While I was not tethered to the etherworld of the internet, I had dozens of ideas about things I could post--if I were still connected.
As you can see, I can only remember (or find notes about) a few of them.
I'm going to bore you now with a story about love, and marriage. Or at least, mumplelove and mumple marriage.
A week or so ago, I was miserable. I'm tired all the time right now, and the aches and pains in joints just shifts, it never really goes away. Stupidly, on top of this, I agreed that we could keep Missy for the weekend. Dude had to go pick up his parents (neither drives) 6 hours away.
Of course, the Howler looooooooves Missy. On Saturday night, the Howler showered earlier, because Missy was not with us at that point (she's a cheerleader for the flag football league) and she was at a game. When Missy came *home*, she needed a shower. So I troop upstairs with Missy to get her showered. My Sweetie stayed downstairs with the Howler.
While Missy is in the shower, I find a movie on TV. It's not a must see movie or anything, and My Sweetie certainly wouldn't be interested in it at all--no nudity, no explosions, no screaming, etc.
Anyway, I end up watching this entire movie, except for maybe the first 5 minutes. I miss a bit here and there while getting two 7 year olds ready and into bed.
With 5 freaking minutes to go, My Sweetie comes upstairs and asks (while looking all haggard and exhausted) if I want him to turn off all the lights and stuff, or am I going to do it later?
I go immediately into high-piss off mode, because, well, I don't watch that much TV or anything, but in the nine years we've been together, the only things I'm allowed to watch start-to-finish (either by Howler or by him) have been Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and even that was touch-and-go for about 2 seasons.)
I've commented before: the Howler's plan is that I shall never be allowed to both hear and see--at the same time--a movie or TV show. His plan is that I am allowed to see the beginning, the middle OR the end. But never an entire movie or show, no matter how much I've already seen, nor how interesting it is to me. It's annoying.
And I would've gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids.
So, I'm in high-piss off. Stomping, slamming...you name it.
He decides that now would be the best time to try and discuss it. HAH! I'm in high-piss off. I go around the house, shutting off lights, locking doors (slamming those that need closed first, of course) and generally closing up shop for the night. At one point, I slam a door in his face (in my defense, it was after he all-but demanded that I stop stomping and LISTEN to him. When I continued my stomping and ignored him, he swore at me. Yeah, we're nothing if not mature when we're mad.)
I literally shut off every light in the house and go bed. He comes upstairs, enters our room, and says, "I'm sorry for making you mad. I wasn't trying to. I just wanted to know if you were going back downstairs because I didn't want to shut off all the lights and everything and have you be mad at me. I'm also sorry for what I said. I shouldn't have said it. Now, I'm going to sleep downstairs."
First, I did accept his apology. Second, I did the mature thing, and out tantrumed him. I got up, took my pillow and announced, "If anyone is sleeping downstairs, I am." I tried to leave the room. He wouldn't let me. (He realized how stupid he was being at that point, and that he could NOT out immature me.)
Finally, I made it clear to him that in the entire time we've been together, we've never done that sort of thing--no matter how mad either, or both, of us are, we still sleep in the same bed. No matter what. He's never let me not sleep there, no matter how irrational, crazy, or angry I am. We sleep together. We don't have to snuggle up, there can be no spooning, we don't even have to kiss goodnight, but no matter what, we're both in there, together.
We ended up laughing a little bit about it (but of course, by that time, we were both exhausted.)
So, that's my marriage: Even if we're mad at each other, even if we can't stand each other, we're together--and that means that if it's not bad enough to pack your bags and really leave, then get yer ass to bed and we'll be mad at each other tomorrow (if we still feel like it.)
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Jokers Wild
I tell a lot of stories about work. Some of them about the weirdness that seems to find me no matter where I go, and some of them just ranting.
This time, I'm gonna tell you a story about a funny little Gnome.
Let me say in my defense, anyone who thinks I'm mean for picking on the short guy at work just hasn't been paying attention. Said Gnome makes jokes at my expense all the time, so anything I can do to repay the favor is only fair.
Even he thinks it's funny when Frodo gets a phone message from Ron Popeil about his late shipment of spray-on hair. And the back hair jokes slay 'em in the aisles. But the Gnome, well, he usually thinks faster than I do, and one-ups me.
