The Jury Is Still Out

About a week ago, the Gator called me and began telling me about how she received a letter from the courthouse telling her she is on a jury. FOR A MURDER TRIAL. She's getting excused, of course. She can't be bothered with that (channeling her mother much?) "stuff."

In her defense, she is still dealing with a lot of "stuff," (short list: my grandmother-her mother-died in May, shortly after my sister was released to rehab from a hospital in Pittsburgh, PA, after suffering a brain trauma-an ongoing thing; another family member was diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing treatments) along with the fact that she's old enough to be excused on her age alone. All that aside, IT'S A MURDER TRIAL! And she's not going. And I had to hear all the reasons, several times over. For many minutes.

I'm certainly not going to be the one to argue with her. I'm not stupid.

I have to tell you, it's a MURDER TRIAL! And she was just randomly chosen, and notified by letter, without any further process!

This past spring, I was summoned for jury selection, so I do have the teeniest bit of experience with how jury selection occurs, I asked her several times about how she was chosen, about when she was at jury selection, and mostly being answered that it's a MURDER TRIAL! I asked her how many days this trial would take. She tells me "One day. But even so blah blah"

Finally, she got the letter and read it to me. Much like the long-ago days of listening to her reading the daily newspaper to me, it was an enlightening experience:

There was no mention of a MURDER TRIAL at all. It was a summons to JURY SELECTION, not for her to serve on the jury for a MURDER TRIAL. She had to read the letter, sentence by sentence, before she understood that whether or not there is a MURDER TRIAL, she is NOT actually on a jury (yet.)

She's still getting excused, but the jury's still out on several charges:  can she read for context? Does she understand how the process works? To what degree is she batshit crazy?

Context Is Everything

Today, I was lucky enough to hear these random things, and no, you aren't going to get the context.

From the Toad:  "Revenge is a dish best served with potato chips."

From Weird Michelle:  "No matter what else is wrong with my life, at least I'm not watching Glee."

AHA!

So, I had every intention to write each and every day in February. What happened is actually a litany of excuses, most of which are kinda valid.

I got the flu.

It dragged on forever in a fog of exhaustion and bleh.

Then it rolled into a sinus infection.

Then I managed to somehow get the same crud I had in the beginning.

All that exhaustion and bleh an more exhaustion lead to some sort of airborne stupidity that made me forget a lot...and mutter and stutter a lot.

And there was a crap ton of laundry that wasn't getting done, then there was vacuuming and dishes. Ergh.

Ergh, I say!

So, today, in the smack middle of not-even-close to February, I am FINALLY FINALLY able to think again. And what I think is Dayum, I miss writing. I miss ranting.

So, it's not February, and I'm here, making my excuses. With the way things are going work-wise, and Howler-wise, and in general life-wise, I may be out of excuses, and back to ranting.

Wish me luck!

Day #2

With less than 10 minutes to go in Day #2, I'm calling this one a tie. I'm starting the post before the time's up, and that's all that matters. What's the point to setting yourself up a challenge, if you can't change the rules when you get the flu and feel like you'd really rather have had died instead of recovering?

EXACTLY.

What this is about is a challenged an old forum friend to a 30-Days-in-February writing challenge. We will each spend a lil' bit of time each and every day of February, writing something online. On a blog. Not a Facebook status, not a tweet. Whole sentences with grammar and everything.

And so far, I've failed, and haven't heard from her. The good news is that tomorrow is Monday, and we've decided that Mondays are for Memes. We'll each chose an internet meme and somehow make it even better for having met us.

In the days leading up to February 1st, I had several good ideas (at least the fever made 'em seem good) and of course, once the fever left, it took those good ideas with them.

Here's hoping this isn't totally embarrassing!

Day #1

FAIL.

I have a bunch of excuses, but not one is worth even putting here. Let's call it a fail and move on. Shall we?

Buckets

I've heard that everyone has a "Bucket List." I don't actually have mine written down, but there are a few things I've wanted to do, and I realize over the past few years, I've been able to do them.

They're not big things. They're not world-changing things.

But they've been things I wanted to do, and I've gotten to do them.

One of them was this:

See Nick Lowe perform. A year ago last September, that happened. A friend from work, who actually knew who he was and I drove 2 hours to see him. He performed my favorite song (I Knew the Bride) and hers (Allison) Also, heard a few songs I either didn't know were his, or hadn't heard before.

