The Last of 2010

It really wasn't very great.

GOOD RIDDANCE!

(and resolutions? I'm planning a few revolutions, actually. If I can get some minions together. Stay Tuned for more...)

Good News and Bad News

The Good News is that I am now, officially, for reals, smaller than I've been in almost 20 years. HAH!

I now, also, officially, need to earn more money, so I can buy smaller clothes. Cute clothes! Smaller clothes! Did I tell you I've somehow managed to drop a whole size? Yeppers. Very exciting at my house.

The Bad News is that they've fired Special Ed. They did it in a shitty way, of course. On Christmas Eve. If it's for what I think it is, he probably should've just been written up--Final Notice--mostly because, and I hate myself for saying this, but they should've warned him because he's just a young dolt rebel without a clue.

I do feel bad for the little fuzz ball, but, well, not bad enough to care, because it means no blog fodder from him. Dammit.

But then, now that I truly think on it, I really really really don't care.

Reaching the Goal

I set a goal for myself for Christmas eve.

Since agreeing to be in the choir at church, my goal was to not totally suck, even if it's Christmas and even if the people at church are supposed to be forgiving and understanding.

And....






drumroll please....










I didn't suck! Granted, I probably won't ever do this sort of thing again, but I didn't suck. And I didn't cause anyone's eyes to water in pain, I didn't totally screw up and look like a dolt, and I didn't make a total fool of myself (I prefer to keep those moments personal and mostly private)

I got the giggles about 1/2 way home, when I realized that there was a professional opera dude in the congregation.

And I didn't suck!

A Joyful Noise

So, I'm singing (if you want to call it that) in the choir Friday night.

I was asked, and like the true dolt I am, I agreed. I'll muddle through it, somehow.

But I mentioned it at work last night. After the laughter died down, I was quizzed on the church part. As if it is inconceivable that I attend church. And would be welcomed there.

During the quizzing, I mentioned, also, that I am a licensed lay eucharistic minister. More laughter.

There are now people willing to pay admission to my church for Christmas eve service. Apparently, they think there will be lightning bolts and gnashing of teeth, possibly a miracle or three.

Whatever.

The Irony and the Ecstasy

Last night, the Toad was being particularly annoying. Okay, he's been particularly annoying all week, but last night, I had an opportunity...

The Howler had left the room, and we were discussing her Amazon.com search faux-pas...for the record, if you type in "blow ups" on their toy page, you get listings (thank God, not pictures) of blow ups. Dolls. For sex. And unless you want to be the one to explain that to my 8 year old, don't let her go there again. (and for the record, her father was the one in charge at the time, not me. I know better.)

Anyway, the Toad announced that he can help police her web searches in the future.

I had to ask, "Do you really think, Mr. $700+ in PPV Porn, that YOU are qualified to oversee and censor what she might find?"

His response? "I paid you back...and I am apparently still paying!"

The conversation turned at some point, to My Sweetie's upcoming birthday in January. The Toad, being a math genius, hadn't yet figured out the bestest part of his parents' birthdays.

Being the deviant I am, I take the opportunity to inform him...but My Sweetie, ever mortified by my skeeving out the Toad in this manner, reminds me that the Howler is still within earshot.

I decide that the most fun will be had by drawing a carefully planned picture for the Toad, and watching as the knowledge permeates his thick skull.

I told him to consider the number 9. Just 9. Then, I asked him when My Sweetie's birthday is. (January 6) Now, remember the number 9. And what takes 9 months? His eyebrow went up. The fear in his eyes grew. My Sweetie sat still, watching for the train to smack the boy in the raised eyebrow. I asked him when my birthday was. (October 3)

The Toad began screaming as the full knowledge (and mental image) hit him. My parents, apparently, were celebrating My Sweetie's coming into the world, whether they knew it or not.

Oh, yes, I am evil.

Who?

Today was a lovely day at the Return desk.

First, the phone rang and rang and rang. As soon as you'd answer it, it'd ring again.

On top of that, I spend an unusually long time trying to figure out who Danielle the Manager was. I should've just parked the call and paged for Danielle.

For the record, there is no Danielle the Manager. Not in the house, not with a mouse. Not in a box, not with a fox.

I also do not work at blshtowiehhtohg, either, but that doesn't seem to slow ya down, you know what I mean?

Memes R Us

Flea's got a meme...and I mean to have one, too.

1. What is your occupation?
I am Flypaper for Freaks. I am the Weirdness Goddess. I am the Frodo the Bee Keeper, too.

2. What color are your socks right now?
They are both white. I have another pair at home that matches them exactly. Except, I mean, on opposite feet. (HAH! you thought I was gonna say that they match my panties...and that I wasn't wearing panties. Fooled ya!)

3. What are you listening to right now?
The Howler ask me 12 demanding questions about all and sundry flotsam from my life. Oh, she has the sniffles, too.

4. What was the last thing you ate?
A mint.

5. Can you drive a stick shift?
Yes. I learned on one, because that's all my parents had at the time. What fun! My sister & I would head to softball practice early, so I could practice in the school parking lot. She worked the pedals and had me shift from the passenger seat for months before I got my permit. Then, she switched seats with me, and I worked the clutch while she shifted. Finally got to put it all together--and then when I got my permit, my dad commented that he was impressed that I "got the hang of it" so quickly! Didn't admit to anything until after I got my license, though.

6. Last person you spoke to on the phone?
My neighbor, Michelle. She was wonky last night with Ambien, and she called to ask if she'd called me yesterday.

7. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
Yeppers, I do. She is a Wise Woman, and I consider myself blessed to have made her acquaintance (HAH! I spelled it right before I checked it!)

8. How old are you today?
OOOOO. I love this game! How old do you think I am?

9. What is your favorite sport to watch on TV?
Is hacky sack a sport? No? Then I'll take I'll door #2, Monty.

10. What is your favorite drink?
Well, coffee, I suppose. High-Octane please. Although, I do like beer. And water. But not all at the same time.

11. Have you ever dyed your hair?
Yes. I decided that I would not age gracefully, and while maintaining the color is a pain in my ass, I rather like being a red head, and thank God for Clariol Nice & Easy (no comments from the peanut gallery, thank you) every few weeks.

12. Favorite food?
Yes. Absolutely. Oh, a list, then? Salt & Vinegar chips. Brownies. Frosted Mini-Wheats. Bagels. M 'n M's. Home made chocolate chip cookies. Popcorn. Wow, but doesn't that sound like a list of Munchies?

13. What was the last movie you watched?
Disney's UP. And yes, I can smell you.

14. Favorite day of the year?
Any day I wake up still sucking air during which nothing explodes, nobody vomits on me, and there is hot coffee.

15. What was your favorite toy as a child?
We-ell. I don't recall, really. I loved to read, so I preferred books to toys, mostly. Although, if it counts, I still have the stuffed red donkey my grandmother bought me at Murphy Mart when I was in 1st or 2nd grade. I slept with him every night for about ever...and he went to college with me (but not on my honeymoon!) I know where he is this exact minute, and his name is Charley.

16. What is your favorite season?
Can this be a BOGO? I like spring, God, I love spring. It means no more inside the dayumed store. Sunny sunshine, warm rain...but I love autumn...the colors, the smells, the cooler days and snuggling under a fleece blanket.

17. Cherries or blueberries?
Why?

18. What occupation would you pick any (and had the talent) if you could live your life again?
I would be a Goddess, but not a Weirdness Goddess. Oh, alright. Seriously? I would have taken my writing seriously and I'd be published--and getting paid for it.

K, now it's yer turn!

27 Days to Go

Today wasn't so bad. Since we were both on a mission from God, he was busy. He wasn't bothering me...much.

Now, though, he's trying to get thru to the unemployment hotline, to see if he can open the claim now, or if he has to wait until this weekend.

"We're sorry. Due to current call volume, all lines are busy. Please call again at a later time."

And he's grumping around about it.

*sigh*

Tomorrow, he's got big-big man plans: the truck needs inspected, and it's new driver's license time. I send a small thank you to the DMV.

Day 2, part 2

At some point yesterday or today, My Sweetie sez, "Geez. I think I've got a bad case of the mid-40's."

I sez, "Oh?" giggle

He sez, "Yeah, and the doc says there's no hope for a cure."

giggle

Day 2

With 28 more to go. Sheesh.

Yesterday wasn't bad because I slept in, while he was busy cleaning the kitchen top to bottom. He did get a bit on my nerves with his chatting away to the cats (and sometimes me) and his hyperactivity. But not like today.

Today, I was up, awake, and dressed to go do some Christmas shopping. Okay. We spent about 2 hours together, out in public. Which was fine, and fun, especially in the toy aisles at WalMart.

But then we get home.

And he's still talking.

And talking.

And talking.

I swear that this is God's way of punishing me for my constant blather years ago. (and yes, it WAS TOO years ago.)

He has been talking about EVERY BLESSED MOVE he makes. He claims its to the cats, but I think, secretly, deep down, he's doing it to annoy me.

I suggested that he find one of those bizarre screech-shoot-and-swear manflicks he's always finding, you know the ones I mean. There's an f-bomb, a scream, and an explosion every 3 minutes. Real Academy Award winners, those are.

Anyway. I also suggested that to go with the movie, he could call his hearing-aid-less father, and talk REALLY REALLY REALLY LOUD! to him, while pacing behind me while I try and read.

There's a reason I'm enjoying work right now.

Tis The Season

for a lack of reason.

Case in point: I was, of course, at the Return desk. Which means that I get to stand near the main entrance....and immediately to my left, outside the desk, is the Seasonal department.

And at this time of year, that means that I get to hear the compressor that keeps those dammed blow-up things run, and hear the drone of obnoxiously loud music, and see the blinks, blips, and flashes of every sparkling, lite-up thing we peddle.