A few weeks ago, My Sweetie and I were in to look at flooring for the bathroom. The Gnome says "hello" and then asks me what the weather's like outside. I answer honestly--it's sunny and nice out. "It's not windy or anything?" No, it's not, you weirdo.
"Oh, so there's no chance of a house falling on you then, is there?"
A day or so later, we continue that conversation: They're hosing down the floor in the garden center, and I'm getting spritzed no matter where I move to. I call him, knowing he'll laugh his funny little gnomish head off over it, and tell him, "They're hosing the floor out here. I'm getting wet."
"Okay. And....?"
"I could melt!"
He turns around and sends someone else out on the next dampish day to ask if I'm okay...it's wet out here, and blah blah blah.
Ah, yes. A funny funny little gnome. I can't wait to see his reaction to what I've currently got planned.
This time, I'm gonna tell you a story about a funny little Gnome.
Let me say in my defense, anyone who thinks I'm mean for picking on the short guy at work just hasn't been paying attention. Said Gnome makes jokes at my expense all the time, so anything I can do to repay the favor is only fair.
Even he thinks it's funny when Frodo gets a phone message from Ron Popeil about his late shipment of spray-on hair. And the back hair jokes slay 'em in the aisles. But the Gnome, well, he usually thinks faster than I do, and one-ups me.
A few weeks ago, My Sweetie and I were in to look at flooring for the bathroom. The Gnome says "hello" and then asks me what the weather's like outside. I answer honestly--it's sunny and nice out. "It's not windy or anything?" No, it's not, you weirdo.
"Oh, so there's no chance of a house falling on you then, is there?"
A day or so later, we continue that conversation: They're hosing down the floor in the garden center, and I'm getting spritzed no matter where I move to. I call him, knowing he'll laugh his funny little gnomish head off over it, and tell him, "They're hosing the floor out here. I'm getting wet."
"Okay. And....?"
"I could melt!"
He turns around and sends someone else out on the next dampish day to ask if I'm okay...it's wet out here, and blah blah blah.
Ah, yes. A funny funny little gnome. I can't wait to see his reaction to what I've currently got planned.
I Really Don't Like You
So, yesterday I may have had a shoplifter. A guy came to my register and had vent pipe, a tee, a connector, and an end cap. The end cap and connector were on the tee. Now, I know those things are NOT sold as a "set," no matter how many times the customer tells me it comes that way. He waited until I made a 2nd call inside to have them bring me the connector and tee pieces because the connector was really jammed in there. Instead of having someone else come out, he started to complain that I was costing him more money. Damn straight I am, Sparky.
Anyway, I wrote it up, and left it at the register. I ended up in a dork-ass feel-good meeting after my break, and forgot about it until this morning.
When I got to my home-away-from-home this AM, there's a message for me, written on my little story about the five-finger discounter. It reads, "Does anyone read this and understand it?? I sure don't A waste of paper. A tree could be living and helping us breath"
Now, this pisses me off--#1, because whatever I write down out there in the communications log has bearing on the job. #2, because some snot is making fun of me.
My response? I'll share it here, because I'm certainly not stupid enough to share it, in writing, at work. (as a side note, I did let Moe, the person who was there last night know that I saw this little haiku, and what I thought of it. He apparently spent the rest of the day whinging about it to anyone who would listen. When asked about it, I told Bullethead to tell Moe to grow up and get over it--stop being a junior high school girl about it, suck it up, and move on.)
"This is an RWD--Recovery Without Dention. I write it up, give it to LP--LOSS Prevention--and they determine it's merit. From there, it goes to our corporate LP. They track this sort of thing, as LOSS (as in we LOSE money, lose profits, scheduling hours, pay scale & inventory bonuses.) Your judgment of what I do speaks volumes about how little you understand your own job--and explains why you let my merchandise walk out the door (which equals MY MONEY walking out the door, you dolt.) Idiot. You are part of the reason pay scale is low and costs are high. And, simply because you don't understand something, well, I'm guessing that there's a shitload of things you don't comprehend--the English language being foremost among millions. Get a clue, or shut the fuck up.
If you can spend your time here reading what I've documented--even with your dismal & pathetic comprehension & retention levels--you could try to do the few simple tasks you're asked to do. Like covering up the credit card machines at night. And when my toothpicks and saran wrap attempt at warmth is put up, don't fucking touch it. Don't write on it, don't poke it, don't cut it.
