Again with the Chaos.
Michelle shows up one day last week--she doesn't usually just "drop in"--so we knew something was up.
She begins the conversation with, "I was just hit on." there's a long pause, then, "at the soup kitchen!" And she's disgusted that this happened.
Apparently even the indigent & disabled have cellphones and are clamoring for her number. She has steadfastly refused all this guy's (gawd, I'm hoping it's a guy, although, now that I'm thinking about it, she was never actually stated that "he" was) advances. Even when "he's" tried to get her mother to stage a celibacy intervention.
Chaos loves to tell stories backwards--meaning she starts at the end and then works her way to the beginning. And then, it just gets stranger.
It's sloppy joe night at the soup kitchen, and Omi, who spawned this Chaos, donates cash so they can "eat out."
Chaos is a germophobe, so even the idea that she's eating in a church basement soup kitchen is laugh worthy. She also questions the contents of any meal not prepared at the local supermarket deli, and "loose meat" sammiches are always in the questionable content category.
So they find seats, and the soup kitchen helpers--who were all cafeteria ladies in previous lives--send over their sammiches. The lady plunks the plate in front of Chaos, Queen of Germophobes, and pats the sloppy joe. Yes, she manhandles a severe germophobe's sammich.
Later in the meal, the cafeteria lady offers coffee. Chaos accepts, thinking that scalding liquid will kill any lingering germs in her stomach....cafeteria lady pulls the coffee mug close enough to pour...with her finger entirely inside the mug.
Poor Chaos. Her one fancy meal of the month...covered in cafeteria lady cooties and illicit indigents.
Showing posts with label manners. Show all posts
Showing posts with label manners. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Monday, September 17, 2012
Hello? Asshole.
Saturday, there were 3 of us cashiers on the front line (yes, it is like a warzone sometimes.) Two Newbies and me.
A guy came up to the first Newbie and wanted "plastic gloves that come up higher than my wrist" and "bee spray."
Of course, she wasn't sure where it all was, so he comes to me. Both Newbies are listening to what I'm saying (cuz, you know, it actually IS a good way to learn) and while I'm talking with the customer, suddenly two women appear off to the left of all of us.
Neither makes any move to approach any register, neither makes any attempt to catch anyone's eye--they just both start saying, "Hello! HELLO! Anyone?! Hello, ANYONE!"
We all turn and look at them...including the customer I'm talking with...and then we all turn back to what we were doing.
They continue to say, "Hello! Anyone!" until I've finished with the bee spray guy.
When I look at them and ask, "How can I help you?" They both just stare, slack jawed. Apparently, I'm not "anyone" enough.
A guy came up to the first Newbie and wanted "plastic gloves that come up higher than my wrist" and "bee spray."
Of course, she wasn't sure where it all was, so he comes to me. Both Newbies are listening to what I'm saying (cuz, you know, it actually IS a good way to learn) and while I'm talking with the customer, suddenly two women appear off to the left of all of us.
Neither makes any move to approach any register, neither makes any attempt to catch anyone's eye--they just both start saying, "Hello! HELLO! Anyone?! Hello, ANYONE!"
We all turn and look at them...including the customer I'm talking with...and then we all turn back to what we were doing.
They continue to say, "Hello! Anyone!" until I've finished with the bee spray guy.
When I look at them and ask, "How can I help you?" They both just stare, slack jawed. Apparently, I'm not "anyone" enough.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
REALLY?!
Today was the first day of school. And I was invited to go have a cup of coffee with some other Moms. Last year, we went to Java Joey's, which was nice, if a little sunny & warm out on the patio. This year, it was off to Stew's Brews.
Never having been there, and only being vaguely aware that they existed, I was looking forward to it.
Then I got there.
There was a line. It's a small, hole-in-the-wall kind of place. So it wasn't actually a line, it was almost like a mosh pit.
Then, when I said, "cappucino" she heard me say "tea" So naturally I was confused when she asked me if I wanted the English Breakfast variety. We got thru that, and she said, "I'll bring it back to the table with everyone else's." Uh, OK.
So, I went back to the table, talked with other moms--some are new to the area--and waited. Two cups of coffee came to us. And I waited, and talked some more. And then I waited. Someone else's coffee finally came out (I had ordered probably an hour ago) and the Tea Lady said, "OK then. That's everyone, right?" And I waved a little wave and said, "er, uh, I'm still waiting for my cappucino."
So I got to wait some more.
And when it finally arrived, she plunked that sucker down in front of me and said, "Oh, there's not so much foam on the top." Since I really REALLY didn't want to wait any longer, I said (and YES I WAS NICE) "That's OK. It's fine." *weak smile*
The Tea Lady responded with, "Yes it is. Be glad you got it at all!" *BIG SHIT EATIN' GRIN*
If I knew this woman, it'd be one thing. If I'd ever slapped eyes on her before, even briefly, that'd be that same one thing. I work with the public, and I get that they were surprisingly busy this first day of school/Tuesday. Hell, I even understand that as a Mumple, there's gonna be screw ups in my order when I'm out!
But I really wasn't impressed by that AT ALL.
Never having been there, and only being vaguely aware that they existed, I was looking forward to it.
Then I got there.
There was a line. It's a small, hole-in-the-wall kind of place. So it wasn't actually a line, it was almost like a mosh pit.
