...or As the Pool Filters...
Okay, I'm really wiped out tonight, but I''ll try to get on tomorrow and write a scene from the soap opera that is my life. Seriously, today we had a lifeguard pull a shank on someone. Or offer a shank to someone. The report hasn't come in yet, but seriously, at no point in lifeguarding is there EVER a need to have a blade in your fanny pack.
The word "fanny" should indicate that no sharp object will ever go in there. Seriously. And yet one today, who was earing party pay, which is 12 bucks an hour, to lifeguard for 5 hours, pulled out a knife and offered it to a patron, either in a threatening manner toward the patron, which would be a pretty negative customer service behavior, or to share it with the patron, which would be generous, but also inappropriate.
I can't do my actual job for all these strange behaviors which are cropping up this year. It's INSANE.
But the jokes we make in the office after this kind of crap are pretty funny, I must admit.
I mean yesterday I had to handle an incident where a family decided to "swim at your own risk," in a neighborhood where that doesn't actually happen. We guard their pools, and they are locked, or supposed to be locked, whenever we don't have guards there. So somehow, the family got into the pool after school/work yesterday, and went for a swim. The water was lovely. The had a grand time. And then they tried to leave.
Only to find the gate was now locked.
Apparently it wasn't before.
And they were locked in. But not to worry, because some local kids saw them there and used a pokemon trading card to unlock the gate.
A trading card, people.
Meanwhile I'm trying to get swim lessons scheduled, and train 100+ lifeguards every weekend, all without going postal about the admin assistant I inherited.
Who believes that filing isn't very important, and "if you don't like the way I file, you'll have to do it yourself."
Yeah, she's a peach. A peach who's about to be unemployed.
But again, fodder for jokes, as we now "group" our filing by letters, rather than alphabetizing them. She did some filing work over in residential, where the filing cabinet has the letters A & B in one cabinet. C & D in another, etc. So those files... got grouped into A & B in one stack, and then on from there. Barnes comes before Andrews, and so forth and so on.
Maybe I should shank her with my trusty Pokemon trading card tomorrow?
Can you make a shiv out of a trading card...?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
My shopping list
The past few days haven't been normal. I've been busy as heck at work, but I've also been getting it done, and kicking butt along the way, so it's okay. It has led to some strange errands at strange times though. Whether for work for for home I've bought some odd stuff.
I'm thinking it's a pretty good list, actually. It compared to the ones I used to make in Iraq. I'd tell my staff something like "I"m going to need three cases of paper towels, a wading pool full of popcorn, and all the jello we can get our hands on," and then we'd have an event.
This isn't all for an event, but I finally made it over to the gun dealer to pick up the shotgun, for home protection. A shotgun won't do you any good either, without shells. And is it my fault the dealer is a family friend, and sent me home with cases of ammunition for various weapons? Who knew I was the way for him to get his freebies out of the store?
They all rode home just fine in the jeep, next to my pool test kit, because I'm tired of having chemical problems at pools and no way to test them. "Uhm, Keira.... my skin is turning white and bubbling." You're allergic to chlorine, and that level is through the roof, so go take a shower and thank you for not litigating. "Uhm, Keira.... someone just puked in the pool." That'll happen. Let's just see if there's enough chlorine in this one. "Uhm, Keira... the pool is green. Really green." Yeah, I won't even bother testing that one. We'll just change locations of the class for the umpteenth time.
So yeah, a shotgun, lots of ammo, a chemical test kit, a brand spanking new cookie scoop, to make the ultimate in cake balls, and a back seat full of lifeguard uniforms makes for an interesting day. I'd already dropped the chocolates at the house, which when combined with my Mom's trip to the store, gave us something like fifteen pounds of chocolate suitable for melting. I decided today wasn't the day to do any melting though, as I'm whacked out on sudafed from this cold I've caught (shut up, it's not the swine flu) that I'd have probably covered the shotgun shells without thinking about it.
- Nine pounds of chocolate
- 2 boxes of shotgun shells
- 400 fanny packs, in a stylish red color
- 4 more dive bricks, clocking in at 10 pounds each, which they shipped together, for reasons unknown to me
- A couple whisks from Williams "Overpriced" Sonoma
- Let's not forget the shotgun, either. Be scared, I'm a registered gun owner now
- Sudafed - massive amounts of sudafed
I'm thinking it's a pretty good list, actually. It compared to the ones I used to make in Iraq. I'd tell my staff something like "I"m going to need three cases of paper towels, a wading pool full of popcorn, and all the jello we can get our hands on," and then we'd have an event.
This isn't all for an event, but I finally made it over to the gun dealer to pick up the shotgun, for home protection. A shotgun won't do you any good either, without shells. And is it my fault the dealer is a family friend, and sent me home with cases of ammunition for various weapons? Who knew I was the way for him to get his freebies out of the store?
They all rode home just fine in the jeep, next to my pool test kit, because I'm tired of having chemical problems at pools and no way to test them. "Uhm, Keira.... my skin is turning white and bubbling." You're allergic to chlorine, and that level is through the roof, so go take a shower and thank you for not litigating. "Uhm, Keira.... someone just puked in the pool." That'll happen. Let's just see if there's enough chlorine in this one. "Uhm, Keira... the pool is green. Really green." Yeah, I won't even bother testing that one. We'll just change locations of the class for the umpteenth time.
So yeah, a shotgun, lots of ammo, a chemical test kit, a brand spanking new cookie scoop, to make the ultimate in cake balls, and a back seat full of lifeguard uniforms makes for an interesting day. I'd already dropped the chocolates at the house, which when combined with my Mom's trip to the store, gave us something like fifteen pounds of chocolate suitable for melting. I decided today wasn't the day to do any melting though, as I'm whacked out on sudafed from this cold I've caught (shut up, it's not the swine flu) that I'd have probably covered the shotgun shells without thinking about it.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Fabulouser and fabulouserrrrrr
Really, you've got to be effing kidding me.
Forty-five minutes to leave my neighborhood this morning.
Forty-five minutes to go less than half a mile, because a traffic signal was out.
And that was just the start of the day.
Let me just say that when the underwire in my bra gave out... that was the high point. I'm walking down the hall and all of the sudden it's like I had a flat tire on the driver's side. Only it wasn't a tire. And thanks to my curves, it wasn't flat so much as off it's axle, out of alignment, in need of rotation and balance, or whatever freaking euphemism you want to apply.
So then I was effing lopsided the remainder of the day.
And I really liked that bra, too. We've had a short relationship with each other, but I thought it was a good one. Apparently it disagreed. Bastard.
Have you ever had to walk around the office lopsided, when you're trying to get up the cojones to fire someone? I mean sure I'm dead to rights to fire this guy because sexual harassment is NEVER tolerated, whether it's male on female, female on male, female on female or male on male. NEVER. But being lopsided pretty much dampened my tyrannical, mamma bear fervor for dealing with the issue immediately. Plus I had to wait until the company lawyers had signed off on it all.
Meanwhile I'm reading the reports about the events as they unfolded, and they involved an overly excitable gay male, who thinks he's a dainty little buttercup of a person, instead of the huge, lumbering bull in a china shop that he is... and some typical, average high school jocks. HIGH school. As in not yet of the age of majority, according to the great state of Texas. Buttercup the Bull decided they'd be sooooooooo much funnnnnnnnn to demonstrate lifeguarding skills with.... and he was wrong. Well, sure, they probably WERE fun, because they're fit and he's fat. They're young and he's not. They're students and he's the instructo.....
BASTARD!
No one, NO ONE, EVERRRRRRRRRRRR gets to make a student feel uncomfortable. Even if the student didn't KNOW what Buttercup the Bull was doing was inappropriate, the other lifeguard instructors DID know, and they lit my phone up like Christmas, the Fourth of July and New Year's Eve combined.
So there I am all lopsided and pissed off, waiting for my boss to get in to the office so we can call the lawyers and get on with the show. I'd had a payroll check cut and everything. Just needed the big boss so I could take care of the little weasel.
Big boss made to the office today at 4 pm.
Bastard.
And then when I'm dealing with all this, my cell phone rings. It's my mom. She's calling to let me know it's raining, and I should look at the weather before I leave the office.
I appreciated the heads' up, but at the same time, the message started out with "I know you're at work and I hate to bother you but this is your mother and father calling...."
Uhm, WHAT?!
Yes, we are having some monstrous, disastrous rain.
Something like 20 inches of rain in the past week and a half.
Yes, I hate driving in the rain.
But really - a phone call that started me off thinking that someone had been in a car accident, or Dad had had another heart attack? That was so not a good way to try and wrap up the day.
I had plenty of time to mull it over, too, as I had another hour and half commute. I spent 3 hours in the car today - wheeeeeeeeeeee!
I think I'll call in drunk soon. Take the day off, hide from everyone and go to the movies for 12 hours. Move to Antigua. Or volunteer to help out with the swine flu epidemic in Mexico City.
Because I really just need y'all to give me some breathing room so I don't turn into the screaming, raving bitch that I am every five seconds. (And just for the record, I don't know what that granola bar is doing in the pantry - perhaps Elvis left it when he visited with his spaceship. Also, I appreciate the offer but it seems like I'm back in kindergarten if my Mommy is packing my lunch, so I'll skip that all the same.)
Forty-five minutes to leave my neighborhood this morning.
Forty-five minutes to go less than half a mile, because a traffic signal was out.
And that was just the start of the day.
Let me just say that when the underwire in my bra gave out... that was the high point. I'm walking down the hall and all of the sudden it's like I had a flat tire on the driver's side. Only it wasn't a tire. And thanks to my curves, it wasn't flat so much as off it's axle, out of alignment, in need of rotation and balance, or whatever freaking euphemism you want to apply.
So then I was effing lopsided the remainder of the day.
And I really liked that bra, too. We've had a short relationship with each other, but I thought it was a good one. Apparently it disagreed. Bastard.
Have you ever had to walk around the office lopsided, when you're trying to get up the cojones to fire someone? I mean sure I'm dead to rights to fire this guy because sexual harassment is NEVER tolerated, whether it's male on female, female on male, female on female or male on male. NEVER. But being lopsided pretty much dampened my tyrannical, mamma bear fervor for dealing with the issue immediately. Plus I had to wait until the company lawyers had signed off on it all.
Meanwhile I'm reading the reports about the events as they unfolded, and they involved an overly excitable gay male, who thinks he's a dainty little buttercup of a person, instead of the huge, lumbering bull in a china shop that he is... and some typical, average high school jocks. HIGH school. As in not yet of the age of majority, according to the great state of Texas. Buttercup the Bull decided they'd be sooooooooo much funnnnnnnnn to demonstrate lifeguarding skills with.... and he was wrong. Well, sure, they probably WERE fun, because they're fit and he's fat. They're young and he's not. They're students and he's the instructo.....
BASTARD!
No one, NO ONE, EVERRRRRRRRRRRR gets to make a student feel uncomfortable. Even if the student didn't KNOW what Buttercup the Bull was doing was inappropriate, the other lifeguard instructors DID know, and they lit my phone up like Christmas, the Fourth of July and New Year's Eve combined.
So there I am all lopsided and pissed off, waiting for my boss to get in to the office so we can call the lawyers and get on with the show. I'd had a payroll check cut and everything. Just needed the big boss so I could take care of the little weasel.
Big boss made to the office today at 4 pm.
Bastard.
And then when I'm dealing with all this, my cell phone rings. It's my mom. She's calling to let me know it's raining, and I should look at the weather before I leave the office.
I appreciated the heads' up, but at the same time, the message started out with "I know you're at work and I hate to bother you but this is your mother and father calling...."
Uhm, WHAT?!
Yes, we are having some monstrous, disastrous rain.
Something like 20 inches of rain in the past week and a half.
Yes, I hate driving in the rain.
But really - a phone call that started me off thinking that someone had been in a car accident, or Dad had had another heart attack? That was so not a good way to try and wrap up the day.
I had plenty of time to mull it over, too, as I had another hour and half commute. I spent 3 hours in the car today - wheeeeeeeeeeee!
I think I'll call in drunk soon. Take the day off, hide from everyone and go to the movies for 12 hours. Move to Antigua. Or volunteer to help out with the swine flu epidemic in Mexico City.
Because I really just need y'all to give me some breathing room so I don't turn into the screaming, raving bitch that I am every five seconds. (And just for the record, I don't know what that granola bar is doing in the pantry - perhaps Elvis left it when he visited with his spaceship. Also, I appreciate the offer but it seems like I'm back in kindergarten if my Mommy is packing my lunch, so I'll skip that all the same.)
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Updates
Been busy as heck. No, been busy as hell. Work has kicked my butt all the way to Iraq and back again this week. And then when I thought things were finally settling down... I got kicked to the moon.