I have a 7 year old at home who could do this job better than you do--without training. That says more about what an incompetent asshole you are than it does about her, or me.
It's a good thing I understand that it's better to "waste" paper, because, comparatively, you waste space. You know all that clear air you're bitching about? You're sucking it, and it's not doing you any good at all. It's wasted on imbeciles like you.
If you want to bicker about killing trees, let's talk about the idiotic doodles you've left all over my register. Those things you use to doodle with--you know, that wooden thing with the graphite you've been wasting all over the register--use murdered trees during the manufacturing process. I assume you know it's not really lead because it tastes different from all the lead-based paint and tainted dirt you've been eating for years, but I won't go into that.
Instead of using your time to ensure that we all know what an asshole you are, try learning to do your job--and then, shut up and do it. It'd make for a nice change. Butt munch."
I know the language isn't that great, and I know it's very rude, but you know what? I know that if I left asshole notes for anyone else in that store like that, I'd be told about it every day--at least 4 times a day.
And then they can't figure out why I hate people.
Anyway, I wrote it up, and left it at the register. I ended up in a dork-ass feel-good meeting after my break, and forgot about it until this morning.
When I got to my home-away-from-home this AM, there's a message for me, written on my little story about the five-finger discounter. It reads, "Does anyone read this and understand it?? I sure don't A waste of paper. A tree could be living and helping us breath"
Now, this pisses me off--#1, because whatever I write down out there in the communications log has bearing on the job. #2, because some snot is making fun of me.
My response? I'll share it here, because I'm certainly not stupid enough to share it, in writing, at work. (as a side note, I did let Moe, the person who was there last night know that I saw this little haiku, and what I thought of it. He apparently spent the rest of the day whinging about it to anyone who would listen. When asked about it, I told Bullethead to tell Moe to grow up and get over it--stop being a junior high school girl about it, suck it up, and move on.)
"This is an RWD--Recovery Without Dention. I write it up, give it to LP--LOSS Prevention--and they determine it's merit. From there, it goes to our corporate LP. They track this sort of thing, as LOSS (as in we LOSE money, lose profits, scheduling hours, pay scale & inventory bonuses.) Your judgment of what I do speaks volumes about how little you understand your own job--and explains why you let my merchandise walk out the door (which equals MY MONEY walking out the door, you dolt.) Idiot. You are part of the reason pay scale is low and costs are high. And, simply because you don't understand something, well, I'm guessing that there's a shitload of things you don't comprehend--the English language being foremost among millions. Get a clue, or shut the fuck up.
If you can spend your time here reading what I've documented--even with your dismal & pathetic comprehension & retention levels--you could try to do the few simple tasks you're asked to do. Like covering up the credit card machines at night. And when my toothpicks and saran wrap attempt at warmth is put up, don't fucking touch it. Don't write on it, don't poke it, don't cut it.
I have a 7 year old at home who could do this job better than you do--without training. That says more about what an incompetent asshole you are than it does about her, or me.
It's a good thing I understand that it's better to "waste" paper, because, comparatively, you waste space. You know all that clear air you're bitching about? You're sucking it, and it's not doing you any good at all. It's wasted on imbeciles like you.
If you want to bicker about killing trees, let's talk about the idiotic doodles you've left all over my register. Those things you use to doodle with--you know, that wooden thing with the graphite you've been wasting all over the register--use murdered trees during the manufacturing process. I assume you know it's not really lead because it tastes different from all the lead-based paint and tainted dirt you've been eating for years, but I won't go into that.
Instead of using your time to ensure that we all know what an asshole you are, try learning to do your job--and then, shut up and do it. It'd make for a nice change. Butt munch."
I know the language isn't that great, and I know it's very rude, but you know what? I know that if I left asshole notes for anyone else in that store like that, I'd be told about it every day--at least 4 times a day.
And then they can't figure out why I hate people.
Friday, September 25, 2009
AHA!
My computer died over the weekend. Much as I depend on it, especially regarding the overwhelming bit of community service work (church crap & PTA crap) I managed to get myself into, I hate that thing.
Vista sucks.
Ah, but now you're wondering how I'm posting if I am now in the the pre-technological age.
My Sweetie and I coughed up another $500 bucks and bought a laptop. I'm still having heart palpitations over it.