Then, when I said, "cappucino" she heard me say "tea" So naturally I was confused when she asked me if I wanted the English Breakfast variety. We got thru that, and she said, "I'll bring it back to the table with everyone else's." Uh, OK.
So, I went back to the table, talked with other moms--some are new to the area--and waited. Two cups of coffee came to us. And I waited, and talked some more. And then I waited. Someone else's coffee finally came out (I had ordered probably an hour ago) and the Tea Lady said, "OK then. That's everyone, right?" And I waved a little wave and said, "er, uh, I'm still waiting for my cappucino."
So I got to wait some more.
And when it finally arrived, she plunked that sucker down in front of me and said, "Oh, there's not so much foam on the top." Since I really REALLY didn't want to wait any longer, I said (and YES I WAS NICE) "That's OK. It's fine." *weak smile*
The Tea Lady responded with, "Yes it is. Be glad you got it at all!" *BIG SHIT EATIN' GRIN*
If I knew this woman, it'd be one thing. If I'd ever slapped eyes on her before, even briefly, that'd be that same one thing. I work with the public, and I get that they were surprisingly busy this first day of school/Tuesday. Hell, I even understand that as a Mumple, there's gonna be screw ups in my order when I'm out!
But I really wasn't impressed by that AT ALL.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Smiley Sez...
nuttin'
No, really. Today, the return desk was quiet...until the end of my shift (I'm starting to sense a pattern here.)
Anyway, I convince this woman that she doesn't need to go to customer service desk. I can help her.
I'm on the register that just ran out of money. Grrrrreat! The line is backing up, because I'm trying to help this woman...because I ain't go no cash, and Smiley showed up and started a transaction on the register that does have money.
I convince Smiley to switch me registers as soon as she's done, and git r dun, as they say. Money shows up, so all is right in the world.
I ask who and where is my end-of-shift-coverage. The money bearer says, "uh, Smiley. And she's right here."
I look at Smiley, and say, "Oh! I must not have heard you when you told me! I thought you were just here to keep the line moving!"
Smiley just smiles and blinks.
I know I'm being irate here, but is it that hard, really, to tell me that you're here so I can leave when I'm done?
No, really. Today, the return desk was quiet...until the end of my shift (I'm starting to sense a pattern here.)
Anyway, I convince this woman that she doesn't need to go to customer service desk. I can help her.
I'm on the register that just ran out of money. Grrrrreat! The line is backing up, because I'm trying to help this woman...because I ain't go no cash, and Smiley showed up and started a transaction on the register that does have money.
I convince Smiley to switch me registers as soon as she's done, and git r dun, as they say. Money shows up, so all is right in the world.
I ask who and where is my end-of-shift-coverage. The money bearer says, "uh, Smiley. And she's right here."
I look at Smiley, and say, "Oh! I must not have heard you when you told me! I thought you were just here to keep the line moving!"
Smiley just smiles and blinks.
I know I'm being irate here, but is it that hard, really, to tell me that you're here so I can leave when I'm done?
Monday, January 10, 2011
Viral
If you hadn't noticed, it's cold & flu season. And that means, in Retail Hell, it's also paranoia time.
What that means is that every cash register, counter, and phone smells of Lysol, and that's not perfume, it's disinfectant hand sanitizer.
The Weasel has been coughing. And every time he coughed on Saturday, he also offered to lick a keyboard, a counter, a phone.
With one exception: Me. He coughed, and when I asked him if he was infectious, he offered to lick me to find out.
Er, uhm, NO.
When telling My Sweetie this little tale of modern healthy living, My Sweetie asked if the guy had been more specific...then offered his own services. But My Sweetie was specific with his offer.
'nuff said.
What that means is that every cash register, counter, and phone smells of Lysol, and that's not perfume, it's disinfectant hand sanitizer.
The Weasel has been coughing. And every time he coughed on Saturday, he also offered to lick a keyboard, a counter, a phone.
With one exception: Me. He coughed, and when I asked him if he was infectious, he offered to lick me to find out.
Er, uhm, NO.
When telling My Sweetie this little tale of modern healthy living, My Sweetie asked if the guy had been more specific...then offered his own services. But My Sweetie was specific with his offer.
'nuff said.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, July 23, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Blowin' in the Wind
Today it was mighty nipply in the garden center. The wind picked up, and by wind, I mean, yet again, I'm having visions of Dorothy house landing on top of me. But, being Mother's Day weekend, we're busier than a one legged man at an ass kicking contest.
Which means, of course, that at least one Nut was out without supervision.
A couple comes up with one of the largest carts we supply the money dropping masses, and, of course, the cart is chock full o' stuff. I go about my business--I begin scanning my little heart out. This couple, apparently, are micromanagers from Wayback, because they are not only telling me how many of what, but actually shoving things at me in an almost polite way of directing how the checkout process goes. (And that means I mostly ignore what they're shoving at me, and do it my way. I do that, not out of rudeness, but because I know how my own brain works, and I make fewer mistakes if left to do my job my way. Safer for everyone if y'all'd just get the hell out of my way and let ME be the cashier, donchano.)
While in the midst of doing my job (and ignoring the micromanagers) a woman approaches, shoves past the persons currently in the process, and demands to know if this register is "Open for business."
I tell her, why, "Yes, it is." I continue to scan the micro's merchandise.
She then steps around me to my opposite side, shoving her way between the micromanager man and his cart and says, "So, I can check out now?"