Two:

See Lynyrd Skynyrd. Did that this summer, with My Sweetie, the Toad, and the Howler. They also knew I was in the audience, because they also played my favorite song (Gimme Three Steps) the Howler's (Sweet Home Alabama) and the Toad's (Simple Man) The Howler got the T-shirt, because as parents, we're pretty great that way.

Three:

At first, it was to get myself to Conneaut Lake Park and ride the Blue Streak--one of the oldest wooden roller coasters in America--then it was to take the Toad so he could ride it. Did that several years ago. Gave up being able to take the Howler, because CLP is in sad shape these days. Discovered that it was open this summer, and took the Howler. (She absolutely loved it!) Does that count as 3 items, or one with sub-categories? I think it's a 3-fer, and it's my List. So nyah nyah nyah.

Four:

Eat John's Wildwood Pizza. Ate a LOT of it in 3 years at Edinboro University, but haven't had it since 1992 or 1993. Did that at the beginning of this month. We were in Edinboro anyway, and My Sweetie (always a good sport about my insanities) got ourselves a pizza. It was as good as I remember! Not sure if that counts as a Bucket List item either, but again, nyah nyah nyah.

Five:

Design & build a store display window. A good friend of ours has her office downtown, and I asked if I could do her window for Christmas. Luckily, she was ready for a new thing--and I got to do it! Of course, My Sweetie was, as always, a very good sport about it, and built the fireplace (in 2 days!) and was a good-natured pack-mule for hauling, lifting and moving. He also decorated the tree, helped with the higher stuff this short girl couldn't reach, and in general was helpful and non-grouchy about it. I'm pretty pleased with my first effort and will spend the next month gearing up to do it again in January!

In 14 months, I've completed 5 things I've always wanted to do. Now if I could just get my damned poetry manuscript published, I'd have to start over on with a new Bucket!

Middle School Rant 2

I've been holding this in, and I ain't gonna hold it in no more!

Our middle school is like the sweaty armpit of the district. Sure, in every school there are crappy teachers, and crappy principals. Horrifyingly lazy substitutes and self centered oblivious parents. Mean OPK and weird OPK and just OPK.

But the middle school is like hell. Right here, easy to find, just off the Boulevard. So far, I like the school nurse.

The school itself is set up in pods, or "teams." There are 3 teams for each of 3 grades. There are 5 rooms per pod. If imagining just over 100 students scrambling thru the "hallway" between these 5 rooms wasn't horror enough, you get to live it by going to Open House.

The science teacher, described as "yelly" (she yells a lot) by the Howler is downright grumptastic. She had nothing to say to us, really, beyond a greeting as we introduced ourselves and the 150 other parents for Team T that were also crammed into the small "hallway." It's my opinion, as someone who could never ever make an effective teacher, that if, as a teacher of 11 and 12 year olds, you spend regular time at the beginning of your day yelling at the students, you don't have control of your classroom AND you're not a morning person. I'm not impressed by that.

I don't understand why these teachers were so damned determined to stand in the "hallway" crammed, jammed, and hammed up with all those parents and students instead of being INSIDE their respective rooms so that they could actually be approached by parents (I walked into her homeroom/science room and had no clue WHO the teacher was--and the Howler couldn't see her either. We found her, by accident, when leaving the room before I started spouting off about how much I hate the middle school) and could actually focus on the parent(s) she was speaking with.

I was also totally annoyed by other parents. Miss Priss is, of course, on Team T--I couldn't be lucky enough to have FINALLY ditched that little bitch and her self involved smugass mother and step grandmother. I spent part of my evening trying not to trip Granny, since, as oblivious to anyone else around her meant that every step I took meant she was dodging in front of me. She was one dodge away from going down.

Also on Team T is the Princess' daughter. I work with the Princess, and honestly, I get enough of her own junior high attention whoring ways at work. I don't need to see her flip her hair, bat her eyelashes, cut me off when I'm speaking to someone....and the bitch sure as shit did not need to walk in front of me & mine as we waited in line. Apparently, she was absent the day the rest of us learned those lessons we all supposedly learned in kindergarten. When trying to talk with the Howler's social studies teacher, the Princess actually made it a point to direct Mr. Social Studies attention to her by flipping her hair and swinging her fat ass as she left. I can't find a way to even laugh, since her fat ass has been negatively impacting my life all over the place these days.