Of course, I do like this thing, and I'm sure, in time, I'll come to hate it, as well. And we're hoping that the other thing is in good hands and can be cured of what ails it on the cheap. Then we'll be one of those obnoxious 2 computer families (a 3 computer one, if you count the Toad's laptop.)
And, I also have all the reconstructing swearing to do in the meantime. And the figuring out of what I'm doing, exactly with this one.
And, I need email addresses. It decided to go belly-up right as I was realizing I needed email addys updated in my old-fashioned address book (also knows as a recipe file.) I didn't get 'em organized and updated in time.
So, if you are someone I need to communicate with in a non-public sorta way, email me so I can do that which I hate doing--getting organized. And if you are someone who hasn't emailed me in about a bajillion years to tell me how fantastically intelligent (for an American) I am, email me again, so I can be bitter, sarcastic, and typically American in my responses.
Vista sucks.
Ah, but now you're wondering how I'm posting if I am now in the the pre-technological age.
My Sweetie and I coughed up another $500 bucks and bought a laptop. I'm still having heart palpitations over it.
Of course, I do like this thing, and I'm sure, in time, I'll come to hate it, as well. And we're hoping that the other thing is in good hands and can be cured of what ails it on the cheap. Then we'll be one of those obnoxious 2 computer families (a 3 computer one, if you count the Toad's laptop.)
And, I also have all the reconstructing swearing to do in the meantime. And the figuring out of what I'm doing, exactly with this one.
And, I need email addresses. It decided to go belly-up right as I was realizing I needed email addys updated in my old-fashioned address book (also knows as a recipe file.) I didn't get 'em organized and updated in time.
So, if you are someone I need to communicate with in a non-public sorta way, email me so I can do that which I hate doing--getting organized. And if you are someone who hasn't emailed me in about a bajillion years to tell me how fantastically intelligent (for an American) I am, email me again, so I can be bitter, sarcastic, and typically American in my responses.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Time Warp
What day is it? What month is it?
I know the summer sucked. I know it was gray, gloomy, cool, and rainy all dammed summer. I know that Christmas is coming waaaayyyy faster than anyone really wants to admit (except maybe the Howler and her ilk.)
But, seriously. Dude? You can buy your live Christmas tree WHEN THEY ACTUALLY GET HERE. We'll happily charge you twice what the tree cost (you know, the regular & ridiculously high delivery fee) you to deliver it, but WAIT TIL THEY ACTUALLY GET HERE!
Sheesh.
I know the summer sucked. I know it was gray, gloomy, cool, and rainy all dammed summer. I know that Christmas is coming waaaayyyy faster than anyone really wants to admit (except maybe the Howler and her ilk.)
But, seriously. Dude? You can buy your live Christmas tree WHEN THEY ACTUALLY GET HERE. We'll happily charge you twice what the tree cost (you know, the regular & ridiculously high delivery fee) you to deliver it, but WAIT TIL THEY ACTUALLY GET HERE!
Sheesh.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Funny Little Man
That's my Mr Mumple.
First, a little background on the day in question:
I spent my day at work inside. No problem, really, but it was noisy. As in clanging and banging, pages you could actually hear, large loading door going up and down on a rattly chain. Yeah, noisy comes close to describing it.
Second, there was soccer practice. During which I fell asleep in the car. When I woke up, I was a little disoriented.
Third, by the time we got home, the Howler (and the little mister) where quite chatty. As in non-stop blathering about God-Alone-Knows-What. The Howler had her volume set at 11. During the Howler's shower, I left the room for some quiet...and My Sweetie, ever the first to pick up on subtle clues, turned up the volume on the TV. Apparently, people two blocks over needed to hear it, whether they wanted to or not, and I, of course, in the next room, could too. My Sweetie wanders over to stand the doorway of the room I'm in, muttering to himself. Having had enough of the audio-overload, I shut the door in his muttering face. I got quiet, for about 2 seconds. He began asking if I was mad at him. Sheesh.
The Howler finally goes to bed.
There is quiet in the house. FINALLY.
My Sweetie is now complaining about a bug bite on his leg. I tell him, in an effort to not hear about it--or anything--I tell him, "I'll get you the anti-itch cream in ONE SECOND."
The funny little man I married responds with an evil grin, and a laugh, "Oh, do we have any anti-bitch cream, too?"