I tell her, in my best almost not sarcastic tone, "When I'm done with this transaction. I'll be with you as soon as I can." I go back to finishing up my counting and scanning for accuracy.
She shoots a nasty look at the micromanagers and says to her escort, in a snippy tone, "It's too cold out here for me! Come get me when she's ready."
As if I told her to "go F* yourself, I'm on the phone" or something.
The micromanagers immediately lighten up, though,and back off, and let me do my job, my way.
Win-Win, if you ask me.
This also leads me to recall the Jackass last weekend, who basically did the same thing. Several registers are already open, and Mr & Mrs Jackass get into my line. The customer in front of him wanted to know how the plant guarantee worked, and he & I were discussing how we could best get him the credit for his dead plants. The entire conversation took less time than most scan, total, & pay transactions, but Mr Jackass interrupts and demands to know "just how much longer are you gonna be? should I move into a different line, or what?"
Wow. Actually, not so much *wow* because he does this every time he's expected to behave like a civilized human being. You know, all that stuff you learned in kindergarten about waiting your turn and treating others nicely...yeah, well, he missed that day. I don't think Mr Jackass has EVER been in our store that he didn't demand that he be helped/checked out/had his ass wiped before anyone else who was there before him. The size of his sense of entitlement is surpassed only by his general jackassedness, and is oppositely proportionate to his ...er, uhm, you know whatis. (I say that because his behavior all-but screams "over compensating-over compensating-over compensating.")
Some day, I'm not gonna need that job, and all hell is, literally, gonna break loose.
Which means, of course, that at least one Nut was out without supervision.
A couple comes up with one of the largest carts we supply the money dropping masses, and, of course, the cart is chock full o' stuff. I go about my business--I begin scanning my little heart out. This couple, apparently, are micromanagers from Wayback, because they are not only telling me how many of what, but actually shoving things at me in an almost polite way of directing how the checkout process goes. (And that means I mostly ignore what they're shoving at me, and do it my way. I do that, not out of rudeness, but because I know how my own brain works, and I make fewer mistakes if left to do my job my way. Safer for everyone if y'all'd just get the hell out of my way and let ME be the cashier, donchano.)
While in the midst of doing my job (and ignoring the micromanagers) a woman approaches, shoves past the persons currently in the process, and demands to know if this register is "Open for business."
I tell her, why, "Yes, it is." I continue to scan the micro's merchandise.
She then steps around me to my opposite side, shoving her way between the micromanager man and his cart and says, "So, I can check out now?"
I tell her, in my best almost not sarcastic tone, "When I'm done with this transaction. I'll be with you as soon as I can." I go back to finishing up my counting and scanning for accuracy.
She shoots a nasty look at the micromanagers and says to her escort, in a snippy tone, "It's too cold out here for me! Come get me when she's ready."
As if I told her to "go F* yourself, I'm on the phone" or something.
The micromanagers immediately lighten up, though,and back off, and let me do my job, my way.
Win-Win, if you ask me.
This also leads me to recall the Jackass last weekend, who basically did the same thing. Several registers are already open, and Mr & Mrs Jackass get into my line. The customer in front of him wanted to know how the plant guarantee worked, and he & I were discussing how we could best get him the credit for his dead plants. The entire conversation took less time than most scan, total, & pay transactions, but Mr Jackass interrupts and demands to know "just how much longer are you gonna be? should I move into a different line, or what?"
Wow. Actually, not so much *wow* because he does this every time he's expected to behave like a civilized human being. You know, all that stuff you learned in kindergarten about waiting your turn and treating others nicely...yeah, well, he missed that day. I don't think Mr Jackass has EVER been in our store that he didn't demand that he be helped/checked out/had his ass wiped before anyone else who was there before him. The size of his sense of entitlement is surpassed only by his general jackassedness, and is oppositely proportionate to his ...er, uhm, you know whatis. (I say that because his behavior all-but screams "over compensating-over compensating-over compensating.")
Some day, I'm not gonna need that job, and all hell is, literally, gonna break loose.
Friday, April 16, 2010
More Than Enough
There's more than enough weirdness floating about for a 2nd full moon.
Seriously. Full moons mean weirdness--happy weirdness, but weirdness just the same. New moons generally mean grumpy weirdness, sometimes out-and-out mean weirdness.
But, aside from that summary of a years-long study in human behavior in public places, currently, the weirdness factor around me has increased for no discernable reason. Dunno why. If you do know why, please let me know.
Case in point: yesterday, I had to type in a customer's credit card number. Part of that process, for the card holder's security, is that we are to also type in the zip code on the account, and the security code on the back of the card. Normally, this is no problem, because you ask the person for the zip code on the account, and they simply rattle off their phone number, then realize what you asked and they tell you their zip code. Yesterday's dude grunts at me, "Same as yers." I asked around: everyone else thought that was weird, too.
Today's case in point: My Sweetie's personal use cellphone rang (he doesn't take it with him while he's working) Voice says, "Hey, dooya know who tis is?"
I reply: No
Voice: You mean you don't recgehnize me?
Me: No
Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name
Me: WHO?
Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name
Me: I do not know you.
Voice: *laughs* sure sure. mumbly some more
Me: I do not know you.
Voice: you mean you don' rememer mumbly sounds that may be someone else's name
Me: No. I do not know them either.
Voice: you sure?
Me: I do not know you, or them.
Voice: What about Fred Shoemaker?