A man walks in thru the doors. He looks to his right (my left) and sees and hears all the gloriously commercialized motorized lit up joy that is the Christmas department. He then turns to his left (to me) and says, "Hey, I heard that you have those lights." pause..."on a string." longer pause, hand motion in a spiral..."like you'd put on a tree or something."

Jaw hanging open, I say, "What we have in Christmas lights is all right over there." and I point to all the motorized, noisy, sparkling Christmas joy that we peddle.

"You sure they're there?" he asks, as he looks, again, at all that Christmas joy.

"A-yup."

BRAKE!

Oh, Sweet Jesus. I almost had my arms ripped off this morning.

I was minding my own business at the Return desk, managing to not put off the "die die die" vibe.

This woman came in, tried to unplug the entire Seasonal department while getting onto one of the motorized carts (those're starting to be a theme, aren't they? Worse than the hanging baskets of yore) She gave up trying to wrench the orange cord out of the wall, and decided to do it the easy way--she'd just drive off on the thing, and it would unplug on its own.

I manage to get her attention, and tell her that I'll make sure she's unplugged. Problem was, she was already unplugged. BUT she had her overly large purple sweatpanted ass on the cord for the cart next to her.

Without a word, she waited until I was behind the cart she was on, and then tried to speed off.

I say tried, because, well, my body weight works as a brake when the cord your fat ass is sitting on is also wrapped around my arm.

I holler for her to stop. She does. I say, "Ma'am, the cord for the other cart is wrapped around this cart. Please give me one minute..." and she tries to speed off again.

She stops again. I explain that she's SITTING on the plug (the fact that she can't feel it justifies my call her a huge-ass moron now.) I ask her to lean forward so I can remove the plug. She shifts her shoulders. WOW. Big help there, toots. Thanks.

She tries to speed off again, and again, I'm yanked around. Hell, at this point, I'm lucky I'm only being jerked around behind the dammed cart--if I were in front of it, she'd be searching for a manager to ask why there are speed bumps in the entryway.

I finally manage to apply enough pressure on the cord for the plug to pop out from under her enormous ass.

She speeds off, this time for reals. I can only assume no one else was harmed in the making of this post.

Fa La La La La...

There's a reason I hate the holidays. And most of it involves my mother, and her controlling perfectionism. That gets totally swollen and out-of-control starting about....today.

She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.

She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.

Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.

She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.

She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)

Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.

This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."

The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)

Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.

Tourists!

Yes, more about the random oddities I encounter at work. Recently, one of my co-workers told the story about a caller wanting the phone number for a local grocery store...the caller, deciding that it was too much of a bother to look the number up for herself, called our store wanting us to look it up for her.

I can beat that.

A few weeks ago, I watched as a dopey looking woman came in the doors, plunked herself into one of the motorized carts, and drove off. She came back a short while later, parked the cart she was using up against the entry doors, and began unplugging the extention cords that power all the Christmas crap in the Seasonal department. When I asked if I could help her find something, she said she needed one of those carts that worked. I had to practically pry the 4 foot cords away from her. Why she was gathering the extention cords (she was looping them over her shoulder to take them with her) I don't even want to know.

Last night, I took a transferred-to-me call during which the customer, when asked how I could help him, said, "I don't know. They just sent me to you." I had to actually ask three times "What were they helping you with?" for him to tell me repeatedly, "I don't know." After ping-ponging the call back and forth, we were finally able to get him what he needed...and then he wanted to know if we could deliver his crap to him on Thanksgiving day. "I understand you're not open on Thanksgiving, but it'd be better for me if you could deliver that day anyway."

The evening progressed to the hyperactive men who couldn't just answer my easy questions (Is it broken? and Do you have your receipt with you today?) They each had to give me an entire purchase history...one even asked me, as I handed him the receipt he needed to sign, "Doncha have sumpin' for me to sign?" As he signed it, he added his address, phone number, and various minutia about himself. In case he ever ended up as a Trivial Pursuit answer I'd be prepared, I guess.

Finally, the absolute bestest ever asked me, "Have you ever been to the Falls?"

I answered, "I'm sorry?"

"You know, Niagara Falls."

"uh, years ago, yes."

"Do you know if they're still running the boats? The schedule for the boats, I mean."

Yes, folks, I'm not only supposed to know why you call into my store, every detail of your life in the 10 years since my store opened, phone numbers and hours for random area businesses, I'm also supposed to know the tourist attractions and their schedules in CANADA.

The Lesser of Two Evils

That's me. HAH!

Last night, yet again, I was at the Hell desk. Yet again, I was confronted with crap I didn't even know existed, let alone that we did in Retail Hell.

In a lull (after one ass-kicking storm) I asked my department manager, "Why do you hate me so much?"

And basically, her response was that she didn't hate me. She'd just rather work with me behind that desk than her other options. Considering the mutual dislike and the spiteful working together history we have, this is absolutely astounding.

That other option? That's Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy makes the Laziest Woman in the tri-county area look ambitious. They're both hags, although Miss Piggy is closer to my age than the other one is. But Miss Piggy loves to wear her muffintop so everyone can see it...and she's always saying "What?" whenever she hears something that means she might have to actually do her job.

Most recently, my dealing with her involved my having to repeat myself seventeen times for her to explain to me "There's 4 registers out there. Can't you just get tape from one of them?" I repeatedly told her that I'd already checked, before I called her, and there was no tape to be had, unless she brought it.

Last night, she thought that a customer should wait 40 minutes until the guy who does the grunt work got back from his lunch hour. Or, that I should do her paging/calling for someone else for her.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Sorry, Piggs, but I've already done the thing where I do someone else's job for 'em, and all it gets me is a helluva lot of extra stress I don't need. Yer on yer own.

So, between Miss Piggy and me, I'm the lesser of two evils. HAH!

The Stand

Elementary School morning drop off = NIGHTMARE.

That, right there, could be the entire post, but I feel the need to be more specific.

Way back when the Howler was in Kindergarten, morning drop off was a free-for-all. Parking in the drive/drop off lane, no adult supervision any where near the drop off area....the cleaning out of car trunks while a thousand other people tried to unload the children in their morning care.

Things improved...if you call 10% less stress and the addition of 2 aides to supervise unloading an improvement. I did.

When the aides actually DO supervise and AIDE the unloading, it's not nearly as bad as it was just a few years ago.

But what we have now is the same 2 aides, obviously very much over the AIDE part of their jobs. I thank God every morning that my daughter does not have contact with either of these two women during her school day.

When it's arctic cold, they huddle in the doorway. When it's not so arctic cold, they stand, chatting with each other (my paranoia says that they're actually talking about those families currently dropping off children) and ignoring the stupidity that could be avoided. If there were actually AIDING going on during unloading.

Today's particular rant is inspired by the fact that once I finally get into the drop off lane, I'm waiting....and waiting....and waiting to pull forward.

Dunno what's happening, and I'm too far back to see. Finally, one of the unaides moves forward a few steps. She stops and the vehicle--with it's passenger side door still hanging wide open, is pulling forward.

I pull forward far enough to unload the Howler--remarkably enough, not late yet--and as I drive away, that car door is still wide open, Mom is on the passenger side with her child....and the unaides are still just standing there. The vehicle in question is still mostly in the lane, and those leaving have to swerve into the already narrow path of those incoming.

Am I being ridiculous to think that A) if you're old enough to have a driver's license and a school-age child, you're old enough to know that driving any distance with a child in the seat next to the wide-open door is flat-out a Darwin Award looking to happen and B) any adult being paid to actually HELP families unload their urchins should actually be HELPING. Even if it means moving quickly enough to get that door closed, and have the idiot driving pull into an actual parking space.

I want so badly to let the school know that their unaides are part of the morning drop off problem, but I've already had to complain about ceiling tiles in the Howler's classroom becoming water logged and falling...

Somehow, I think I hear "off the deep end" being spoken in my near future.

Snooty Susie, The Church Lady

Years ago, I left the church in my hometown. There were reasons, not the least of which is that I had, apparently, outlived my usefulness to them. Of course, my "bad attitude" and questioning of their motives for certain decisions was probably part of it. At first, they refused to allow the Toad to move forward away from being a little boy in his role during services; by the end, they were actively pursuing ways to condemn and chastise me (making some of the shit up, and yes, I could prove it) and to humiliate and repress him.

While there were some who didn't want to see us go (and whom I missed seeing weekly) there were others who, I'm fairly certain, did the Happy Dance when they heard that we'd left.

Snooty Susie was probably one of them. She & I didn't have problems, it was more of a low-level general mutual dislike.

This year at the Diocesan convention dinner, My Sweetie & I sat with my first Sunday School teachers from the local church and Snooty Susie. When we sat down, Snoots asked me how well I knew our Bishop. Since he's only been our Bishop 3 years, and their last priest really didn't like him (and most of those parishioners parroted whatever their attention whore priest said) she said it like she fully expected me to have nothing good to say about our Bishop.

Okay, so it's not just that, I don't generally like people much. And clergy get no special exemption in my graces, either.

I asked her what she meant by "know well" and she said, "Well, does he know your name?" as if there's no way he would (the prior Bishop didn't know my name, but he knew my face--and he always looked at me like he'd just stepped in something nasty when he saw me. No lie.)

I told her how many ways I'd met the current Bishop, and that he'd been to my house. My Sweetie confirms that, no, I wasn't being snooty or holier than her about it. I was simply telling a story about how I knew the man. Snoots looked like I'd slapped her.

HAH! Score one for me--I was being a grown up.

Clash of the Titans

So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.

We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)

The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)

Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:

Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"

My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.

Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!

My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.

Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.

My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?

Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)

My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.

Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*

My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!

My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?

Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!

My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.

Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!

My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!

Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!

My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?

Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.

My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.

Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.

My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.

Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.

Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.

The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)

He's a Keeper

And here's why:

First, the back story.

My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.

My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.

Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.

One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?

Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.

She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.

The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.

Over the fucking tree.

She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.

At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.

I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.

Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.

God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."

After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...

And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.

Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"

Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.

And Another Thing

It's one thing when I make fun of my age. And it's the same thing when someone close to my age makes fun of my age. I earned these gray hairs (and the money I use to buy the hair color to cover them)

I understand that due to many cultural factors, these puke kids don't respect their moms much. I also remember the lack of respect I had, when 20 years younger, I had for people who were then the age I am now. Was I this obnoxious? I hope not, and if I was, I humbly apologize now.

My rant today centers on Special Ed and the wrongness that is Retail Hell. For 10 years I have been the only person with my first name in the place. I was singular. Unique. Now, they go and hire someone with the same first name for exactly the same department. It's just not right.

What makes it more not right, is that Special Ed decided yesterday that it is too confusing for everyone else when we're both (me and the new one) working at the same time--especially since yesterday, we were on the front line. Everyone else is coming up with ways to be sure to not confuse us (although there wasn't that much of a problem when there were 9 Ashleys and 42 Tiffanys all at the same time.) As if confusing me with anyone else would be possible.

Special Ed announces that the new one could have "New" added to her name, and I could have "Old" added to mine.

I tell him--as only I can--that she can very well be "New" but I am not to be designated "Old" EVER. He continues, much like the Howler when she's in her think out loud phases, to explain all the situations in which it would be OK to refer to me as "Old."

I continue to repeat myself. He continues to ignore me.

Finally, I tell him: "Under NO circumstances EVER will the word "old" be added to my name. No how, now way. NOT EVER." Apparently my tone communicated better than the words themselves.

Special Ed

Where I work, it is getting harder and harder to find "good help." Partly because only those who are insane or desperate willingly work retail, and partly because this younger generation is basically lazy and stupid.

Seriously. I spawned one, and am currently coming to terms with the fact that he ain't never, and I mean NEVER moving out, so I am very well versed in Pukedom when I see it.

The current Puke at work is kinda creepy, kinda dull, and kinda stupid. Now, by dull and stupid, I mean he makes Smiley look like a genius.

Today, I was on the front line, and I watched (while still running a register, no less) the Puke take 3 times as long for each and every transaction as I did. I kid you not--I dealt with 3-5 separate customers with shitloads of merchandise in their carts, while he would deal with one--ONE--freaking customer. Even when he was to the point where the customer was handing him money, it still took him 5 full minutes before he was done with that transaction. God help me, Smiley is faster. She can handle 1.5 customers for each of my 4.

He also has the hideous "Rebel without a Clue" thing going on. He thinks he's sooooooo very much above the rest of us--whether it's in intellect (HAH! I so very much doubt that, you turd) or gender. He's a scruffy little fluffball, and yet again, I say, "If I wanted to babysit, or put up with this kind of asshole teenager, I'd stay HOME with my own children. At least I can beat them when the need arises." So far, I've seen nothing that would lead me to believe he's anything special, except for maybe Special Ed.

At the end of my shift today, he sez, "Well, Mumple, it's about time...go ahead, turn off your light, and go."

Seriously? Like you, you little Sped, are the boss of me? Because you know, due to being older, wiser, more experienced, and mostly just by virtue of being smarter than the bag of hammers you come close to resembling, I'm not taking orders from you.

Shazaam!

It's come to my attention over the past year that I have actually become the woman I wanted to be 20 years ago.

And I hate it.

I spent the first 10 of that 20 miserably trying too hard. Then, I figured what the hell, and just let it go--stopped trying and decided that I would just be happy the way I was. So I spent the next 10 just doing the best I could, and ignoring the assholes who didn't like it. And saying a lot of the stuff that I thought anyway. Why wait 'til I'm old and senile? Just say it now and get over it.

I actually came to enjoy not having to bother much with all the trappings and crap of being a woman--especially the time consuming uninteresting parts. I especially came to glory in being unexpected.

My Sweetie helped immensely in a lot of that. He's a far better person than I am, and he talked me down from many a bell tower in the beginning. Those bell towers are fewer and farther between now, and I've most recently discovered that the bottomless pit of anger and bitterness not only had a bottom, but it's also run very nearly dry.

I know you're thinking, "Sure, that was all fine and sometimes it was dandy, but isn't it better now? To realize you've actually become the person you wanted to be..."

Well, that's easy enough for you to say, 'cuz you haven't just spent 20 freaking years gouging a place for yourself where you're comfortable and happy, just to discover that it was a whole lot of time spent for, what amounts to being, nothing. To realize that I am about 15 years too late to my own life.

Frustrating and discouraging. To counter that awesome feeling, I'm working on adjusting my perspective to believe that it wasn't really ME, it's the rest of the world that is just finally catching up to me. 15 freaking years late.

No wonder 80's fashion is back in style.

Rescue Me

Tonight I was in lumber. Ugh. I hate it down there- it's dark, and dingy, and well, the customers are often times, believe it or not, bigger assholes than they are anywhere else in the store.

Anyway, Nub, aka the Gnome, was in rare form. I ask a simple "yes" or "no" question and his utter inability to answer it led him to complain that I wouldn't go away. How hard is this math? Sheesh. One of these days, I'm gonna step on him like he's a little, moustached, bespectacled bug (which he is, but that's not the point.)

I have decided that I'm throwing insanity pheromones because a chubby, gray haired old biker dude decided to chat with me, for 20 minutes at least, about the state of the union, and Santa Claus.

Now, sure, lots of these people want me to agree with them on politics. And don't even get me started about the God Squadders. But Santa Claus? Seriously?

Oh, yeah. It's gotta be a pheromone. Please tell me it's a pheromone.

A Slippery Slope

I've struggled with depression for most of my adult life. It sucks. My entire history of it is long, and boring, and filled with stories of ridiculous reactions to medications--side effects ranging from hair loss (Sasquatch showered at my house) to a terrifying loss of words (I couldn't answer the question, "So what does your husband do for a living?") Most recently, the Cymbalta for the fibromyalgia gave me insomnia for the first 10 days, then, when that wore off, I couldn't find the door to take my daughter to school (and yet, I got behind the wheel of my vehicle and took her to school.)

I've spent the better part of the last 18 months struggling to not get lost in the depression. It's occasionally made me weird, and the accompanying mood swings have been dizzying.

Mostly, the past 6 months or so have been a roller coaster, all inside my head. I'm sure the people I work with have enjoyed it--the preoccupation with keeping the crazy contained has kept me about 80% quiet and moderately subdued at work. I'm sure they'll agree that it's been a blessing.

The worst part of the past 6 months is that I hadn't realized I was worse than I was. And unfortunately, I kept it pretty well hidden--even from myself. That sucks, too, because, well, I got sucker-punched and I reacted very very badly. A lot in Old Mumple Character, and not so much in who I really am now. It was abundantly clear, though, when the Doc was really really serious when she said it was time to consider trying yet another antidepressant. Which, of course, being the stubborn thing I am, I refused. (Yeah, it certainly helped my "I'm OK" when I started crying in the office.)

It was then that I realized I was on that Slippery Slope, and seriously headed for an all-out attack of Crazy.

It bothers me that I let myself get to that point, and it bothers me that I didn't realize how much I was sucking at being a decent, self-aware person. I was being a self-involved spaz. I want to cower behind the depression, and the fact that, depression aside, I've never been very good at self-censoring what I say.

I'm not going to cower. I'm going to eat crow, and be the kind of person who says, "I was an ass. I'm sorry." Thank God the majority of those who deserve the apologies are still speaking to me.

Step Away From the Ritalin...

Monday night, I got to be at the Customer Service Desk--a special level of Hell. Smiley was at Returns, so, of course, I got to answer the bulk of the phone calls. Not that she wasn't absolutely fabulous as she hung on to the fake door that appeared on the side of the desk several years ago, but it would've been nice if she had realized that ringing wasn't just in her head.

Anyway, I gets me a doozy of a call. Ten freaking minutes of listening to the inbred moron on the other end repeat the entire story of his last trip in...including how they left one of their bags at the store. I know, from being there, that there is a bag of "left at the register" electrical outlets at the Return desk, and finally, while stretching the natural laws of the universe and the phone cord, get Smiley to hand me that bag.

I ask specific questions about what Enos left with us. He starts the whole story over again.

At some point, it occurs to Enos that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, so he tells me he'll put his wife on. This is usually good news. Obviously, I am still way too optimistic for my own good.

She gets on the phone and asks me what I want. Like I called them. He tells her what's going on--mostly that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. So she launches into the Saga of Enos & Mabel at the home improvement store.

Oh, yeah. The retail-hell version of He Said/She Said. Kill me now.

Finally, I get to ask if they have their receipt. She says yes. I tell her to get a pen so she can mark the items they left, and my name on the receipt. She asks me why she needs a pen. I explain again. She launches in to the Saga again.

I'm about done with this idiocy, and I have a line forming, and Smiley still isn't really answering the phone. I shut Mabel down, and tell her to bring in her receipt and we'll get her the items they can't find.

And then, Tuesday, the Saga Continues. And it's better in sequel form.

Mabel arrives. She approaches me at the Return Desk, and demands to know if I was working last night. God help me. She begins rooting in her luggage, er, ah, purse. She sets 2 quarts of some lacquer I've never even heard of before on the counter. She then tells the guy who is standing behind her, that he can go, 'cuz she's gonna be awhile. I should've put my finger down my throat and went home then.

The entire time I'm trying to help the hapless soul who took her at her word, she's talking to me. Not answering the questions I'm asking him, just talking to me. As if he didn't exist, and as if she hadn't told him to "go ahead."