The only saving grace of Open House was that the Book Fair was also being held that night, and of course, we had to go look. I was happy to do that, as my love affair with libraries has FINALLY FINALLY carried over to the Howler (who has never been impressed with any room full of books before.) While waiting in a very long, slow moving line to pay for the Howler's choices, after being almost knocked over repeatedly by a very chunky monkey & her spawn, I spied the the Troll.

Yes! My Sweetie's ex-wife, which the Howler now knows about. The Howler is not impressed to finally be getting to have a good long look at the thing. When we finally make it out into the hallway, she has successfully located My Sweetie and is being sweet-as-sugar. She's dragging her latest victim husband and her beady eyed, rat faced, blobby daughter with her.

As cruel and unChristian as it is, seeing the Troll (she's really showing her age, btw) made the horror of Open House almost worth it. I say almost, because the aura of pure misery coming off her latest husband (#8, I believe) was enough to kill any happiness--much the way dementors are described in the Harry Potter books. I don't feel guilty about it, because we have mutual friends and thru his family and friends he was warned to get away while he could, and he willfully and knowingly married the succubus anyway. (Hint:  when everyone who knows you, and even her own family warn you to run far, far away from her--and they make it clear they are NOT in any way kidding--and you marry her anyway, you got what you bargained for. And you'll get little sympathy from me for it when you discover your mistake.)

I never said I was a nice person.

As the Middle School Sucks

It sucked the first time through, when I was 12-13 years old.

It sucked the second time through, with the Toad.

It sucks now with the Howler.

The Howler doesn't know how bad it sucks though. Or she's choosing not to notice, probably a mixture of both.

About 2 weeks before school started, the district had orientation(s) scheduled. Thankfully, it was all divided up by alphabet, and there were at least 3 times across 2 days, so it wasn't everybody all at once (and that, friends, is the sum-total of the good there.)

The Howler and I get there just in time to not be late. A woman approaches the microphone, and begins talking. She tells us, 3 minutes into her not really welcoming speech, that's she the principal. Her name is Wendy *muttermutter*. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think if you're speaking into a working microphone, you should be able to be heard.

She proceeds to introduce the Assistant Principal, Mike *muttermutter2*. I assume they're not related. She introduces the 6th grade guidance counselor. Wanna know what that woman's name is? SO THE FUCK DO I. Yuppers, still talking into the microphone, and still not being heard.

Principal Muttermutter continues to introduce the resource officer, and the district's athletic director. I know the athletic director's name! She managed to say his name, first and last, into the microphone! YAY! Because he's the ONE GUY in the entire school district my daughter will absolutely be having contact with every day! He'll be totally involved in helping us navigate this crazy world called middle school!

NOT.

Assistant Principal Muttermutter (no relation) and Ms. FuckifIknowhername guidance counselor got up and had a lovely power point presentation on expectations and some of the finer points of arrival and dismissal. Neither one bothered to say their names again.

Maybe I'm just an old grump with too-high expectations...but REALLY. When having an Orientation, don't you expect that the people who show up are there because THEY HAVEN'T FUCKING DONE THIS SHIT BEFORE (or in my case, not in over a decade, which amounts to the same thing), and you really should make sure that by first speaking clearly into a functioning microphone and by second repeating the names of the faculty and staff who will be having contact with my daughter I know who you are and what your responsibility/authority is. "I expect to be having a conversation with you about my daughter at some point this year and I'd like to know your name so I recognize the importance of your call when it comes" also plays a part in my annoyance.

Expecting me to follow along in the student day planner/handbook would go a lot further if, as you chatter about procedures in no discernable order, you tell me what page to look at. I barely found the arrival information when you skittered off into no-man's land to cover the lunchtime procedure.

I'll rant and rage about Open House on the next installment of As the Middle School Sucks (it's sad and funny at the same time that in the 6 weeks or so school's been in I'm already THIS annoyed.)

Phone Home

I rant a lot about the stupidity that I encounter at work. Especially with the phone calls. I don't know if I get an inordinate number of these stupidity calls, or if it's my perspective on them, but either way, here's several years worth of 'em:

• When dialing into our store, the first voice you hear is automated, and the first thing it says is, "Thank you for calling " I realize that it probably pays a lot of businesses to put the wrong name in there, so once you get a real live person, it makes perfect sense to say, "Is this ?" You can justify it by telling me that because the real live person is required by company phone protocol to say, "How may I direct your call?" without identifying the store (again) but seriously? You dial the store's number, and when it connects to us, we identify ourselves...you still need to ask? Really?

