Sunday, March 28, 2010

The Last Dance

God, how I loathe you washer.  I seriously do.

It's like you have something against me, like you're trying to get back at me for those hours and hours of relentless abuse you've been dealt.  But I didn't do it.  I'm not the one that stuffed 17 pairs of jeans into you.  I'm not that one that crammed 89 towels into you.  It wasn't me.  So, tell me.  Why MUST you insist on hurting ME? 

I'm sick of chasing your ass around the laundry room.  It's old.  I try to treat you with the respect you deserve.  Weekly I wash you and shine you up with Windex.  I take the cap off your agitator and scrub down your insides (and they do NOT smell good, I might add).  I defend you when others say harsh things about you.  They have called you "crap" and "junk" and threatened to replace you.  I stand up in your defense - always.  "It's been a good machine.  It didn't cost much, and we've gotten 6 solid years out of it - 15-20 loads a week that washer has handled." 

But then, you pull this shit on me.  Time and time again.  Today - over a SINGLE pair of softball pants.  They weren't heavy.  You weren't overloaded.  You weren't tired.  It was only your 6th load of the day - and this is the fucking respect I got from you:

Now.  I've had it.  I'm SICK.OF.YOUR.SHIT.  I can't take it anymore.  I'm too old and too tired and weak to continue to put you in your place.  If Daughter #2 hadn't alerted me to the fact that you were out dancing around the laundry room, you would have likely shoved your way out that window and made a clean break.  Lucky for you, I have her.  You're not going anywhere old friend.  So you might as well just BUCK UP and know your place - against the wall - wedged between the utility sink and dryer.  Any other location other than that is, well... UNACCEPTABLE.

You've been warned. 

Do I Read YOUR Blog?

To my dear cousin over at Fuck yeh, I read your blog.  Every day of my life.  Every single day, I get up and immediately race to the computer to read your blog.  I love your blog because it is the antithesis of my blog.  I'm on an undecipherable rant, and you're praising the day for picking up poop.

I'm bitching at my husband bragging about getting shit done over here - BIG shit - you know like painting and building and deconstructing shit and you've got a fucking sheep in your kitchen.  I saw a puppy with hip-displasia last night and informed my 7 year old that it will likely be put to sleep.  FOREVER.  Because, THAT is the way the world works.  You, on the other hand,  bring the fucking lamb into your kitchen, teach it to shit on a pad and call your photographer to race over to take an updated family photo that includes your newest addition.

I'm having an anxiety attack on a daily basis, trying to figure out how to juggle being a SUPER mom and a career woman while you're over there doing counted cross-stitch or some other fancy shmancy needlecraft - and also you're bragging about it while you're doing it - - - "I've completed 21 squares!"  Well zippy for you!  I SOLD all my craft shit on eBay about 6 years ago - EVERY single last unfinished project I ever started and saved for a rainy day. Well, Noah called and said it was going to RAIN - ALOT, so I gathered them all up and sold them ALL.  They are ALL gone.  And with their departure, I came to realize that I SUCK at crafts.  SUCK.  (Speaking of which, I do have $400 worth of jewelry making gear over here - ya know, cuz I wanted a fucking pink bangle or something one day). 

You think it's cute and funny when your kids bounce the ball in your house.  As a matter of fact, you do not even have a ball bouncing rule in your house.  What.the.fuck kind of shit is that?  I have a rule about bouncing balls in my house.  It's real fucking simple:  DON'T.  Or you will die.  See.  It's easy.  You bounce a ball within 15' of me, I pop that fucker with a nail gun.  Ball is gone, problem is solved - QUIT CRYING - Jesus.  It's a ball.  And I TOLD you NOT to bounce it. 

You write about walking around town or in stores, smiling at people, waving and saying hello.  I, on the other hand, am the one walking through the store, staring back at you with *that look* - you know, the "What.the.fuck are you looking at?" look.  That's me.  And also, because I'm polite, I even once rammed an old lady with my shopping buggy because she was in my way and her ass was fat and I needed to get by her.  But don't worry, I was happy after I rammed her.  As a matter of fact - I continued humming "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" as I was finally able to pass her fat ass.  That's how I roll!  You, however, would have likely stopped and spoken to the old fatty in a nice and respectful tone, offered to complete her shopping for her and then had her over to dinner that night. 

I don't know how you do it.  I really don't.  But your continual happiness and joy over life is really killing my ability to write shitty stuff in my blog.  The fucking pressure to compete with you is unreal.  Every day, I sit down to write something in my blog, and I'm all like, "No.  That's mean.  No.  That's not nice.  No.  People will think I'm ungrateful."  I cannot fucking deal with it.  I'm my OWN person and I will NOT succumb to your peer pressure of eternal fucking bliss in a world that is so, well, easy to poke fun at. 

So from here on out - we gotta take sides - you be the good cousin, I'll be the bad cousin.  That means you wear the halo and I get the horns.  But because I know you better than some of your other so-called followers, you can carry the pitchfork, you'll need it to shovel that sheep shit out of your kitchen anyway!!

Painting Saga continued....

Husband:  What are your plans for the day?

Me:  I'm going to paint Daughter #1's closet - I should be able to knock it out in a few hours


Me:  What?

Husband:  Nothing.

So I go about my business, getting my paint clothes on, getting shit ready, gathering up the rollie thingie and plastic dealie and tape and other essentials.  But WHERE is the paint? 

Me:  Where is the paint we bought?

*HEAVY SIGH.  Lots of stomping*

1/2 hour later.....

I find the husband in the garage stirring the paint I had inquired about. 

Husband:  This paint is likely no good.  It's glumpy.

Me:  Does it really matter how good it is?  It's going in a closet.  Can I please get started?


.....  So the husband helps paint because I'm too fucking stupid to use the rollie thingie and the brush dealie and all those other deadly tools that are required for painting. 

Husband:  You're doing it wrong.

Me:  What?  What am I doing wrong?  Holding the rollie thingie wrong?  I didn't know there was a right way.

Husband:  No.  You're supposed to cut in first, then roll. 

Me:  According to whom?  I always do it this way.

Husband:  That's why it always looks like shit when you do it.

Me:  Really? Because I thought it looked like shit because you do a shitty job of cutting in and also because you're too chintzy with the paint.  I had no idea that the order in which you use the deadly painting tools had anything to do with the outcome of the job.

Husband:  Well, it does and you're doing it wrong and GOD DAMMIT now look at my shirt - It's fucking covered in paint.

Me:  Well, why did you wear a non-painting shirt to paint in and why did you brush up against the wall in your goin' out t-shirt? 

Husband:  I don't get paint on myself so I wear anything I have.

Me:  I don't.  I wear  a PAINT shirt - one that I don't give a shit if it gets ruined or not.  And you did just get paint on yourself.

Husband:  NO.  I got paint on myself because you are doing it wrong.

Me:  Okay Michelangelo, whatever you say.