Finally, it is her turn again. She refuses to hand me receipts, until I tell her (after checking, of course) that this lacquer isn't ours. She insists that it is, and hands me a receipt for stain. I call the paint department, and he says, "we don't sell that." 15 minutes of this, and she's not only talking about everything ELSE she wants to deal with--including the stuff Enos called about last night, and stuff she brought in to match up for the project they're doing. She still refuses to let me see her receipts.

I get through the return part of this...and we move on to dealing with the rest of her fast talking idiocy. Yet again, I get to hear the Saga of Enos & Mabel. Twice. She borrows my pen...so she can circle random numbers on the receipt she won't let me see. While telling me, for the billionth time, the Saga.

In the meantime, I actually get to answer the phone and transfer calls--all while she's blathering on...and on....and on...

Finally, I get the pen, and the receipt away from her. I've already told her that I can and will refund the stuff they called about. This launches yet another telling of the Saga. I find what I need on the receipt. Because I've been sucked into this particular level of Hell, I'm stupid enough to say, "Okay, I'm refunding 18 electrical outlets and..."

She leans in really really close to me, all bug-eyed, and says very snottily, " THERE WAS A GRAY ONE, TOO." She reaches for the receipt.

I respond with (in the same snotty tone) "YES. IF I CAN FINISH WHAT I WAS SAYING." I take a deep breath and make sure she's not getting that receipt away from me. "18 ALMOND OUTLETS. 1 GRAY ONE." and turn to the register to actually do the refund.

Remarkably, she launches the beginning of the Saga of Enos & Mabel AGAIN.

While praying for a bolt of lighting, a truck, an elephant, oh hell, ANYTHING to please strike me dead right now, I manage to complete her refund and send her on her way. Mostly because once I handed her those receipts, and saying the magic words "Have a good night", I walked as far away from her as physically possible.

She Has Been Paying Attention!

Today at Sunday School, the lesson was about the "Saints of God." As in, any God-fearing Christian person who attempts to share the Word is a Saint of God.

During the discussion, of course, the children named our priest, deacon, the Toad, etc etc. The Howler names, specifically, her father. Good girl!

When asked if her mom teaches her about God also, she shrugs her shoulder and says, and I quote, "enh."

'nuf said.

Road Trip

Okay, not really. 30 minutes away isn't really a road trip, is it?

Today was the field trip for the Howler's school. 30 minutes away, and thank God for smallish miracles, I did not even have to ride the bus. I did, however, get to haul ass with my friend and neighbor, who as of yet has no nick. After this post, though, I'm sure to think up something totally vile to call her. She is Evil with Caffeine.

Actually making it to the point where we load ourselves into the vehicle and leave town was hilarious, mostly because we both spent a lot of time saying, "Dayum, I have to get one more thing." and ending up forgetting several things we thought we'd need for the trip: like our sanity.

She worked last night (over night) and was prepared with a sputtering urn of coffee. Which vomited coffee into the plastic bag she brought for it. She apparently felt she needed 48 gallons of coffee to make it through the day.

While at the park, she tells me, at one point, "You know, you're more attractive when you don't talk." Lovely. I'm your ride home, baby, play nice.

On the way home, she's like some loopy half drunken dingbat, totally mishearing what I'm saying...but in the meantime, she begins playing "Who'dja Rather?" and lists the endearing couple Loser Boy & his Lover. I, of course, throw up in my mouth a little. We then discuss Loser Boy, how disgusting he is, and, exactly, which objects and animals he would "rather."

At this point, after discussing various barnyard animals, she mentions that they have a dachshund, and how lucky it is to be a small dog.

I have a mouthful of water at this point, and I am driving...Thank God, again with the smallish miracles, that we were only going 40mph. I had to roll down the window and spit. I know, so very attractive, but really, we're lucky I didn't end up in a field!

She's such a good friend, she did ask me if any came out my nose.

A Mr Mumple Story

When you travel for your job, there are some strange things you can encounter. And My Sweetie tells me about 'em.

The other day, while out and about in the county, he & his trainee were replacing a windshield...the customer was a decent looking woman who, apparently, had very few wardrobe options.

She wore a short black robe. Emphasis on the "short" part. When done with the job, and awaiting payment (not that kind of payment, perv) she invited them inside the house.

Yeah. She showed them her pussy.







He was a Himalayan.

The cat had absolutely nothing to do with the short robe, but, of course, the fun is in telling it to your wife this way.

Hussy

Another adorable Frodo story:

Last night, at close, I had to run from returns to customer service. When I got there, Frodo asks me, "So are you a natural redhead or what?"

Because, apparently, working with me for 10 years, he'd never noticed before. Duh.

I just laughed. He sez, "Yeah, I thought so."

Since he knows my Aunt--she of the asshole questioning--I tell him a funny story.

When I first started coloring my hair red, my aunt comes to the Howler's birthday party and sez, "What in the haaaaillll did you do to your hair?"

I sez, "Why? Don't you like it?"

"You look like a goddamned hussy."

I laugh. She asks My Sweetie what he thinks of it, and he says he likes me as a hussy. (bwhahahahahahahaha)

Later on, we go to visit his family, and when I get out of the car, his father sez, "Oh." snort "I din know he liked redheads."

"Waaaallll, he likes this one!" big smile.

I confide to My Sweetie that his Ol' Man had a run-in with a redhead, and therefore, doesn't like 'em. I confide same to my mother-in-law. Neither of them know anything about it.

A year or so later, I get a phone call from my mother-in-law, informing me that they were going through some old pics of when the Ol' Man was in the service...and found pics of this woman who dun him wrong. She was a redhead.

HAH!

You Know You Love Me

So, at close of business tonight, Frodo has this approved employee purchase to make. I scan the crap, and he has his discount card out, ready to roll.

He sez, "Dammit! You're gonna need an override."

I tell him, "Nope. Give me your card."

He sez, "It's not really gonna matter."

I remind him, while rolling my eyes, "All employee sales are to have the card scanned."

Since the crap he was buying needed manually reduced, he suddenly remembers that our wonky system will jump the prices back up if you reduce 'em, then take the discount. He sez, "You'll have to re-do them."

I tell him, "Nope. Take the card first, then you don't."

He sez, "You're so excellent at this." as if this is a new fact.

I sez, "And that's why you love me."

He sez, "It's your lie, tell it how you want."

No, Really, You ARE Stupid

Today, Frodo came out to the garden center acting all Secret Squirrel. He tells me, in his special Secret Squirrel Voice, that since the Weasel has left the building, and he's now totally in charge, the garden center will be closing. (Oh, yeah, I was OUTSIDE!!!!!! Today. Mood much improved, thanks for asking)

So, I go inside. Supposed to go to Lumber (killmekillmenow) and Frodo pages me, while I'm switching into my indoor glasses (btw, those prescription shades are about fantastic! Nobody can see my eyes rolling!) to tell me that I'm to go to the front line instead.

I spent 6 hours outside with little to no freakiness showing up. Other than myself, I mean. I'm inside for all of 3 minutes, and I have BillyJoeJimBob talking to me about whether or not he would need the cooler/dispenser contraption for the 5 gallon jugs of water. And asking if I know 'bout how much them thar thingies wood cost." Er, uh, I'm sorry, I don't. I'm trying not to actually look at any living breathing person, because, honestly, when this guy starting asking me if I thought he could just buy the 5 gallon jug and use it without the dispenser thingy, I was about be all "HAH!" at this guy.

Now, the pure genius that is the Hellhole has a person at the customer service desk who doesn't have access to at least 50% of the screens she needs to do the job. So this increases my chances of freakiness finding me. She looks over at me, and asks if I can do the credit card application, because she doesn't have access. (When Frodo shows up, I tell him--that's right, I'm not asking--to get her the access she needs, if he's gonna put her at that desk. I may have said, "DUH" in there also.)

The credit card application process itself is fairly simple...provided you can remember your address. Unlike Contestant #1, who fills out his address wrong. The best part is the more I tried to find the phrasology that would clue him in to this, the more he said, "What do you mean?"

No, Really, Dude, You ARE Stupid.

Do I Know You From Somewhere?

Lately, I keep having people I've never slapped eyes on before ask me where they know me from. It's starting to get on my nerves.

First, if I'm ignoring you, but I do know you, I will acknowledge it IF you speak to me first. That's an unspoken bitch rule I've learned in the PTA. I act like I don't see you, and you act like you don't see me, we're both good. If you act like you don't see me, and I'm in a frisky mood, I'm gonna look at you speak to you and make you acknowledge me. Just for fun. BUT if I'm pretending I don't see you or I don't know you, and you're in a frisky mood and acknowledge me, I'm gonna play by da rules and acknowledge you back. But if I don't know you, for reals, and you insist that you know me--it's just creepy, for reals.

Second, if you think you recognize me, it could honestly just be because I've worked in this Hellhole for 10 years now, and if you've been in the store as often as you claim, you've seen me here, too. Simple logic, really.

Third, there is a woman in this town who looks enough like me to have even my mother bitching at me for "being someplace I wasn't supposed to be." My grandmother almost got in a slap fight with her brother because the Unc said I was working at that grocery store, and my Gram insisted not...and well, they have tempers, donchano.

Anyway, no, people, I don't know you. I'd tell you if I did.

Oh, and Guy who sneaks up on me and calls me the wrong name trying to "catch" me just messin' with you? You're just flat out nuts.

Duh

So, Mr Skeeveriffic calls in to work last night.

First, let me say that while my phone manners aren't always what they should be, I don't open conversations with "Who is this?" and, for the record, I find that horribly annoying. Of course, Mr Skeevy does this when he calls.

Then he asks, "So, are we open on Thanksgiving?" Like having worked there for 3 years wouldn't have given him this information yet. We're closed 2 freaking days of the year--Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But then, given this opportunity to share the Skeeve, I answer his question with, "We normally are, but who knows this year? Let me send you to a manager."