• Our store has the words "Home Improvement" in it's official name. Do you really think it's helpful, when asked, "How may I direct your call?" to ask for the "Home improvement department" and to get pissy when asked for more specific information?

• I do know that there are entire stores devoted wholly to plumbing and heating supplies. I understand that many places who carry those kinds of things lump those two things together. But when you call and ask to be connected with "plumbing and heating" and I tell you that in our store, those are in two separate departments, and you argue with me over needing to speak to plumbing AND heating, there's a 50-50 chance I'm gonna guess wrong in which one you really need. Play along and pretend that, because I work there, I actually do know which is kept where.

• Along that with that thought...if you ask me for something (say, caulk or glue) that is in a department that doesn't make sense to you, can you, just for shits & giggles, accept that when I connect you with the paint department, and you don't tell them what you need, and they transfer you back to me, and I explain that it's in the paint department, and then send your call back to the paint department, that I just might know more about what's in this store and where it's kept, you know, because I work there. If you must insist that it's not going to be where you're told it's going to be, don't get mad and call Customer Care and report me as unhelpful--it's not me with the problem understanding English.

• If you're going to assume that everything we say to you is lie anyway, why do you bother with us? Do you enjoy the stress? 'Cuz quite honestly, even if you do, I don't, and I think, in this instance, it's not nice to share.

• If for some reason the gods of retail personally have a grudge against you, and we have collectively managed to piss in your oatmeal every blessed time you call or come in here, take the hint: stop shopping here. Stop calling. Stop. Just STOP. If it's THAT bad, you can control where you go to get whatever the hell it is you need. (and the flip side of that is if you're asshole enough to make every person you've ever been in contact with hate you and feel ill when they see you, please consider whether or not the problem is really YOU. 14,000 others in your community can't be all wrong.)

Chaos Thy Name is Michelle

So, I've told stories about my neighbor, and I'm not even bothering to give her a nick. Of course, I'll end up referring to her as "Chaos" in the future, but until then...it's all bets are off.

This is the friend who came to my house after having a hysterectomy and after commenting how itchy the healing process had become, asked, "We're good friends, right? You and I are good friends, not just neighbors, right?" I knew where THAT was going and refused to answer any further questions.

Later, when she started to admire my spatulas, I ran.

Mostly, I think she does this for the effect--I'm used to being the totally unpredictable one and here she is, stealing my thunder. Yes, she leaves me speechless at times. Most times, it's speechless from laughing, but still. Speech. Less. Me. Be afraid, I'm buying her a bus ticket to visit you.

A week or so ago, she shows up at my house. I'm sitting on the patio, minding my own bees wax. She's on her cellphone, in the middle of a conversation. She walks over to me and mid-sentence in her conversations with I-don't-even-begin-to-know, leans over and says, "Motorboat me baby!"

As I sit there, totally flummoxed, she stands up, and continues her conversation about her cellphone provider account.

I manage to ask, "You were on hold, right?" She shakes her head "no."

She's weird as hell, but she makes me laugh for all the wrong reasons. And I rejoice that I actually do have friends.

That Sucking Noise

I am vulgar. Just ask my mother. And that's your only warning.

I work with some great people. And I work with some lazy, disgusting, stupid people. Two of the worse ones are also fat, and getting fatter. I don't mean they have a little meat on 'em, I mean, they are flat out FAT. I don't care, mostly, but they are also the laziest, back-stabbingest, and personality-less women I've ever had the displeasure to get to know.

Their fat doesn't bother me, as I was once fat myself. (OK. full disclosure, I'm still not-thin, but I ain't FAT. And I hope to never have my bubble burst that I was fat AND disgusting. Just sayin') What bothers me that as these two get fattER, as they get laziER, their approval rating with the men in the store gets higher.

For both of them, their sum-total personality aspects are that they make it clear they have no CLUE how large they are, and they will work very hard (and, from what I've observed, go to any lengths) to NOT do their jobs.

One is the spitting image, I swear it!, of Miss Piggy. The other is very blonde with blue eyes just a floating in batting eyelashes, and apparently, it's true:  blondes do get away with murder. How shallow are these guys, anyway?

I have my theories on why they get the pass on work...it involves golf balls and garden hoses.