So, updates.
The garden:
It's growing and doing it's leafy thing. We pulled off a bunch of yellow beans today, with the help of a bouncing, buoyant Risa Roo, so that the plants would get bigger instead of trying to put off fruit. ...beans... fruit. Whatever. But seriously, it's growing and doing well. Looks like a bumper crop of zucchini is going to come in, which is going to make for some interesting meals around here.
The raccoons:
Last time I wrote, we'd put out a trap for the coons. Baited it with a can of tuna. And promptly caught a cat.
The same night though, Mom heard a ruckus on the porch roof. Or the porch roof rafters. It wasn't my party to hear, since I live on the other side of the house, but I hear tell it was quite the showdown. And the raccoons haven't been heard from since.
So they're either lying really, really low, and running silent like a submarine, or they've moved on to greener pastures. I'm hoping it's the greener pastures thing, because pretty soon someone is going to have to stick their head up into the garage attic and take a look around.
The jeep:
Still has narcolepsy, or some other undiagnosed automotive medical disorder. Seriously, I know a fair amount about cars and the best I can come up with is narcolepsy because the jeep just randomly stalls out with no hint it's coming. I'll be running down the road at 70 miles an hour, full power, full everything, and a tenth of a second later, the jeep has stalled out, no lights, no gauges, no indicators on, so I pop it into neutral and restart it. It always starts. Every time. Of course the same stall can happen at idle at a red light, too, but I really like the challenge of the high speed stall out to keep me guessing.
So here's the skinny:
2000 jeep wrangler, 4.0 liter, sahara edition
111,000 miles on it
I've changed out the crankshaft positioning sensor, the throttle positioning sensor, the fuel pump and the camshaft positioning sensor. I've always had regular maintenance done on it, and aside from a leak at the rear differential, everything is running in top form right now. The check engine light came on last Sunday, and I was thrilled. Turned out to just be a random misfire, which did me no good, because it's not really a spark plug issue. And then the check engine light reset itself and went back off, a day after I had the code read.
So yeah, as I said, it's narcolepsy. She just forgets what she's doing and falls asleep.
Work:
Chaos, mayhem and madness prevail. I'm working Iraq hours right now, for Victory Junction pay. I could work 100 hours a week for the next month and still be 3 months behind. Spring is so much fun. So if you feel like planning swim lessons for about a hundred communities across Houston, or typing up some more in-service training, let me know. You can also plan additional lifeguard classes, if you're feeling really froggy.
Right now I'm just holding steady over at the office. I think I'm getting close to even, and then I have a weekend like this one, with green pools, fighting instructors and sexual harassment. So tomorrow I'll fire someone, because gay or straight, you do NOT get flirty with your students. EVER. And seriously, if you're a big, fat, hyperactive chipmunk, don't think it's cool either, to email a picture of yourself without a shirt on to another instructor. That's just disgusting on about a thousand different levels. I hear I have the picture in my email at the office, too, and I refuse to check it because I don't want to have to bleach my retinas.
Relaxation:
Uhm, I made cake balls.
Cake.
Icing.
Mixed together and shaped into little balls.
Covered in melted chocolate.
Damn, they're good.
And apparently if you're in Dallas, you can charge the moon for them. http://cakeballs.com/
I always thought they were rather pretentious in Dallas. This just confirms it....
And now I really want some super duper thin onion rings. Is 9:30 too late to make them? Really? You sure?
So, updates.
The garden:
It's growing and doing it's leafy thing. We pulled off a bunch of yellow beans today, with the help of a bouncing, buoyant Risa Roo, so that the plants would get bigger instead of trying to put off fruit. ...beans... fruit. Whatever. But seriously, it's growing and doing well. Looks like a bumper crop of zucchini is going to come in, which is going to make for some interesting meals around here.
The raccoons:
Last time I wrote, we'd put out a trap for the coons. Baited it with a can of tuna. And promptly caught a cat.
The same night though, Mom heard a ruckus on the porch roof. Or the porch roof rafters. It wasn't my party to hear, since I live on the other side of the house, but I hear tell it was quite the showdown. And the raccoons haven't been heard from since.
So they're either lying really, really low, and running silent like a submarine, or they've moved on to greener pastures. I'm hoping it's the greener pastures thing, because pretty soon someone is going to have to stick their head up into the garage attic and take a look around.
The jeep:
Still has narcolepsy, or some other undiagnosed automotive medical disorder. Seriously, I know a fair amount about cars and the best I can come up with is narcolepsy because the jeep just randomly stalls out with no hint it's coming. I'll be running down the road at 70 miles an hour, full power, full everything, and a tenth of a second later, the jeep has stalled out, no lights, no gauges, no indicators on, so I pop it into neutral and restart it. It always starts. Every time. Of course the same stall can happen at idle at a red light, too, but I really like the challenge of the high speed stall out to keep me guessing.
So here's the skinny:
2000 jeep wrangler, 4.0 liter, sahara edition
111,000 miles on it
I've changed out the crankshaft positioning sensor, the throttle positioning sensor, the fuel pump and the camshaft positioning sensor. I've always had regular maintenance done on it, and aside from a leak at the rear differential, everything is running in top form right now. The check engine light came on last Sunday, and I was thrilled. Turned out to just be a random misfire, which did me no good, because it's not really a spark plug issue. And then the check engine light reset itself and went back off, a day after I had the code read.
So yeah, as I said, it's narcolepsy. She just forgets what she's doing and falls asleep.
Work:
Chaos, mayhem and madness prevail. I'm working Iraq hours right now, for Victory Junction pay. I could work 100 hours a week for the next month and still be 3 months behind. Spring is so much fun. So if you feel like planning swim lessons for about a hundred communities across Houston, or typing up some more in-service training, let me know. You can also plan additional lifeguard classes, if you're feeling really froggy.
Right now I'm just holding steady over at the office. I think I'm getting close to even, and then I have a weekend like this one, with green pools, fighting instructors and sexual harassment. So tomorrow I'll fire someone, because gay or straight, you do NOT get flirty with your students. EVER. And seriously, if you're a big, fat, hyperactive chipmunk, don't think it's cool either, to email a picture of yourself without a shirt on to another instructor. That's just disgusting on about a thousand different levels. I hear I have the picture in my email at the office, too, and I refuse to check it because I don't want to have to bleach my retinas.
Relaxation:
Uhm, I made cake balls.
Cake.
Icing.
Mixed together and shaped into little balls.
Covered in melted chocolate.
Damn, they're good.
And apparently if you're in Dallas, you can charge the moon for them. http://cakeballs.com/
I always thought they were rather pretentious in Dallas. This just confirms it....
And now I really want some super duper thin onion rings. Is 9:30 too late to make them? Really? You sure?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Heh.
I've always been very self-sufficient and independent. It's probably one of the big reasons I'm still single. Well, that and the fact that I've run into more than my fair share of men who turned out to be married, engaged or otherwise occupied. But anyway, yeah, I'm very much the do it yourself kind of woman.
I hear tell that can be attractive, at first. And then it gets intimidating as heck. I don't know. I'm not a guy. I don't suffer from penis envy. I just do what I need to do to get through each day. Although I will gladly let someone else do it for me, too, if they are available. Unfortunately, that availability thing doesn't work out so well when the guy you want to date is in Iraq. Or Wyoming. Or anywhere other than the passenger seat of my jeep.
So yesterday I brought home a boat load of paperwork that was time sensitive. I cranked it out and finished things up around midnight. And then I was wound up so I was up until about 1 am. Which meant today stunk. But I also made the conscious decision to come home a couple hours early and relax.
After I took care of a few errands. So my soft deadline of a 2 pm departure turned into my 3 pm hard deadline, and I got back to the north side of town right on schedule. I also noticed that my check engine light had turned itself back off, since the jeep computer reset itself after yet another "random misfire" occurred over the weekend. (The jeep has narcolepsy, in my opinion, which I'm sure to gripe about at some other time.)
Life was good. I was home early, and I ran to the grocery store and picked up cake mix and frosting. Not to make a cake, but instead to make cake balls, which sounds obscene and probably has an obscene amount of calories in them, now that I think about it. Fortunately, they're going over to the troops, if they turn out well. Heck, they're going to the troops even if they don't turn out well, because that's how I roll.
I got home and unloaded the groceries. I dashed up and changed into old shorts and a t-shirt too, because the lady who lives downstairs, otherwise known as my Mom, had finally decided we were ready to tackle the leaking kitchen sink. Go Mom! First I mixed up the cake though, and got that started.
Because I had an agenda. It went like this:
1. Bake cake, let it cool. Crumble, mix with tons of icing. Make cake balls. (I got as far as baking the cake, okay?)
2. Figure out what was wrong with sink. Fix problem. (We found the leak, and I had to call for reinforcements. I'll keep you posted.)
3. Go to Staples and get the USB cable for new printer at work. (Done!) (Bought some other crap I couldn't live without, either.)
4. Go next door to Hobby Lobby and buy the chocolate wafers to make cake balls. And paper lollipop sticks, in case I wanted to make cake pops, too. (Bought 'em. Also bought 3 bags of pillow batting, to restuff the armchair cushion in my room.)
5. Go to Home Depot and get whatever I needed for the sink. (Didn't really need to do that trip now did I?)
6. Go to the car wash lube center and get the oil changed, then get the complimentary full service car wash on the jeep. (It was an option, okay?)
That was the agenda. It morphed the minute I walked out of Hobby Lobby, because there was a woman a bit younger than me staring at the right front tire of her car. I tossed my purchases into the jeep and approached her to see if she needed help. The hood was down and the trunk was open, so it was either a call the auto club moment or change a tire moment. I needed a shower afterward, so you can guess what I did about 5:45 tonight.
And I was done by 6.
Hah!
As Kim held up the trunk carpet liner, I pulled out her donut. Then we took out the jack. I loosed the lug nuts, jacked up the car, and swapped the tire out. Right as we were lowering the jack, two guys walked out of the store and approached us warily. Granted I understand that, because I'm the whitest white person I know, all slobbed out in home repair clothes. And there's a dainty, beautiful black woman squatting next to me as we worked, who was in office clothes. It was probably a very unusual site to begin with.
And then there's the fact that women in our society do not want to be approached by strange men, even if they are stuck with car problems in a parking lot. It's just not a comforting feeling. So the older guy of the pair ambled up, about ten yards away, and asked if we needed help. I told him we were almost done, and thanked him.
Then he stood back and watched. "It sure is fun to watch two women change a tire! It's not something you see every day!"
No, no I bet it's not.
Then I came home and scrubbed up a bit. Tumped the cake over onto a cookie sheet to continue cooling. Ate some spring rolls. Went upstairs and restuffed my armchair cushion. Chatted online with a friend for a couple minutes. Then broke down, took a shower, started some laundry and then messed with cake some more.
It was a pretty typical day.
I hear tell that can be attractive, at first. And then it gets intimidating as heck. I don't know. I'm not a guy. I don't suffer from penis envy. I just do what I need to do to get through each day. Although I will gladly let someone else do it for me, too, if they are available. Unfortunately, that availability thing doesn't work out so well when the guy you want to date is in Iraq. Or Wyoming. Or anywhere other than the passenger seat of my jeep.
So yesterday I brought home a boat load of paperwork that was time sensitive. I cranked it out and finished things up around midnight. And then I was wound up so I was up until about 1 am. Which meant today stunk. But I also made the conscious decision to come home a couple hours early and relax.
After I took care of a few errands. So my soft deadline of a 2 pm departure turned into my 3 pm hard deadline, and I got back to the north side of town right on schedule. I also noticed that my check engine light had turned itself back off, since the jeep computer reset itself after yet another "random misfire" occurred over the weekend. (The jeep has narcolepsy, in my opinion, which I'm sure to gripe about at some other time.)
Life was good. I was home early, and I ran to the grocery store and picked up cake mix and frosting. Not to make a cake, but instead to make cake balls, which sounds obscene and probably has an obscene amount of calories in them, now that I think about it. Fortunately, they're going over to the troops, if they turn out well. Heck, they're going to the troops even if they don't turn out well, because that's how I roll.
I got home and unloaded the groceries. I dashed up and changed into old shorts and a t-shirt too, because the lady who lives downstairs, otherwise known as my Mom, had finally decided we were ready to tackle the leaking kitchen sink. Go Mom! First I mixed up the cake though, and got that started.
Because I had an agenda. It went like this:
1. Bake cake, let it cool. Crumble, mix with tons of icing. Make cake balls. (I got as far as baking the cake, okay?)
2. Figure out what was wrong with sink. Fix problem. (We found the leak, and I had to call for reinforcements. I'll keep you posted.)