I love weekend together time!  It's so rewarding and fun to do home projects together! 

Almost Done!

We are what I like to refer to as "Eighty-percenters."  This means that we start projects and finish them to about 80% completion, then start the next project.  It's like we don't *get* that the last 20% is the most critical and also typically the most time consuming part of any project.  As a result, most of our house appears about 80% completed which is totally frustrating and almost paralyzing.

We still haven't finished Daughter #1's room.  This weekend we had to paint the interior of the closet because she and her gal pals had previously painted it about 7 different colors, and since she opts to not have the doors on the closet, it was imperative we get it painted back to white so it goes with the new decor in her room.  It's painted and the paint is drying, but we need a new hanger bar thingie majigger dealie bopper installed so she can actually PUT the clothes away.  She won't be able to put away clothes that were in a dresser in that closet, because  the old dresser - it's jacked up and a new one had to be ordered.  *NOTE:  Do not paint dressers with latex paint, then attempt to strip - especially if they are constructed of particle board - BIG MESS - GIANT MESS*  The headboard needs installed and the pictures need hung. 

I'm not sure that stuff will get done today or even tomorrow, because the husband has moved on to a new project - helping a friend build a cabinet for our new oven.  The one we purchased nearly 2 years ago and has been sitting in the garage ever since.  Right next to the pallete of tile and double sink counter thingie we purchased 3 years ago.  The new oven IS new - never been used.  It was about a $2,000 oven, purchased on Purple Wave for only $250.  But it needs a handle and a piece of trim.  The husband suggested that we could use the oven without these items once the new cabinet is completed.  WRONG.  Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that oven will stay like that, without a handle for the rest of my life if I don't get the parts ordered NOW so they are ready for installation along with the oven.  I know the cabinet will get done - a friend is in charge of that project - and he always finishes things. 

The railing is off the deck also.  Just in one small part - it needed replaced - but now, instead of just replacing it, the husband has moved on to looking at stain colors and babbling about possibly reconstructing part of the deck and blah blah blah.  Nothing is ever simple with him.  When we set out to paint this closet yesterday, he started de-constructing it.  What.the.fuck.  It's a closet - just PAINT it all - no need to rip out all the built in shelves, etc.  Seriously.  There is something in his head that instructs him to begin all projects with full-on implosion and razing, start from ground zero. 

We are 6 weeks out from the prodigal son's graduation and will be hosting a luncheon here - I'd like some of this stuff put back together before then.  But frankly, I'm not expecting it to actually become my reality.  Instead, my reality is the constant splainin' of how "we're in the midst of yada yada yada" - yeh.  For like 4 years we're in the midst of it. 

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Big Effin Deal

I totally ordered this shirt this morning:

Thank you!!!  I ordered this shirt because I think it's funny.  It's funny that the Vice President of the US of A's got busted dropping the *f* bomb to the President.  AH HA HA!!!  Leave it to poor Joe Biden - our next potatoe man.  I LOVE a Vice President that goes around and says dumb shit instead of one who just runs around accidentally shooting his hunting buddies.  Accidental my ass.  Once, maybe an accident.  But seriously, after that - it's pretty much a dead giveaway that the *hunting* was not so much.

I also love that the media is making such a HUGE deal out of the comment.  HE DROPPED THE *F* BOMB IN THE PRESIDENT'S EAR!!!!!  Because we're in 1802 and NO ONE uses the *f* word EVER, at least not the President.  Or the Vice President.  Or anyone else famous or powerful or classy.  I'm glad he did it.  It makes both he and Obama seem more "real" - you know?  They're like real people to me now - I bet they drop the *f* bomb all day at the White House and never think twice about it.  I am quite certain the first time the first family walked in to check out their new digs, the first daughters said, "Whoa! This place is fucking awesome!"  And the whole family was like, "Wow!  Now we need a fucking dog!"  And I'm sure every day they wake up and start the day with, "Where in the fuck is Osama Bin Laden?"

I also think it's funny that the kid in California is so put out by the whole Joe Biden big fucking deal comment.  Because he's 17 and founded the "No Cussing Club" - what is he?   The sole fucking member of the club?  It's not a club if you're the only fucking person in it punk.  And also I wondered how many times a week he gets his ass kicked by classmates for trying to solicit their membership into his elite club.  I mean seriously, What.the.fuck is wrong with his parents?  I have ALWAYS encouraged my children to NOT get involved in shit or beliefs that will result in daily ass kickings by mean high school kids.  I ought to write his parents a hate letter and give them some advice about raising teenagers.

So when my shirt gets here - I am SO wearing it out in public - I may even wear it to work just to stir shit up and also because someone actually had the audacity to ask what the CEO thought of the whole thing during our company meeting the other day.  You don't talk about politics at work people - come on - pull yourself together already.  But since you asked, I'll be happy to 'splain - just as soon as my shirt gets here!

Tuesday, March 23, 2010


Why have I never seen a squirrel attempting to cross a 4 lane highway?  I'm just sayin' is all.  I've never seen it - have you?

Monday, March 22, 2010


I just checked my earnings from my Ads - see them?  The ones there on the right of the screen?  THEY ARE RIGHT THERE PEOPLE - TO YOUR RIGHT>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I've already earned $.03 in just over a month!  I'm rich bitch!

Monday Musings

Well I made it.  Through the first day back to work after vacation, that is.  I did not wake up at 5:30, because when the alarm went off, I decided it was asinine that I put that much pressure on myself - I have an 11 minute drive and I just have to be there sometime before 8:00 - so getting up at 5:30 is really just one more ridiculous over-achiever task I've assigned to myself.  Instead, I got up at 6:20 and it felt good!  I was rested, I moved through the morning routine with ease, made myself breakfast, loaded up my ziplock baggie of vitamins and was in the door of Company X by 7:45 a.m.! 

I didn't suffer a nervous breakdown, although I did notice that I was sweating profusely for some unexplained reason.  I wasn't hot.  Or at least I didn't think I was.  I made a note to get some of that clinical strength deoderant if this is the way it's going to be again this summer. 

I even came home at lunch and exercised for 30 minutes and made it back to my office within the hour!  At around 3:00, the phone rang and despite the fact that my last rodeo with that phone before I left on vacation was a hideous experience, I grabbed that phone by the neck and answered it with a renewed fervor.  And the nice lady on the other end was so dumbfounded to hear my voice that it made me giggle inside!  "BLEACH BLONDE!!!  Aren't you kind of high up on the food chain to be answering the phone?"  Nope - not today - I'm short on staff and I'm here to serve!  THEN, when I was actually able to assist her and take her through a 45 minute impromptu training session over the Web, she said, "I'm terribly impressed- you not only answer the phone, but you're a VIP that knows the product!"  Yeh.  I've been here a couple years! 