So, I work til close last night..with BOTH of them. I am alternately pissed off, disgusted, and humored by my own vile thoughts. This culminated in ending the evening making sucking noises while waiting to be set free.

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssuck. sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssuck. ssssssssssssuck.

Because they do. In more ways than one.

Satan Rules

Yeppers. More stories from the self-checkout. The best part? Happened all in one day.

There were dozens of people (mostly women, I might add) who have a deep resentment of the self-checkouts. The comments I hear usually range from "these take jobs away from real people!" to "I don't use them because they don't work very well."

And, of course, there's always the idiot (or 3) who stand in front of the one unit that is dark, with signs on it that says, "out of order." Seriously. If there are 4 units there, and 3 of them have pretty lights, moving pictures, and sound, Why TF are you lining up in front of the one that is not only clearly marked, but dark and silent? And why do you look confused when I tell you, "sorry, that one's not working right now"? And there's always those morons who line up behind the person who is using one of the working units....while the other units sit there, basically talking to themselves. Why? I can't believe that I am among the few who are actually aware of what's going on around me (and I don't think it's because I work with one of these beasts. Honestly.)

Early in the day:
One woman stands out because she allowed me to scan her crap, then, when handing me the money, she says, loudly, "I DON'T WANT TO GIVE THAT THING MY MONEY!" to the guy with her. He just rolls his eyes and says, "Whaaaat?" She says again, "THAT THING! THAT THING! I DON'T WANT IT TO GET MY MONEY!" He takes her bills from her and hands them to me, telling her quietly, "It's OK Ma, it's okay. We'll be in the car soon."

and then:
The bestest customer of that day was the woman who grudgingly allowed me to help her use the machine, and then, when I'm saying "Thank you for shopping" she tells me, "THESE MACHINES ARE SATAN! YOU ARE ITS MINION!" and while I stand there, with my jaw on on the floor, she says, "I MEAN IT! SATAN! *points at the machine* MINION! *points at me*" and then she leaves.

Of course, I giggled the rest of the day, and shared the information with coworkers, managers, and other, non-mental patient customers.

A Little...

The other day, this scrawny lil' dude comes in to the customer service desk. He's kinda chatty--it's also the full moon.

I take care of his return, and he goes on his lil' way. Soon, he's back, and asks me if I can "take this here?" Sure, dude. You betcha.

As I'm scanning his stuff, my manager asks me a question, I answer it..and I continue scanning his stuff. Before I can tell him his total, he says, "You look like you could get a little mean." He's grinning.

I respond, "I'm a woman. OF COURSE I can get mean! Don't you know that about women by now?"

He says, "Well, yeah." *winks* "But I like my women a little on the mean side."

What bothers me the most is that, yet again, this kind of weirdness finds me (does that line really work for him?) and I just roll with it. I don't start to think how absolutely bizarre that was, until about 20 minutes later when someone asks me if there's a full moon.

I am afraid.

Shit & Other Bad Words

I know this is my 3rd time through this sort of thing, and I shouldn't be surprised. Honestly, it's more that I'm exhausted by having to deal with all this shit AGAIN. I'm just fucking tired.

Since assholes are an on-going theme in my life right now, I guess my co-workers decided they needed to be all up in that action. Asshole customers aren't enough? Thanks for thinking of me, you assholes. You know who you are.

Today was day number 6 in a 7-day run. I got to be in the lumber area again. Because I love getting bitched at because the usual cashier is actually allowed to have a day off now and again. And I love when the dirty, smelly contractors (a fancy word for many who simply cannot hold down a regular job) tell me how to do my job--yes, down to when to hit the Total key--and then say stupid shit like, "Oh, you must be new here since you don't know who I am."

Really. That's all just really way more than I deserve.

So, instead of offering me a doughnut, or a cup of coffee, what I was handed today my own ass. By assholes who are supposed to be on my "team." (Again with the "There's no *I* in Team" bullshit.)

What makes it worse is that these are guys I've worked with for years. Of the 5 of them at that desk, two of 'em have worked with these 12 years...and they KNOW the shit I put up with from this company, and the customers. Of course, one of the two is a Certified Self-Centered Asshole (He wouldn't piss on his grandmother if she were on fire if there wasn't something in it for him) from day 1...I expect this sort of shitty treatment from him.

