00000000 balance....

and then I have to wait for what seems like HOURS to get the place where I can hit *0* to talk to a live person. (You can't hit it before that point. Believe me, I tried.)

I finally get a live person. Mr. Personality. I read him the card number. He asks for it again. I read him the card number. He asks for the 1/2 of the number AGAIN. (Already, I'm having flashes of climbing the bell tower...) So, then he tells me the balance is $00000000.

I explain that I am a cashier at store 1010, and is there any way he can check the history of the card for me?

Sure there is.

I already KNOW that, but you, Mr. Personality, are one more reason I hate people.

Anyway, he tells me the date the card was activated for $50. THEN he tells me that on XX-XX-XX, a $49.83 purchase was made at store #1010.

So, the balance really WAS 17 cents.The genius who is making the purchase wants to know what's going on. I explain to him....blah blah purchase blah blah....and he says, "So, what are you telling me?"

*The balance still due is .....* He hands me ANOTHER gift card.

Oh. Yeah. The petty gods of retail HATE ME.

He tells me there is only $10 or $11 dollars left on it. THANK GOD THAT HE WAS RIGHT.

I then read him the *balance still due after the credits....*. He looks at me like he cannot belive I'm still expecting money.

Are you DEAF?

Older lady comes up to the register.
What's the price on the Blue Rug Junipers?

*It's easiest if you can bring the plant up to me, but I can TRY to look it up.* typey-typey

How much are they?

*begins reading list*

WHAT? I can't hear you!

*begins reading LOUDER*

Oh. Well, it's not those. I know what the smallest ones cost. They have prices. I want to know about the bigger ones.

*keeping in mind that currently, we have 3 sizes of pots and several KINDS of Juniper, I say: It depends on the size of the pot, and the KIND of juniper it is. If you can bring me up the ones you mean...*

I mean the big ones. JUNE-IH-PER. Blue Rug Juniper. They don't have prices on them. How much would they be?

*I need to scan the code on the plant.*

mutter, mutter, wander away

Later that same afternoon...
She's baaaaaaaa-aaaack. JOY! She has a cart with her, small, 1Gallon blue mat junipers, polar pansies and some kind of green stick like plant. NOT the bigger ones.
She says: The juniper blue rug. Big ones. How much are they? The tag also says
"Wilton" and "horizontal"

*typey-typey. Scan the list AGAIN. say: I'm sorry, ma'am, but none of my descriptions have either of those words in them. IF you can BRING me the size you want, I can scan it and tell you*

The prices aren't on the bigger ones. I just want to know the price on the bigger juniper blue rugs.

More Work/War Stories

A man walks into the garden center and asks: How much are your trees.

*I just stare at him, open mouthed.*

You know, all your trees. The ones on sale.

*still catchin' flies...**snaps awake and says: Well, sir, the trees will ALL have prices on the tags that say how to plant them, or they will have a price on the sticker near the UPC.*

No. The ones ON SALE.

*The trees, if any, on sale, will be BEHIND the 1/2 off posters at this end of the back tables. ANY PLANTS BEHIND THOSE SIGNS (point to the signs) will be 1/2 off AT THE REGISTER. You have to tell the cashier they were from those tables.*

Seeing the "deer in the headlights look" in his eyes: *I don't know sir. The prices will be marked*

So, all of the trees are 1/2 off?

*No sir. ONLY the ones immediately behind the signs, or with yellow CLEARANCE stickers. The tropicals are the prices they ring up.*

She flipflops in....and barks at him: So, how much are they? Are they on sale?
He says: She doesn't know.

Yup. *I* am the dumb one here today

Award Winning Shoppers

The "IT'S YOUR FIRST TIME SHOPPING EVER" Award goes to:

The people who had a FULL conversation with each other every time I asked them a question like "Is that everything this evening?"

The "OMG. HOW DO YOU REMAIN UPRIGHT" Award goes to:

The guy who was going to swipe his Credit Card BEFORE I was done with the customer in front of him....then he proceeds to read the credit card machine--literally--word for word as he proceeds with his purchase.