I went outside and skipped around the building!  Mainly because my knees were aching from sitting and having that chair glued to my ass all day - something has GOT to be done about that sitting thing.  It's killing my knees and hips.  Maybe I'll just start skipping around the office at different intervals throughout the day.  I bet that would scare everyone in the office into thinking I'd finally lost my mind?  It's a thought worth pondering more.  I'll add it to my handy dandy notebook.

At 5:05, I packed up and ended the day.  It felt good to be in the daylight with my little family, cooking dinner and we even had ALL the kids at the table to eat tonight!  Since it was still daylight after we cleaned up the kitchen, the girls and I headed out for a walk with the dog so Daughter #1 could unload some ridiculously priced fund-raising "discount cards" on some unsuspecting neighbors!  And because the husband is so perfectly wonderful, he noticed it was dark out and drove around looking for us to give us a ride home!  The day is good great!

Tomorrow night, graduation party committee meeting - my house.  Should be interesting!  You'll definitely want to read that post!

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Hi Ho Hi Ho

Well this is it.  My last day of vacation.  My hands are shaking and my stomach is in knots.  This is how the last day of every vacation goes.  And the sun is not shining, because evidently the sun does not ever shine here anymore.  And also, I am finding myself wishing away weeks of my life so I can fast forward to the time of year when the sun shines so hot you can fry an egg on the driveway.  I think I could tolerate the coldness in March, and the 6" of snow on the ground - if only the sun would shine.  How do people that live in Seattle deal with this?   They are likely the reason Prozac was invented. 

I'm trying to determine if we had a good time on our staycation?  Did we do enough with the kids?  Did they have fun?  I think they did.  I think we got out and moved around and I think we got some shit done that needed to get done.  I know we spent a lot of money - because I already started feeling anxiety over that fact about last Tuesday, even though I kept spending through Friday. 

I am going to go into this week with a positive attitude - getting back into the healthy routine I started before, yet abandoned during, my vacation - eating breakfast, exercising, eating healthy, nutritously balanced meals and taking my fistfuls of vitamins and mineral supplements that I have convinced myself I need and that make me feel better.  I don't know why I abandon those things when I don't go to work?  Maybe it's because I'm all relaxed and also because my ass isn't glued to a chair 12 hours a day so I feel like I'm exercising all day anyway? 

My days won't be spent listening to funny stories told by my kids, or laughing with my husband, or cajoling with friends.  Instead they will be filled with meetings and discussions about hard shit that I don't have a quick and easy answer to.  The lists I make will not consist of items that are simple to accomplish and won't get crossed off in a methodical manner.  The sense of daily accomplishment won't wash over me as I leave the office on a daily basis like it does when I tackle my at-home "to-do" list.  Instead it will loom over me, haunting me and cause me emotional drainage and suck away at my soul. 

When I returned to work after a two week vacation around Christmas, I had come to terms with this - I had finally "divorced" my job in that I had come to the realization that I am not that job - it is just where I go every day and it is how I make a living and support my family - but it's not *me*.  So I will spend the day today reflecting and putting my mind back in that place.  Because that is the only way I can *deal with it*.  That means that I will tackle that daunting list of shit to accomplish at work, with fervor and drive, but when I leave at 5:00 - the list will have to stay there - and I will have to momentarily forget its existence - until the next day. 

And then there's the whole "I hope I can get up at 5:30 a.m." anxiety thing going on.  I haven't been sleeping in until noon, but I have been sleeping in until 6:30, 7:30 and even one day until 8:30 each morning.  That shit won't fly come tomorrow.  Since the sun never shines and since it's now daylight savings time, I'm pretty sure it will be dark at 5:30 a.m. when the alarm so rudely awakens me tomorrow.  I probably won't sleep tonight because I'll be having nightmares about forgetting to put my pants on and showing up to work with my marshmallow ass hanging out for the world to see, or about all my teeth crumbling and falling out while I'm talking to someone on the phone.  It happens - this is the anxiety and emotional turmoil I've come to know and loathe as *normal*. 

Oh and there will likely also be crying.  The over-whelming anxiety of the return typically releases its final torment in the form of water works.  Hopefully they come today and not tomorrow - I hear its supposed to be cold again tomorrow and I really hate pacing around the building outside and having the tears freeze to my cheeks while I make a very hasty attempt to regain my composure and pull up my big girl panties and deal with it.  Not to mention it screws up my mascara.

So, I'm off - off to delve into some organizational type activities that get my mind back into the groove of being a working mom, things that will save me time and effort during my work week, things that remind me just how fucking cool and "with it" I really am.  A lot of people think I have my shit together - I've got an image to uphold here - I don't have time for a nervous breakdown.  Not now.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Tomfoolery at the Parade

Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day.  This is a big day for us - HUGE!  We always go downtown to watch the parade, then have a big party at our house afterwards.  Rain or shine, hot or cold, we are there.  The parade route was new this year, actually it seems that it's been different every year, now that I think about it.  I'm not sure if the planning committee is trying to find the "perfect" route or just trying to fuck with me.  Likely the latter - that's how committees are.  So we have to drive the route the night before to scope out the perfect spot for the next day.  I decide we'll camp out at the end of the route, because there will be fewer people which is pretty important because I cannot stand crowds and crowds of people, and also because it was close to an inside bathroom.  It is odd that I'd even go to a parade, given my phobia of crowds, but whatever.

I got up at 5:30 in the morning to get ready and load up the family car for the big day.  We left the house by 8:30 as planned and no one was even crying.  Of course, we woke up to the entire yard covered in toilet paper and one of the vehicles wrapped in cellophane.  Thanks.  Punks.  (It's still there, by the way, because evidently NO ONE'S friends did it and we're all trying to figure out which one of us is no one and thereby responsible for cleaning it up).  Anyway - we were able to secure a spot where I wanted, and even able to have our friends park next to us!  So far, so good and my husband didn't even get runned over by any other people trying to park!  (That's a whole other story I'll have to share in a separate post)  Oh and the cops were out already - in full force, making damned certain no one had a lick of fun.  And because our city is broke, the meter maids were out in full service, ticketing people who weren't feeding the meters while they were waiting for the parade.  I'm not even joking.

Since the parade doesn't start until High Noon and because we were at the end of the parade, we had several hours to kill.  So we walked a block down to an old hotel where we'd found a party in years past.  Nothing.  No bagpipers, no old men in kilts and no people.  Just empty.  What.the.fuck.  So we walked a few more blocks to another place and found some free booze.  It was already at least 9:30 and I hadn't had my first drink, which was strange because normally I can't even walk by that time of the day.  We drank our free Irish Coffee and headed back to our vehicle - where we promptly piled in as many people as we possibly could - kind of like clowns in a Volkswagon but we were drunks in an SUV instead.

And of course, because I'm lucky like a fucking charm, a mini-van full of white trash parked next to us.  Two fat hogs unwedged themselves from the front seats, slid open the side doors and started in with their white-trashery.  "God Damn you fucking brat, I'm going to beat your fucking ass.  How many times do I have to re-do your fucking ponies today?  Quit fucking touching them!"  I got out to see the fucking brat that this classy bitch was yelling at - she was 2.  And now wailing.  Nice.  Very nice.