3. Go to Staples and get the USB cable for new printer at work. (Done!) (Bought some other crap I couldn't live without, either.)
4. Go next door to Hobby Lobby and buy the chocolate wafers to make cake balls. And paper lollipop sticks, in case I wanted to make cake pops, too. (Bought 'em. Also bought 3 bags of pillow batting, to restuff the armchair cushion in my room.)
5. Go to Home Depot and get whatever I needed for the sink. (Didn't really need to do that trip now did I?)
6. Go to the car wash lube center and get the oil changed, then get the complimentary full service car wash on the jeep. (It was an option, okay?)
That was the agenda. It morphed the minute I walked out of Hobby Lobby, because there was a woman a bit younger than me staring at the right front tire of her car. I tossed my purchases into the jeep and approached her to see if she needed help. The hood was down and the trunk was open, so it was either a call the auto club moment or change a tire moment. I needed a shower afterward, so you can guess what I did about 5:45 tonight.
And I was done by 6.
Hah!
As Kim held up the trunk carpet liner, I pulled out her donut. Then we took out the jack. I loosed the lug nuts, jacked up the car, and swapped the tire out. Right as we were lowering the jack, two guys walked out of the store and approached us warily. Granted I understand that, because I'm the whitest white person I know, all slobbed out in home repair clothes. And there's a dainty, beautiful black woman squatting next to me as we worked, who was in office clothes. It was probably a very unusual site to begin with.
And then there's the fact that women in our society do not want to be approached by strange men, even if they are stuck with car problems in a parking lot. It's just not a comforting feeling. So the older guy of the pair ambled up, about ten yards away, and asked if we needed help. I told him we were almost done, and thanked him.
Then he stood back and watched. "It sure is fun to watch two women change a tire! It's not something you see every day!"
No, no I bet it's not.
Then I came home and scrubbed up a bit. Tumped the cake over onto a cookie sheet to continue cooling. Ate some spring rolls. Went upstairs and restuffed my armchair cushion. Chatted online with a friend for a couple minutes. Then broke down, took a shower, started some laundry and then messed with cake some more.
It was a pretty typical day.
You're Kidding
Really, you've got to be kidding. Seriously. The crackerjack reporting team over at Live Science gifted the AP wire with an article today that has to be a joke. It has to be.
Because really?
You're telling me that people don't understand rainy weather forecasts?
If it's not a joke, it's going on the list of ways to piss me off.
Seriously, the guy with the bad hairstyle and the out of fashion tie stands in front of a green screen and looks sideways. He waves his hands like a magician over the green screen and tells us what the weather is going to do for the next couple days. Sure, it's a best guess, and that's pretty tricky, but that isn't where the problem comes in, apparently.
No, it's that people don't understand what it means when there is "a 20% chance of rain from now until September." Sure, that's a Houston specific forecast, because we're subtropical here and get a lot of rain. All at once.
But really, when the skinny guy in the bad tie refuses to make eye contact with the camera because he's so busy reading his computer monitor off screen and trying to get his hand motions to match up to the right location as he scans the teleprompter too. Wait, I lost track of what I was saying...
Okay, yeah. When the weathercaster says there is a 20% chance of rain for the day, there seems to be confusion among the masses. Does it mean it's going to rain over 20% of the viewing area? Does it mean it's going to rain for 20% of the time? Does it mean I should take 20% of an umbrella or a rain jacket?
No. No it doesn't.
And you're idiots if you think it does.
No really, you're idiots. It had to be said. I'm sorry if it seemed harsh, but it's true.
And the guys at Live Science spent a good 3 pages of my computer screen to tell me just how to interpret the weather forecast, in case I'm one of those idiots, too.
I'm not. And none of you better be, either.
If there's a 20% chance of rain, and you live in an area where you get those wicked fun daily afternoon storms, you should take your umbrella or wear fast drying natural fibers when you're running around at 3 o'clock. If you live in an area that never gets rain, chances are good you won't, but you might.
Because on other days, when the weather conditions have been just the same, you've gotten rain 20% of the time. And when the forecast says there's an 80% chance of rain. Yeah, it's actually rained 80% of the time on days with matching conditions. So that means that on a nice April day, after a cool front has come through the city and dumped 9 inches of rain in 24 hours, and then the weather dried up and cleared up, warming into the mid-80's for a day, that on day 3, when there is a 50% chance of rain....
It means you're probably going to get wet, but what you do behind your bedroom door is up to you.
And as for the rain, well, there's a 50/50 chance it will rain, but it might not.
So do what every sane person does.
Put an umbrella in the car and then forget it's there, so you can stare out into the parking lot wishing you had it with you when it does rain.
Seriously.
Because really?
You're telling me that people don't understand rainy weather forecasts?
If it's not a joke, it's going on the list of ways to piss me off.
Seriously, the guy with the bad hairstyle and the out of fashion tie stands in front of a green screen and looks sideways. He waves his hands like a magician over the green screen and tells us what the weather is going to do for the next couple days. Sure, it's a best guess, and that's pretty tricky, but that isn't where the problem comes in, apparently.
No, it's that people don't understand what it means when there is "a 20% chance of rain from now until September." Sure, that's a Houston specific forecast, because we're subtropical here and get a lot of rain. All at once.
But really, when the skinny guy in the bad tie refuses to make eye contact with the camera because he's so busy reading his computer monitor off screen and trying to get his hand motions to match up to the right location as he scans the teleprompter too. Wait, I lost track of what I was saying...
Okay, yeah. When the weathercaster says there is a 20% chance of rain for the day, there seems to be confusion among the masses. Does it mean it's going to rain over 20% of the viewing area? Does it mean it's going to rain for 20% of the time? Does it mean I should take 20% of an umbrella or a rain jacket?
No. No it doesn't.
And you're idiots if you think it does.
No really, you're idiots. It had to be said. I'm sorry if it seemed harsh, but it's true.
And the guys at Live Science spent a good 3 pages of my computer screen to tell me just how to interpret the weather forecast, in case I'm one of those idiots, too.
I'm not. And none of you better be, either.
If there's a 20% chance of rain, and you live in an area where you get those wicked fun daily afternoon storms, you should take your umbrella or wear fast drying natural fibers when you're running around at 3 o'clock. If you live in an area that never gets rain, chances are good you won't, but you might.
Because on other days, when the weather conditions have been just the same, you've gotten rain 20% of the time. And when the forecast says there's an 80% chance of rain. Yeah, it's actually rained 80% of the time on days with matching conditions. So that means that on a nice April day, after a cool front has come through the city and dumped 9 inches of rain in 24 hours, and then the weather dried up and cleared up, warming into the mid-80's for a day, that on day 3, when there is a 50% chance of rain....
It means you're probably going to get wet, but what you do behind your bedroom door is up to you.
And as for the rain, well, there's a 50/50 chance it will rain, but it might not.
So do what every sane person does.
Put an umbrella in the car and then forget it's there, so you can stare out into the parking lot wishing you had it with you when it does rain.
Seriously.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Fabulous
Let's review my day, just for fun. No, actually, let's start with yesterday afternoon. Because that was such a joy.
For those of you who aren't local, Houston is a big freaking city. I'm not saying it's fat. I'm saying it's big. It covers some real estate. Some serious territory. My normal commute to and from work each day totals 73 miles, since I live in the equivalent of south Dallas and work in the equivalent of New Mexico. It's a high speed drive, which is a good thing, otherwise, it'd be unbearable. As it is, it's barely tolerable.
Then there are the bonus trips I have to make now and then to pick up equipment, drop off a key, or go meet an instructor. Yesterday was one of those days. I had lifeguard classes starting in 5 different locations throughout the city. And I had to pick up a key in Maine. Okay, it wasn't Maine, but it might as well have been. Because the trip that should have taken about fifty minutes took me two hours... and fifty minutes. That's right. I had my butt planted in the jeep seat for one hundred and seventy minutes. To cover 41 miles. Hell, I tell you. Hell.
Because it was raining so hard there shouldn't be a frog alive in Houston any longer. Not one speck of dust. Not one bit of trash. It all should be in the Gulf of Mexico by now, it rained that hard. And it sucked.
Anyway, the storms ended yesterday evening, right after I made it to my exit on the freeway.
Today started about the same way. Overcast but no rain while I was picking up donuts and kolaches for my lifeguard instructors. Then I headed over to the pool they were going to be at, and it started sprinkling. Then it drizzled a bit, while the students started arriving. Meanwhile I didn't have any instructors yet, but a half dozen phone calls found almost all of them. And more kids showed up.
Meanwhile, 3 other sites are calling in with problems from their lifeguard classes. Students in the wrong spots. Students in the right spots on the wrong days. And oh, yeah, it's raining like hell. And some missing instructors at another location. They got lost.
So I'm still at the first place and the instructors are getting the tv set up. It's a simple process. Only when we plug it in, the damned thing has a picture exactly 1 inch tall by 25 or so inches across. Fine if you're a smurf, but not so good for humans. So it's off to Wal-Mart I go. In the now strengthening rain.
Did you know the rat bastards at Wal-Mart stock about 10 of the 50 or so models they have on display? Sure, they show you an "old fashioned" tube television set that comes in a 26 inch model. But you can't buy it. You can't buy any tube tv at all, unless you want a little 14 incher for your kid's bedroom. I don't have a kid. I needed a tv that 27 students could actually see. So I had to buy a flat screen high definition LCD tv. Do you have any idea how fragile those things actually are? Because I'm about to find out, since we move the tv's to a new location for teaching about every 2 weeks. Five hundred bucks that is sure to be broken in a year. Or less.
So the class is calling me frantic to know where I am with their tv. Uhm, trying to buy it? And the other classes are calling me with problems too. Seriously, I used up the entire battery on my cell phone in an hour and a half.
Oh, and I dropped my wallet in the parking lot, so now there's a grease stain on it. And a matching one on the seat of the jeep where it ended up. My poor baby jeep. I'd pretty much say that everything that could have gone wrong between 8 am and 10 am did. And I was ready to cry.
I came home for a brief break, and some dry shoes.
Then I went back out to the location that was starting after lunch.
When I got there last night, one of the pools was green. Took care of that then, too. And today, the instructors were on point. They were all kinds of ready to teach CPR. And then they started unpacking the equipment the RED CROSS had rented to us. Rented fully prepared. And it wasn't prepared. No manikin faces. No manikin lungs. Crap. Crap. Crap crap crap.
So I was back in the jeep. And driving from Maine to New Mexico and back to Maine. Only now the rain was coming down so hard, so fast, and so much that the weather reports said we received 6 and a half inches in an hour. I was driving in it. People couldn't exit the freeway because there was 3 feet of water waiting for them on the feeder roads. No place to go for them, but luckily my route was clear, if treacherous, the whole way.
And while I was driving, my phone rang again. Turns out that another tv at another location died. And it was another trip to Wal Mart, and another five hundred bucks spent. It's been a damned expensive day.
I burned through a tank of gas in 24 hours and I wasn't on a road trip.
I spent 2 hours on the phone refereeing between lifeguard instructors.
I alternated between soaking wet and mildly damp for the past 24 hours.
And then, right at the end of the day, as I was finally driving home... the effing sun came out, like it had never rained at all.
Life kicked my butt today. Tomorrow looks to be more of the same.
I'm going to take a nap, since it's cheaper than taking up drinking. Ugh.
For those of you who aren't local, Houston is a big freaking city. I'm not saying it's fat. I'm saying it's big. It covers some real estate. Some serious territory. My normal commute to and from work each day totals 73 miles, since I live in the equivalent of south Dallas and work in the equivalent of New Mexico. It's a high speed drive, which is a good thing, otherwise, it'd be unbearable. As it is, it's barely tolerable.
Then there are the bonus trips I have to make now and then to pick up equipment, drop off a key, or go meet an instructor. Yesterday was one of those days. I had lifeguard classes starting in 5 different locations throughout the city. And I had to pick up a key in Maine. Okay, it wasn't Maine, but it might as well have been. Because the trip that should have taken about fifty minutes took me two hours... and fifty minutes. That's right. I had my butt planted in the jeep seat for one hundred and seventy minutes. To cover 41 miles. Hell, I tell you. Hell.
Because it was raining so hard there shouldn't be a frog alive in Houston any longer. Not one speck of dust. Not one bit of trash. It all should be in the Gulf of Mexico by now, it rained that hard. And it sucked.
Anyway, the storms ended yesterday evening, right after I made it to my exit on the freeway.
Today started about the same way. Overcast but no rain while I was picking up donuts and kolaches for my lifeguard instructors. Then I headed over to the pool they were going to be at, and it started sprinkling. Then it drizzled a bit, while the students started arriving. Meanwhile I didn't have any instructors yet, but a half dozen phone calls found almost all of them. And more kids showed up.