And I do.

And I get to see said manager's face as he answers this question, while trying not to snort with laughter and roll his eyes.

Only thing in my whole night that made it worth staying upright!

Bible Quiz

So, once upon a loooooooooooooooong time ago, My Sweetie was on his church's Bible Quiz team. I believe him when he says it was because there were pretty girls on the team, because he certainly remembers very little scripture from it.

Recently, the Howler moved up to the next level of AWANAS. No more foolin' around! She needed a Bible, and we need to work with her on those verses. So, the former Bible Quiz Guy decided he would also begin reading the Bible.

He starts, of course, at the beginning. A few chapters into it, he announces that "all those begats and whose dad is whose is pretty boring. And hard to follow." Well, yeah. Why do you think I'm not also reading it? He also discovered that there are no guys in Genesis named Bob, but decided that any names he couldn't pronouce would be simplified into Bob and Bill and Biff. But I remember when I created a book of the Bible for the Toad called Inertiates, and made up verses, he said I was "so very wrong. Funny, but wrong." But he doesn't remember that Vince is a prominent figure in Inertiates, either.

Last night, though, he proved for once-and-for-all that the Howler's parents are really not the kind of people who should be helping the Howler understand the Bible: he sez, "You know, in the Old Testament, if a guy thinks he's not getting enough kids from one wife, or two, he just takes a few handmaids too."

I responded with, "So, you've made it as far as Jacob, then?"

He seemed a little surprised that I knew that much, since, as I stated before, I don't read the Bible, unless I have to. And I've never mentioned Jacob to him, so that must be part of the Black Hole that is my less-than-Christian accumulation of knowledge.

Then he tells me, "Yeah, and that guy Jacob would stick it in just about anybody."

There you have it: Bible Stories from Heathen Headquarters.

Hell, More So Than Usual

Last night at work, it was definitely like it was my birthday. It sucked. I'd be more graphic, but I'm trying to get the image outta my head, so I won't be.

Anyway, we're so short staffed, Frodo & the Gnome are like Andre the Giant in height compared to what we've got going on. Seriously, there's very little to joke about in there right now.

I did, however, discover what was worse than dealing with Miss Pissy (she's massively unhappy with how/what management is doing to her right now--demoted her, dumped her onto register, but when she started she was at the Desk. Anyway.) What's worse than being boxed into the Return desk, blocked off from all normal modes of communication with the people who have access to the walkie the loader-guy carries and not being able to reach the copier?

Being boxed in and the other guy at the other desk--the guy with access to everything--not answering the phone--even when it's me trying to get his attention; he's not responding when I shout his name over the filing cabinet, and he's not looking at the 70 people lined up in front of me and doing NO THING to try to even help (no paging a code 3, no trying to get them over to his side of the desk) ...he's standing in front of the desk, watching for customers to check out. Because the phone looking like a Christmas Tree all lit up, and all those people at my desk are, of course, MY problem.

Meanwhile, I'm boxed in, trying to answer 14 phone calls that all take 10 minutes of listening to things like "oh, uh, Hi. I don't know what department I need; it's a thing I bought; can I return this thing; an order? No, it was delivered; I need to check on..." and all the while, several dozen very patient people are waiting their turn to get their money back. Oh, and then there was the guy who insisted that he could only ever possibly talk to one person, and no, he couldn't leave a message, but this is the 3rd time I've been put on hold, can I talk to...

It was Hell. I'm surprised I haven't actually cracked a tooth from grinding my teeth and clenching my jaw.

To their credit, store managers last night were trying to fill in the gaps--and were not all pissy and nasty (not even the Asshat.) God help me, I'm going back into this battlefield tonight.

Back in the Day

Used to be that in Retail Hell, job training involved them saying, "Here." and handing you stuff to figure out how to do it--then, if you guessed wrong, them getting the chance to snipe at you about it.

It also involved just getting sniped at, because, hell, that phone has about a billion buttons, and they all blink red, or green, in no discernable fashion. Telling me, "You're suppose to answer the phone by the 3rd ring!" and threatening to write me up for not answering it, was considered "excellent training."

Somehow, I've gotten to miss those days. Why? Because back in those days, you could also call up your zone manager and say, "Frodo, who do I need to blow to get a pen that works?"

None of that is permissible nowadays. And I miss that.

Shhhhh! Don't Say It Out Loud!

Two days, people. Two days.

This is the obligatory Birthday post, and I'm hoping that since I'm posting it early, it will be out of the way, and so will all that crappy, vomiting, sparking appliance karma will just fly right by me.

I have to work, and we have made absolutely no special plans. There are no new appliances (although I did have to have my windshield replaced today) so I'm hoping there are no surprises, no explosions of any kind, and that I can breeze through this in clean clothes and unscathed.

Pray for me to escape!

Finding Jesus

Yet again today, I got Jesus-ified.

For some reason, people I do not know (and in all honesty, have no desire to know) hand me Jesus tracts--the more I smile, the happier I am at work, the more likely it is that I will be given God's love in a convenient 4 paragraph package.

Today's message was about how kittens and puppies and babies love to be hugged. And God loves me! After being informed that said Jesus-ifiers were ducks, due to the rain, and after I declined the very polite offer to buy his umbrella for $40. (The most amazing part? I was INSIDE--not out in the rain, when the umbrella offer came.)

I do not understand the whole Jesus tract gig: are you obligated to hand them out only people who seem happy? When I am miserable, when there are flames shooting out orafice, when Satan himself is plaguing my every breath, these people and their messages of hugging kittens is nowhere to be found. When I could actually use these things, I don't get them. Is there a secret decoder ring necessary for figuring out the hows and whys of these things?

I remember once getting handed one in the ladies room while at work, too. I don't get how that was supposed to be helpful.

And now that I mention that...I recall the guy, 2 years ago, who gave me the one telling me I was going to Hell. I was happy and smiling that day, too.

Oh, I get it now. Never mind.

Ring! Ring!

How may I direct your call?

Yes. Hello. Uhm, I need, well, I don't know if, I mean, I called to find out, uhm, er, uhm, do you carry, uhm, yes. I don't know if you know, but, er, uhm, yeah, I mean, uhm, hot water tanks.

Later, that same day:
RING! RING!

How may I direct your call?

Uhm, OH! Hi. I'm looking for, and I need, uhm, you know. I want a price on a, can you tell me, and uhm, er, uhm, this other store, and you know. I have a question about stuff. What department is that?

Later, that same day:
RING! RING!

PTA Update

I'm not on the board. I did keep the newsletter, and I will be doing more in the fundraising department, and the Howler insisted that I fill out the paper and volunteer to do the Homeroom Parent gig. Dunno yet about the HR parent gig, but regardless, they haven't gotten rid of me yet (and I don't think they've figured out that they really, no really, should want to.)

Anyway, UberDad, who went batshit crazy last spring, has up and quit everything. He's not involved AT ALL, and won't even come to a meeting. Why? Because he want batshit crazy, and instead of just pretending it didn't happen--as most people in polite society will do in a situation like this--he's decided to hide out, and pretend he didn't know any of us at all.

I believe it was totally Freudian when he slipped and said, "You play this role, and I'll play this role, and we can fuck." He was, indeed, looking for a fuck, but he was most definitely asking the wrong question of the wrong person (and seriously, this is a line that works for him? Seriously? If you knew the details, you'd be shocked.)

I mean, yes, he basically fucked himself, but I don't think that was quite the ride he was looking for either.

Opposite Day

Ever have one of those days where everything you thought you knew was the opposite of what it was?

Yeah, well, I'm having a year of that, and it's depressing. At first, it was funny (okay, very funny) and then it freaked me out. Now, it's just depressing, because I'm all "WTF now?"

There's a reason I don't like people, and this is really really really a good example of why. Is there a reason that I'm sudden being dumped on in this way? I mean, was I too happy, or too content? It can't be because I'm a mean bitch, because I'm less mean and not as bitchy, unless, of course, you come up to me wearing a homemade Kick Me sign.

And if you're one of the pod people reading this, please talk amongst yourselves and set up some sort of system that lets everyone have a turn at screwing with my head, but doesn't make it feel like you're all batshit crazy with the full moon.

WTFriday

Didn't happen on a Friday, but I'm posting it now, so suck it up.

The other day at work, I had the most interesting customers, and am not the least bit surprised to discover that they are married to each other.

My first encounter was with Tree Woman. I had a few trees to mark down, and she came out, ooh'd and aaah'd over them. Then she told me, "My husband is coming up here to look at these. If someone else tries to buy them before he does, don't let them, okay."

After I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor, I had to tell her, "I'm sorry. I can't refuse to sell something like that. If you want to pick one or two of them to hold for him to see, I can do that, but I can't tell another customer they can't buy something that's out on the floor for sale." She looked at me like I'd taken a swing at her.

A short while later, Blueberry Man came up, and in the middle of another customer's sale, he leans on the counter and asks who can make a decision on reducing something? I tell him that she's not available right now, and I'll try and find someone when I'm done with the transaction. While he's leaning way into my personal space, sucking up other people's transaction time, an older lady comes up and demands that "nobody came" to help her, even though I've called and paged already. I tell her I'm trying to get someone for her. (It was that kind of day...I think every one turned off their phones because they were too stressed from being short-staffed and overworked/overdemanded) Blueberry Man isn't backing up and he's not moving over. Every time I tried to call that special someone to come up and talk to him, he began talking to me too. And so did the old woman. I finally had to tell both of them that I was trying to get them help (although, in all honesty, not the professional help they both so seriously needed) and could I please make this phone call to get it?

Gawdawful.