Finally the parade started and we all piled out and started watching it.  Evidently it's free to be in the parade because there were tons of cars in the parade.  That's right.  Cars.  Just cars.  I'm not sure if they meant to be in the parade, or just got in the wrong line of traffic actually.  FUCK.  This isn't the funeral procession.  It's.the.fucking.parade.  Oh well, just go with it.  The cars had no music, no signs, nothing.  Just cars.  Where are the floats?  FLOATS!  Where are they?  And the people weren't throwing candy or beads - just handing out coupons or fliers for their business.  Are you fucking kidding me?  I know the economy is in the shitter and all, but people haul their kids down there for the fun of chasing the candy around - children do not get excited about fucking coupons or fliers.  And if the kids aren't excited and happy and chasing candy, guess what?  They're sitting in the fucking car crying and whining.  Thanks. Fuckers.  "Keep those coupons and fliers handy so I can black list every one of those fuckers that ruined my kid's parade."

And then, just when I'd given up all hope, it appeared that the Roto-Rooter truck (yes, that's right, they brought the shit tank to the parade and called it a float) was throwing out Tshirts.  I raced to the edge of the road, knocked a kid over and yelled "ME!  ME!!"  And they threw one to me!!!!  YAY!!  Only, when I got it, I realized it was NOT a t-shirt - it was a roll of toilet paper.  I am not even making this shit up people.  They were throwing out rolls of toilet paper.  I had a yard full of toilet paper, I wanted a fucking t-shirt.  Jesus.  This parade fucking sucks - What.the.fuck is that?  A kid, walking along holding a Guitar Hero guitar - in the parade.  Hey!  Dumbass!  That's a plastic fucking guitar and it's not even real and you are not even a float.  Get the fuck out of my parade.  Seriously. 

And the older kids that were on trailers or in cars were all either talking or texing on their phones.   Hey!  I can see that shit at home.  WAVE AT ME LIKE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO!!!  Why is this parade so fucked up this year?  Where is the fucking Grand Master of the Parade?  I could not find him anywhere and it occurred to me that I hadn't even seen his dumb ass at the front of the parade like I was supposed to.  I appointed myself the Grand Master of the Parade and started barking out orders and trying to get the shit organized, but because we were at the end of the route, no one was listening to me and they were all like, "Bitch.  The parade is OVER.  We are just driving back to work here and we're not even IN the parade."  WHAT?  Where are the fucking horsies?  I did not see the fucking horsies.  I called out to a Police Cadet (who had so conveniently parked her ass next to my vehicle the entire time making it tricky for me to drink my beer, but because I am a professional and also because this was not my first rodeo, I was able to out-smart her), anyway I yelled out, "YO!  Cadet!  Where are the fucking horsies?  That is how I know the parade is over - the horsies trot by, then the street sweeper.  No horses this year ma'am. 

No horsies.  Total bullshit.  We loaded up and got the hell out of there.  And as we drove off we proclaimed it to be the LAST parade we would go to.  It's total bullshit that a homeless fucker can just slip in with the parade with one lame ass raggedy streamer on his arm and call himself a float.  It's total bullshit that the greedy businesses couldn't spare the money to buy candy to toss out.  It's total bullshit I got a roll of toilet paper instead of beads.  Next year we're just going to line the kids up in the backyard and throw candy at them from the lawn tractor and call it a parade, because evidently the word has been re-defined.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

The Torture Chamber

Today we went to the torture chamber dentist for our semi-annual checkup. I actually made it through the entire appointment without a single Xanax.  That's saying a lot considering that 8 years ago they had to give me 6 at a time to get me in the chair.  My husband would drag me into the office, kicking and screaming and crying, "NO!  I don't want to go!  I won't do it!"  They'd ask if I needed drugged and he would promptly beg, PLEASE.  "How much do you weigh?"  Oh, about 300 pounds.  They bought it every time and they'd hand me 6 of those little gems in a paper cup and tell me stick them under my tongue. Next thing I'd remember, it was three days later.  It was great!  Now they just put a weighted vest on me to hold me in the victim's chair and my husband doesn't go.  I'm actually able to drive myself to the office, walk in and announce my presence and sit down.  I still cry when they call my name.  "Bleach blonde - let's go!"  No.  And I sit.  "Bleach blonde, seriously, you did it last time, you'll be fine."  NO!  Bring the drugs.  But because I had my kids with me, and also because they were rolling their eyes and crawling under the couch in embarrassment, I finally got up and plodded back *there*. 

It was 18 degrees back *there*, so I kept my down coat on, and I added my gloves - to avoid the typical bloody hand syndrome I end up with after digging my own nails into my hands for the duration of the torture cleaning.  She hands me some safety goggles, which might I add, is just fucked up.  Safety goggles?  Jesus.  There's something totally fucked up about a check-up procedure that requires safety goggles.  Next she hands me a handful of staples and tells me to chew on them for a bit.  Satisfied that I'm sufficiently tortured at this point, she removes the staples and hands me a handful of rubber shards and tells me to chew on those.  So I do and at about the time I think I might throw up from the rubber chewing, she shoots water that is 1 degree from the freezing point into my mouth and onto every single tooth, and as I near the point of drowning, she sticks a vacuum in my mouth and saves my life.  For the final step, she grabs a spool of gardening twine and jabs it between every tooth. "There!  You're done!  You look perfect!" 

I can't imagine that I actually look perfect after chewing on staples and rubber for 20 minutes, nor can I believe I actually lived to talk about it.  But I did.  And I'll be back in 6 months to do it all over again.  I can hardly wait to see what fucked up shit they dream up between now and then.  It's always an adventure in horror.


We have successfully remodeled Daughter #1's bedroom and we're still married!  It was questionable there for a bit, but just as the divorce papers arrived for signing, the last task was completed and we were saved. 

My husband is a contractor by trade - earning a living by remodeling rooms and such for people who are too lazy or less handy than he.  In his mind, this makes him the expert on the subject matter.  I, on the other hand, have made a 2nd career by virtue of completing literally hundred of DIY projects around the various homes in which I've lived, not to mention the thousands of hours of programming I've watched on HGTV education I've received. Therefore, the way I see it- I am the expert and he is simply a novice getting his feet wet in the industry. 

The fun always starts at Lowes.  I have a list and race in the store to start grabbing my items and tossing them into the buggy. As I toss the items in, he pulls them out and reads the instructions on them, questioning my decisions.  I don't give a shit about instructions - just slop the shit on, if it doesn't work, make it work or use some other shit.  That's how I roll.  He, on the other hand, likes to be 100% certain everything is "just so".  As a result, I spend most of my time at Lowes with my eyes rolled back into my head, muttering under my breath.  We wanted to paint a dresser black as a part of this little project, and after he'd finished reading the back of every can of paint in the store and relentlessly quizzing the help, he woke me up from my nap and I reluctantly crawled out of the buggy to go pay for our items. 