Meanwhile, 3 other sites are calling in with problems from their lifeguard classes. Students in the wrong spots. Students in the right spots on the wrong days. And oh, yeah, it's raining like hell. And some missing instructors at another location. They got lost.
So I'm still at the first place and the instructors are getting the tv set up. It's a simple process. Only when we plug it in, the damned thing has a picture exactly 1 inch tall by 25 or so inches across. Fine if you're a smurf, but not so good for humans. So it's off to Wal-Mart I go. In the now strengthening rain.
Did you know the rat bastards at Wal-Mart stock about 10 of the 50 or so models they have on display? Sure, they show you an "old fashioned" tube television set that comes in a 26 inch model. But you can't buy it. You can't buy any tube tv at all, unless you want a little 14 incher for your kid's bedroom. I don't have a kid. I needed a tv that 27 students could actually see. So I had to buy a flat screen high definition LCD tv. Do you have any idea how fragile those things actually are? Because I'm about to find out, since we move the tv's to a new location for teaching about every 2 weeks. Five hundred bucks that is sure to be broken in a year. Or less.
So the class is calling me frantic to know where I am with their tv. Uhm, trying to buy it? And the other classes are calling me with problems too. Seriously, I used up the entire battery on my cell phone in an hour and a half.
Oh, and I dropped my wallet in the parking lot, so now there's a grease stain on it. And a matching one on the seat of the jeep where it ended up. My poor baby jeep. I'd pretty much say that everything that could have gone wrong between 8 am and 10 am did. And I was ready to cry.
I came home for a brief break, and some dry shoes.
Then I went back out to the location that was starting after lunch.
When I got there last night, one of the pools was green. Took care of that then, too. And today, the instructors were on point. They were all kinds of ready to teach CPR. And then they started unpacking the equipment the RED CROSS had rented to us. Rented fully prepared. And it wasn't prepared. No manikin faces. No manikin lungs. Crap. Crap. Crap crap crap.
So I was back in the jeep. And driving from Maine to New Mexico and back to Maine. Only now the rain was coming down so hard, so fast, and so much that the weather reports said we received 6 and a half inches in an hour. I was driving in it. People couldn't exit the freeway because there was 3 feet of water waiting for them on the feeder roads. No place to go for them, but luckily my route was clear, if treacherous, the whole way.
And while I was driving, my phone rang again. Turns out that another tv at another location died. And it was another trip to Wal Mart, and another five hundred bucks spent. It's been a damned expensive day.
I burned through a tank of gas in 24 hours and I wasn't on a road trip.
I spent 2 hours on the phone refereeing between lifeguard instructors.
I alternated between soaking wet and mildly damp for the past 24 hours.
And then, right at the end of the day, as I was finally driving home... the effing sun came out, like it had never rained at all.
Life kicked my butt today. Tomorrow looks to be more of the same.
I'm going to take a nap, since it's cheaper than taking up drinking. Ugh.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Ways to tick me off
Okay, so if you haven't figured it out, there are about a million ways to tick me off. We've covered some of them here already, and I never look back, so you're on your own if you missed the lesson already. Next lesson up on deck is voice mail.
Voice mail, according to the gurus at wikipedia.org (donate money, they're worth it for the number of bar bets they solve) was invented by both IBM and Xerox when I was 2 years old. I'm 35, people, so we're not talking about new technology. Not even close to new. And sure, people started out with earlier versions of message machines, where they'd leave torturous family greetings like, "Hi, You've reached the Obama's - Barack, Michelle, Shasha, Malia and Bo (someone tries to get the dog to bark here) can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we'll call you back!" And then finally the dog barks. You remember those. Sure, you haven't heard THAT greeting, but you remember that answering machine. Where the longer the beep was, the more messages were already on the tape.
So now, we're modern. We're high tech. Everyone has voice mail on their cell phones. And if they don't have it there, for sure they have an answering machine at home. Because we're all so damned important that we MUST be reachable, twenty four hours a day, in mediums other than the internet spam we get. (No, thank you for the offer, but I do not need any medication for my erectile dysfunction as I do not have a penis to W*O*W her with.)
We get our new phone and we set up our cool ring back tones (HATEEEEEEEEEEEE) and our custom ringtones for each of our callers. Generic ringtones aren't enough. Nope, we have to download that crap from the wireless carrier du jour at some insane rate that never really seems like a problem... if you stop at one ringtone. But no one ever stops at one. Just ask the guys over at Frito Lay who are shipping those potato chips like they are going out of style. Betcha can't eat just one. It's the same with the ring tones.
So you get this phone, and you customize it. And you leave a near incomprehensible message for the caller because you just can't make it to the phone at that particular minute. For instance, "hey yo this is B I can't get you now so hit me back wit some'in an' I'll get wit you." I believe that translates into, "hello, caller, this is Barack and I can't take your call right now. Please leave your number and a message and I will return your call as quickly as possible." Mind you there is some incredibly loud, annoying music track playing in the room, too, or sports center, blasting away while the telephone owner leaves said greeting, which makes it all the harder to translate to comprehensible language.
All that is annoying as hell. But that's not what ticks me off!
Be quiet. You know I make a long story long, and if you didn't like it, you'd have deleted the email by now.
What ticks me off is this:
I call you. I get your greeting. I wait for the beep and I leave you a thorough and complete message, thus negating the need for you to call me back. And you, you stupid idiot, decide that you should have actually answered that telephone call who's number you didn't instantly recognize on your caller ID... and you call me back.
Don't do that!
Don't call me back instantly. Unless you know me personally and know me well, don't call me back. Just check your damned voice mail. Because the next time I call 197 kids in 1 day to remind them of their lifeguard training, and they choose to call me back to find out what I wanted... I'm going to tell them to check their voice mail. And then I'm going to hang up on them.
Seriously. What's the point of having voice mail if you aren't going to bother to listen to the message.
"I saw you called. What's up?"
"Did you listen to your voice mail?"
"Nahhh, I haven't bothered to check that."
That, right there... that's where I'm hanging up on you.
I understand your time is precious. So is mine. That's why I left you a voice mail. To cut down on me calling and calling and calling until I got you on the phone, I instead chose to take advantage of the technology you presented to me for my use, and I left you a message. Because I do NOT have time to talk to 197 voice mail systems, and then talk to 197 people live, when they decide to call me back instead of listening to their message.
I mean hell, I even use my announcer voice when I leave these messages, so they're entertaining and informative, all at the same time.
Technology... use it, don't abuse it
....disclaimer.... Story Hour is in no way endorsed or read by President Obama or his family, but I sat in traffic for 2 hours and moved 4 miles, so I'm really freaking tired and stressed out, so I couldn't come up with another family who I could actually remember all their names. At least I'm politically aware, right? Right?
Voice mail, according to the gurus at wikipedia.org (donate money, they're worth it for the number of bar bets they solve) was invented by both IBM and Xerox when I was 2 years old. I'm 35, people, so we're not talking about new technology. Not even close to new. And sure, people started out with earlier versions of message machines, where they'd leave torturous family greetings like, "Hi, You've reached the Obama's - Barack, Michelle, Shasha, Malia and Bo (someone tries to get the dog to bark here) can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we'll call you back!" And then finally the dog barks. You remember those. Sure, you haven't heard THAT greeting, but you remember that answering machine. Where the longer the beep was, the more messages were already on the tape.
So now, we're modern. We're high tech. Everyone has voice mail on their cell phones. And if they don't have it there, for sure they have an answering machine at home. Because we're all so damned important that we MUST be reachable, twenty four hours a day, in mediums other than the internet spam we get. (No, thank you for the offer, but I do not need any medication for my erectile dysfunction as I do not have a penis to W*O*W her with.)
We get our new phone and we set up our cool ring back tones (HATEEEEEEEEEEEE) and our custom ringtones for each of our callers. Generic ringtones aren't enough. Nope, we have to download that crap from the wireless carrier du jour at some insane rate that never really seems like a problem... if you stop at one ringtone. But no one ever stops at one. Just ask the guys over at Frito Lay who are shipping those potato chips like they are going out of style. Betcha can't eat just one. It's the same with the ring tones.
So you get this phone, and you customize it. And you leave a near incomprehensible message for the caller because you just can't make it to the phone at that particular minute. For instance, "hey yo this is B I can't get you now so hit me back wit some'in an' I'll get wit you." I believe that translates into, "hello, caller, this is Barack and I can't take your call right now. Please leave your number and a message and I will return your call as quickly as possible." Mind you there is some incredibly loud, annoying music track playing in the room, too, or sports center, blasting away while the telephone owner leaves said greeting, which makes it all the harder to translate to comprehensible language.
All that is annoying as hell. But that's not what ticks me off!
Be quiet. You know I make a long story long, and if you didn't like it, you'd have deleted the email by now.
What ticks me off is this:
I call you. I get your greeting. I wait for the beep and I leave you a thorough and complete message, thus negating the need for you to call me back. And you, you stupid idiot, decide that you should have actually answered that telephone call who's number you didn't instantly recognize on your caller ID... and you call me back.
Don't do that!
Don't call me back instantly. Unless you know me personally and know me well, don't call me back. Just check your damned voice mail. Because the next time I call 197 kids in 1 day to remind them of their lifeguard training, and they choose to call me back to find out what I wanted... I'm going to tell them to check their voice mail. And then I'm going to hang up on them.
Seriously. What's the point of having voice mail if you aren't going to bother to listen to the message.
"I saw you called. What's up?"
"Did you listen to your voice mail?"
"Nahhh, I haven't bothered to check that."
That, right there... that's where I'm hanging up on you.
I understand your time is precious. So is mine. That's why I left you a voice mail. To cut down on me calling and calling and calling until I got you on the phone, I instead chose to take advantage of the technology you presented to me for my use, and I left you a message. Because I do NOT have time to talk to 197 voice mail systems, and then talk to 197 people live, when they decide to call me back instead of listening to their message.
I mean hell, I even use my announcer voice when I leave these messages, so they're entertaining and informative, all at the same time.
Technology... use it, don't abuse it
....disclaimer.... Story Hour is in no way endorsed or read by President Obama or his family, but I sat in traffic for 2 hours and moved 4 miles, so I'm really freaking tired and stressed out, so I couldn't come up with another family who I could actually remember all their names. At least I'm politically aware, right? Right?
Okay, so if you haven't figured it out, there are about a million ways to tick me off. We've covered some of them here already, and I never look back, so you're on your own if you missed the lesson already. Next lesson up on deck is voice mail.
Voice mail, according to the gurus at wikipedia.org (donate money, they're worth it for the number of bar bets they solve) was invented by both IBM and Xerox when I was 2 years old. I'm 35, people, so we're not talking about new technology. Not even close to new. And sure, people started out with earlier versions of message machines, where they'd leave torturous family greetings like, "Hi, You've reached the Obama's - Barack, Michelle, Shasha, Malia and Bo (someone tries to get the dog to bark here) can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we'll call you back!" And then finally the dog barks. You remember those. Sure, you haven't heard THAT greeting, but you remember that answering machine. Where the longer the beep was, the more messages were already on the tape.
So now, we're modern. We're high tech. Everyone has voice mail on their cell phones. And if they don't have it there, for sure they have an answering machine at home. Because we're all so damned important that we MUST be reachable, twenty four hours a day, in mediums other than the internet spam we get. (No, thank you for the offer, but I do not need any medication for my erectile dysfunction as I do not have a penis to W*O*W her with.)
We get our new phone and we set up our cool ring back tones (HATEEEEEEEEEEEE) and our custom ringtones for each of our callers. Generic ringtones aren't enough. Nope, we have to download that crap from the wireless carrier du jour at some insane rate that never really seems like a problem... if you stop at one ringtone. But no one ever stops at one. Just ask the guys over at Frito Lay who are shipping those potato chips like they are going out of style. Betcha can't eat just one. It's the same with the ring tones.
So you get this phone, and you customize it. And you leave a near incomprehensible message for the caller because you just can't make it to the phone at that particular minute. For instance, "hey yo this is B I can't get you now so hit me back wit some'in an' I'll get wit you." I believe that translates into, "hello, caller, this is Barack and I can't take your call right now. Please leave your number and a message and I will return your call as quickly as possible." Mind you there is some incredibly loud, annoying music track playing in the room, too, or sports center, blasting away while the telephone owner leaves said greeting, which makes it all the harder to translate to comprehensible language.
All that is annoying as hell. But that's not what ticks me off!
Be quiet. You know I make a long story long, and if you didn't like it, you'd have deleted the email by now.