Finally, Blueberry Man shows up at the register to check out. He won't get out of my way to scan stuff, and again, when calling to get the prices adjusted, he talked when I talked. So I had to keep repeating myself before the person who needed to come could hear what I needed from them.

He had also swapped some of the plants in the fancy-schmancy planters and couldn't understand why I wouldn't ring up one item as another.

As he was paying, the rest of his party arrived--you betcha, it was the Tree Woman, and no, I wasn't the least bit surprised.

Trolling the Neighborhood

Apparently, my BFN (best friend neighbor) has decided, again, that she's going to make a play for My Sweetie.

We say that, because yesterday, when I got home from work, the Urchins were up to play with the Howler. And Waif, I guess, had the secret squirrel mission to try and get my Sweetie down to their house. Even after I got home.

We believe that a few years ago, BFN & Loser Boy were the ones to spread the rumors that various neighbors were engaged in illicit adult activities--and that I was the one keeping track of all the children so that the adult hi-jinks could go on. My Sweetie was mentioned sparingly in the rumors, but his name did come up some. I know that these rumors were simply rumors--untrue and very crass (and believe me, I know crass & vulgar.)

This past spring, she made the same attempt, with the same "excuse." She wanted to talk to my Sweetie about her garden. She called and kept him on the phone once for about an hour--yapping on and on about her pretend garden and that she expected My Sweetie to call her when HE went to get his tomatoes, etc, so SHE could go with HIM.

After the crap she was spreading through the neighborhood about my daughter (that the Howler was a vandal and that I was unbalanced) and my 2 hours conversation with her about how Loser Boy doesn't hit her with his fists, and that the 10 year old Waif would know when to call 911 if he ever got "truly out of hand," My Sweetie totally blew her off (not that he had any intention of calling her or going anywhere with her, anyway.)

She didn't call here, nor did she show up. Not even when I was not here.

Yesterday, Waif started telling the Howler to help get her daddy to go down to talk to her Mom about her garden. I'm guessing that this genius in a 40DD bra doesn't understand that it's September, and her pretend garden doesn't need anything now.

The Waif tried to get My Sweetie to go down there herself. The Waif told me that My Sweetie needed to go down to her house to talk to her mom about the garden.

I told the Waif that not only was it our suppertime--we weren't going--but that if her mom needed to talk to US about her garden, she could come up here.

Haven't heard a peep from her, not last night; not today. Go figure.

Newsflash

Yesterday, the entire world--at least, the center of it: my hometown--was without cellphone service from a major carrier. A goodly number of the people I work with, of all ages and levels of self-importance, were literally adrift and angry about it. (Apparently said major carrier's technical mechanic guy killed over a dozen towers in our service area.)

Several of those co workers were blathering on about how they were missing important emergency information/texts/calls. One woman was majorly pissed because her daughter MIGHT miss a day's work because she couldn't get the call to go to work. (First, they miss the point that it's a great big ol' IF they tried to call her; Second, Mama was gonna call to "take care of it" for her baby girl. In my opinion, but if she's big girl enough to be a substitute teacher, she's a big enough girl to take care of her own cellphone problems. Mama needs to get a hobby.)

Well, as the day went on, the service still wasn't fixed. The ranting cooled a bit, but I kept hearing about the "emergencies" that these people were missing. Things like a text from a friend regarding whether or not she was breaking up with her boyfriend, the call from the ol' boyfriend on whether or not he wiped his own ass, blah blah blah.

Seriously, these people don't realize what an emergency really is: Emergencies are about the loss of limbs, copious blood loss, bodily mangling, and death. NOT about whether or not we're partying tonight.

Then there were those who were "trying to run a business here." Really? Wow. Nobody in the history of America ever tried to run a business with telephone service out! Honest! Decades before cellphones and computers, landline telephone service would occasionally go out--things like lines going down, transformers being blown, etc, would cause service to go out...and get this! Business continued! And few people got pissed off enough to make idiotic statements like "They OWE me service!"

Sure, you pay for cellphone service, but accidents happen. Your not being connected to 15,000 other people will, barring some bizarre and ironic incident, NOT kill any of you. Especially not the for the 12-24 hours you are without your service. Big Shocker, that. They'll still be where they are, and you'll still be where you are. Worse case scenario, your Farmville farm will still be there, and your insecure, needy friends will manage to survive without your constant input.

Chances are pretty good that you'll all still be the self-centered, self-important people you have been all this time, too.

This Little Piggy...

Ain't no piggy. No how. No way.

I don't care that you tell me the story about breakfast: it's a day's work for the ol' chicken, but a life commitment for the lil' piggy. I don't care how creative you are in making that lil' metaphor be about working in Retail Hell. I don't care how it relates to being Flypaper for Freaks.

And, I seriously do not appreciate being called a pig--no matter how managerially you meant it, no matter how well you tell that stupid story.

No matter what you promise, I know that your promise will Fail me, so, "uh, hell NO, I am not a pig."

"Oh, Spongebob, WHY?!"

Thursday I was in Hell. Okay, so it was really the returns desk, but it seemed like Hell. (Everything that could go wrong, did; and I spent time having to ask repeatedly to get the simplest things I needed. It was very like working there when we first opened, but I digress)



At one point in my less than lovely day, Mrs Puff, from the Nickelodeon cartoon Spongebob Squarepants, came in with a return.

source

While processing her return, the phone began to ring. After each ring, Mrs Puff said, "HELLO!" The phone rang at least 3 times.

Now That You Mention It

Lately, I have had a run of people who tell me odd facts about themselves for no discernable reason.

Like the guy last week, who, after I asked him if he needed help, whipped out his cellphone, scrolled through it, held it up (yes, inches from my face--apparently "personal space" is a totally outdated concept!) and said, "That's my mom. She's dead."

And the woman yesterday who while telling me that she needed a particular kind of mulch, tells me, "My husband died this year."

Er, uhm, since when does a retail shopping trip involve dead people?

Something

Today, while doing my job--you know, where I stand at the register and actually scan merchandise, accept payment, and grovel for dead presidents--I experienced something so radically stupid, I still can't believe it happened.

While ringing out customers, a woman brings plants to a register I am not anywhere near. She is facing me, with her plants on the counter, watching me ring out customers.

When the customers are all gone on their merry ways, she still standing there, plucking the dead blooms off the plants. (of course, she's leaving those dead heads on the counter) I brush off my counter--the one attached to the register I'm actually using.

She's looking at me like I'm the stupid one here, and she says, "Isn't this the register you're supposed to be at?"

I respond: "I'm running on this register." I nod at the machine she watched me use to ring out those other people.

"Oh. I assumed you'd be using this one." Er, uh, yah, dipwad, mostly because the gate nearest to it is closed, and I haven't been anywhere near it since 7:30am today.

I respond: "Do you need help getting your plants over here?"

"Nooooooo, but, someone has left something here." She raises her eyebrows at me, like that should be the end of the issue--and I should jump to it, and use the register SHE chose.

I walk over, wondering just what in the hell she's seeing because there's been nothing on that counter all day except for her dead heads and some windblown dirt. What she is trying to tell me is "something" that would lead a normal, thinking person to believe it's an open register is the credit card machine, wrapped and cover in a plastic bag.

"Oh, that is the credit card machine. We have to cover the unused ones out here so they don't fill up with water."

Thank God for those new sunglasses...they keep the bleeting masses from seeing my eyes roll up in my head.

Random

I don't twit, so these have to be saved up and stuffed together in a rant that encompasses this entire summer:

~ Guy who wanted "Regluuuurrrrrr Miracle Gro" I walked him to it, explained that this is it, and he just shouted "REGLUUUUURRRRRR" over and over. His supervision, aka wife, walked up, took the large box from me carefully, said, "This is exactly what we needed! Thank you!" took him by the leash and walked away.

~ Woman who comes in EVERY July and asks for "Mir-Acid" Every July, we explain that it's called "Miracle Gro for Acid Loving Plants" and every year she buys some. I strongly suspect that when she dies, her executor will find a room in her house just crammed with unopened boxes of the stuff.

~ Hundreds of morons, idiots, and the occasional fuckwit who come in on bright sunny days, and use credit cards to pay. They know the screen can't be seen, because every person in front of them in line has said the same thing they are now saying, "I CAN'T SEE THIS SCREEN!" while refusing to follow the simple directions I give them, and/or figure out what the arrows drawn on the outside of the screen mean. I especially have enjoyed watching these people tap the obviously hand drawn arrows, and exclaim, "I don't think it's working!" and I have reserved a special spot in the crack of my ass for the hundreds who have wasted my time and theirs stating, "You need a new machine." I don't need a new machine, you need to shut your piehole, follow the directions I'm giving you, and try to be smarter than the object you're working with.

~ Woman wandering through the flooring department, looking for garden stepping stones. She's probably married to the idiot who wanted to find fake grass in the garden center last year.

~ Any person currently looking for gardenias. It's a spring bloomer, and it's not a perennial in our zone. We don't have 'em, and I don't care if your "husband said he saw them here." Toots, he saw them here in MAY. This is now August. Do the math. BTW, this isn't Florida, so I don't care how well hibiscus "winter over" there.

~ Every old biddy who asks, "is this on special?" when they stood by the fence and watched us unload it from the truck.

~ The OF who comes in once a week since the end of June and demands to know what we think we're doing still having plants to sell. Same OF (they all look alike, honest!) who wanders around, comes back, and tells me that no one is going to buy trees, perennials, and shrubs.

~ Woman who came in screaming that she needed clematis bulbs. I asked her for clarification, 'cuz I know that clematis do not grow from bulbs. She continued to shriek at me that "oh, yes, they do" and demanded to know where she was gonna find 'em. She's gonna find 'em NO PLACE, and I hope she loses her voice, shrieking like that.