The "HAVE YOU BEEN ON OUR PLANET LONG" Award goes to:

The guy who came up to the CS desk and then just wandered off along the desk...then, at the farthest point he could get from me and still be considered at the desk, he tells me that he "Has something in the system." Huh? He then rattles off his phone number...ahhh. That could be a couple of things. So I ask him does he need to pay for a special order, does he need to check if his order is in, was he called and told to that his order was in. He seemed out and out P.O'd when I told him he'd have to come with me to the register in order to pay.

The "YOU DON'T GET OUT MUCH" Award goes to:

The guys who came up to the desk, plants their stuff on the counter (the high part, not the checkout part) and I ask them to step over to the credit card machine to finish the purchase (since you're using a credit card), so they leave all their stuff piled on the higher part of the counter. They seems a little dazed at the end of the transaction.

The "I UNDERSTAND AND SPEAK ENGLISH, DO YOU" Award goes to:

The genius who comes up to the CS desk, and begins to rattle off his phone number and name. When I ask him how I can help him, he tells me he needs to pay for his order...both registers at CS desk are being fully occupied. NO ONE is anywhere near Reg. #4, so I tell him that if he wants to step down there, we can complete this purchase there. He repeats to me what he's already said--LOUDER this time. I tell him, Yes sir, I understand. Both these registers are being used right now, and if you step down to Register 4, she can...he rolls his eyes and BOLTS down the aisle to Register 4.

THAT'S ALL OF OUR WINNERS FOR THIS EVENING. THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING!

Interesting Stories I Simply Must Share:

Dipwad: Hi. I'm here for the fountain.

Mumple: Uh, okay. *eyes wide*

D: The $199 fountain. I called about it. Is it up here?

M: It was a phone in order?

D: Well, No. I just called and got a price.

M: Okay. Do you know who you talked to?

D: Lawn and Garden. It's right up there.

M: Okay. Did you tell the person you talked to that you were coming in to buy it?

D: No. I just decided it on my way here.

M: Okay. I need an item number so I get the right fountain for you.

D: It's right there. This way. *she wanders up the aisle....kind of weaving*

M: Ma'am, I can't go that far. I'll get someone to meet you. *practically yelled up the aisle after her* Several minutes pass and dipwad is no where to be seen. Matt (who ain't real swift himself) comes up to the register and asks me most of the same questions I just asked her. I told him to just find her, get the stupid thing, get it up here so she'll leave. They come up, Matt and Dipwad.
D: Hi.

M: Hi. *scans bar code* Will that be everything?

D: You know what. *Matt and I look at her* Why don't you just take it out and load it into my car, and then I'll pay for it later. *Mumple's mouth drops open* I have other shopping to do and I'll be right back.

M: I'm sorry ma'am, but we can't load it until it's paid for. We can...

D: Oh. Well. Then. I'll just do that. Okay?

M: Yeah.

*Dipwad pulls out checkbook. Begins to write, asking me for the date, how to spell *****. The price. The Price. The cents on the price. Finishes signing check with flair! Snaps the wallet/checkbook closed and flips it over to reveal her driver's license. Then she stands there.

*Notice I did not say she removed the check and gave it to me.*

D: What?

M: I need the check ma'am. Can you take it out?

D: *gets a little snooty* Well, I thought you'd need my license.

M: I do, ma'am, but I need the check too.

D: Oh. Well. Then.

It's a Mumple Kind of Life

As I've said before, my life seems to be modelled on a sitcom. And not just any kind of sitcom, mind you, nothing less than a WB sitcom .

Case in point: Today I woke up ten minutes late. You'd think, for normal people, that this really isn't worth mentioning. Hurry a bit and you'll catch up--no problem.

Not so in the Land of Mumple.

Everything was going along okay--catching up was actually happening--and I wasn't going to be late for work.

Then I stepped outside.