I wasn't sure we'd make it through the priming of the walls without killing each other - the primer wasn't going on correctly, it was clumping and peeling and not covering the walls at all.  He just stood back and left my pleas for help unanswered.  What.the.fuck is wrong with this paint?  Why.the.fuck will it not go on correctly?  Convinced it was ME who was not properly applying the paint, because you know how fucking hard it is to use that roller thingiemabopper, he finally grabbed the roller and set out to school me on how it's done.  Well it didn't roll on for him correctly either.  We finally just decided it would require two coats and continued on our path of destruction creation.

We argued over the proper order in which to paint the walls and trim.  I paint trim first, then paint walls.  He says the opposite is the correct way.  I like to stay busy and keep the various projects moving, he prefers to take long breaks between projects, waiting for each coat of paint to dry completely before starting the next step.  I move in sequence.  If you start on one wall, by the time you finish the last wall, the first wall is ready for coat #2. And so it goes.  Keep moving, I bark.  As we wait for coat #2 to dry, I start de-glossing the dresser.  He rolls his eys and says I'm doing it wrong and will fuck it up and tries to remove himself from the project team.  "I'm not fucking it up - I'm getting shit done - that is the reason I get more shit done in a day than you do - all this sitting around waiting for shit to dry is a fucking waste of your life- TIME IS MONEY!  TIME IS MONEY!"  Daughter #1 continues to work, following MY instruction - because clearly I am the brains of the operation here.  Daughter #2 is in tears because I won't let her paint or use the deglosser or the razor knife even though she has on her full Spider Man costume, including mask and protective eyewear.  The husband  points out a drip of paint that I've left behind - so I slap him across the face with my brush and leave his right cheek covered in white paint.  "Is that how it's done, Master?  Is that better?" 

By the time we went to bed on the first day, we had successfully gotten 2 coats of primer and one coat of paint on the walls, completed the trim, finished 1/2 of the cutting in and painted that damned dresser.  "See how much we got done doing it my way?"  I asked.  He didn't answer.  Likely because he knew I was right.  Day #2 - he needed to do the cutting in part up by the ceiling.  I don't do that.  Namely because he only has paint brushes that are geared more for painting the side of a barn and I'm just not that steady with the hand.  Daughter #1 and I set out to finish the rest of the wall painting - we were on a mission - we could finish this room by the end of day 2.  I just knew it.  I send the husband out to assemble a new ceiling fan while I steam clean the carpets in the room.  After about 1/2 hour, I go looking for him.  He's there - in the garage - looking at the unopened ceiling fan boxes.  What.the.fuck is he doing?  Jesus, I cannot leave him alone for a second and he get side tracked.  By what, I have no clue.  I help him assemble said fan - and it goes up. 

Next, on to the curtains. Well the old rods are too short, so we need to run to Hell Walmart for some new rods.  He thinks he'll take a break while we're gone - I can see it in his eyes - I tell him to keep moving - get the brackets hung while we're gone because that will mean he's a step ahead of us and we're not stuck waiting on him when we get back.  I can hear him as we leave - muttering something about the new rods will have new brackets, and then a bunch of jibberish that sounded like blah blah blah excuses excuses excuses to me.  Because I'm classy, I yell from my car window as we leave the driveway, "just get the fucking brackets on the wall before we get back!"  And also because I'm very mature and a good role model, I roll my eyes back into my head as I look at Daughter #1 and crank up the radio. 

We get back with the new rods and he's actually gotten the brackets up on the walls as demanded requested, but he's got some line string contraption thingie going and tells us how difficult it was to get them up there and get them level and yada yada yada blah blah blah.  I lovingly respond, "Hmm.  Okay, get that shit down off the wall and let's get these curtains hung.  We are a full day ahead of schedule here thanks to me." 

While he drags out wraps up the finishing touches in the room (I have NO clue what those were), I do 2 loads of laundry, scrub out the interior of the fridge, de-scum and scour a bathtub and cook and dice 10 pounds of potatoes I need for St. Patrick's Day.  He enters the kitchen and proclaims he needs to sit on the couch for the rest of the night because his feet and back hurt.  I again lovingly respond to his needs, "I'm working my ass off here and trying to get this shit done and my feet hurt too but I'm not stopping - do you see me stopping?"  So he hobbles into the kitchen and helps me finish my St. Patrick's Day preparations. 

This morning he made me coffee.  He hugged me.  He kissed me on the forehead.  I think it's a cover up for the plotting of my death that he has goin' on.  I think the hit man he hired instructed him to act that way toward me.  I'm suspect.  I'm taking the kids and myself to the torture chamber dentist this morning, then we're all going to get our hairs cut and our caterpillars trimmed this afternoon.  I think the husband is doing a happy dance right now - he says he is going to work.  I seriously doubt much work gets done by him when I'm not there to boss his ass around all day.  I bet if I bought out his company and appointed myself his foreman, we'd be millionaires.  I'm going to write that in my handy dandy notebook as something to consider for our future.  He'll appreciate that I think.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Party Planning

So, late last summer, the mom of one of the prodigal son's friend contacted me and asked if we wanted to do a joint graduation party with them and two other families.  I checked with the prodigal son, because it is HIS graduation, not mine, and of course he said he wanted to do that.  Good enough, I like two of the families well enough and socialize with them and I like all the boys, so what could possibly go wrong, right?

Well, about a month after that, there was the great fender bender debacle of Fall 2009 which forever changed my feelings about one of the mothers of this group of boys, wherein she showed her true colors.  I didn't know her well and had only met her and her husband on one or two occasions - they seemed nice enough and since they liked to drink beer, I was certain we would eventually become great friends.  I was mistaken. 

After the great fender bender debacle, this woman proceeded to phone me on a daily basis for about 2 months - to rehash the same shit over and over and over again.  Her son was perfect, he never made bad choices, he always acted responsibly, he never did wrong and if he was going down, they were all going down.  Her shit got old after the first couple of times she called.  But by the end of two months, I'd really grown weary of listening to her.  We'd paid for and provided all repairs to the vehicles involved in the great fender bender debacle, we'd moved on - it was over.  Done.  Finito.  The boys had all long since forgotten about the accident and had kissed and made up and they, too, had moved on to other things in life.  But not her, she'd made a career out of bitching about it and seeking justice for her perfect son.  Finally, one day I just told her, "Look, wanna be biker bitch, I have a full-time job and it's not listening to you or worrying about this shit.  We've done our part to right the wrong done and I'm over it.  I don't want to hear any more about it." 