He's soooooo lucky that I know that being called a bitch is a compliment.
First, a little background on the day in question:
I spent my day at work inside. No problem, really, but it was noisy. As in clanging and banging, pages you could actually hear, large loading door going up and down on a rattly chain. Yeah, noisy comes close to describing it.
Second, there was soccer practice. During which I fell asleep in the car. When I woke up, I was a little disoriented.
Third, by the time we got home, the Howler (and the little mister) where quite chatty. As in non-stop blathering about God-Alone-Knows-What. The Howler had her volume set at 11. During the Howler's shower, I left the room for some quiet...and My Sweetie, ever the first to pick up on subtle clues, turned up the volume on the TV. Apparently, people two blocks over needed to hear it, whether they wanted to or not, and I, of course, in the next room, could too. My Sweetie wanders over to stand the doorway of the room I'm in, muttering to himself. Having had enough of the audio-overload, I shut the door in his muttering face. I got quiet, for about 2 seconds. He began asking if I was mad at him. Sheesh.
The Howler finally goes to bed.
There is quiet in the house. FINALLY.
My Sweetie is now complaining about a bug bite on his leg. I tell him, in an effort to not hear about it--or anything--I tell him, "I'll get you the anti-itch cream in ONE SECOND."
The funny little man I married responds with an evil grin, and a laugh, "Oh, do we have any anti-bitch cream, too?"
He's soooooo lucky that I know that being called a bitch is a compliment.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
My dicking off time has become seriously limited.
Worse, even My Sweetie has to admit that.
With the school year starting, that means that my unwilling ass has begun the long slow decline into PTA hell. I think "Broad is the road that leads to destruction...blah blah blah" comes to mind when thinking about it.
I am now required to be all that People Person crap so despise. Hell, when I started complaining about it, I was really just making an observation about my newly discovered Inviso super power. I didn't mean to be actually NOTICED (nobody has ever truly listened to me rant and rave like that before, let alone TAKEN IT SERIOUSLY.) It is, I suppose, my come-uppance for being what my mother calls "mouthy."
Anyway, between work (yes, I still have a paying job,) being Mrs Mumple, and being the Howler's mother (why does MOM have to be the one who schedules and organizes I wonder? In all the non-gender specific roles the Mr and I share and swap, how did I end up on the MOMMY track? Oh, yeah. I get to work outside-the-home PART TIME, that's why. Dammit!) PTA and church, plus life in general, I have no more dicking off time. No more spider solitaire, no more reading a thick book in a day...It's depressing, is what.
The PTA is a time suck. Even more than the Howler is a time suck. Even more than the Howler and paid-to-be-in-retail-hell time suck put together.
I am currently typing this whilst peering over a teetering tower of PTA and church related paper. I need an entire room, with large tables for spreading out, a massive paper shredder, two or three filing cabinets, and several three-ring binders and various color co ordinated folders for organizing it all.
And I still have to make dinner.
Worse, even My Sweetie has to admit that.
With the school year starting, that means that my unwilling ass has begun the long slow decline into PTA hell. I think "Broad is the road that leads to destruction...blah blah blah" comes to mind when thinking about it.
I am now required to be all that People Person crap so despise. Hell, when I started complaining about it, I was really just making an observation about my newly discovered Inviso super power. I didn't mean to be actually NOTICED (nobody has ever truly listened to me rant and rave like that before, let alone TAKEN IT SERIOUSLY.) It is, I suppose, my come-uppance for being what my mother calls "mouthy."
Anyway, between work (yes, I still have a paying job,) being Mrs Mumple, and being the Howler's mother (why does MOM have to be the one who schedules and organizes I wonder? In all the non-gender specific roles the Mr and I share and swap, how did I end up on the MOMMY track? Oh, yeah. I get to work outside-the-home PART TIME, that's why. Dammit!) PTA and church, plus life in general, I have no more dicking off time. No more spider solitaire, no more reading a thick book in a day...It's depressing, is what.
The PTA is a time suck. Even more than the Howler is a time suck. Even more than the Howler and paid-to-be-in-retail-hell time suck put together.
I am currently typing this whilst peering over a teetering tower of PTA and church related paper. I need an entire room, with large tables for spreading out, a massive paper shredder, two or three filing cabinets, and several three-ring binders and various color co ordinated folders for organizing it all.
And I still have to make dinner.
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