Last night, I had made the decision to take the car--the car that I rarely drive. The only reason we have the Beast is that when Kevin bought the truck, we decided to keep the car for 5 months for the Toad.....and in January, it becomes his.

When we got a 3rd key made, I gave the Toad the keyfob--I don't drive the car that much, "I won't need it."

HAH!

Yesterday, I took the car to pick the Toad up from work. Nothing bad happened, other than a crappy job parking the Beast when we got home. The car sat innocently awaiting it's prey, where it gets parked at the neighboring house, on the other side of the fence. I did not lock it with the keyfob.

Apparently, when you lock it with the keyfob, it sets the alarm.

An alarm, surprisingly enough, that can only be shut off with the keyfob. 6:50am is NOT the time to discover this. The alarm was activated when I unlocked the car with the key.

I had to go back through the latched gate, up across the yard, and into the house (Thank God I hadn't locked the door behind me) to get the fob. The alarm is blaring.

I grab the wrong fob.

I'm walking back across the yard, alarm still blaring. I'm hitting buttons on the fob like a mad woman, trying to shut off the alarm. In reality, what I'm doing is unlocking and locking the truck--which is parked behind me. The alarm is still blaring.

I have to go back into the house, get the right fob, and then walk back across the yard hitting buttons to shut the damned alarm off.

Needless to say, I was late for work today. But I'll bet everyone else in the neighborhood was up and at work early.

The *Sick* Headache

Ever get one of these?

I do now. I hate them.

They start slow, like a regular headache. Then, after about 3 hours, whether or not I've taken something for it, I have to concentrate to think, walk, or function. Anyone else speaking to me has to speak slow, and quiet, or I can't hear them--and, in all honesty, having to concentrate long enough to understand them hurts.

The Howler's crying and whining really hurt, and can also make me dizzy and nauseous. Lucky me. She usually hits a whiny jag about the time I begin to pray for death.

The only thing that helps is sleep. But, when I wake up the next day, I feel hung over--kind of floaty and it's hard to concentrate. Many times, getting through the day will bring the pain back. Ugh.

They usually last for about 3 days.

I'm on day #2. The pain is gone--it still threatens to come back if I move wrong or whatever, but at least it's basically gone.

I feel tired, very very tired. And, I don't know what tomorrow will bring.

bleah.

When The Time Comes

Please lock me up for my own safety.

Yesterday, we got to spend an ever-so-exciting evening at the ER with my mother. She's known she has been sick for about a week, maybe longer. Yesterday, she looked ill, and after a nap, she was disoriented, had slurred speech and could not stand up or walk. My sister called an ambulance.

My stepdad had tried the night before to get her to go to the ER. She refused. Now, understanding my mother, we all know that on a good day, she must be given space to do things her way. When she's sick, that's a double ditto, and you have no choice, unless you want to have her eternally pissed off--at you.

Much like dealing with a 3 year-old, you simply must know how to choose your battles. This is especially important if she's not feeling well. It's not about being cowardly, it's about knowing how to preserve your own skin, and not make things worse for others.

The slurred speech scared my sister--and rightly so. She had tried to convince my mother to get in the car and go to the ER. I had tried on Monday to convince her to at least call the doctor. No dice.

My sister called an ambulance, then called my house for me to get there. I had to take the kids, of course, and luckily, Theo, at 17 was able to be helpful and the Howler, at 4, for once, actually listened and did as she was told.

They hauled my mother away in the ambulance. I had to go home, get some phone numbers, get Theo to work, drop off the Howler and get up to the hospital.

They finally released her (partly because she refused to discuss some issues that were discovered while she was there.) She's home and fine. But the issues that were discovered last night are still there, and stilll very much on our minds, if not on hers.

Sooner or later, we will have to stage an intervention in order to get her *fixed*, or at least, get her to be more co-operative, medically speaking.