What ticks me off is this:
I call you. I get your greeting. I wait for the beep and I leave you a thorough and complete message, thus negating the need for you to call me back. And you, you stupid idiot, decide that you should have actually answered that telephone call who's number you didn't instantly recognize on your caller ID... and you call me back.
Don't do that!
Don't call me back instantly. Unless you know me personally and know me well, don't call me back. Just check your damned voice mail. Because the next time I call 197 kids in 1 day to remind them of their lifeguard training, and they choose to call me back to find out what I wanted... I'm going to tell them to check their voice mail. And then I'm going to hang up on them.
Seriously. What's the point of having voice mail if you aren't going to bother to listen to the message.
"I saw you called. What's up?"
"Did you listen to your voice mail?"
"Nahhh, I haven't bothered to check that."
That, right there... that's where I'm hanging up on you.
I understand your time is precious. So is mine. That's why I left you a voice mail. To cut down on me calling and calling and calling until I got you on the phone, I instead chose to take advantage of the technology you presented to me for my use, and I left you a message. Because I do NOT have time to talk to 197 voice mail systems, and then talk to 197 people live, when they decide to call me back instead of listening to their message.
I mean hell, I even use my announcer voice when I leave these messages, so they're entertaining and informative, all at the same time.
Technology... use it, don't abuse it
....disclaimer.... Story Hour is in no way endorsed or read by President Obama or his family, but I sat in traffic for 2 hours and moved 4 miles, so I'm really freaking tired and stressed out, so I couldn't come up with another family who I could actually remember all their names. At least I'm politically aware, right? Right?
Voice mail, according to the gurus at wikipedia.org (donate money, they're worth it for the number of bar bets they solve) was invented by both IBM and Xerox when I was 2 years old. I'm 35, people, so we're not talking about new technology. Not even close to new. And sure, people started out with earlier versions of message machines, where they'd leave torturous family greetings like, "Hi, You've reached the Obama's - Barack, Michelle, Shasha, Malia and Bo (someone tries to get the dog to bark here) can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we'll call you back!" And then finally the dog barks. You remember those. Sure, you haven't heard THAT greeting, but you remember that answering machine. Where the longer the beep was, the more messages were already on the tape.
So now, we're modern. We're high tech. Everyone has voice mail on their cell phones. And if they don't have it there, for sure they have an answering machine at home. Because we're all so damned important that we MUST be reachable, twenty four hours a day, in mediums other than the internet spam we get. (No, thank you for the offer, but I do not need any medication for my erectile dysfunction as I do not have a penis to W*O*W her with.)
We get our new phone and we set up our cool ring back tones (HATEEEEEEEEEEEE) and our custom ringtones for each of our callers. Generic ringtones aren't enough. Nope, we have to download that crap from the wireless carrier du jour at some insane rate that never really seems like a problem... if you stop at one ringtone. But no one ever stops at one. Just ask the guys over at Frito Lay who are shipping those potato chips like they are going out of style. Betcha can't eat just one. It's the same with the ring tones.
So you get this phone, and you customize it. And you leave a near incomprehensible message for the caller because you just can't make it to the phone at that particular minute. For instance, "hey yo this is B I can't get you now so hit me back wit some'in an' I'll get wit you." I believe that translates into, "hello, caller, this is Barack and I can't take your call right now. Please leave your number and a message and I will return your call as quickly as possible." Mind you there is some incredibly loud, annoying music track playing in the room, too, or sports center, blasting away while the telephone owner leaves said greeting, which makes it all the harder to translate to comprehensible language.
All that is annoying as hell. But that's not what ticks me off!
Be quiet. You know I make a long story long, and if you didn't like it, you'd have deleted the email by now.
What ticks me off is this:
I call you. I get your greeting. I wait for the beep and I leave you a thorough and complete message, thus negating the need for you to call me back. And you, you stupid idiot, decide that you should have actually answered that telephone call who's number you didn't instantly recognize on your caller ID... and you call me back.
Don't do that!
Don't call me back instantly. Unless you know me personally and know me well, don't call me back. Just check your damned voice mail. Because the next time I call 197 kids in 1 day to remind them of their lifeguard training, and they choose to call me back to find out what I wanted... I'm going to tell them to check their voice mail. And then I'm going to hang up on them.
Seriously. What's the point of having voice mail if you aren't going to bother to listen to the message.
"I saw you called. What's up?"
"Did you listen to your voice mail?"
"Nahhh, I haven't bothered to check that."
That, right there... that's where I'm hanging up on you.
I understand your time is precious. So is mine. That's why I left you a voice mail. To cut down on me calling and calling and calling until I got you on the phone, I instead chose to take advantage of the technology you presented to me for my use, and I left you a message. Because I do NOT have time to talk to 197 voice mail systems, and then talk to 197 people live, when they decide to call me back instead of listening to their message.
I mean hell, I even use my announcer voice when I leave these messages, so they're entertaining and informative, all at the same time.
Technology... use it, don't abuse it
....disclaimer.... Story Hour is in no way endorsed or read by President Obama or his family, but I sat in traffic for 2 hours and moved 4 miles, so I'm really freaking tired and stressed out, so I couldn't come up with another family who I could actually remember all their names. At least I'm politically aware, right? Right?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Told you so
There's a fridge in the garage. It's full of beverages. Sure it costs a fortune to run a fridge in the garage, but damnit, we like our drinks cold and the ice maker in the indoor fridge just can't keep up. So be it.
Anyway, I've been visiting the garage fridge for, ohhhhh, we'll call it "forever." But tonight, when I wanted to get a drink... several hours after the sun went down, I opened the back door. And stood there, looking right, then left, then right, then left like I was about to step off the curb to cross the street, cementing the fact that I am a moron.
No really, I am a moron. Because I'm barefoot, in boxer shorts (hawaiian print, thank you very much) and a sweatshirt (don't criticize my after shower attire, okay?) looking around for the stupid raccoon. I've already mentioned I've gone to the garage a kajillion times in the past month alone, and now, suddenly, the night we set the humane trap, I'm all skittish to go get a pepsi. Apparently I thought that my unusual technique of multiple traffic checks would protect me.
The good news is that I made a safe, successful journey to get my caffeine fix. (No, it does not keep me awake at bedtime. Enough with the stupid questions already.) The bad news is that I alerted my parents before I went outside, for fear I'd have a run in with the critter. Really, they were sitting on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune on the DVR. What did I think they were gonna do for me?
Because when I WAS out in the garage, before I opened the door (seriously, it's a household style door and not the roll up door. Didn't I tell you about stupid questions?!) I thumped it a couple times, and then let it swing into the wall behind it, to let whatever was there know I was coming. In case they hadn't paid attention at the traffic signal.
And then I heard the chittering sound. I stood still for a bit and listened, then turned around and trucked back inside all "come to the garage, right now, come to the garage right now come to the garage right now." Vanna was turning over some wicked letters though, and it took them about a dozen more iterations of me all "come to the garage right nowwwwwwwwwwwwww" before the parents got up. Of course I probably sounded like a squirrel on amphetamines I was talking to so fast, and it's almost tax day (Poor Dad. Hang in there! You're almost done being accountant for the masses!) so they were pretty much done moving around.
But they got up.
And trekked out to the garage, where I was waiting again, with my finger over my mouth in that librarian shushing gesture, and we all listened. More chittering. Lots more.
We've got a familyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy up there.
Which changes the whole ball game.
So now we'll take the can of tuna out of the trap and wait out moving day for the coons. No sense trapping the mom when the babies would just die, and then cause the need to rip out sheet rock, as well as throwing away everything in the garage.... wait. Yeah. Not even worth it for a clean garage. I hollered up to the raccoons and told them they had until June to find a new apartment, as I would not be held hostage for my midnight caffeine fix any longer than that.
Freaking raccoons! We live in the city! Over four million people, and still, we end up with raccoons in our attic. Vaughn, Brian, Bryson... you all can definitely say "told you so."
Anyway, I've been visiting the garage fridge for, ohhhhh, we'll call it "forever." But tonight, when I wanted to get a drink... several hours after the sun went down, I opened the back door. And stood there, looking right, then left, then right, then left like I was about to step off the curb to cross the street, cementing the fact that I am a moron.
No really, I am a moron. Because I'm barefoot, in boxer shorts (hawaiian print, thank you very much) and a sweatshirt (don't criticize my after shower attire, okay?) looking around for the stupid raccoon. I've already mentioned I've gone to the garage a kajillion times in the past month alone, and now, suddenly, the night we set the humane trap, I'm all skittish to go get a pepsi. Apparently I thought that my unusual technique of multiple traffic checks would protect me.
The good news is that I made a safe, successful journey to get my caffeine fix. (No, it does not keep me awake at bedtime. Enough with the stupid questions already.) The bad news is that I alerted my parents before I went outside, for fear I'd have a run in with the critter. Really, they were sitting on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune on the DVR. What did I think they were gonna do for me?
Because when I WAS out in the garage, before I opened the door (seriously, it's a household style door and not the roll up door. Didn't I tell you about stupid questions?!) I thumped it a couple times, and then let it swing into the wall behind it, to let whatever was there know I was coming. In case they hadn't paid attention at the traffic signal.
And then I heard the chittering sound. I stood still for a bit and listened, then turned around and trucked back inside all "come to the garage, right now, come to the garage right now come to the garage right now." Vanna was turning over some wicked letters though, and it took them about a dozen more iterations of me all "come to the garage right nowwwwwwwwwwwwww" before the parents got up. Of course I probably sounded like a squirrel on amphetamines I was talking to so fast, and it's almost tax day (Poor Dad. Hang in there! You're almost done being accountant for the masses!) so they were pretty much done moving around.
But they got up.
And trekked out to the garage, where I was waiting again, with my finger over my mouth in that librarian shushing gesture, and we all listened. More chittering. Lots more.
We've got a familyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy up there.
Which changes the whole ball game.
So now we'll take the can of tuna out of the trap and wait out moving day for the coons. No sense trapping the mom when the babies would just die, and then cause the need to rip out sheet rock, as well as throwing away everything in the garage.... wait. Yeah. Not even worth it for a clean garage. I hollered up to the raccoons and told them they had until June to find a new apartment, as I would not be held hostage for my midnight caffeine fix any longer than that.
Freaking raccoons! We live in the city! Over four million people, and still, we end up with raccoons in our attic. Vaughn, Brian, Bryson... you all can definitely say "told you so."
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Time to Move
No, not me. I'm not moving. I'm too poor to move right now. So I'll stay with the parents. But that fat bastard of an uninvited, unwelcome house guest is getting kicked to the curb.
Immediately. If any one of my past, present or future boyfriends was in town, I'd have one of them do the honors. They'd love this job.
You see... there's a thieving bastard in the strawberry patch. And I just know he'll keep it up, too. So he has to leave.
You can see by his remorseless expression that he has been plotting the downfall of the garden since it went in last month. And I for one will not have it. Not at all.
What is worse though, is that this dude is living in the garage attic. It would be one thing if he'd clean the joint up, and pay rent, but he's been kiting checks and trashing the joint. I think he and the squirrels have had more than one keg party, too, given the state of the garage attic.
I do have to give him points for agility though, because he's like an acrobat each time he comes and goes from the attic apartment. See, we have an open beamed back porch. Since the last porch roof had been finished, and it leaked, and rotted, and a whole bunch of other crap no one would care to remember, the new porch roof has exposed rafters. It's these rafters he tiptoes across, after scaling a 4x4 to get up there in the first place. Up is easy, but he also goes down headfirst. That's what gets him the points.
Brazen.
And all I can say is this better be a male. And he better be single. Or homosexual. Because any pups, kits, babies or whatever the hell you call them are not welcome here. Not having it. Not at all.
Eviction will be swift. And it better be painless. At least on my part.
Anyone who wants to come and handle this matter better be here by Tuesday.
Immediately. If any one of my past, present or future boyfriends was in town, I'd have one of them do the honors. They'd love this job.
You see... there's a thieving bastard in the strawberry patch. And I just know he'll keep it up, too. So he has to leave.
You can see by his remorseless expression that he has been plotting the downfall of the garden since it went in last month. And I for one will not have it. Not at all.
What is worse though, is that this dude is living in the garage attic. It would be one thing if he'd clean the joint up, and pay rent, but he's been kiting checks and trashing the joint. I think he and the squirrels have had more than one keg party, too, given the state of the garage attic.
I do have to give him points for agility though, because he's like an acrobat each time he comes and goes from the attic apartment. See, we have an open beamed back porch. Since the last porch roof had been finished, and it leaked, and rotted, and a whole bunch of other crap no one would care to remember, the new porch roof has exposed rafters. It's these rafters he tiptoes across, after scaling a 4x4 to get up there in the first place. Up is easy, but he also goes down headfirst. That's what gets him the points.