~People who come in and buy only the clearance plants, but can't retain the idea that we manually change the price. If you're hear every freaking day, and we have the same freaking conversation every freaking day, and you can't remember it, TAKE NOTES, refer to them often. I work retail, not child care, and if I wanted to have to repeat myself incessantly to the same people all day every day, I'd stay home with my own children.

~If you bring your ADHD 7 year old out into public, at least respond to the kid every 15billionth time he says, "Hey dad, look at this" Seriously.

~ The fruity little guy who brought his ever-so-special flower to the wrong register, stood there for a full 10 minutes watching me ring out about 8 customers, waited until the line backed up again, then came over, weaving his way through the line while toting his special flower in a swishy, swinging way to come behind my register, lean over my shoulder to say (no, not whisper) "I'm gonna leave this right here with you" depositing his special flower immediately behind me needs to get over himself. Move your special flower out of my way, and back the fuck up.

And finally, I do so appreciate the "No Shirt, No Service" rule we have these days. I spent 15 minutes early one morning, watching as a van pulled up the entrance, and a fat man gets out. Then waits for him to peel off his shirt, and turn it right-side out, put it back on, before parking. I am ever so glad I got new glasses so I can see.

BMOC

A few weeks ago, I attended my class reunion. It's hard to imagine that it's been 25 years since I graduated from high school. Most days, I don't feel a day over 107 or so, and in some ways, I haven't changed. I discovered this weekend, that in some ways, neither did anyone else. All things considered, we still look pretty good.

High school wasn't that great pinnacle of youth for me, as I didn't feel like I fit in much. I was, to be honest, shy almost to the painful point, and I didn't have the same opinions as everyone else. Mostly, I waited to college to figure out that I could be who I wanted to be, and have been working towards that since.

But I like going to these things. I'm shallow enough to admit that I enjoy seeing how life has kicked the crap out of others and comparing it to how life has kicked the crap out of me. In some cases, I really do enjoy seeing that those few chicks who were ever-so-much-better-than-thou are overweight--to the point that Omar is making their dresses; and that the BMOC is overweight, balding, and not-quite-as-fab as he was so convinced he was.

Thing is, I proudly admit that I color the gray in my hair, and while Omar isn't making my outfits, I do not buy clothes that promote the idea that I am not aging. I'm lucky enough to find an outfit for the occasion that is attractive, and doesn't lead anyone to think, "God, does she realize how old we are?!"

This time, I heard a lot of comments centering on the idea that I haven't changed much--apparently, in high school, I was smart, funny--hilarious actually, and relatively pretty. Go figure. That's not how I remember it, but I'm also shallow enough to want to believe it.

But, this post is about that BMOC from high school. Wasn't he fantastic? Popular. Athletic. Class Officer. Fab-U-Luss, you betcha.

For anyone not sporting their glasses that Friday night (and yes, that vanity sucked in many!) he is overweight. Maybe not grossly overweight, but he's certainly not in any shape that would be considered smaller than a pear, or a large melon.

His hair is also thinning. Not as much as that football player guy who, despite the weight gain and the male pattern baldness is still mostly attractive, but, you know, Mr BMOC has a comb over in his future. I'm guessing before the next reunion, if the bellyweight and cholestrol don't get him first.

Anyway, Mr BMOC was never, in my opinion, a very nice person. Even as children, he was cruel in his jokes on those of us who were quiet and/or shy. And he always loved having an audience for those jokes. Nothing overtly dramatic, but cruel, just the same. Cruel enough that I still flinch when first spying him in room.

Mr BMOC married his soulmate. I say that, because Mrs BMOC was equally cruel. Except that she had a penchant for hitting me in the stomach. Once a week, at Brownies meetings, she'd nail me as soon as I got there. If she missed me coming, she'd be sure to get me before we left. Try walking home in February in western PA crying, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt, and trying to catch your breath, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt. And then trying to convince your mom that nothing happened, and your eyes and cheeks were red and chapped because it was that cold out. My stomach still clenches, and I flinch, whenever I see her anywhere. Hell, sometimes I do the reflex reaction when I just think about her at those Girl Scout meetings.

Mr BMOC was obviously sober that Friday, and hugged me, told me I looked good, as he worked the room.

I had to go outside and have a cigarette to get the stink off.

Let's Say

So, let's say that it's about 7:30am, and let's say I'm in the garden center at the register. Let's say a woman who worked here briefly rolls in the gate. Let's say that she's 60 if she's a day, and that she's got her long gray hair up in a pony tail. Let's say, also, that she, and her liver spots, are in all their early morning glory.

Let's also say that she's not wearing a bra. And even though temps are somewhere close to 80 degrees F, there's cold weather indication going on.

Let's say EWWWWWWW.

We Don't Go Out Much

And this is exactly why:

The Howler is at her grandparents' house for the week. That means, NO KIDS! PRAISE THE LORD--NO KIDS!

It also means that we had the opportunity to go out and have a nice, but high priced meal, at a restaurant, without the benefit of wondering if the Howler would have an unsuspecting adult tied to a chair with duct tape.

We went to Red Lobster, mostly because our hometown is pathetic enough to not have an Olive Garden, and while I love the one local Italian restaurant, I wasn't in the mood to look at the owner (he's an ass) or his wife's ass (as she bends over while wearing her low-rise cords.)

The waitress was a bit gung-ho, but I assume that's the new, all invasive grab for dining dollars that's going on--drive the diners to distraction by asking them, literally every 3 minutes, if "everything okay?"

Shortly after our meals arrived, a woman in a gray pantsuit stops at our table and says, "Meals okay and all?" Startled (with full mouths) we nod and she enters the ladies room.

The Flypaper for Freaks magnetism has now extended into dining out: She had nothing on her person that would lead the casual observer to know that she worked there.

Jeepers Creepers

I've got a Peeper.

Yesterday, I got to meet the one neighbor, who live the other way--opposite all those mangy kids. He's definitely a little swishy, but that's not all. Oh, no, that's not all!

I met him because I noticed he was mowing the teeny tiny yard of Damien's house. He kept looking at me (sitting on my front porch, smoking, talking on the phone.) Then I noticed he was mowing the welcome mats at the house immediately behind the slumhouse. I decided to go find out just-exactly who he was and just-exactly what he was doing. He pointedly asked me if I was on the phone earlier when he was mowing at the slumhouse.

For no reason whatsoever, he told me his address repeatedly before telling me his name. During the course of the conversation, he pulls out his wallet (think George Costanza) and hands me his drivers license. Apparently, years--no, decades--of attracting freaks has inured me to their freakiness, because all I could think to say was, "Oh. Nice." and hand the thing back. Thinking about it today, he's probably licking the finger sweat/oil from where I touched it.

I finally escape, and am filing my latest and greatest (yesterday's post.) There's the doorbell--and it's Mr Jeepers. Says he came over to just tell me how cute and adorable my house is. Not the outside, the inside. He's really really clear on this point. My response? "What, are you peeping in my windows?" and laugh. His body language says he's horribly intimidated, but he can't bring himself to leave until he's told me this most important secret: (no, he didn't admit to being escaped from the Booby Hatch) zip codes, and city limits; how they interact and impact on the realities of his current address.

In all honesty, I'd be less disturbed if he were wearing a tinfoil business suit carrying an umbrella named June. I'm certain that he's the guy who sometimes walks in front of my house and just stands there, staring at my house.

Um, yeah. I don't think he's a pedophile--he's never out and about (or wandering, mowing, or staring) when the kids are all amok in the world. But now, I wonder if he came over and complimented my house in some weirdass effort to gain entry.

Jeepers Creepers, I gots me a Peeper.

Truth in Advertising

Today, the evil entity I work for held a blood drive. I give blood for 2 reasons: the Howler needs that community service badge, or I suggested we do a blood drive at work, and feel obligated, since even the Weasel was excited to git r dun.

I gave blood today.

I understand that in yesteryear, giving blood was a simple matter of rolling up yer sleeve, and getting jabbed. Nowadays, it involves reading a long boring missive telling you a) all the reasons you cannot give blood--and because some schmoe didn't hear the 45billion newscasts about blood borne pathogens, the reasons why those reasons exist; and b) all the reasons you should make every effort to give blood, even if it's just so you can say to yourself, "I am not a totally self-involved asswipe."

The screening process takes longer than the actual bleeding, but as long as it's happening inside an air conditioned anything, I'll take it.

The questions they ask are more than a little invasive: Have you ever received money, drugs, or other payment for sex? Have you ever had anal sex with a homosexual male? are just two examples.

After they drained my blood, I ate my crackers and moved on...

My 10 year anniversary service prize had arrived. I picked it up, jokingly told a few co workers that it was my payment for 10 years of taking it up the ass with good humor, and left the building.

It occured to me on my way home, that I had lied to the Red Cross. Technically, I have accepted money, and other payments in exchange for a form of sex, or at least, humilation explained with a sexual metaphor. Does that disqualify me now?

Supervision Needed, Aisle 12, Please

So, today was just another day in the Garden Center, until...

This little dingbat came in, plunked the hanging basket of her choice on the counter, and proceeded to question me on where her sister was.

Unfortunately, when her basket was paid for, her even dingierbat sister showed up, with the hanging basket of her choice.

More unfortunately for Ding #2, there was already another customer at my counter.

Did this stop Ding #2 from plunking her basket on my counter? Hell, no. Even as I told her repeatedly that I was with another customer, she kept asking me "how much is this?" and "where'd my sister go?" and "how much is this?" and "tax? what do you mean, 'tax'?" and "how much is it?"

The idiot guy I'm currently dealing with, decides, in the middle of this, to leave the 4 year old boy at the register with the cart, and takes the 2 year old with him into the parking lot. No clue why, but does it matter? I know that if I clear the screen and scan the hanging basket, he'll be immediately back and pissed that I didn't wait for him to come back.