I'm looking sooo forward to this--NOT. While I like a good arguement, I can live without the drama. While I am also not afraid to have her mad at me, I don't relish the idea that she'll keel over one day and no one will find her for hours--and I am not looking forward to the inevitability of the situation to degrade into her becoming her mother, and the expectation that I become mine.

I am not going to turn into my mother, even if she insists on turning into hers. How, exactly, to accomplish that, I'm not sure, but I see it taking lots more energy than I want to expend at this time.

Just my luck. The path of least resistance is also one of the most emotionally exhausting, and emotionally upsetting....while the path of most resistance is also likely to be filled with much swearing, smoking, distress and stress. Either way, it's not going to be attractive--and I can't really afford to lose much more in the attractiveness department.

So, the time is at hand--staring at the business end of 40 and turning into my mother. Lucky lucky me.

Mr. Ducks

M R DUCKS
M R KNOT
S A R
M R DUCKS
C M WANGS
OIC
M R DUCKS

Evil Arch-Villan

What do you do when you finally realize why someone seems familiar to you--coupled with a "gut instinct" that you do not like him?

First, let me say that the guy is a pusbag. He is a jerk--he deliberately goes about his life looking to find fault in others, usually in hopes of making himself look good. He does this by standing around, watching others in a heavy breathing, non-sexual way. He then critiques their work--whether or not he has his own work to do is beside the point.

He's annoying and short of saying he smells bad, I have to say he's one slimy back-stabbing a-hole.

He is also the Penguin incarnate.

Of course, once I mention this, everyone who knows him agrees, that yes, indeed, he does look like the Penguin. Mostly, he reminds me of the the personality of the '60's Batman series Penguin with the looks of the movie Penguin--except that he has shorter, cleaner hair and no visible flippers.

He is the Penguin. And my boss has been seredipidiously (if that's a word) voted as Batman. If that's not funny enough, my boss has no resemblance to any Batman I've ever seen. But, I have to admit, when thinking on my co-worker the Penguin, my boss is the only option for Batman.

My boss is also not currently speaking to me--he has rejected his superpowers and refuses to discuss the menace that is the Penguin.

I'm about to call the Commisioner and see if we can get him to answer the Batphone. If I can stop giggling long enough to dial.

How Stupid Are You?

No. Really. How stupid?

Where I work, it is a terminable offense to check your own purchases. You don't scan them, save the sale, put your own money in the drawer...etc. You don't play cashier AND customer all at the same time.

How stupid do you have to be to do that anyway?

And why do you need to do it so I know about it?

I seem to attract these people. This particular dimbulb has worked there, covering 2 terms of employment, about a total of 8 months. This time 'round, she has ordered others to do things against policy, and has barked orders and "taken charge" of head cashiers. She's a joke--she won't ask for help, she'll just continue doing her job her way.

That apparently also means that she can be the cashier and the customer....and she thinks that if she doesn't use her employee card, no one will figure it out. HAH!

She's covering my lunch break, and then she admits that she's paid for some things that she'll come in to pick up on her lunch break. Fine. I look up the receipt. She didn't use her employee card (and the implied discount) and she has a receipt that has her sales number on it. Not looking good.......

So what am I supposed to do with this? If I turn it in, she can be fired on the mere appearance of impropriety with the cash drawer. If I don't turn it in, and it gets noticed otherwise, I can be fired for knowing/suspecting but not saying anything....

Now, no matter how you look at it, there's no one I work with I'd take the fall for. And I do work with some pretty spiffy people--trustworthy, wonderful people. But there's not one of them worth losing my job for. And this dimbulb certainly isn't on the short list of people I enjoy working with.

I, of course, turn it in, but in a way that will get it looked at, without it having to lead to job loss for anyone.

I just want to know WHY this twitty bird chooses ME to dump this on. She has to know that I'm a nutcase for this sort of thing--and totally anal about it too!

Just what goes through someone's mind at that point? "Gee, I'm covering a break for the single most anal retentive person in the building when it comes to loss prevention and employee policy. OH! What a good buy...I think I'll just ring myself out."

