Oh, Sweet Jesus. I almost had my arms ripped off this morning.
I was minding my own business at the Return desk, managing to not put off the "die die die" vibe.
This woman came in, tried to unplug the entire Seasonal department while getting onto one of the motorized carts (those're starting to be a theme, aren't they? Worse than the hanging baskets of yore) She gave up trying to wrench the orange cord out of the wall, and decided to do it the easy way--she'd just drive off on the thing, and it would unplug on its own.
I manage to get her attention, and tell her that I'll make sure she's unplugged. Problem was, she was already unplugged. BUT she had her overly large purple sweatpanted ass on the cord for the cart next to her.
Without a word, she waited until I was behind the cart she was on, and then tried to speed off.
I say tried, because, well, my body weight works as a brake when the cord your fat ass is sitting on is also wrapped around my arm.
I holler for her to stop. She does. I say, "Ma'am, the cord for the other cart is wrapped around this cart. Please give me one minute..." and she tries to speed off again.
She stops again. I explain that she's SITTING on the plug (the fact that she can't feel it justifies my call her a huge-ass moron now.) I ask her to lean forward so I can remove the plug. She shifts her shoulders. WOW. Big help there, toots. Thanks.
She tries to speed off again, and again, I'm yanked around. Hell, at this point, I'm lucky I'm only being jerked around behind the dammed cart--if I were in front of it, she'd be searching for a manager to ask why there are speed bumps in the entryway.
I finally manage to apply enough pressure on the cord for the plug to pop out from under her enormous ass.
She speeds off, this time for reals. I can only assume no one else was harmed in the making of this post.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Fa La La La La...
There's a reason I hate the holidays. And most of it involves my mother, and her controlling perfectionism. That gets totally swollen and out-of-control starting about....today.
She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.
She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.
Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.
She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.
She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)
Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.
This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."
The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)
Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.
She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.
She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.
Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.
She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.
She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)
Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.
This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."
The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)
Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Tourists!
Yes, more about the random oddities I encounter at work. Recently, one of my co-workers told the story about a caller wanting the phone number for a local grocery store...the caller, deciding that it was too much of a bother to look the number up for herself, called our store wanting us to look it up for her.
I can beat that.
A few weeks ago, I watched as a dopey looking woman came in the doors, plunked herself into one of the motorized carts, and drove off. She came back a short while later, parked the cart she was using up against the entry doors, and began unplugging the extention cords that power all the Christmas crap in the Seasonal department. When I asked if I could help her find something, she said she needed one of those carts that worked. I had to practically pry the 4 foot cords away from her. Why she was gathering the extention cords (she was looping them over her shoulder to take them with her) I don't even want to know.
Last night, I took a transferred-to-me call during which the customer, when asked how I could help him, said, "I don't know. They just sent me to you." I had to actually ask three times "What were they helping you with?" for him to tell me repeatedly, "I don't know." After ping-ponging the call back and forth, we were finally able to get him what he needed...and then he wanted to know if we could deliver his crap to him on Thanksgiving day. "I understand you're not open on Thanksgiving, but it'd be better for me if you could deliver that day anyway."
The evening progressed to the hyperactive men who couldn't just answer my easy questions (Is it broken? and Do you have your receipt with you today?) They each had to give me an entire purchase history...one even asked me, as I handed him the receipt he needed to sign, "Doncha have sumpin' for me to sign?" As he signed it, he added his address, phone number, and various minutia about himself. In case he ever ended up as a Trivial Pursuit answer I'd be prepared, I guess.
Finally, the absolute bestest ever asked me, "Have you ever been to the Falls?"
I answered, "I'm sorry?"
"You know, Niagara Falls."
"uh, years ago, yes."
"Do you know if they're still running the boats? The schedule for the boats, I mean."
Yes, folks, I'm not only supposed to know why you call into my store, every detail of your life in the 10 years since my store opened, phone numbers and hours for random area businesses, I'm also supposed to know the tourist attractions and their schedules in CANADA.
I can beat that.
A few weeks ago, I watched as a dopey looking woman came in the doors, plunked herself into one of the motorized carts, and drove off. She came back a short while later, parked the cart she was using up against the entry doors, and began unplugging the extention cords that power all the Christmas crap in the Seasonal department. When I asked if I could help her find something, she said she needed one of those carts that worked. I had to practically pry the 4 foot cords away from her. Why she was gathering the extention cords (she was looping them over her shoulder to take them with her) I don't even want to know.