Brazen.
And all I can say is this better be a male. And he better be single. Or homosexual. Because any pups, kits, babies or whatever the hell you call them are not welcome here. Not having it. Not at all.
Eviction will be swift. And it better be painless. At least on my part.
Anyone who wants to come and handle this matter better be here by Tuesday.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
My DVR makes me feel guilty...
Can I really be the only person with this problem? Up until a year ago, when I wanted to watch something on television, I got myself there at the time it was schedule. Or I simply didn't watch it. Because there are always summer reruns, as a great chance to catch up on watching all the stuff I missed. And if that didn't work, well hell, I could drop it into Netflix and make it happen that way.
I actually caught up on a lot of TV when I was in Iraq, that way, now that I think about it. There was a place where I'd fall asleep with a season of something or other in the dvd player next to my bed. It was either that or listening to the stupid computer generated announcements coming out of the command post all morning until I finally fell asleep. Bones and House were a much better choice.
Anyway, now that I'm home, both from the sandbox and from North Carolina, I've got a DVR. So I program it to record a bunch of shows I would formerly have tried to squeeze into my evening. Not a ton, though I could totally be a TV junkie, if I let myself, but about one show a night. And this is good. This is convenient. This is awesome.
I can have my life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, and a DVR full of stuff I intend to watch.
No really, I do.
Of course I said that four months ago, too, when I started recording.
Meanwhile, the damned thing just makes me feel guilty. I find myself turning the tv on when I have a couple hours free, but not really free, and trying to power through some shows. High speed, blow through the commercials, and then enjoy the show.
Or in my case, turn something on, get distracted by life, and end up walking away, only to find out the tv shut off the program for me. I swear I use the sleep timer more during the day on my tv than I do at night.
So, what's on my DVR right now....
I'm totally going to watch Home Alone with my nieces, I swear. Just as soon as they start having more than a half hour free. And maybe when it gets cold again, so the Christmas carols they'll be inspired to sing make sense. Or maybe not. Who cares about making sense.
Ace of Cakes - awesome. So awesome I've got 6 episodes on there. It's CAKE, you idiot - delete the damned show and just look at the pictures online of their latest cake creations. Hell, Bakerella at least makes cake pops. I love me some fat, chubby, Jewish baker dude, too, but obviously not that much if I've let this many episodes stack up.
It's right next to Unwrapped, too, which proves I might have an unhealthy obsession starting with the Food Network. Does anyone really need to know the secrets of fiery food, anyway? I'm pretty solid the secret to making things hot when you're cooking is to add some sort of spice. Usually in the form of a pepper, be it fresh, pickled, dried or ground.
And to round out the trifecta of shit I won't actually watch unless I'm awake at 2 am again and bored.... Diners, Drive ins and Dives. Buddy, your name is Guy Ferry. After the boat. Not some trumped up version of whatever you want to call yourself now, on those stupid TGI Friday's commercials that annoy the hell out of me. Fiiieedty is what it sounds like. And it sounds bogus. Besides, how much fun is it really, for the rest of the world to watch you eat? That show is totally coming off the record schedule.
Oh, sweet! A Muppets Christmas movie! You're jealous. I'm jealous. Christmas in April... that works, right? Although right now is probably not the best time to listen to Miss Piggy, Kermit is totally my buddy. It's not easy being green....
Some of this stuff just makes me wonder why I ever recorded it, anyway:
Shanghai Noon - seen it
John Pinette: I'm Starving - he's funny as hell, but I have a CD of his already, and a DVD he autographed and gave to me over in Iraq.
Undercover Blues - seriously, I don't even remember what that's about....
Two If by Sea - Dennis Leary and Sandy Bullock argue about stealing stuff that doesn't belong to them.
Juno - if I haven't bothered to see it by now, I probably never will. Teen pregnancy - woooo
Runaway Bride - Julia Roberts' oversized lips can leave my recorder now, thank you very much
Hitch - because Will Smith being a matchmaker is soooo believable. The man fell in love and got married when he was what, twelve?
America's Sweethearts - oh look Julia Roberts is trying to take over my DVR. Denied!
Bewitched - when Will Ferrell plays the straight man we're all in trouble. And if you haven't seen his HBO special salute to George W. Bush, it's worth signing up for the channel now. Run, don't walk. Seriously.
Man of the House - Tommy Lee Jones takes on college co-eds. Uh huh. That's believable.
Taking Chance - *sniffffffffffff* You can stay.
The Waterboy - You can leave
Love Stinks - yes it does, and so does this movie
Always - or until you die and go to heaven and have to help me fly a plane full of water over my smokejumper boyfriend I replaced you with
Made of Honor - McDreamy has to do something in the off season.
Nim's Island - I'll catch this one, I swear. Might take me 6 more months, but I'll watch it.
Ghost Hunters and the X-Files - I must have been whacked out on sinus medication when I started recording these.
Burn Notice - yessssssssss. Burn Notice is still fun, thank you USA network.
Big Love - Polygamy is fun, yayyyyyyyy!
The Pacifier - that's it, I must be recording this stuff in my sleep. Vin Diesel (what the hell kind of made up name is that, anyway) as a Feebie playing a babysitter. Uh huh.
House - a smart assed, sarcastic, sardonic person who usually turns out right, and doesn't admit it when he's wrong. I'm in love with House.
Kings - I thought I'd give it a shot, but really, a crown of butterflies? You're going off the schedule posthaste.
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency - I have no idea, but I figured I'd give the Botswanaian detectives a shot. Even if it is made up. On HBO.
No more will I feel guilty because of my DVR!
Retarded, sure, for each time I forget I'm actually watching a recorded show and fail to fast forward through the commercials, but never guilty again!
*mutters* stupid DVR is supposed to make my life easier, not harder....
I actually caught up on a lot of TV when I was in Iraq, that way, now that I think about it. There was a place where I'd fall asleep with a season of something or other in the dvd player next to my bed. It was either that or listening to the stupid computer generated announcements coming out of the command post all morning until I finally fell asleep. Bones and House were a much better choice.
Anyway, now that I'm home, both from the sandbox and from North Carolina, I've got a DVR. So I program it to record a bunch of shows I would formerly have tried to squeeze into my evening. Not a ton, though I could totally be a TV junkie, if I let myself, but about one show a night. And this is good. This is convenient. This is awesome.
I can have my life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, and a DVR full of stuff I intend to watch.
No really, I do.
Of course I said that four months ago, too, when I started recording.
Meanwhile, the damned thing just makes me feel guilty. I find myself turning the tv on when I have a couple hours free, but not really free, and trying to power through some shows. High speed, blow through the commercials, and then enjoy the show.
Or in my case, turn something on, get distracted by life, and end up walking away, only to find out the tv shut off the program for me. I swear I use the sleep timer more during the day on my tv than I do at night.
So, what's on my DVR right now....
I'm totally going to watch Home Alone with my nieces, I swear. Just as soon as they start having more than a half hour free. And maybe when it gets cold again, so the Christmas carols they'll be inspired to sing make sense. Or maybe not. Who cares about making sense.
Ace of Cakes - awesome. So awesome I've got 6 episodes on there. It's CAKE, you idiot - delete the damned show and just look at the pictures online of their latest cake creations. Hell, Bakerella at least makes cake pops. I love me some fat, chubby, Jewish baker dude, too, but obviously not that much if I've let this many episodes stack up.
It's right next to Unwrapped, too, which proves I might have an unhealthy obsession starting with the Food Network. Does anyone really need to know the secrets of fiery food, anyway? I'm pretty solid the secret to making things hot when you're cooking is to add some sort of spice. Usually in the form of a pepper, be it fresh, pickled, dried or ground.
And to round out the trifecta of shit I won't actually watch unless I'm awake at 2 am again and bored.... Diners, Drive ins and Dives. Buddy, your name is Guy Ferry. After the boat. Not some trumped up version of whatever you want to call yourself now, on those stupid TGI Friday's commercials that annoy the hell out of me. Fiiieedty is what it sounds like. And it sounds bogus. Besides, how much fun is it really, for the rest of the world to watch you eat? That show is totally coming off the record schedule.
Oh, sweet! A Muppets Christmas movie! You're jealous. I'm jealous. Christmas in April... that works, right? Although right now is probably not the best time to listen to Miss Piggy, Kermit is totally my buddy. It's not easy being green....
Some of this stuff just makes me wonder why I ever recorded it, anyway:
Shanghai Noon - seen it
John Pinette: I'm Starving - he's funny as hell, but I have a CD of his already, and a DVD he autographed and gave to me over in Iraq.
Undercover Blues - seriously, I don't even remember what that's about....
Two If by Sea - Dennis Leary and Sandy Bullock argue about stealing stuff that doesn't belong to them.
Juno - if I haven't bothered to see it by now, I probably never will. Teen pregnancy - woooo
Runaway Bride - Julia Roberts' oversized lips can leave my recorder now, thank you very much
Hitch - because Will Smith being a matchmaker is soooo believable. The man fell in love and got married when he was what, twelve?
America's Sweethearts - oh look Julia Roberts is trying to take over my DVR. Denied!
Bewitched - when Will Ferrell plays the straight man we're all in trouble. And if you haven't seen his HBO special salute to George W. Bush, it's worth signing up for the channel now. Run, don't walk. Seriously.
Man of the House - Tommy Lee Jones takes on college co-eds. Uh huh. That's believable.
Taking Chance - *sniffffffffffff* You can stay.
The Waterboy - You can leave
Love Stinks - yes it does, and so does this movie
Always - or until you die and go to heaven and have to help me fly a plane full of water over my smokejumper boyfriend I replaced you with
Made of Honor - McDreamy has to do something in the off season.
Nim's Island - I'll catch this one, I swear. Might take me 6 more months, but I'll watch it.
Ghost Hunters and the X-Files - I must have been whacked out on sinus medication when I started recording these.
Burn Notice - yessssssssss. Burn Notice is still fun, thank you USA network.
Big Love - Polygamy is fun, yayyyyyyyy!
The Pacifier - that's it, I must be recording this stuff in my sleep. Vin Diesel (what the hell kind of made up name is that, anyway) as a Feebie playing a babysitter. Uh huh.
House - a smart assed, sarcastic, sardonic person who usually turns out right, and doesn't admit it when he's wrong. I'm in love with House.
Kings - I thought I'd give it a shot, but really, a crown of butterflies? You're going off the schedule posthaste.
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency - I have no idea, but I figured I'd give the Botswanaian detectives a shot. Even if it is made up. On HBO.
No more will I feel guilty because of my DVR!
Retarded, sure, for each time I forget I'm actually watching a recorded show and fail to fast forward through the commercials, but never guilty again!
*mutters* stupid DVR is supposed to make my life easier, not harder....
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Crack Dip
I got an email from Belle the other night saying "If I didn't have to work in the morning, I'd drive down for some crack dip." Bold words, since she's in Colorado. But really, crack dip IS that good.
A long time ago, when I was a relative rookie to packing boxes for the deployed military, I made some new friends here in Houston. We got together, formed our own little group and did some huge fundraising and donation drives, all the while calling ourselves "Show Some Love Houston." Catchy name or not, it worked. We shipped thousands of oreos across Iraq, and made our own cookbook, too. I've got some of those around here somewhere, I'm sure. Well, actually they're probably in storage, along with most everything I want at the time. That's a whole other story though.
So we'd have planning meetings for our big drive. And one day I stopped at Chuy's, because I needed an Elvis fix. Okay, no, that's not true. I needed a Chihuahua fix. Okay that's not true either. I'm sure I was suffering from a salsa and chip imbalance after training lifeguards in the morning, so I stopped by Chuys, visited the Chihuahua bar while an Elvis impersonator did his thing, and ordered chips, salsa and creamy jalapeno dip.
That would be the official name for crack dip. The one it's recognized by in the the restaurant.
But that name doesn't get the job done, for such a good, holy moly trip for your tastebuds. Which is why Belle wanted to drive down from Colorado and Kim wanted to come up from the beach.
Seriously, crack dip is a combination of cool and creamy and hot and spicy. There are jalapenos to reach up, grab you by the collar and smack you around. There is cilantro to make you blink back into the world with it's fresh, bright citrus taste. And then the steady, dependable creamy ranch dressing flavor comes in to make peace in your mouth. Add a super thin, crisp, warm, slightly salted tortilla chip and it's an orgasm of food flavors.
My Mom, who has the wimpiest mouth in the world, and cannot handle a single thing hotter than paprika, loves this stuff. She cannot get enough. When we do happen to go Chuy's to eat, she won't even place her drink order until bowls of dip are on the table in front of her. And then she can't stop eating it, but it's so hot to her that she's slugging back a frozen margarita with it, like a beer chaser. It's awesome to watch, too, because she gets all flushed from the spices, but won't stop eating it.