Just HOW does that thought process work? Am I really that out-of-touch with reality? Where do they find them, and why do they keep sending them to me?

OPK

I know you're disappointed that I am producing a OPK Rant. Everyone has one....or it seems like it.

But really, why not? I mean, I didn't like OPK before I knew they were OPK. And in all honesty, I don't always like MY kids, why in the world would I expect to be enamored of OPK?

Mostly, it's just the hassle of OP in general. If they're at my house, it's my job to make them comfortable and all that. Spare me. I like doing that gig about 4x a year--Quarterly sounds about right for how often it should happen.

But if OPK are over, I need to be with them, supervising. Supervising children I have no authority over. Isn't that like having a traffic cop who isn't allowed to tell people to stop? It's self-torture. I can't make them listen to my rules and they don't have to listen to my rules, but yet, I want them at my house? Why?

On top of that, they usually have bad habits that my children pick up. Lovely. Of course, my child's bad habits never end up at OP houses. I don't get that exchange either. They get time off from their kids; they don't have the consequences of OPK bad habits moving into their houses....yes, I can see why the OP are always thrilled to have the little noise makers come to my house.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind having kids over to my house. It amuses the Howler. It's not a problem, per se.

But lately, the child comes to my house, and seems to think that she has rights and authority to how things are done, or whether or not rules are to be followed. We really don't have many rules. Don't ride bikes without shoes and helmets. Don't scream. Don't tell me what to do, or how to do it. Don't have tantrums, don't call names, and don't be mean. Don't throw sand out of the sandbox, or move the sand into the wading pool; don't empty the pool into the yard or the sandbox. Help pick up what you've gotten out to play with. Pretty much a common courtesy kind of thing--you know, the "All I Needed To Know I Learned in Kindergarten" kinds of things.

We, however, seem to attract children whose parents never attended Kindergarten, or who totally missed the point of most of the social skills exercises. And who don't understand that as adults, their responsibilty includes, but is not limited to, teaching their children that the world does not revolve around them.

What we get is annoying at the very least. Parents who don't seem to even know where their child is, never mind how she is behaving. It means that I have to choose between allowing a child who doesn't live in my home to change the rules of my home, allow my children to have power and authority that, in my opinion, children should not have, or to send OPK home and deal with the annoyance of a bored and lonely preschooler.

I don't like any of these options, and without having contact with the parents, I have no way to make it clear to them that there ARE rules at my house; and all children who are at my house are expected to know them, and comply.

I do not wish to be mean or ugly to any child. BUT, the incessant screaming, the inappropriate-again, my opinion--mannerisms or ideals or comments are getting tiresome. And they are starting to show up in my child's behavior.

I will not totally blame the OPK for the bad behavior, because I do believe that my child has to learn that he or she is responsible for his or her own choices and behaviors, but if I can trace certain words or phrases or actions to my child having contact with said OPK, I have no choice but to be more vigilant in supervising contact or, worst case, suspend contact entirely.

Which, I hate to do in the current situation because I don't see that there is real abiding harm being done to my child.

The other thing that irritates me about it is that this particular OPK seems to either live at my house for hours on end or disappear for days. It's almost like they turn her out and hope to not see her (Of course, if my child were doing that much screaming and yelling and tantrum throwing, I'd think I wouldn't be too opposed to some peace and quiet--but that's another rant: deal with your child. Don't tolerate the manipulative behavior. Be the grown up.) The *turning out* of her takes place regardless of weather--one evening, in a full blowing thunderstorm, I am having to escort this child home--and no one was even wondering where she was. They apparently handed her a jacket and sent her, and her bike, on their merry way. Why is OPK on my patio, in a raging thunderstorm at 8pm?