The rest of 'em, well, it's been lovely being delusional with you. No more delusions. Sorry that you all turned out to be such fucking ass jerkwads.

What exactly happened today was this:  these assholes were asked to cover my lunch break. ONE hour. I had to practically BEG to get that coverage. AND even after I had to do that, they still took their sweet ol' time about who would do it. I know you boys are busy playing with yourselves and each other, but yanno, you're getting paid here, and you're all over the age of Pukedom. Once one of 'em DID actually venture towards a register, I was engulfed in trying to find and use a customer's account. I already know my break is going to be massively late to start, but that's OK. I should be able to direct other people to you assholes, finish this, and jet. So I can get back to my register and you can go back to making yourself feel importantly assholic, yo.

Asshole on register clears HIS line and scurries back behind the desk. Leaves me with the engulfing credit thing, and PEOPLE in my line. Because I can't turn off my light, unless I want to not have a job anymore.

Several 10 minutes later, I have to ask  fucking BEG the assholes to get back on register. They're mostly standing around, chatting with each other, watching the line form. And I'm on the phone with the credit people trying to get this done. I don't ask. I don't fucking beg. I take out my not-supposed-to-have-it-on-me cellphone and dial into the store. The fucking store I'm standing in. Working. They notice that, and scurry to open a register.

I finally finish what I started 30 minutes ago, and half a head of hair lost to stress ago, and another cashier is there. Finally. But I can't go on my lunch, because she's confused as to why there's the asshole on a register. Because my register light is on, and his isn't. I can't leave until I have coverage. And no lights on Asshole isn't coverage.

Oh, and I have to fax a copy of that receipt to the company who have just been horribly patient about this whole credit thing. So I go to the Asshole desk and ask for help with the fax machine. Many years ago, I've used a fax machine. Here? No, not so much. Not at all. Ever. In 12+ years. So, I ask for help.

What I get is another Asshole, being a condescending asshole. Even AFTER I tell him that I've never fucking faxed anything from this store, EVER. When he starts his condescending Assholism the 2nd time thru, I just take my stuff and leave. While someone I thought was a friend, a decent person, a stand-up count on him kind of guy--the OTHER one I've worked with for 12 years--is laughing at how I'm being treated. I'll find another fax machine in an Asshole Free Zone, TYVM.

Great for you, guys. Wow. I'm just fucking numb with being impressed. I am sooo hoping I can work with you again tomorrow.

Crawling Out of the Woodwork

Seriously. The epidemic of Stupidity has actually gotten worse.

Yesterday, I wasn't even supposed to be at the customer service desk...and yet, when the one person behind the desk is inundated with customers, and I'm standing around with my thumb up my ass, I feel obligated to subject myself to the that sort of thing.

I'm answering phones more than anything else. And every single caller needed to tell me his, or her, life story. Good thing I'm a good guesser, because that's exactly what it took to forward those calls to the departments.

I got a call for "some prices on some stuff." I got a call that just wanted to know if we were making deliveries "today." I got a call asking for phone numbers to our other stores. They wanted managers, but didn't know why.

The best call of the day was the guy who called to tell me that he got his dryer delivered.

Oh, and there was this little problem with it...it only had 3 legs. He needed the 4th leg, but the delivery guy didn't have it. And he didn't want to talk to the delivery manager. He wanted ME to know. Just to know, not do anything about it. Oh, and, did I know that when he was buying the dryer, he applied for a credit card? And he had to apply, because they'd closed his other one when he didn't use it for about 5 years. It was great, considering that I had several flashing green lights and a ringing in my ears....I had no less than 4 other calls coming in as he then begins to explain the ENTIRE credit application process to me.

And the first call I answered after I finally go that guy to quit talking?

"How may I direct your call?"

"er, uh. hmmm. er....ahhhhh. huh?"

"Please hold."

And I get to go back tomorrow!

Phone Phun

I've been at the customer service desk lately. Which is better than it used to be--they've rearranged things, and instead of a divider between returns and the rest of the world, it's all one area. And that means that there are 2 people to handle all the crazy. No longer alone...what a concept!

Anyway, the rest of the store is running short staffed, and that means that we have, yet again, no "team" mentality. It's every-man-for-himself again. That means that department phones are not going to get answered, even if there's a body in the department with a phone.

The other morning, I was at the desk, answering 5 phone calls in 4 minutes or less. I keep transferring the calls, and paging the departments, and the calls just keep on keeping on coming back to me.