Me: No. I do not know him
Voice: Who is this?!
Me: NOT WHO YOU ARE CALLING.
Voice: mumble sorry mumble
*click*
The phone rings 2 minutes later, or the equivalent amount of time it takes for Mrs Mumbly Voice to tell him what an idiot he is and redial the wrong number.
In a flash of postively psychic foreknowledge, I answer: Hello?
Mrs Voice: Is this FRED SHOEMAKER?
Me: No. Not even close.
*click*
For the record, we've had this number for over a year. And a final note: Angie, I didn't know you two years ago when you started texting me, I still don't know you...and quite frankly, if you're too stupid to STOP TEXTING ME when I FINALLY break down and send you a message back that I am not who you think you are texting please check the number!!!!! (yes, readers, I spelled every blessed word out to be sure she didn't use the wrong vowels and screw up the message) don't desist for 10 months then start texting me again. I am not amused, and you're gonna cry soon if you don't take the hint.
Seriously. Full moons mean weirdness--happy weirdness, but weirdness just the same. New moons generally mean grumpy weirdness, sometimes out-and-out mean weirdness.
But, aside from that summary of a years-long study in human behavior in public places, currently, the weirdness factor around me has increased for no discernable reason. Dunno why. If you do know why, please let me know.
Case in point: yesterday, I had to type in a customer's credit card number. Part of that process, for the card holder's security, is that we are to also type in the zip code on the account, and the security code on the back of the card. Normally, this is no problem, because you ask the person for the zip code on the account, and they simply rattle off their phone number, then realize what you asked and they tell you their zip code. Yesterday's dude grunts at me, "Same as yers." I asked around: everyone else thought that was weird, too.
Today's case in point: My Sweetie's personal use cellphone rang (he doesn't take it with him while he's working) Voice says, "Hey, dooya know who tis is?"
I reply: No
Voice: You mean you don't recgehnize me?
Me: No
Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name
Me: WHO?
Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name
Me: I do not know you.
Voice: *laughs* sure sure. mumbly some more
Me: I do not know you.
Voice: you mean you don' rememer mumbly sounds that may be someone else's name
Me: No. I do not know them either.
Voice: you sure?
Me: I do not know you, or them.
Voice: What about Fred Shoemaker?
Me: No. I do not know him
Voice: Who is this?!
Me: NOT WHO YOU ARE CALLING.
Voice: mumble sorry mumble
*click*
The phone rings 2 minutes later, or the equivalent amount of time it takes for Mrs Mumbly Voice to tell him what an idiot he is and redial the wrong number.
In a flash of postively psychic foreknowledge, I answer: Hello?
Mrs Voice: Is this FRED SHOEMAKER?
Me: No. Not even close.
*click*
For the record, we've had this number for over a year. And a final note: Angie, I didn't know you two years ago when you started texting me, I still don't know you...and quite frankly, if you're too stupid to STOP TEXTING ME when I FINALLY break down and send you a message back that I am not who you think you are texting please check the number!!!!! (yes, readers, I spelled every blessed word out to be sure she didn't use the wrong vowels and screw up the message) don't desist for 10 months then start texting me again. I am not amused, and you're gonna cry soon if you don't take the hint.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Purple Heart
Right now, I'm pretty angry.
I'm angry that as soon as we get one child in the neighborhood to settle down and behave like a human being, another one (or really, several of the little beasts) begins to drive us over the edge.
It doesn't help that I'm still in pain, and still feeling exhausted most of the time.
Today's insanity was inspired by my being made a butler. I spent about 15 minutes opening a door, for no reason at all.
First, it was "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" because it was locked--as it should be, since we had just gotten home. Then it was because there were bugs out there. Then it was because the Howler left the front and went to the back (a bug free zone.)
I would have just enough time to sit down and get started on what I was doing, to have the bell sound and the pounding start...so I could get up and open the door again.
And let me tell you, when your elbow feels like it's twice the size is actually is and is achy and sore like you've just loaded a dozen 80 pound bags of Quikrete into a truck bed that's taller than you are, you still forget that, and since you're right handed, open the dammed door with your right hand.
Being greeted by little faces asking "Where's the Howler?" doesn't improve your mood. Then when the Howler re enters the house through a different door to whine and complain about God-Alone-Knows-What, the screaming and yelling that commences is probably going to be embarrassing when you next make eye contact with the neighbors.
And knowing the this scene is going to repeat itself several times over the course of the next two days...well, screaming bloody murder now really is just a warm up.
Add to all this the fact that, as annoying as OPK are, your own flesh and blood child is over the top annoying--what with the whining and pouting that you know, beyond a doubt is in your future...
If I shoot myself in the foot, will they send me home from this war?
I'm angry that as soon as we get one child in the neighborhood to settle down and behave like a human being, another one (or really, several of the little beasts) begins to drive us over the edge.
It doesn't help that I'm still in pain, and still feeling exhausted most of the time.
Today's insanity was inspired by my being made a butler. I spent about 15 minutes opening a door, for no reason at all.
First, it was "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" because it was locked--as it should be, since we had just gotten home. Then it was because there were bugs out there. Then it was because the Howler left the front and went to the back (a bug free zone.)
I would have just enough time to sit down and get started on what I was doing, to have the bell sound and the pounding start...so I could get up and open the door again.