Gnerally, she'll leave, in a huff, if she is not getting the 100% undivided attention. She'll leave if she doesn't get her way. She'll leave if we tell her not to do something. Which, of course, the Howler is starting to get a handle on....but, it's always hurtful to be told, "I won't be back for forever!" by someone who you think of as a friend, especially when you're 4. I also don't like to see someone try and manipulate the Howler, or to hurt her feelings. I also don't like being around a child (mine or OP) who thinks that I can be manipulated by tantrums and the like.

It's a no-win situation for me--I can learn to live with a child setting rules at my house, or I can stop that by keeping that child away, but deny my child one of the only playmates in the neighborhood.

I can't wait for school to start. *Sigh*

If I Were Paranoid...

I'd really think that my manager was *out to get me*.

Okay, I am paranoid, BUT I work very hard to not let that be something that rules me. But, in this case, I think I need to start letting it have its way.

Why?

I'm on vacation this week. Yeppers. Any time my manager is doing the schedule, I have to watch it as soon as it comes out, to see if my time off requests and availability are being honored. She seems to have a complete and total mental block when it comes to me. I have my theories why, but again, they all lead back to my paranoia, and it's not attractive, so we don't go there unless we have to.

We currently do not have to.

Anyway, there was mistake on the schedule two weeks ago. Had to ask about it. I start with Super Manager, and VIOLA! She says that since I'm not "in the book", it can't be that it was approved. So, I ask the next guy in line. The Go-To Guy. Turns out, that YES, I was to be off that day--no reason I know of for why I'm not in "the book".

So, in getting it taken care of, it gets mentioned that it totally inconveniences Super Manager because another person was also given that day off. That, my friends, falls under the category of "Not Even Remotely My Problem" under the sub-heading "I Sooo Do Not Care".

I had also, at the time of speaking with The Go-To Guy, mentioned this week of vacation. Super Manager assures me that "It's in the edits, so there's no problem there." Which, apparently, in S.M. speak means, "I'll wait till you're thinking about your vacation and do something then."

Yeah, Baby. Here's where the paranoia kicks in.

Let's discount the suspected lying, the other crappy tricks that S.M. has played, the passive-aggressive comments AND the out-and-out violation of employee purchases policy on my name. Even if we do that, we're still left with the fact that while "the edits" are there, and I'm told "there are no problems", it turns out that for the weekend that ends my vacation, I'm on the schedule.

I don't notice until Thursday night. I go in to double check, thinking I must have written it down wrong.

No dice. Remarkably enough, I really really am right all the time with this. But, there are sneaking, conniving fish to fry here, and I don't have time to rejoice in this revelation.

In researching the problem, I am supposed to be off; I didn't screw up; I will be off.

IF I had waited, for any reason, to check and double check that schedule, I would have been a "No call; No show" and could reasonably expect to be written up--possibly "final warning"--or terminated outright on this.

Now, if I were to be running in full paranoia mode (which is a natural state for me, considering how I am the center of the universe and everyone is out to get me), this could look VERY harrassing and hostile.

Hmmmmm. Tell me again why am I shouldn't be paranoid?

"I smell otters"

When the Howler was little and just learning to talk, she would say, "I smell otters."

Generally, only if she smelled something she didn't like.

It took forever to figure out what she meant, because sometimes she would say it, even if she were smelling something good (like supper).

Over time, she has come up with some interesting phrases.

She began by calling her brother "Derder". We thought it was a nonsense word she was using, until one night at supper. She was obviously talking at him, and she kept yelling "Derder!" So, duh, figured that one out. (It was eventually shortened, by her, to "der" and in general, has been a very descriptive word for him more than once. Smart girl!)

Anshinnigans, as in:
"I've had enough of your anshinnigans."

Something that surprises you:
"That scared the chickens out of me."

Try to not giggle. It's not funny.

So, what's YOUR excuse?

I work in retail. God help me, I do.

And what I desperately love about it are the countless numbers of my customers who work in other retail establishments...who come in to my store to pull the same shitty stunts on me that their customers pull on them.

They're not funny, they're not cute, and saying, "I work retail too!" does not excuse it.

Was it funny when it was done to you? Did you enjoy it? No and No? Geez. Moron.