Last night, I took a transferred-to-me call during which the customer, when asked how I could help him, said, "I don't know. They just sent me to you." I had to actually ask three times "What were they helping you with?" for him to tell me repeatedly, "I don't know." After ping-ponging the call back and forth, we were finally able to get him what he needed...and then he wanted to know if we could deliver his crap to him on Thanksgiving day. "I understand you're not open on Thanksgiving, but it'd be better for me if you could deliver that day anyway."
The evening progressed to the hyperactive men who couldn't just answer my easy questions (Is it broken? and Do you have your receipt with you today?) They each had to give me an entire purchase history...one even asked me, as I handed him the receipt he needed to sign, "Doncha have sumpin' for me to sign?" As he signed it, he added his address, phone number, and various minutia about himself. In case he ever ended up as a Trivial Pursuit answer I'd be prepared, I guess.
Finally, the absolute bestest ever asked me, "Have you ever been to the Falls?"
I answered, "I'm sorry?"
"You know, Niagara Falls."
"uh, years ago, yes."
"Do you know if they're still running the boats? The schedule for the boats, I mean."
Yes, folks, I'm not only supposed to know why you call into my store, every detail of your life in the 10 years since my store opened, phone numbers and hours for random area businesses, I'm also supposed to know the tourist attractions and their schedules in CANADA.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
The Lesser of Two Evils
That's me. HAH!
Last night, yet again, I was at the Hell desk. Yet again, I was confronted with crap I didn't even know existed, let alone that we did in Retail Hell.
In a lull (after one ass-kicking storm) I asked my department manager, "Why do you hate me so much?"
And basically, her response was that she didn't hate me. She'd just rather work with me behind that desk than her other options. Considering the mutual dislike and the spiteful working together history we have, this is absolutely astounding.
That other option? That's Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy makes the Laziest Woman in the tri-county area look ambitious. They're both hags, although Miss Piggy is closer to my age than the other one is. But Miss Piggy loves to wear her muffintop so everyone can see it...and she's always saying "What?" whenever she hears something that means she might have to actually do her job.
Most recently, my dealing with her involved my having to repeat myself seventeen times for her to explain to me "There's 4 registers out there. Can't you just get tape from one of them?" I repeatedly told her that I'd already checked, before I called her, and there was no tape to be had, unless she brought it.
Last night, she thought that a customer should wait 40 minutes until the guy who does the grunt work got back from his lunch hour. Or, that I should do her paging/calling for someone else for her.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Sorry, Piggs, but I've already done the thing where I do someone else's job for 'em, and all it gets me is a helluva lot of extra stress I don't need. Yer on yer own.
So, between Miss Piggy and me, I'm the lesser of two evils. HAH!
Last night, yet again, I was at the Hell desk. Yet again, I was confronted with crap I didn't even know existed, let alone that we did in Retail Hell.
In a lull (after one ass-kicking storm) I asked my department manager, "Why do you hate me so much?"
And basically, her response was that she didn't hate me. She'd just rather work with me behind that desk than her other options. Considering the mutual dislike and the spiteful working together history we have, this is absolutely astounding.
That other option? That's Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy makes the Laziest Woman in the tri-county area look ambitious. They're both hags, although Miss Piggy is closer to my age than the other one is. But Miss Piggy loves to wear her muffintop so everyone can see it...and she's always saying "What?" whenever she hears something that means she might have to actually do her job.
Most recently, my dealing with her involved my having to repeat myself seventeen times for her to explain to me "There's 4 registers out there. Can't you just get tape from one of them?" I repeatedly told her that I'd already checked, before I called her, and there was no tape to be had, unless she brought it.
Last night, she thought that a customer should wait 40 minutes until the guy who does the grunt work got back from his lunch hour. Or, that I should do her paging/calling for someone else for her.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Sorry, Piggs, but I've already done the thing where I do someone else's job for 'em, and all it gets me is a helluva lot of extra stress I don't need. Yer on yer own.
So, between Miss Piggy and me, I'm the lesser of two evils. HAH!
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Stand
Elementary School morning drop off = NIGHTMARE.