And let me tell you, when your elbow feels like it's twice the size is actually is and is achy and sore like you've just loaded a dozen 80 pound bags of Quikrete into a truck bed that's taller than you are, you still forget that, and since you're right handed, open the dammed door with your right hand.
Being greeted by little faces asking "Where's the Howler?" doesn't improve your mood. Then when the Howler re enters the house through a different door to whine and complain about God-Alone-Knows-What, the screaming and yelling that commences is probably going to be embarrassing when you next make eye contact with the neighbors.
And knowing the this scene is going to repeat itself several times over the course of the next two days...well, screaming bloody murder now really is just a warm up.
Add to all this the fact that, as annoying as OPK are, your own flesh and blood child is over the top annoying--what with the whining and pouting that you know, beyond a doubt is in your future...
If I shoot myself in the foot, will they send me home from this war?
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Warning!
For those who have been following the Saga of the Mumplized PTA, I've gotten a warning I must share:
There is an elementary teacher in CA who accidentally included 6 seconds of videotape showcasing her very personal, very adult love life in a video tape of "highlights" of the year for her students.
The warning is this: if, as a PTA, we're planning on having some video/powerpoint/slide show action at Open House, this is a VERY good time to be sure we're using brand spanking (hah!) new materials to make the visual aids.
And, in general, it's a good idea to CAREFULLY LABEL those personal adult moments and NEVER EVER re-use the tapes....burn 'em, but don't recycle 'em. In this one particular instance, I'm guessing that EVERYONE (especially the parents) will be glad that you're killing the environment, instead of killing their children's idolized image of you.
As a personal, adult side note: 6 seconds is not enough time to showcase the highlights of my current love life, not that I'm sharing My Sweetie with anybody--under any circumstances. *just sose ya knows.*
There is an elementary teacher in CA who accidentally included 6 seconds of videotape showcasing her very personal, very adult love life in a video tape of "highlights" of the year for her students.
The warning is this: if, as a PTA, we're planning on having some video/powerpoint/slide show action at Open House, this is a VERY good time to be sure we're using brand spanking (hah!) new materials to make the visual aids.
And, in general, it's a good idea to CAREFULLY LABEL those personal adult moments and NEVER EVER re-use the tapes....burn 'em, but don't recycle 'em. In this one particular instance, I'm guessing that EVERYONE (especially the parents) will be glad that you're killing the environment, instead of killing their children's idolized image of you.
As a personal, adult side note: 6 seconds is not enough time to showcase the highlights of my current love life, not that I'm sharing My Sweetie with anybody--under any circumstances. *just sose ya knows.*
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Butt...
It seems that I am doomed to look at ass crack the rest of my life.
The crackorama at work has finally (knock on wood) ended, but now, in the neighborhood, there's crack.
The Urchins are back (Waif & Loser Lover moved out last fall...then came back in late winter) and the Urchins are officially not allowed in my house. Two weekends ago, they were rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves.
Now, I do not begrudge a child food when they're hungry, but these two have taken to showing up "just in time" to ask "can we eat with you"? In other words, they ain't getting fed at home, and it's now my responsibility to feed them, since last summer's free-for-all has ended.
So, they come to my house, and help themselves. A bag of chips lasts minutes, and short of using the stove, it's anything goes. It doesn't help that they've helped trash my house with toys, then disappeared. And Sunday evening, began systematically emptying the sand box into the parking area for the tenants.
Oh, I so do not think so.
Anyway, Dolly is now wearing pants that don't fit--they're too big. I'm guessing that Loser Boy is too cheap (and too busy at the bar) to buy his daughter clothes that fit. Her butt hangs out of them almost continually. She's not wearing panties with them either, so I have choice A) they're dirty and laundry ain't getting done, or choice B) those don't fit her either, or choice C) both A and B.
It's frustrating. Because it's the Howler who is sharing the 411 on what it's like at the Urchin's home, not them. If it were them, I could reasonably document and deal, but since it's my 7 year old spilling the beans, I can document, but there's not much anyone can, or will, do about it. It's also sad to think that even this kind of neglect is low on the Needs-Investigated scale, since, they attend school, get infrequent meals, and have a roof over their heads and clothes on their bodies.
Some bleeting heart will probably tell me that I'm too harsh, these are children. But you know what? I'm not responsible for opk. That's why they're OPK--they're not mine, and it's not my job to raise them. And, I don't think I should have to put up with the disrespect and mouthiness I'm now getting from said OPK.
If I am feeding you regularly, and you're not actually blood related to me, then the least you can do is not trash the stuff I paid for, follow the rules at my house, and speak to me with a minimum of respect. Don't shoot me dirty looks when I tell you about it, either.
So anyway, now that the majority of my wise cracking (HAH! Get it?) is handled at work, I now get to come home and look at it.
The only difference is, I can tell this one to pull her pants up as often as I want.
The crackorama at work has finally (knock on wood) ended, but now, in the neighborhood, there's crack.
The Urchins are back (Waif & Loser Lover moved out last fall...then came back in late winter) and the Urchins are officially not allowed in my house. Two weekends ago, they were rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves.
Now, I do not begrudge a child food when they're hungry, but these two have taken to showing up "just in time" to ask "can we eat with you"? In other words, they ain't getting fed at home, and it's now my responsibility to feed them, since last summer's free-for-all has ended.
So, they come to my house, and help themselves. A bag of chips lasts minutes, and short of using the stove, it's anything goes. It doesn't help that they've helped trash my house with toys, then disappeared. And Sunday evening, began systematically emptying the sand box into the parking area for the tenants.