I honestly think that everyone who shops in retail stores should WORK in a retail store for about a year. It certainly fixed my sense of entitlement, I'll bet it could fix just about everyone's.

For the record:

Not every store is WalMart. No matter how much you yell or swear at the nice people in their spiffy smocks it still ain't gonna flash magically into being WalMart.

It's not funny to hold your choices below the level of the counter and wait, through 15 items, for the cashier to look at the counter, look at you, and ask, "Is that everything for today?" before placing the next item on the counter. It's assholish and guess what? The cashier is not the one with a problem.

The cashier's job is to run the register. Not tell you how to install or clean your flooring or grill. It's also not her job to listen to your lame-ass jokes; nor is it her problem if you're angry about why you're here.

The person who answers the phone is not also working in the phone psychic arena. He or she is unable to see your thoughts (unclear and vague as they are anyway, who'd want to?), and he or she isn't able to access everyone's schedule. No one is out to get you--you aren't important enough.

Sometimes, no matter how hard the store tries, they do still get crappy manufacturer product. It's not about you. And we don't have small Chinese children in the back parking lot making that rope for you to buy. No control over manufacturer means just that--we don't manufacture it; we don't control it.

The people in the store to do not sit around, waiting for you to arrive. You are, believe it or not, NOT our only customer today. You want Macy's personal shoppers, go to Macy's.

Contrary to *common sense*, not every branch of our store carries the exact same product. Think about it. A store in Florida is not going to carry snow blowers and snow shovels. Just as we are not going to have hibiscus plants sitting outside in February. Deal with reality or get your meds changed.

There are very few stores in which you walk up to the first available person and he or she processes a return. We're not one of them. Go where it needs to go, or just go.

Do not ask me where something is if you're not going to believe me anyway. Just because YOU don't know, doesn't mean I don't. If you think that guy over there has a better clue than I do, skip bothering me, and go ask him, or don't look surprised when he drags you back to me and asks me YOUR question again...and I answer it the same as I did before. And don't be surprised when it shows up exactly where I said it would be.

If you need to go to the bathroom--GO. Do not think that you can hold it. I don't want to be there when you're proven wrong.

Finally, don't come in and yell at me because your girl friend cheated on you; your boss yelled at you; your dog died; your mom isn't talking to you; you're just an asshole looking for someone to punish.

They don't pay me enough for any of this crap.

Gender Differences

Let me say before I begin that I understand the "nature v. nurture" arguements and can honestly say that, barring some cataclysmic event, it's not something that is going to be black and white.

But, this meander through my psyche is not about that. It's about noise.

Little boys like booms and yells and bangs. If they're outside, there may even be whistles and thumps. It's not too bad, really. They keep their noises on the lower end of the spectrum and you never envision neighborhood dogs howling when those boys are going about doing boy things.

If they are happy, it's booms and bangs, whistles and thumps. Maybe some yelling or hollering. But it's obviously happy.

Little girls, on the other hand, like shrieks and screams and giggles. If they are outside, the volume simply goes UP. And the neighborhood dogs howl, and if it's not the dogs, it's actually the girls.

If they are happy, how can you tell? My point is, You CAN'T. You cannot tell from the tone, volume, or duration of the shrieking and screaming. You have to go LOOK at them, and that is painful, because the closer you are to the sounds, the more likely you are to have an eardrum burst and/or bleeding in your brain. You may even begin, if exposed long enough or often enough, to flinch and twitch, much like an involuntary muscular tic.

The ONLY exception is the giggling. Which, in and of itself, is one of the most delightful sounds on this planet. Giggling does usually mean happy, BUT, it can be deceiving also. It can degrade quickly into crying, whining, shrieking or, God forbid, all three at once. There is absolutely no guarantee that if you have a gaggle of giggling girls on your hands that your eardrums are not in immediate danger.

Next up: Toddler and Teen--All the Attitude I Can Stomach EVERY Single Day