Anyway, since most of you don't live near an awesome Tex-Mex restaurant called Chuy's, which serves an Elvis Presley Memorial Combo that has NOTHING to do with a fried pb & nanner sandwich, I thought I'd give you the recipe. Try it. No, really. Try it.
Crack dip:
16 oz sour cream - your choice on regular or light - but Elvis don't do light, lite, or anything else low fat, so make your choice
1 packet powdered Hidden Valley Ranch dressing mix - don't wimp out - use the real stuff instead of the store brand
1 bunch Cilantro or Chinese Parsley, if you live in a strange, strange world. And even if you think cilantro tastes soapy, give it a try. You'll thank me.
4 oz - diced jalapenos
Get out your blender. Dump in the sour cream and the ranch mix. Blend until mixed well. Separate 1/4 to 1/2 of the cilantro leaves from the stems. Throw the stems at the kids, the dog or the trash. Put the lovely, little green leaves into the blender. Blend in 10 second bursts. It will start to thin out the sour cream a bit, and add some green color to it. You'll see flecks of green, in addition to the greenish white color. Open up your can of diced jalapenos. Don't be a wimp. Dump in the juice and all to the blender. (Fine, if you're a wimp, pour off some of the juice and then add everything else to the blender. But know that I am disappointed in you and your wimpy tastebuds.) Blend again in 10 second bursts just until mixed. The jalapenos will mince up a bit, but if you blend too long, they'll disappear into the dip and become ghost spices that make your lips twitch for no apparent reason. That could be good if you don't like the people you're serving it to, but otherwise it makes for a boring dip. Pour it all into a bowl and let sit for 15 minutes before serving. If you can wait that long. Toss your tortilla chips in the microwave for 30 seconds or so, to warm them up, and chow down.
A long time ago, when I was a relative rookie to packing boxes for the deployed military, I made some new friends here in Houston. We got together, formed our own little group and did some huge fundraising and donation drives, all the while calling ourselves "Show Some Love Houston." Catchy name or not, it worked. We shipped thousands of oreos across Iraq, and made our own cookbook, too. I've got some of those around here somewhere, I'm sure. Well, actually they're probably in storage, along with most everything I want at the time. That's a whole other story though.
So we'd have planning meetings for our big drive. And one day I stopped at Chuy's, because I needed an Elvis fix. Okay, no, that's not true. I needed a Chihuahua fix. Okay that's not true either. I'm sure I was suffering from a salsa and chip imbalance after training lifeguards in the morning, so I stopped by Chuys, visited the Chihuahua bar while an Elvis impersonator did his thing, and ordered chips, salsa and creamy jalapeno dip.
That would be the official name for crack dip. The one it's recognized by in the the restaurant.
But that name doesn't get the job done, for such a good, holy moly trip for your tastebuds. Which is why Belle wanted to drive down from Colorado and Kim wanted to come up from the beach.
Seriously, crack dip is a combination of cool and creamy and hot and spicy. There are jalapenos to reach up, grab you by the collar and smack you around. There is cilantro to make you blink back into the world with it's fresh, bright citrus taste. And then the steady, dependable creamy ranch dressing flavor comes in to make peace in your mouth. Add a super thin, crisp, warm, slightly salted tortilla chip and it's an orgasm of food flavors.
My Mom, who has the wimpiest mouth in the world, and cannot handle a single thing hotter than paprika, loves this stuff. She cannot get enough. When we do happen to go Chuy's to eat, she won't even place her drink order until bowls of dip are on the table in front of her. And then she can't stop eating it, but it's so hot to her that she's slugging back a frozen margarita with it, like a beer chaser. It's awesome to watch, too, because she gets all flushed from the spices, but won't stop eating it.
Anyway, since most of you don't live near an awesome Tex-Mex restaurant called Chuy's, which serves an Elvis Presley Memorial Combo that has NOTHING to do with a fried pb & nanner sandwich, I thought I'd give you the recipe. Try it. No, really. Try it.
Crack dip:
16 oz sour cream - your choice on regular or light - but Elvis don't do light, lite, or anything else low fat, so make your choice
1 packet powdered Hidden Valley Ranch dressing mix - don't wimp out - use the real stuff instead of the store brand
1 bunch Cilantro or Chinese Parsley, if you live in a strange, strange world. And even if you think cilantro tastes soapy, give it a try. You'll thank me.
4 oz - diced jalapenos
Get out your blender. Dump in the sour cream and the ranch mix. Blend until mixed well. Separate 1/4 to 1/2 of the cilantro leaves from the stems. Throw the stems at the kids, the dog or the trash. Put the lovely, little green leaves into the blender. Blend in 10 second bursts. It will start to thin out the sour cream a bit, and add some green color to it. You'll see flecks of green, in addition to the greenish white color. Open up your can of diced jalapenos. Don't be a wimp. Dump in the juice and all to the blender. (Fine, if you're a wimp, pour off some of the juice and then add everything else to the blender. But know that I am disappointed in you and your wimpy tastebuds.) Blend again in 10 second bursts just until mixed. The jalapenos will mince up a bit, but if you blend too long, they'll disappear into the dip and become ghost spices that make your lips twitch for no apparent reason. That could be good if you don't like the people you're serving it to, but otherwise it makes for a boring dip. Pour it all into a bowl and let sit for 15 minutes before serving. If you can wait that long. Toss your tortilla chips in the microwave for 30 seconds or so, to warm them up, and chow down.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Family = Food
At least around here, family equals food. It's math that even a toddler can count on. Fortunately, our youngest child left the toddler years behind about five years back, but still, she knew she could always count on tons of food whenever there were dozens and dozens of kneecaps at her eye level at Grandma's house.
A few weeks back, I got an email message that was setting up a treat for my Dad's impending birthday. I went downstairs, quietly confirmed a few details, and got back a reply. Next thing I know, I've got an email from my Aunties saying they are arriving on Friday, to celebrate, and surprise us all.
Naturally, I went downstairs and said "I've got a secrettttttttttttt. Clean the house."
Because I'm like that.
And then I walked away.
Mom starting figuring stuff out, and come Friday, Dad was so excited he was twitching, but he didn't really know who was coming down. He had a suspicion, but just waited out the confirmation rather than making a guess. Because either way, he was going to eat.
Because Mom - she puts on a spread when we have guests. It's a dead giveaway something big is going on.
The variety of food is an inverse proportion to the importance of the guests, too. Important to us, that is. So if the Pope were to stop by, he'd be offered up a wedge of cheese and some crackers, with a nice white wine. But the Aunties... they got the full on sixteen variety meal, five different meals. I'm hoping to start eating some time tomorrow, but in the mean time, I'm still full.
Seriously, the menu covered several pages, and involved trips to Sam's Club, Kroger, Walmart, HEB, and then back to Sam's. Fortunately I was working, so I missed the actual trips, and just got home in time on Friday to start cooking. I entered the kitchen and didn't really leave it at all, until Sunday afternoon.
I'm not complaining, but when Mom started fretting she didn't have enough buns for sandwiches on Friday night, I called my brother. He and his family were on the way over, and they'd already been called five minutes earlier about getting tomatoes and lettuce, to make good sandwiches. So Chucklehead and I are on the phone and I'm telling him we're having a meltdown about not having enough buns, even though there was a nice bread, also, and he asks "should I get buns or not?" He cuts to the chase, that brother of mine. I told him it was up to him, but it looked like Mom was trying to feed the entire 4th Infantry Division, and so she said 8 buns wasn't enough. Needless to say, he brought buns.
We had ham, we had chili con queso, we had strawberries & blackberries. We had creamy jalapeno dip. We had romanoff sauce, for the fruit. We had stuff I can't remember. And we had shoestring onion rings, which were damned fine. Oh, yeah, deviled eggs. We had those, too. Saturday started off with breakfast tacos, and the food never went away, but just morphed into lunch. Which morphed into dinner. Dinner was brisket, homemade potato salad, more stuff I can't remember but I'm pretty sure I cooked or stirred. And ice cream cake. God bless Carvel and their cakes. Although I do NOT recommend trying to wait out the last "60 seconds" of an NCAA playoff game, if the cake is out of the freezer. Just set the DVR and catch up on the game, because the cake was melting everywhere, even before the candles were lit.
There was a boatload of food moving through this house this weekend. Two full jars of mayo, the big ones, are gone. Ditto for the mustard. Something like 4 dozen eggs, in all their cholesteroly glory moved through the kitchen, too. And none of them died a Humpty Dumpty death, either, but thanks for asking. But everyone who came through this house gained another ten points on their bad cholesterol reading.
Seriously, it was awesome this weekend. Dad, Mom, the Aunties, Chucklehead and his family, and best of all, Rio and his son stopped by, too. Fabulous. But if someone came and snatched all the leftovers, I'd be quite pleased. Ham sandwich anyone? Brisket sandwich? Potato salad? Queso? Creamy jalapeno dip? Anyone? Anyone?
A few weeks back, I got an email message that was setting up a treat for my Dad's impending birthday. I went downstairs, quietly confirmed a few details, and got back a reply. Next thing I know, I've got an email from my Aunties saying they are arriving on Friday, to celebrate, and surprise us all.
Naturally, I went downstairs and said "I've got a secrettttttttttttt. Clean the house."
Because I'm like that.
And then I walked away.
Mom starting figuring stuff out, and come Friday, Dad was so excited he was twitching, but he didn't really know who was coming down. He had a suspicion, but just waited out the confirmation rather than making a guess. Because either way, he was going to eat.
Because Mom - she puts on a spread when we have guests. It's a dead giveaway something big is going on.
The variety of food is an inverse proportion to the importance of the guests, too. Important to us, that is. So if the Pope were to stop by, he'd be offered up a wedge of cheese and some crackers, with a nice white wine. But the Aunties... they got the full on sixteen variety meal, five different meals. I'm hoping to start eating some time tomorrow, but in the mean time, I'm still full.
Seriously, the menu covered several pages, and involved trips to Sam's Club, Kroger, Walmart, HEB, and then back to Sam's. Fortunately I was working, so I missed the actual trips, and just got home in time on Friday to start cooking. I entered the kitchen and didn't really leave it at all, until Sunday afternoon.
I'm not complaining, but when Mom started fretting she didn't have enough buns for sandwiches on Friday night, I called my brother. He and his family were on the way over, and they'd already been called five minutes earlier about getting tomatoes and lettuce, to make good sandwiches. So Chucklehead and I are on the phone and I'm telling him we're having a meltdown about not having enough buns, even though there was a nice bread, also, and he asks "should I get buns or not?" He cuts to the chase, that brother of mine. I told him it was up to him, but it looked like Mom was trying to feed the entire 4th Infantry Division, and so she said 8 buns wasn't enough. Needless to say, he brought buns.
We had ham, we had chili con queso, we had strawberries & blackberries. We had creamy jalapeno dip. We had romanoff sauce, for the fruit. We had stuff I can't remember. And we had shoestring onion rings, which were damned fine. Oh, yeah, deviled eggs. We had those, too. Saturday started off with breakfast tacos, and the food never went away, but just morphed into lunch. Which morphed into dinner. Dinner was brisket, homemade potato salad, more stuff I can't remember but I'm pretty sure I cooked or stirred. And ice cream cake. God bless Carvel and their cakes. Although I do NOT recommend trying to wait out the last "60 seconds" of an NCAA playoff game, if the cake is out of the freezer. Just set the DVR and catch up on the game, because the cake was melting everywhere, even before the candles were lit.
There was a boatload of food moving through this house this weekend. Two full jars of mayo, the big ones, are gone. Ditto for the mustard. Something like 4 dozen eggs, in all their cholesteroly glory moved through the kitchen, too. And none of them died a Humpty Dumpty death, either, but thanks for asking. But everyone who came through this house gained another ten points on their bad cholesterol reading.
Seriously, it was awesome this weekend. Dad, Mom, the Aunties, Chucklehead and his family, and best of all, Rio and his son stopped by, too. Fabulous. But if someone came and snatched all the leftovers, I'd be quite pleased. Ham sandwich anyone? Brisket sandwich? Potato salad? Queso? Creamy jalapeno dip? Anyone? Anyone?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Oh heck!
Oh heck, we're gonna have a lot of tomatoes, from the looks of things around here. That's great, too, for the tomato eaters in the family. I can't eat them, since they make me itch, but the fans of the nightshade family will be having a feast. And their friends, too. And their friends also, based on how fast these suckers are taking off.
Watering is being scheduled. Planned. It's a big deal around here, because we've killed a ton of azaleas. You can't eat azaleas though, so maybe we'll do better this time around. Dad is in charge of watering. We've got a half dozen different types of sprinkler heads though, so you have to pay attention to what you're doing. And every spring there's a learning curve, on which one adjusts which way.