Oh, I so do not think so.
Anyway, Dolly is now wearing pants that don't fit--they're too big. I'm guessing that Loser Boy is too cheap (and too busy at the bar) to buy his daughter clothes that fit. Her butt hangs out of them almost continually. She's not wearing panties with them either, so I have choice A) they're dirty and laundry ain't getting done, or choice B) those don't fit her either, or choice C) both A and B.
It's frustrating. Because it's the Howler who is sharing the 411 on what it's like at the Urchin's home, not them. If it were them, I could reasonably document and deal, but since it's my 7 year old spilling the beans, I can document, but there's not much anyone can, or will, do about it. It's also sad to think that even this kind of neglect is low on the Needs-Investigated scale, since, they attend school, get infrequent meals, and have a roof over their heads and clothes on their bodies.
Some bleeting heart will probably tell me that I'm too harsh, these are children. But you know what? I'm not responsible for opk. That's why they're OPK--they're not mine, and it's not my job to raise them. And, I don't think I should have to put up with the disrespect and mouthiness I'm now getting from said OPK.
If I am feeding you regularly, and you're not actually blood related to me, then the least you can do is not trash the stuff I paid for, follow the rules at my house, and speak to me with a minimum of respect. Don't shoot me dirty looks when I tell you about it, either.
So anyway, now that the majority of my wise cracking (HAH! Get it?) is handled at work, I now get to come home and look at it.
The only difference is, I can tell this one to pull her pants up as often as I want.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Hmmmm
Yesterday, the Howler & I stayed at the playground for about 30 minutes after school. While there, I saw something I didn't think adults did anymore:
One mom walked over to another mom, cupped her hand, leaned in super duper close, and was whispering in her ear.
Isn't that the sort of thing that, as a grown-up at the playground, you stop doing? I mean, isn't there an age limit on that sort of thing?
Or is it just me?
One mom walked over to another mom, cupped her hand, leaned in super duper close, and was whispering in her ear.
Isn't that the sort of thing that, as a grown-up at the playground, you stop doing? I mean, isn't there an age limit on that sort of thing?
Or is it just me?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It's Your Lie, Tell It How You Want
Our tantrumming acting president resigned everything PTA related Thursday night after elections. She said, in her letter, that the elections had nothing to do with it.
She's got some serious delusions going on 'round here. She says it's about standing up for herself, and gives the usual Jr High "I know who I am" and then proceeds to ramble on about "doing the right thing" and "always behaved in a professional manner."
Now, I don't know what kind of professional she's thinking, but she certainly wasn't it. Partly, it's the missing hard-g sound in her vocab, her lack of action in doing things that did not bring her into visibility, and then, it's the tantrum.
She got pissy during the meeting whenever anyone did or said anything she didn't like--including questions about the "whys" of the vote process. Several people had questions about why it was being done the way it was (it was obvious that she was trying to lock herself in/everyone else out, and what she ended up doing was locking herself out) and she actually YELLED and was very rude to those of us with questions.
She decided that we would proceed office-by-office, taking nominations from the floor, and closing the nominations as we went. Since she was up for two offices, she figured we would all just let it ride, including her removing one of the officer positions. Neither happened. She did not run unopposed for President nor for 1st VP. She lost both, dismally. 2nd VP opened back up, as the same person was running for each, and won each. Nominations were opened back up, and the one person nominated was voted in by a voice vote since she was unopposed.
Miss Thang managed to keep her composure, but I was certain to lose money, as I expected her to crack like a chapped lip before the end of the meeting. She didn't.
I do believe, though, that the bios that were put in the newsletter were reviewed by her, and she had help writing hers. The letter for the emergency meeting, the emails, and the emailed letter of resignation were hers, though. The inconsistancies from the newsletter to actual tantrumming were vibrant, easy to spot, and included poor sentence structure, misuse of punctuation, and some flat out crazed WTF does that mean thoughts.
Here's the one that kills me:
" I am excusing myself from anymore invalid information about me since I do not deserve it nor did I do anything to provoke it. "
She's pissed because someone stood up during the meeting, before the actual election, and stated that not only did the previous president not return her calls or emails, but that Miss Thang did not do it either. EVERY PERSON in that room has had that experience with one, or both, of them.
I have noticed during this past year, that neither of them treated the people they perceived has having little or no power with respect. If they didn't know you, if they didn't like you, you were ignored, and, I assume (because, DUH, they're women) they talked about you behind your back.
The difference between me and them? Mostly it comes down to a willingness to treat every one the same--I may think you're a total skank, a complete bum, a flake, a freak, or just a plain o' PITA, but, I learned your name, made an effort to know something about you, and THEN asked if you could help me out with whatever PTA thing there was. I never said ANY. THING. bad, mean, or rude about ANY straight up member. It was just the previous prez and Miss Thang--and it was all about their piss poor "professional" conduct. And, I would have said ANY of it to their faces--and, now that I mention it, I HAVE said it in a meeting, at least once.
Oh, btw, I am the Secretary-Elect for the PTA. May God have mercy on my soul.
She's got some serious delusions going on 'round here. She says it's about standing up for herself, and gives the usual Jr High "I know who I am" and then proceeds to ramble on about "doing the right thing" and "always behaved in a professional manner."