That, right there, could be the entire post, but I feel the need to be more specific.
Way back when the Howler was in Kindergarten, morning drop off was a free-for-all. Parking in the drive/drop off lane, no adult supervision any where near the drop off area....the cleaning out of car trunks while a thousand other people tried to unload the children in their morning care.
Things improved...if you call 10% less stress and the addition of 2 aides to supervise unloading an improvement. I did.
When the aides actually DO supervise and AIDE the unloading, it's not nearly as bad as it was just a few years ago.
But what we have now is the same 2 aides, obviously very much over the AIDE part of their jobs. I thank God every morning that my daughter does not have contact with either of these two women during her school day.
When it's arctic cold, they huddle in the doorway. When it's not so arctic cold, they stand, chatting with each other (my paranoia says that they're actually talking about those families currently dropping off children) and ignoring the stupidity that could be avoided. If there were actually AIDING going on during unloading.
Today's particular rant is inspired by the fact that once I finally get into the drop off lane, I'm waiting....and waiting....and waiting to pull forward.
Dunno what's happening, and I'm too far back to see. Finally, one of the unaides moves forward a few steps. She stops and the vehicle--with it's passenger side door still hanging wide open, is pulling forward.
I pull forward far enough to unload the Howler--remarkably enough, not late yet--and as I drive away, that car door is still wide open, Mom is on the passenger side with her child....and the unaides are still just standing there. The vehicle in question is still mostly in the lane, and those leaving have to swerve into the already narrow path of those incoming.
Am I being ridiculous to think that A) if you're old enough to have a driver's license and a school-age child, you're old enough to know that driving any distance with a child in the seat next to the wide-open door is flat-out a Darwin Award looking to happen and B) any adult being paid to actually HELP families unload their urchins should actually be HELPING. Even if it means moving quickly enough to get that door closed, and have the idiot driving pull into an actual parking space.
I want so badly to let the school know that their unaides are part of the morning drop off problem, but I've already had to complain about ceiling tiles in the Howler's classroom becoming water logged and falling...
Somehow, I think I hear "off the deep end" being spoken in my near future.
That, right there, could be the entire post, but I feel the need to be more specific.
Way back when the Howler was in Kindergarten, morning drop off was a free-for-all. Parking in the drive/drop off lane, no adult supervision any where near the drop off area....the cleaning out of car trunks while a thousand other people tried to unload the children in their morning care.
Things improved...if you call 10% less stress and the addition of 2 aides to supervise unloading an improvement. I did.
When the aides actually DO supervise and AIDE the unloading, it's not nearly as bad as it was just a few years ago.
But what we have now is the same 2 aides, obviously very much over the AIDE part of their jobs. I thank God every morning that my daughter does not have contact with either of these two women during her school day.
When it's arctic cold, they huddle in the doorway. When it's not so arctic cold, they stand, chatting with each other (my paranoia says that they're actually talking about those families currently dropping off children) and ignoring the stupidity that could be avoided. If there were actually AIDING going on during unloading.
Today's particular rant is inspired by the fact that once I finally get into the drop off lane, I'm waiting....and waiting....and waiting to pull forward.
Dunno what's happening, and I'm too far back to see. Finally, one of the unaides moves forward a few steps. She stops and the vehicle--with it's passenger side door still hanging wide open, is pulling forward.
I pull forward far enough to unload the Howler--remarkably enough, not late yet--and as I drive away, that car door is still wide open, Mom is on the passenger side with her child....and the unaides are still just standing there. The vehicle in question is still mostly in the lane, and those leaving have to swerve into the already narrow path of those incoming.
Am I being ridiculous to think that A) if you're old enough to have a driver's license and a school-age child, you're old enough to know that driving any distance with a child in the seat next to the wide-open door is flat-out a Darwin Award looking to happen and B) any adult being paid to actually HELP families unload their urchins should actually be HELPING. Even if it means moving quickly enough to get that door closed, and have the idiot driving pull into an actual parking space.
I want so badly to let the school know that their unaides are part of the morning drop off problem, but I've already had to complain about ceiling tiles in the Howler's classroom becoming water logged and falling...
Somehow, I think I hear "off the deep end" being spoken in my near future.
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Clash of the Titans
So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
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