Ding #2 is still asking "how much is it?"

Finally, Idiot Boy returns to claim his palm tree and child. Ding #2 still can't grasp the concept that she isn't the customer I'm ringing up. When I tell him his total (considerably more than her $9.98 hanging basket) she asks, "how much was the tax?" and "didn't you say $10?"

Lovely. He has to cram himself between the Pepsi cooler, his cart, and Ding #2 to sign on the invisible line. She's trying to hand me cash--apparently still oblivious to the idea that I'm currently waiting on someone else.

Finally, Idiot Boy gathers his crap, and his children, and leaves. Ding #2 begins at the beginning and asks, "how much is this basket?" and "where'd my sister go?" I explain, yet again, that it's $9.98 + tax, and she dutifully recounts $32.

Since I am crazy myself, and I always recount the cash, I discover a $20 nestled in the middle of the 12 $1 bills she's handed me. She tries to hand me more money when I give her the $20 back. I end up giving her back $1, then hitting *Cash* I give her the jingle change, and she wanders off.

And everyone wonders why my eyes roll back into my head.

Hostage

Last weekend, we went to visit My Sweetie's fam. I like 'em well enough, although, there are some pretty obvious differences: namely, I am a vile, vulgar thing with a potty mouth, and there's not a potty mouth among them. Even Sweetie's rebel sister doesn't swear.

They are kind, decent people, every last one of 'em (except his brother & sister-in-law, but that's a totally different story.) I love each of them for who they are, honestly.

BUT, it drives me absolutely crazy that his father regards women, in general, as incapable of anything more than cooking, cleaning, shopping, tending children and pets. (Case in point: we were there once when it was time to take down a tree. They were using a chainsaw that was exactly like the one I use every year to trim live Christmas tree lower branches and trunks. He refused to allow me to touch it (Look, yes. Touch? Hell, No. He actually jerked it away and held it practically behind his back to keep from despoiling it. No lie, I felt like Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear when she touched the hunting weapons and they burned them because a woman touching it would curse it & the hunter who used it.)

I understand that his father is more my grandmother's generation than my own parents. And I get that he's pretty much set in his ways. (Case in point: he nagged My Sweetie for fully 2 years after the Howler was born because I went back to work. Nevermind that I get weird when sentenced to remain at home for extended periods of time; nevermind that I'm competent at what I do; nevermind that I chose to continue to work, instead of shrinking our budget to one vehicle-no extras-no frills. He actually called My Sweetie, one of the hardest working, annoyingly busy people I've ever known, LAZY. When the Howler turned 2, the old man realized, and admitted, as much as he was able, that he finally understood. What we'd been telling him for over 2 years!)

BUT, it annoys the shit out of me that the womenfolk fold, spindle, and occasionally shred themselves to the old man's ideas & will. "If Papa ain't happy, it's some woman's fault" is pretty much the unspoken Golden rule.

He's not a wife beater, and he truly loves his family. He'd give anything (except his tools & power equipment) to save his wife, children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. He provided for 5 children in the 50's, 60's, & 70's. My Sweetie's childhood was fairly normal and happy.

BUT, he cannot seem to grasp the idea that the womenfolk are worthy of anything except being womenfolk. And certainly, his daughters or granddaughters should submit to their betters--their men, or more specifically, HIM. (Case in point: my one sister-in-law lives right next to her parents. She had a room in her basement fixed up--Papa did most, if not all the construction work for it--and it promptly flooded every time there was a substantial rain. The indoor-outdoor carpeting would need to be rolled up, wrastled out the door and dried in time for the next rainfall, so it could flood again. After spending several months in this Groundhog Day-like nightmare, she announced that she'd rather live withOUT the carpet, because it was too stressful, taxing, and tiring to continually deal with the flooding-rolling-dragging-drying of the carpet. She stated, absolutely, that she did not care where, who, what, or how the carpet never re entered her home, she just flat out did not want it--Absolutely Not Ever Again. What does Papa do? He waits for her to go to work, then returns the carpet to her basement. What does she do? She quietly cries and seethes and takes it. My response to the story is that the old man would not only NOT have access to my house any longer without supervision, but he'd be given a deadline to remove the carpeting from my house. She told me it was disrespectful to do that to him; I countered with he isn't respecting YOU very well, and he's not going to until-and-unless you put a stop to this. Classically, I am wrong, and I misunderstand the situation.)

In his favor, he wore a Princess crown for the Howler's birthday because she asked him too. He most recently took her, in her pajamas, to drive around the county in search of the Thurston Classic balloonists' takeoff point Sunday morning. He fixes stuff, and charges cheaper interest on car loans than the bank.

BUT, Friday night, at the big deal balloon take off, he was a jackass. And we all got held hostage to the Man.

He didn't want to go, and argued against it. He was informed that we were all going, and there would be no supper cooked for him. So he went too. (Case in point: in building the house they live in, he planned a dining/kitchen area that would not hold the dining room furniture and the appliances. The only reason the smallish cramped kitchen area--there is at least one cupboard that is practically inaccessible unless you stand on your head, sing the Star-Spangled Banner backwards while someone else holds your ankles to the chair for safety--got added was because my mother in law refused to move in until he changed the plans. The dining room is cramped, and the kitchen is cramped. My bathroom has more room, and it can't hold 2 people at the same time unless one is in the shower or standing in the toilet.)

Not having been there before, we were ill-prepared. No chairs, no umbrellas, beating down summer evening sun. It was hot. It was bright. It was a loooooooooong wait.

While everyone was in a make-do attitude, there was an garbled announcement that take off may be delayed by an hour or more. We were hungry, hot, tired, and sweating. At one point, the old man commented that he hadn't seen anyone he knew to me. I commented that I hadn't either. He promptly informs me that "Wall, you don't know anybody, anyway." Nevermind that I went to college for 3 years less than an hour away. Nevermind that between church and work, I did know people from the area. Hell, I once went to Baltimore to visit my sister, and ran into someone I knew from college. At our niece's baby shower, I knew the owners of the Inn where it was held. But, go figure, I certainly couldn't know anybody. My response was certainly clear, "Don't you tell me that I wouldn't know anybody here. I know people YOU don't know from here, so do not begin to tell me who I know and who I don't."

I'm already oozing annoyance, when the Committee (above mentioned sister in law is known as The Committee because there's not a decision that can be made in 30 seconds that certainly can't be made in 3.8 excruciating years in her hands.) begins clucking about how hot, tired, sore footed, and hungry everyone is.

I decide that rather than take it upon myself (and not have it thrust upon me anyway) to make the decision to leave before lift-off, I would take a poll--yet another learning experience I'll never have to repeat:

I begin with the Howler--not out of a sense of childhood entitlement, but to be sure that her voice was heard without the whinging that comes from being smallest and lastest. I move on to the old man. He announces that, "YES, I'M HERE AND I'M STAYING." and then goes back to talking to total strangers and ignoring the rest of us. My Sweetie abstains, the wuss. The Committee announces that she also refused to answer, and will not be cajoled or coerced into an answer. You can see where this is going, right? "I want to leave, but the old man doesn't, so we'll all stay here, in the hot sun, without chairs, bleating about how sore our feet are, watching each others' faces turn into lobster ornaments."

Nobody's going anywhere. Nevermind that the Committee has driven herself, and can load any takers into the vehicle. Nevermind that My Sweetie drove, but I have my keys with me, and we can load any takers and go. The OLD MAN HAS SPOKEN.

My Sweetie, bless his heart, tries to find his way out of the dilemma of having been raised to accept being held hostage & made miserable or pacify his anger-vibe producing wife. He fails, by asking quietly if I would like to take the Howler and any takers (with continued bleating in the background) and go--he'll stay with Dad.

Do you see the problem yet? Seven people--SIX of them adults--and the only one willing and able to stomp the Commandant's tyranny to dust cannot, out of "respect" and the open air-public access placement of the party.

Through clenched teeth I told My Sweetie that this was not the time nor the place for this particular conversation, and he'd better just go back to his indecision. I refused, for the next hour, to make any decision--I'd do what my menfolk told me to do. And grind my teeth, aggrivating my TMJ.

I was angry at my father in law for having no concern for anyone except himself. I was briefly angry at my husband for being a dishrag. I was angry at my mother in law and sisters in law for being unable to make a move against the old man's statement. I was angry, at myself, for not foreseeing this when we arrived, sans chairs and shade producing implements, and I was angry at the old man for the womenfolk he so thoroughly held hostage.

Finally, My Sweetie made the decision to leave, and I dutifully followed. He stopped, I stopped. The Howler questioned, I sent her to her father, because, and I quote, "I'm not allowed to make decisions, baby." (Hopefully, someday she'll wonder about that, too.)

We did see the balloons take off.

Then we all headed to a restaurant. I sat far away from my father in law and managed to dampen the death-vibe and keep it from spilling over and poisoning my wonderfully-herself daughter.

I tactfully got my sister in law to drive my daughter homeward, and once I knew the AC was on, and no one would hear, promptly let forth a spitting diatribe against this sort of jackass, self centered chauvanstic passive idiocy. The language I used was vile, vulgar, and most definitely not ladylike. (I know, big shocker, for those who know me RL)

My Sweetie didn't like it, but I told him, the next time we do something like this, either we won't be doing something like this, or I'll leave his ass, with the Committee, and leave. I will NOT be held hostage by an old man who treats me as second class because I can't piss my name in the snow. I will not cater to a man who has no concerns for the feelings and opinions of me and my daughter because we're not men.

I don't expect the old man to change his ways--but dammit, I'm not going to sit back and have my daughter see-hear-learn that making Papa happy at the expense of herself is okay. It's not okay, I won't be doing it any longer, either.