Now, I don't know what kind of professional she's thinking, but she certainly wasn't it. Partly, it's the missing hard-g sound in her vocab, her lack of action in doing things that did not bring her into visibility, and then, it's the tantrum.
She got pissy during the meeting whenever anyone did or said anything she didn't like--including questions about the "whys" of the vote process. Several people had questions about why it was being done the way it was (it was obvious that she was trying to lock herself in/everyone else out, and what she ended up doing was locking herself out) and she actually YELLED and was very rude to those of us with questions.
She decided that we would proceed office-by-office, taking nominations from the floor, and closing the nominations as we went. Since she was up for two offices, she figured we would all just let it ride, including her removing one of the officer positions. Neither happened. She did not run unopposed for President nor for 1st VP. She lost both, dismally. 2nd VP opened back up, as the same person was running for each, and won each. Nominations were opened back up, and the one person nominated was voted in by a voice vote since she was unopposed.
Miss Thang managed to keep her composure, but I was certain to lose money, as I expected her to crack like a chapped lip before the end of the meeting. She didn't.
I do believe, though, that the bios that were put in the newsletter were reviewed by her, and she had help writing hers. The letter for the emergency meeting, the emails, and the emailed letter of resignation were hers, though. The inconsistancies from the newsletter to actual tantrumming were vibrant, easy to spot, and included poor sentence structure, misuse of punctuation, and some flat out crazed WTF does that mean thoughts.
Here's the one that kills me:
" I am excusing myself from anymore invalid information about me since I do not deserve it nor did I do anything to provoke it. "
She's pissed because someone stood up during the meeting, before the actual election, and stated that not only did the previous president not return her calls or emails, but that Miss Thang did not do it either. EVERY PERSON in that room has had that experience with one, or both, of them.
I have noticed during this past year, that neither of them treated the people they perceived has having little or no power with respect. If they didn't know you, if they didn't like you, you were ignored, and, I assume (because, DUH, they're women) they talked about you behind your back.
The difference between me and them? Mostly it comes down to a willingness to treat every one the same--I may think you're a total skank, a complete bum, a flake, a freak, or just a plain o' PITA, but, I learned your name, made an effort to know something about you, and THEN asked if you could help me out with whatever PTA thing there was. I never said ANY. THING. bad, mean, or rude about ANY straight up member. It was just the previous prez and Miss Thang--and it was all about their piss poor "professional" conduct. And, I would have said ANY of it to their faces--and, now that I mention it, I HAVE said it in a meeting, at least once.
Oh, btw, I am the Secretary-Elect for the PTA. May God have mercy on my soul.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Knock Knock
Who's there?
"Daddy, are you on top of Mommy?"
LOL
Yesterday, around 6am, this is what we heard...okay, My Sweetie, heard. I was, of course, not thinking of the pitter patter of 6 year old feets.
He was dumbfounded and unable to answer, except to tell her to go back to bed. Since it was Day 100 at school, she was too excited to go back to sleep, and her music wasn't on, and no, neither of us were getting up to turn it on, so I told her to take Bear and Monkey and go downstairs to watch TV. She happily scurried on her way.
Now, though, we're wondering just when this is going to come up in conversation. Maybe tonight, at my aunt's house after school? Or at AWANAs? Or maybe Sunday in church? Yeah, I'm sure it's going to fun for us--okay, for demented, evil me. Kevin will be mortified (again) and I'll be diabolical.
I mean, how embarrassed can I be over this? We woke her up one night about 2 years ago, and she blamed The Toad, ranting on and on about how he thumped and bumped and pounded on the wall.... He figured it out, and thankfully kept his mouth shut (or maybe it's a trauma better left unmentioned?)
Oh, and we're getting a doorknob with a lock this weekend. (She's been on a rip about fighting with me whenever her father is home, she's demanding of his time if she's excluded....yeah, she's gonna be pounding on that locked door!)
"Daddy, are you on top of Mommy?"
LOL
Yesterday, around 6am, this is what we heard...okay, My Sweetie, heard. I was, of course, not thinking of the pitter patter of 6 year old feets.
He was dumbfounded and unable to answer, except to tell her to go back to bed. Since it was Day 100 at school, she was too excited to go back to sleep, and her music wasn't on, and no, neither of us were getting up to turn it on, so I told her to take Bear and Monkey and go downstairs to watch TV. She happily scurried on her way.
Now, though, we're wondering just when this is going to come up in conversation. Maybe tonight, at my aunt's house after school? Or at AWANAs? Or maybe Sunday in church? Yeah, I'm sure it's going to fun for us--okay, for demented, evil me. Kevin will be mortified (again) and I'll be diabolical.
I mean, how embarrassed can I be over this? We woke her up one night about 2 years ago, and she blamed The Toad, ranting on and on about how he thumped and bumped and pounded on the wall.... He figured it out, and thankfully kept his mouth shut (or maybe it's a trauma better left unmentioned?)
Oh, and we're getting a doorknob with a lock this weekend. (She's been on a rip about fighting with me whenever her father is home, she's demanding of his time if she's excluded....yeah, she's gonna be pounding on that locked door!)
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
More From the Weirdness Files
So, this blog is a lot of proof that I attract weirdos. And weird things happen to me. And this just proves that a new year does not mean a lack of weirdness.
Last Friday, the Howler and I were running some errands, and ended up at the grocery store. This grocery store has self-checkouts.