We didn't speak again until the first of what would become, evidently, a long series of planning meetings for this graduation party.  I showed up to the first meeting, with my full list of guests to invite, including my son's list of classmates - with the intent that the others would do the same so we could determine how much overlap there was in the guest lists and attempt to get a count for invitations and food.  No one else had a list.  Great.  This is going well so far.  So they looked at my list, decided that would also be their list and that we'd just plan on 200.  Up next, food discussions.  Everyone was throwing out ideas, I wanted to keep it simple and CHEAP.  I'll be damned if I'm going to spend a million dollars to feed a bunch of high school kids.  They wanted to do shaved lunch meat.  Right.  At $7.99/lb I don't think that's a good idea - I suggested instead we buy the meat raw, cook it and shave it ourselves.  Pretty soon, they're all arguing with each other over this idea, and while I tried to interject my knowledge into the conversation, wanna be biker bitch just kept talking louder and louder and she HAD thrown a party last year and she knew it all. 

I tend to avoid confrontation, so I just sat there and let myself get mowed over by her, but finally the greatest husband in the universe had had enough and he spoke up - quite loudly - "Look, my wife (that's ME!) has thrown many large parties and done tons of research about catering because she wants to start a catering business - I am pretty sure she knows the pricing and shit off the top of her head."  It was quiet for a 1/100th of a second, and biker bitch started in again - about the fucking shaved lunch meat.  Fuck it.  So I finally suggested we just do a price comparison to verify the pricing and that the next time we meet we could make a decision.  She agreed that was a good idea because, like her son, she is never wrong and I know that she was thinking that she would end up right in this argument and I would be proven wrong. 

This shit continues on about what to serve, potato salad or no?  And her mother-in-law makes the best potato salad ever.  I seriously doubt that as I'm pretty certain I do - but making potato salad is a shit ton of work and I really didn't want to make the potato salad anyway, so I just agreed that her mother-in-law could make it if she really thought we needed it.  I don't give a shit - I'm likely going to be drinking my dinner through a straw from a Big Gulp cup that night and heavily medicated to deal with the stress and anxiety caused by the whole event, so serve whatever the hell you want and just tell me what my cost is.  We eventually come up with a full list of items needed and decide we need pricing on them to figure out where we're at on expenses - I say I'll get the prices when I go to Sam's the next day (which was already on my agenda for that day) - she pipes in and says, "I have a Sam's membership too so I could go."  What.the.fuck is this god damned deal with Sam's memberships and people acting like having one is a fucking status symbol?  Jesus.  Is it the fucking country club of rural America?  We decide to meet two weeks from the date to discuss again.

The day of meeting #2 arrived and I ended up having a conflict - I'd sent them all the pricing list I'd completed and told them to proceed without me and I'd be there late.  We got there about 45 minutes late and they hadn't discussed a fucking thing or made one decision on anything.  Not really wanting to turn this party planning into a career, I started right in on forcing them to make decisions.  Every time we'd make a decision on an item, biker bitch would pipe in, "I've got a contact that can get that for us cheaper."  Well good.  And then she'd be on the phone with that person, verifying she could get it cheaper.  But also because she has adult ADD, she would never really share with any of us what the outcome of that call was, so at the end of the meeting - we still don't really know if we're getting the paper/plastic goods at Sam's or through her private supplier.  Buns.  How many buns do we need?  Well if we're doing 1/2 dollar sized buns and planning on feeding 200 people, most of whom are high school students - I'm guessing 400-500 buns.  "That's too many buns!"  That's what biker bitch says.  Too many buns.  And she will not shut.the.fuck.up about these fucking buns and the fact that it's too many buns.  She then suggests that instead of getting them at Sam's we can order them from the Wonder Bread store and they will be cheaper.  She'll check into that.  Great.  But in the future, when you send me out to get pricing on shit, why don't you make your fucking suggestions THEN so I don't waste my time on shit you have no intent on using?  Whatever.  But that's too many buns.  She knows, because she threw a party last year for 125 people and that's too many buns.  She looks to her husband to back her on this bun issue.  He looks up from behind his keg o' beer mug and says, "you didn't have enough food at that party."  It took everything I had to not bust out laughing.  "Well it's just too many buns."  Fine.  You know what biker bitch - get however many fucking buns you want - it really doesn't fucking matter to me. 

Then she brings up the great fender bender debacle of Fall 2009 - AGAIN.  WOULD YOU LET IT THE FUCK GO?  Jesus.  She can't - she has to rehash it and tell the story again and again let us all know how her son was jipped in the whole deal and blah blah blah.  Bitch - I'm pretty sure WE got the short-end of the stick on that deal because we were the ones that financially covered the whole thing - it's over - drop it - move on - SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP.

We leave meeting #2 with no decisions about food, hardware or invitations - NONE.  And plan to meet again after spring break.  My frustration level on the way home was fairly high and I couldn't stop bitching about her bitching about those fucking buns.  Jesus.  They're buns.  If you have too many - feed them to the fucking ducks, freeze them, take them to the community kitchen.  They're JUST BUNS.

We normally meet at a local sports bar, but I recently suggested we meet next at our home and they all bring their sons so I can get a picture of the 4 boys together for the invitation, because THAT needs to be done ASAP and getting the boys together is like herding cats.  So far everyone is agreeable to that, but she has to add her two cents in her email response about needing a design layout for the banner we're getting.  I offered to throw together a few designs and asked what format the printer needed the design to be in.  One of the other parents responded with, "we've already talked about this on the side and have ideas."  Well good.  Fuck you.  It's one less fucking thing for me to do.  I mean what.the.fuck.  First off, I'm sick of this woman.   Second off, my son is sick of her son.  Third off, I'm sick of her son. And also fourth off, I've already decided I'm doing a second party the day of graduation for family because this whole thing has turned into such a cluster fuck that I really don't want to go.

I'd like to just call the bitch and tell her that I'm out.  Keep the money I gave you for renting the shelter house - but I'm out.  This whole group planning thing is total bullshit.  I can throw together a party for 500, buy and cook the food and decorate and have it all done in less than 24 hour notice and I can do it for less than $1 per person.  But, yes.  Let's keep meeting and not making any decisions.  Pretty soon it will be the day of and we'll be scrambling to get shit.  The one thing that HAS been decided:  when we go to Sams to buy the shit, the women will all go together to get it.  Oh yay.  That sounds like a fucking blast.  It really does.  I can hardly fucking wait.  Listening to her dumb ass all day is just terribly appealing to me.  NOT. 

For one of the boys, this is the only party he'll have.  His dad was telling us all the things he's going to do at the party for his son, video of his life, etc.  Biker bitch says, "no, because I'm not doing that at this party - I'm doing that on Sunday at the party at our house."  I can't stand to listen to her bossing this dad around so I said, "He can do whatever the hell he wants - this is the ONLY party he's throwing for his son and if he wants to do all that, he can."  So she responds, "Fine.  Then I'm doing it too."  Fucking one-upping bitch.  Can't let anyone else have something she doesn't, can't let any other kid have the spotlight over her son. 

God help me to not punch her in the face at the next meeting.  Help me to remain civil and tactful.  Help me to remember that it's just that fucking important to her to be better than everyone else and to always be right.  I should have never agreed to this joint party.  It's ruining my my son's entire Senior year.