The general pissiness of the general publicness, Oh My! Loving getting my ass chewed on over the phone. LOVE IT!

But what I loved best was hearing, "GRAWN-hack-cough-HORCK-mowers" over and over again as I tried to get someone ELSE to answer the call!

Uncle Dad

So, My Sweetie has FINALLY won the "Who's Family is More Hillbilly?" unofficial contest we've had going on for 12 years.

The other day, he shares a story about some "news" that was shared with his parents at his mother's family reunion.

His cousin, Charlie Brown, has a brother. The brother has a wife. Brother Brown and Mrs. Brother Brown have several half dozen chillen'. At some point in the last few years, Brother Brown and Mrs Brother Brown were havin' som o' them thar marital issues. And Charlie Brown stepped in to help alleviate Mrs Brother Brown's loneliness during that time.

Brother Brown & Mrs Brother Brown worked out their differences, and are still together. Charlie Brown's child by Mrs Brother Brown calls his daddy "Uncle Charlie."

My family gets more normal the more I learn about My Sweetie's extended fam.

No Title, Just Memory

Some friends and I have been discussing personal experiences with medical insurance companies. During this discussion, the side topic of dying came up, particularly being diagnosed as terminally ill and experiences with insurance companies in relation to that.

I'm not going to write about insurance companies, but I am going to write about what it was like when my Dad died in 1989.

1989 was a pretty stressful year. My son was born, my dad died, my sister was diagnosed with an operable & treatable brain tumor (although she was given no prognosis regarding survival rates. 23 years and 1 month later, she's still here being a PIMA, and no recurrence.)

But that's not what this is about either.

My dad's medical history is that in 1979 ('78?), he had triple bypass heart surgery. He was also a diabetic, although he did not take insulin. At the time, it was just emerging from experimental status, I guess, because they sent him home with a diet to follow and once the incisions were healed, he went back to work and didn't really have any other follow up that I remember. A trip or two, maybe a stress test or two, but that was it.

In June of 1986, he had a heart attack. There was a lot more information available by then about cholestrol and such, and his 2nd open heart surgery recovery was much different. At the 1 year checkup for that, Hamot Medical Center in Erie, PA, found a mass in his lung. Biopsy, and viola! It's lung cancer. They gave him one chemo treatment, and sent him home to die, the bastards.

The local hospital was an up-and-comer when it came to cancer, so he switched his treatments. They did chemo, and pushed for radiation. He did the chemo. He took the radiation.

June 1988:  My brother graduated from high school. My parents celebrated their 24th wedding anniversary.

September 1988, when the doctors in Erie (the bastards) told him he'd be good and dead by then, he & my mom went to California for the only real vacation or trip they ever took.

Christmas 1988, he decided that since he had cancer, he only had to put up with the holiday bullshit he wanted to (YAY!)

January 1989, my son, his first grandchild, was born.

He turned 54 on Friday, April 7, 1989. He was admitted to the hospital on Saturday, April 8, struggling to breathe. He died around daybreak on Sunday, April 9, 1989.

We cared for him at home between January and April. He slowly became chair bound (he couldn't breathe if he laid down.) He gradually lost his taste for everything except Wendy's Big Classic burgers, and that last month, he didn't even eat much of those. The world slowly began to shrink: he lived in the living room, and we, his family, bathed him, cared for him, and administered what medicines he could still take. He was not on oxygen, nor was he in much pain.

But on his birthday, he started coughing and couldn't catch his breath. We did everything we could, but nothing helped. We had a tank of oxygen, and even that didn't help. My mom knew--the doctors had told her in January--that his lungs were effectively gone, swallowed up, filled, with cancer.

Yes, we knew he was terminal, but honestly, at the time, we were all living day-to-day with him. Our world had been shrinking too. Around dinnertime on Saturday, he asked my mom to take him to the hospital. She called the ambulance, informing them that he was a cancer patient,

When they came, one of them happened to be my sister's old boyfriend. Yes, he knew where he was going when they got the call. Odd the things you remember. Odd the things you find comfort in, when you watch as they take your father to the hospital to die. (Familiar faces, even of people you don't like, are weirdly comforting during those times.)

He's admitted. My mom verifies the Do Not Resuscitate order. He's in the end room, as far away from everyone else as they could and still have him actually be in the hospital. (Hospice was only just beginning then, and at the time, they had nothing to offer our family.)