When in this store with the Howler, you have to balance how much stress you have in a regular check out as opposed to the stress of letting the Howler scan and bag. I usually opt for the letting the Howler scan and bag stress (I admit that this is one fight I do not choose to have with her.)
So, I stack the stuff up on the side shelf and let her have at it. I make sure I don't end up with pretzel crumbs and bags that explode, and that required staying with her, not wandering over to the newspapers or turning my back and perusing the cheap-o movie selections.
A woman carrying one item in each hand approaches me and says in a snotty tone, "Excuse me."
I move from right to left, still with the Howler. The Howler, oblivious, continues scanning and bagging.
This woman then says, in a more snotty tone, "Oh, are you with her?"
All my years in retail have trained out most of my sarcasm when in public, and I smile and tell her, "Well, yeah. I am her ride home, after all."
She HUFFS at me. Huffs. Like a pissed off cat.
She stomps past me to the next self-checkout, which was not available. I caught her, out the corner of my eye, trying to shove past the elderly man who was still scanning and bagging his own stuff.
What upsets me most is that the guys at work are disappointed that I couldn't do better--but they did helpfully suggest that next time, I phrase it "Well, yeah. SHE's my ride home. I'm too drunk to drive."
Last Friday, the Howler and I were running some errands, and ended up at the grocery store. This grocery store has self-checkouts.
When in this store with the Howler, you have to balance how much stress you have in a regular check out as opposed to the stress of letting the Howler scan and bag. I usually opt for the letting the Howler scan and bag stress (I admit that this is one fight I do not choose to have with her.)
So, I stack the stuff up on the side shelf and let her have at it. I make sure I don't end up with pretzel crumbs and bags that explode, and that required staying with her, not wandering over to the newspapers or turning my back and perusing the cheap-o movie selections.
A woman carrying one item in each hand approaches me and says in a snotty tone, "Excuse me."
I move from right to left, still with the Howler. The Howler, oblivious, continues scanning and bagging.
This woman then says, in a more snotty tone, "Oh, are you with her?"
All my years in retail have trained out most of my sarcasm when in public, and I smile and tell her, "Well, yeah. I am her ride home, after all."
She HUFFS at me. Huffs. Like a pissed off cat.
She stomps past me to the next self-checkout, which was not available. I caught her, out the corner of my eye, trying to shove past the elderly man who was still scanning and bagging his own stuff.
What upsets me most is that the guys at work are disappointed that I couldn't do better--but they did helpfully suggest that next time, I phrase it "Well, yeah. SHE's my ride home. I'm too drunk to drive."
Thursday, November 06, 2008
About Voting
I'm not going to get on my political soapbox, mostly because it's over done. And why you'll rarely hear from Mumpleland about political issues. It also usually gives me a migraine--and there ain't a politician on the planet worth that kind of MY pain. (Oh, they deserve the pain, surely, but I do not.)
Anyway, about this American voting thing:
My Sweetie, and the Howler both asked me how I voted. I did vote. But it ain't nobody's business how, exactly, I hit those pretty colored little buttons. All anybody needs to know is that I did hit 'em.
Why? Because, one of the things this country was founded on is that every citizen (okay, at the founding, it was MEN, and white MEN at that, but that's a different rant) had the right to choose, speak, and vote his (or in the 21st century, her) conscience.
And I do. I do my best to understand what the candidates (local or otherwise) are blathering about; I weigh the issues of importance; I stand in line; I sign my name; and I vote. And I proudly wear the little sticker. And I encourage others to register and vote also.
What I don't do is discuss my Tuesday-in-November decision. I don't because I don't have to.
And you can't make me. Nyah nyah nyah.
(Although I explain it to the Howler this way: when you talked about voting and elections in school today, did they also explain that in American, you don't have to tell anybody how you voted. And nobody can make you. And that's the way it is because nobody has the right to tell you how to vote, and nobody is allowed to treat you bad if you don't vote the way they think you should. I voted, and that's all you--or Daddy--need to know.)
For my close, I wonder if you can keep a secret.
I can.
Anyway, about this American voting thing:
My Sweetie, and the Howler both asked me how I voted. I did vote. But it ain't nobody's business how, exactly, I hit those pretty colored little buttons. All anybody needs to know is that I did hit 'em.
Why? Because, one of the things this country was founded on is that every citizen (okay, at the founding, it was MEN, and white MEN at that, but that's a different rant) had the right to choose, speak, and vote his (or in the 21st century, her) conscience.
And I do. I do my best to understand what the candidates (local or otherwise) are blathering about; I weigh the issues of importance; I stand in line; I sign my name; and I vote. And I proudly wear the little sticker. And I encourage others to register and vote also.
What I don't do is discuss my Tuesday-in-November decision. I don't because I don't have to.
And you can't make me. Nyah nyah nyah.
(Although I explain it to the Howler this way: when you talked about voting and elections in school today, did they also explain that in American, you don't have to tell anybody how you voted. And nobody can make you. And that's the way it is because nobody has the right to tell you how to vote, and nobody is allowed to treat you bad if you don't vote the way they think you should. I voted, and that's all you--or Daddy--need to know.)
For my close, I wonder if you can keep a secret.
I can.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thanks
You know who you are (and don't let your head get any fatter for it)
I don't have my English to English dictionary handy, but thanks for the pennies.
I don't have my English to English dictionary handy, but thanks for the pennies.
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