Friday, March 12, 2010


There hasn't been much in the news lately worth talking about - seems like ever since the Olympics ended, nothing is newsworthy enough to mention.  But I can always find the intrigue in just about every tidbit I do hear so I will again, share my top news stories of the week (or past few weeks) with you:

Killer Whale kills trainer.  Ya THINK?  See the name of the animal?  KILLER whale.  This should have been the first clue that these animals are dangerous people.  I'd like to know what dipshit came up with the novel idea to begin with? "Hey!  I know!!!  Let's take a KILLER whale, put it in a tank and have people swim around and fucking ride on its back all day!"  You didn't think that KILLER whale would eventually grow tired of that shit and rebel? 

Kate Gosselin.  I love Kate Gosselin.  I admire her actually.  Some people might say that she was a bitch to her worthless husband Jon and emasculated him - I don't buy that.  He was a spineless, irresponsible whiner and she just told it how it was.  Don't go around bashing her because she said out loud all the things you were thinking in your head but were too afraid to verbalize.  I'm glad to see her back in the news.  Although I'm not sure I like her new barbie doll look.  I liked her edgy reverse mullet better.  And I can't wait to see her rockin' body in those DWTS costumes!

Toyota.  I still don't know what to do about this one.  I'm still just driving my Toyota hoping for the best.  But every time the little RPM thingie goes up, my heart races and I stop breathing - this is it - it's happening to me - I'm going to die.  But then I realize I've just accidentally thrown it into neutral instead of drive and once I correct that, I'm able to continue pulling out of my driveway.

American Idol.  I watch this show, namely because I'm addicted to train wrecks and this show is one giant fucking train wreck this year.  I'm thinking that instead of eliminating 2 at a time, they could have eliminated all BUT 2 the FIRST week and this season could have been condensed to two weeks.  Some of the contestants are so bad they need a bucket to carry their tune and still can't get it right.  I'm rootin' for Bowersox.  She's got this kick ass missing tooth thing going on and the kids think she's cool cuz she's a mom.  Maybe if I got a nose ring, some dreads and knocked out a tooth they'd think I was cool too.

Some politician behaving inappropriately.  I didn't catch his name.  All I heard was he stuck his dick out of his pants and showed it to some kids or something like that.  I didn't catch the specifics because all I could think was, "Seriously?  What.the.fuck."  Is it really that difficult - knowing when that thing should make an appearance and when it should not?  I think all politicians, upon being voted into office, should be castrated.  Maybe then, they could focus on the job at hand and not the hand job.

And on the local front - my town has been renamed to Google, KS.  That's right.  Google, KS.  See, we're vying for Google to bring their new giant innernets to us and also because we think we're pretty fucking clever, our senile fucking mayor renamed our town for a month.  The people here were pretty confused before, now they don't know what the hell they're doing or where they are.  I'm just glad the mayor is focusing on important shit and not wasting his precious time by dabbling around in meaningless discussions like our failing infrastucture and increasing gang activity.  Good to see he's got his priorities straight.

Baseball and Butt Kissing

So, I have been exercising as I previously mentioned, although not 24/7 as I may have led you all to believe.  But purt near!  Okay - that's not true either, it's really only been like 20-30 minutes a day - sometimes usually once a day, and a couple of times I did it twice a day and once I did it for like an entire hour non-stop.  But whatever.  Considering I usually drive to get the mail at the end of the driveway, I think I'm putting forth a shit ton of effort compared to normal.  And I DO feel better.  I think I'll stick with it.

I wish there was some kind of gadget thingie majigger that I could connect to my head that would record all the funny shit I think of while I'm at work or attending the other mundane activities in my life so this blog would work in real-time.  AND so I didn't have remember all that shit and try to re-count it here.  Maybe it could come in the form of a kick-ass hat?  I love hats.  The bigger the better!  I wonder what my co-workers and boss would think?  "WHOA!  Bleach blonde?  What's with the hat?"  And I'd be all like, "I know, right?!  Isn't it cute?"  And of course I wouldn't mention that it was a thought recording device so they would never know that I was secretly blogging while at work.  I wonder if I know anyone smart enough to build me a prototype of this machine so I could start testing it?  Likely not.  I've made a note in my handy dandy notebook of things to accomplish this year - find someone to build me a thought logging device.  That should make for several interesting conversations for the remainder of the year.

Anyway - earlier this week we attended the annual high school baseball season kick-off dinner at the local trough.  It's usually a pretty good time and it's a much more comfortable setting for me now that the prodigal son is a senior and I'm familiar with most of the people.  And I even try very hard to smile warmly at all the incoming freshmen's parents in an attempt to make them feel comfortable and at ease - unluck those rude fuckers that acted like their shit didn't stink when we were the newbies.  Getting back to the story here people - stay with me - I knew this one gal would be there and I was just waiting for her to speak.  She always does.  The coach speaks, and she acts like they are BFF because she is an ass kisser.  She's entertaining to watch though and it's funny - in a pathetic kind of way, because those of us that have been around her for a few years are entertained by her ass kissing volunteerism.  I wondered what would trigger her to speak this year - I waited on pins and needles and then finally, she came through for me.

One of the assistant coaches was talking and he's been there since like the beginning of time, and he was talking about his tenure with the program and all acting embarrassed that he'd been there so long and was so old and all and she says, "So did you help start the program?"  And because we are all very mature, we all looked at each other - heads were turning like those little spinny lollipops - and also we couldn't make eye contact with each other fast enough and roll our eyes quick enough to acknowledge amongst ourselves what a dipshit she is.  He gave some answer and she nods her head in a such a way that would give one the impression that she was at a very important seminar gettin' educated by some world-renowned speaker - taking in his every word and making excessive eye contact with him.  He quickly exited the room after his response, likely to go take a shower or something in the trough's bathroom because she probably made him feel all dirty and stuff.

The coach continues along his speech, no drinking, no drugs, follow the illegal substance abuse policy to a T or you will be busted, don't let pictures of your kid get on facebook if they have a red cup in their hand - cuz only alcohol gets served in red cups and if we see it we will assume your kid is drunk.  Yada yada yada - if everyone can buy items for our concession stand that would be a huge help!  Just buy the items and get them to such and so gal.  Pretty easy damned assignment if you ask me.  I immediately got out my handy dandy notebook and made a note on my list for Sam's Club:  concession stand item.  Done. 