During that night, there were people, his oldest friend, the priest, extended family members, who came. We gathered, we talked. We sat with him. His oldest friend, Bob, after greeting my dad, he sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, motionless. Just there, so we would all know we weren't alone.

They gave him morphine. He had an oxygen mask. He didn't like the tube thing. They hooked him up to monitors, volume turned as low as it could go. Nurses stopped in to take BP, or whatever else it was they were doing. Rules were suspended:  visiting hours and number of visitors allowed didn't apply.

He wanted to know where "the Bear" was--that's the Toad's real nickname.

When someone started to cry (his sister), he found the breath to tell her to "knock that shit off. I'm dying, and that ain't gonna be the last thing I hear!"

As the hours passed, his breathing became more labored. He wouldn't go. My sister sat with him, held his hand, and talked with him quietly. He would occasionally speak. Eventually, it was clear that he was not talking to us, he was talking to....someone(s) we couldn't see or hear.

Somewhere around 4am, his sister said that she was going to go home, get some sleep and be back in the morning. It hit me then:  he was waiting for dawn. The past several weeks, he would stay awake all night, restless, and only rest when he could hear birdsong as morning approached. I told her that, and asked if, as 5am got closer, if we could open the window. We watched him; we watched the clock.

My sister needed a break. Any time my mom talked, or touched him, he would jolt back to the room from where ever he was. I took over. I sat, held his hand, and tried to be as comforting for him as she was.

I can tell you this, corny as it sounds:  There is a light. Loved ones who went before you do come to meet you. I saw silhouettes. I could identify those I knew well--my grandmother, our neighbor. I saw, but did not recognize others. There were many. My sister can tell you names, describe faces. She stood in that light, and heard their voices. She heard his last goodbye. (I know she's not making it up, because just a few years ago, when my aunt pulled out old photos we'd never seen before, my sister could name several we'd only heard of, but who had died before we were born, and we'd never seen pics of them before.)

The hospital staff, the doctor, everyone we encountered that night were compassionate. My dad chose to go into the hospital to die. I believe he didn't want our last memories of him to be in our house. I also think that when the time came, he knew he couldn't let go while he was at home.

So yes, I'd have to say that, a terminally ill person should be given as much control over his or her surroundings as possible, including where to die. If they choose to be in the hospital setting, with morphine and oxygen (as in our case, the oxygen tank was borrowed and without hospice or a nurse, a morphine drip was impossible) then that's where he or she should be. I don't remember any problems with insurance paying for things. There were some things about his treatment that were paid out-of-pocket then reimbursed, and these weren't cheap things. It was annoying, it was an inconvenience. But overall? I guess we were lucky. In many more ways than we knew.

MIA

Yes, I've been MIA. Lots going on, and I'm not doing it. Obviously.

Still working retail. Still getting random weirdness. Still dealing with OPK and assorted crazy.

I promise, tho, I'm working on actually writing again. Soon. Before I go insane from all the words still bashing 'round my head.

Just so you know what to look forward to:

~My brother is a jackass. Possibly the King of Jackasses.

~I've worked retail for almost 12 years now. This qualifies me as insane.

~I still don't like OPK.

~I have a neighbor, a friend really, who attracts more weirdness than I ever did.

~And finally, I'm actually gonna comment on a controversial issue.

Moving Violation

I think I do this. Indiscriminately throw pheromones into the air and attract the freaks that find me to hump my leg.

And sometimes, they're stronger than others.

I think this because, when they're stronger, My Sweetie sleeps on top of me. Think of it as a very large man-sized cat curled up on top of you. (Then, just for fun, add a few real cat-sized cats too. Yeah, there's a reason I don't sleep well.)

And when I'm at work, or even just not hiding inside my house, all sorts of freaks and weirdos approach me. Some of them are women, too.

Anyway, they just can't seem to be close enough to me. Or talk to me enough. Or something.

If I liked people, maybe I'd enjoy the attention. But considering how little I actually do like most people, it's just annoying. And creepy.

The creep factor today got an added dimension:  when I was driving home from work, I was sitting in the right hand lane (go straight thru the stop light) and a yellow pickup truck with a scruffy dude for a passenger pulled up beside me in the left lane (turning). He looks at me, smiles big, and says, "HI!" and continues eye contact.

They're now approaching me while in moving vehicles.

Kill me. Kill me now.