Next thing I know - the concession stand discussion is in full gear.  What kind of items?  Do you have a list of items needed?  I mean, come on people - I've seen you at the concession stand - you know what the hell it offers - besides that - there are no laws on concession stand stock - just buy a fucking box of Snickers and get it to the concession stand.  This is not that damned complicated.  Why do people take a simple task and turn it into a fucking career path?  And then - - - SHE SPOKE.  "Coach!  Coach!!  I have a Sam's membership and if everyone wants to get their list and money to me,  I have time every day to run out there and retrieve the items."  ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?  SHE HAS A SAM'S CLUB MEMBERSHIP?  Holy Crap!  I had no idea she was THAT fucking special.  A  Sam's Club membership?  WOW!!  THAT is impressive shit right there, I don't care who you are.  And then the din of the crowd roared as everyone snickered and made comment to their neighbor, "doesn't everyone have a Sam's membership?  ah ha ha ha ha" - she had become, once again, the laughing stock of the baseball parent group.  But she stood her ground and kept her very important look on her face and kept making eye contact with the coach and he didn't know how to respond, so he just said, "um...okay" like he was trying to figure out what to do with that information, where to file it away, and then after a long, awkward silence he must have decided to throw the information away rather than file it away and he moved on.

My phone buzzed, I had a text - it was from the prodigal son and it said, "SUCK UP"  and because I'm a good role model and also because I'm appropriate at all times, I texted back, "I give blow jobs between bus routes every afternoon."  (she drives a bus for the district and has the ass to prove it)  Then I laughed and laughed at how funny I was and how funny the prodigal son was and thought how much the two of us were alike - finding the idiocy in people and cracking jokes about it  - I was proud at what a great job I'd done of raising him. 

Then the coach asked if anyone knew how to build a website because he wanted one for the team.  One newbie mom spoke up, "I'm not volunteering, but there is a free site on the web that you can link to and I'm familiar with it because I do all the site information logging and setup for our summer team."  Well guess what?  She was hired on the spot.  And do you know how that newbie mom acted when she got the news she'd been hired for the position of web hoster/admin person thingie?  She HEAVY SIGHED, clicked her pen on, opened HER notebook (bitch - I thought I was the only cool organized person with a notebook) and said under her breath, "Great.  Because I needed one more thing to do."  Ummmm - HELLOOOO?  You pretty much just put yourself out there - if you didn't want to do it - you should have kept your damned mouth shut.  See me?  I don't talk - at least not to the coach or loud enough for anyone other than my neighbor to hear me.  THAT is how you avoid getting stuck doing that kind of shit and getting the life sucked out of you.  She'll learn. Besides that, I think she liked the fact that she was in charge of something even if she was a newbie. 

I don't like to be in charge of that kind of shit.  I like to just go to the game, plop down my lawn chair and clandestinely sip my whiskey out of my Big Gulp cup.  That's how I roll.  But I am excited for the season to start.  It will be the prodigal son's last high school season and I love to watch him play and I do enjoy the parents from the Varsity team - and also because I'll be drunk on whiskey most of the time, chances are I'll cry most of the season.  I'm cool like that.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Dumbshits Are Stalking Me

So there I was, all sippin' my water and enjoying my morning at work when the phone rang.  I answered in my normal way, "Good Morning! Thank you for calling Company X, this is the bleach blonde, how may I help you?"  The obviously brain damaged person on the other end (I could tell he was brain damaged by his voice) said, "I was calling for extension 999."  "Oh!  Well in that case, you've reached extension 999, and how may I help you?"

I'm sorry I was polite.  I really am.  Because what I was about to encounter was the most wretched phone conversation I've ever had with a customer of Company X in the 12 years I've been there.  He started in on me immediately, "I got a letter you sent saying that you weren't raising our fees by 6% but instead by only 3% this year and I did the math on it compared to last year and clearly you don't do math very well."  Oh - okay sure - it's possible there was a billing error, let me look at that for you and yes - I did hold back on your annual increase because that's the kind of nice bitch I am.  So I check it out and notice that it really was only a 3% increase per line item, but they had added two additional products to their bag of goodies since last year and that was why the TOTAL was more than 3%.  So I explained this to the brain damaged rocket scientist on the other end of the phone and asked if there were any other mysteries I could solve for him today.  He made some snide comment under his breath and I asked him to please speak up as I couldn't hear him.  He commented about how we made him sick and hung up.

My phone immediately rang again - so like an alzheimer's patient, I pick the damn thing up - and it's him again - only this time he's a DRUNK brain damaged rocket scientist and he's belligerant and yelling at me and telling me how worthless we are and how our products provide no benefit to his company.  I suggest that we cancel a few of the products in his goodie bag if indeed they serve no purpose.  I then suggested I speak to his boss since his boss frequently references for us and has also allowed us to print written testimonial regarding their satisfaction in our marketing material.  Then the drunk says, "I suppose you're charging me for THIS call right now?"  I am not a lawyer sir, I work for Company X and it provides a product to you which your organization has approved purchase of and all indicators show satisfaction with those products.  If there are problems that I'm unaware of - let's get those out in the open now so I can resolve them. 

But he won't let up - for 45 minutes he ripped me a new asshole and belittled and berated me and my beloved Company X.  At one point, he briefly sobered up and apologized and said he was just frustrated by bills.  I empathized with him and just as I thought we were kissing and making up, he must have swilled back another shot of liquid courage, because he again lashed out at me - screaming and calling us ridiculous, stupid, nickel and diming company and blah blah blah.  He then suggested we offer our services at NO charge.  Because THAT is a GREAT way to make a profit.  What is your title there, sir?  I'm the CFO.  Oh - so do you offer free product and services to your customers also?  NO - he does not - but THAT is different -

By this time, I'd really lost my patience with him and again suggested we get his boss, who approves all purchases, on the line to hash this out.  He AGAIN suggested that I would charge him for that conversation.  I looked back through all of his invoices- they'd never been charged for any additional services - we'd comped everything.  Then he again suggested we offer one of our services online - then under his smart assed breath he said, "of course you would never do that because then you couldn't charge me."  Sick of his bullshit, I said, "Sir, I can assure you I would find a way to charge YOU for that if it were online." 

I've got a call in to his boss and when I get him on the horn, he will be told that the whole conversation, attitude and behaviour was atrocious and inexcusable and I NEVER NEVER NEVER WANT TO HEAR THAT FUCKER ON MY PHONE AGAIN AND IF I DO - I WILL CANCEL YOU AS A CUSTOMER. 

I think he likely wanted to renegotiate his fees lower - to which I would have been happy to do - HAD he approached me in a professional, polite and respectful manner.  I do it all the time:  "Yo!  Bleach blonde - things are pretty tight here in the industry - can you throw me a bone on this annual fee?"  Sure thing brotha!  And we kiss and hug and make out and move on.  But this guy approached me ALL wrong.  ALL wrong.  And I wasn't about to even suggest lowering his fees because of his asinine attitude and mouth. 

Then I left for a 10 day vacation.  I think I deserve it.  (but before I left, I made a note to NEVER give him anything for free again - EVER - AND to DOUBLE his rates next year.)

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Where the Hell Am I???

I haven't dropped off the face of the earth - never fear!  I'm currently obsessed with my Wii Active and as with all things I engage in, I'm now 100% consumed with exercising at the moment.  Don't worry though, my attention span for healthy things and positive habits is less than 6 weeks, so I'll be back soon!!