Which would explain how Dad and I ended up being chased across the yard this afternoon while we were adjusting one of them. Damn that sprinkler anyway. Wet socks and crocs do NOT make a good combination. But they do make a delightful squishing sound for a good while afterward.
So anyway, the garden is going well. So far. I have high hopes for it, though, given it's initial rate of growth. Which means all y'all (that's the plural of y'all, by the way, in case you aren't from down here) better be fixin' to (a Texas way of saying getting ready) accept a lot of produce. Except for corn. Because if the corn does germinate and grow, and make it past the squirrel who lives in the back yard, it's not getting shared. Don't even ask.
You can have tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes, heritage tomatoes, mortgage buster tomatoes or Homely Homer tomatoes, which are apparently wicked ugly but taste divine. Again, I wouldn't know. You can probably have bell peppers, green, red or lilac, because we planted them all. You can have some green beans, since we planted maybe a third of the seeds we've got, and I hear they produce like crazy. And the zucchini and yellow squash will either be all or nothing. So you'll get gobs and gobs of that or none at all.
This week I need to scatter some leaf lettuce seeds into the beds, now that I think about it. I knew I forgot something. But I did start most of the seeds in the little greenhouse beds we've got, so we can get some nice buttercrunch and bib lettuce going, too. And carrots. Who seem reluctant to germinate. And oooooooooh, ornamental peppers which will turn the flower beds out front into a riot of color. Color most of us won't be able to eat, given the reported scoville level of these peppers. So you might could probably (definitely) have some of those.
Watering is being scheduled. Planned. It's a big deal around here, because we've killed a ton of azaleas. You can't eat azaleas though, so maybe we'll do better this time around. Dad is in charge of watering. We've got a half dozen different types of sprinkler heads though, so you have to pay attention to what you're doing. And every spring there's a learning curve, on which one adjusts which way.
Which would explain how Dad and I ended up being chased across the yard this afternoon while we were adjusting one of them. Damn that sprinkler anyway. Wet socks and crocs do NOT make a good combination. But they do make a delightful squishing sound for a good while afterward.
So anyway, the garden is going well. So far. I have high hopes for it, though, given it's initial rate of growth. Which means all y'all (that's the plural of y'all, by the way, in case you aren't from down here) better be fixin' to (a Texas way of saying getting ready) accept a lot of produce. Except for corn. Because if the corn does germinate and grow, and make it past the squirrel who lives in the back yard, it's not getting shared. Don't even ask.
You can have tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes, heritage tomatoes, mortgage buster tomatoes or Homely Homer tomatoes, which are apparently wicked ugly but taste divine. Again, I wouldn't know. You can probably have bell peppers, green, red or lilac, because we planted them all. You can have some green beans, since we planted maybe a third of the seeds we've got, and I hear they produce like crazy. And the zucchini and yellow squash will either be all or nothing. So you'll get gobs and gobs of that or none at all.
This week I need to scatter some leaf lettuce seeds into the beds, now that I think about it. I knew I forgot something. But I did start most of the seeds in the little greenhouse beds we've got, so we can get some nice buttercrunch and bib lettuce going, too. And carrots. Who seem reluctant to germinate. And oooooooooh, ornamental peppers which will turn the flower beds out front into a riot of color. Color most of us won't be able to eat, given the reported scoville level of these peppers. So you might could probably (definitely) have some of those.
And the surprise... a berry patch waiting to happen. Although the strawberries are getting busy already, the raspberries are taking their own sweet time, but should be making a little magic of their own in no time. Bow chic a bow wowwwwwwwwww.
(And yes, that IS totally the Little Tykes mini van with optional cell phone holder I bought for my nephew when he was 3. That punk is about 15 years older now. Punk.)
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Damn, What a Week
So this week started off some time last week, with me finally getting myself and my instructors ready to go. Then Monday showed up and it was time to teach. Sure, sure, I do love to teach, but really, spring training started off with a bang around here. And teaching on a gimpy toe isn't fun, either.
People forgot to bring their money or they didn't have a credit card to guarantee the payroll deduction. People didn't show up. People showed up who weren't registered. The office called. The other site called. And then the swimming precourses started. And that's when I went from just being another instructor to being the Aquatics Director.
"Uhm, Keira, this guy can't swim."
"Can't swim at all or can't swim the distance."
"Uhm, both?"
"Send him home."
"He said he was promised he'd be certified."
"Tell him we don't promise certification ever, but that he's welcome to work on his endurance and strokes and try again in a couple months."
"Can you tell him?"
"No. I need to get back to my class..."
"Uhm, Keira? This lady had some trouble with her swim."
"Okay, what's the problem?"
"She can't get the brick from the bottom."
"In eight feet of water? How many times has she tried to pick it up?"
"Twice. But she can get it in six feet."
"No dice, send her home."
"She wants to know if she can get CPR certified, then, instead?"
"Fine, just tell her your training schedule. I need to get back to my class again..."
"Uhm, Keira?"
That's it. I'm officially changing my name to "Uhm, Keira" as of today.
"This girl had trouble with the swim."
"What kind of trouble?"
"She can't really do the breaststroke."
"Okay, then here are your options." At this point I'm talking to the girl. "You can't participate in this course because of the precourse requirements, but we can enroll you in another course in a couple weeks at no charge. I recommend that you get some practice in on the breaststroke between now and then. You're welcome to stay here and practice today and for the next couple days, too. Or we can just refund your money."
"Can you tell my mom that, please? She's on the phone"
"Sure." Greaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. Glad I didn't say anything inappropriate. "Hi, this is uhm, Keira, the aquatic director..."
"I heard all that. I just don't think it's right that you can test her out of the course on the first day when you haven't taught her to be a lifeguard yet!"
"Ma'am, we're testing her to make sure she has the swimming endurance to be a lifeguard right now, not on her skills as a lifeguard. Your daughter seems to be unfamiliar with the breaststroke, which is required according to course standards."
"It's not because she's fat, is it?"
Holy shit, the mother did NOT just ask me that, did she!? Yeah, she did. "No ma'am. It's simply because she cannot do the breaststroke, which is required, in addition to the front crawl."
"But she can be a lifeguard, right? She's not too fat?"
"She should be quite capable once she can swim, ma'am."
"Because I've seen other friends of hers who are fatter than my daughter and they've passed the lifeguarding course."
"She'll be fine once she learns the breaststroke."
I was hoping and praying all through that last conversation that the daughter could not actually hear her mother. Because that woman must be hell to live with. Sure, the daughter was a bit thicker than Hollywood tells us teenage girls should be. For that matter, I'm a bit thicker than Hollywood tells us I should be. That doesn't mean there is any reason to continue to think that I'm lying to the woman on the phone when I say it's because her daughter can't swim, not because she carries an extra couple pounds. Get over your issues and let your daughter breathe.
People forgot to bring their money or they didn't have a credit card to guarantee the payroll deduction. People didn't show up. People showed up who weren't registered. The office called. The other site called. And then the swimming precourses started. And that's when I went from just being another instructor to being the Aquatics Director.
"Uhm, Keira, this guy can't swim."
"Can't swim at all or can't swim the distance."
"Uhm, both?"
"Send him home."
"He said he was promised he'd be certified."
"Tell him we don't promise certification ever, but that he's welcome to work on his endurance and strokes and try again in a couple months."
"Can you tell him?"
"No. I need to get back to my class..."
"Uhm, Keira? This lady had some trouble with her swim."
"Okay, what's the problem?"
"She can't get the brick from the bottom."
"In eight feet of water? How many times has she tried to pick it up?"
"Twice. But she can get it in six feet."
"No dice, send her home."
"She wants to know if she can get CPR certified, then, instead?"
"Fine, just tell her your training schedule. I need to get back to my class again..."
"Uhm, Keira?"
That's it. I'm officially changing my name to "Uhm, Keira" as of today.
"This girl had trouble with the swim."
"What kind of trouble?"
"She can't really do the breaststroke."
"Okay, then here are your options." At this point I'm talking to the girl. "You can't participate in this course because of the precourse requirements, but we can enroll you in another course in a couple weeks at no charge. I recommend that you get some practice in on the breaststroke between now and then. You're welcome to stay here and practice today and for the next couple days, too. Or we can just refund your money."
"Can you tell my mom that, please? She's on the phone"
"Sure." Greaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. Glad I didn't say anything inappropriate. "Hi, this is uhm, Keira, the aquatic director..."
"I heard all that. I just don't think it's right that you can test her out of the course on the first day when you haven't taught her to be a lifeguard yet!"
"Ma'am, we're testing her to make sure she has the swimming endurance to be a lifeguard right now, not on her skills as a lifeguard. Your daughter seems to be unfamiliar with the breaststroke, which is required according to course standards."
"It's not because she's fat, is it?"
Holy shit, the mother did NOT just ask me that, did she!? Yeah, she did. "No ma'am. It's simply because she cannot do the breaststroke, which is required, in addition to the front crawl."
"But she can be a lifeguard, right? She's not too fat?"
"She should be quite capable once she can swim, ma'am."
"Because I've seen other friends of hers who are fatter than my daughter and they've passed the lifeguarding course."
"She'll be fine once she learns the breaststroke."
I was hoping and praying all through that last conversation that the daughter could not actually hear her mother. Because that woman must be hell to live with. Sure, the daughter was a bit thicker than Hollywood tells us teenage girls should be. For that matter, I'm a bit thicker than Hollywood tells us I should be. That doesn't mean there is any reason to continue to think that I'm lying to the woman on the phone when I say it's because her daughter can't swim, not because she carries an extra couple pounds. Get over your issues and let your daughter breathe.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Bring it!
Okay, so I bitched and moaned about the Red Cross doing a new rollout of material the other day. The timing of it all sucked, mostly, but late this afternoon I finished up most everything. About all that's left now is for me to finish highlighting the test questions in my copy of the instructor manual, since I think I got my trainer guide all set up.I even wrote a new lesson plan, because the Red Cross thinks we all teach in perfect little 3 hour blocks of time. Anyone who has ever taught on a pool deck knows that you only get their attention for a couple days though, and you'd better maximize it. So a 3 hour block is a joke. We'll do 3 hours before lunch and 5 after. It's a real pain in the ass to figure out how to cram their pretty little perfect sessions into reality, but I think I did a good job.
And it's like I tell my instructor candidates... a lesson plan is only valid until you walk out on the pool deck.
Or in my case, hobble out on the pool deck with the amazing technicolor toe. I like the spread of purple coming up my foot today. And on the bottom of my foot, too. And no, I didn't kick someone's butt. I got into a disagreement with a seam on the carpet and stumbled into a wooden trunk in my room. It just proves that I have too much crap in this room and should consider taking some of it to storage, but actually, I have too much crap there, too.
So, yeah, tomorrow is the first day of spring break down here. Almost every school district in the Greater Houston area is off at the same time, and it's a great time to run aquatics training. When I started work this winter, we didn't even have a pool to use, since our normal facility is being renovated. Now, we've got 68 people taking classes starting tomorrow.
And those 68 people are making my phone ring off the hook. I figure I'll just give in and take some donuts early tomorrow, so I can make it all happen. Instructors are nervous, the other trainer is in the middle of moving across town so she is frazzled, and I'm not even sure I have a clue what I'm teaching, since all I've done is skim it.
Summer is here. Bring it on!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
WOW! I've never seen someone do that before...
"Wow! I've never seen someone do that before!"
"I"m flexible, I guess." Great, so that's great. You've never seen someone do that before. Can you just shoot the damned x-ray already so I can get my toe taped up and get out of here already?
"No really, where'd you learn to fan your toes out like that?"
"I swim a lot, and I guess it's given me flexible feet." Seriously, can we get on with this because while I might be good at holding my toes out in that pretty, perfect fan you've never seen before, I'm cramping up because of my big, fat, swollen toe. You know, the one that is purple on top and on bottom.
"Wow. The doctor is going to be so impressed with this x-ray."
"Cool."
"Most people can fan out their fingers, but you're the first one I've ever seen be able to do it with their toes in the 17 years I've been shooting films."
"Uh huh." Toes are still cramping here, press the damned button already.
"Can you do it with your other foot?"
"Yes. I can also spread my toes apart like I splay my fingers. Will that help you get these images done?" Oh shit, I said that out loud. I hope she doesn't want that because that's going to hurt like hell.
"No, but that is so cool! You can relax now and we'll walk back to your exam room."
Greatttttttt. Everyone likes walking on a cold tile floor barefoot with a big, fat, swollen, purple toe!
And the doctor didn't say a damned thing when he came into the room. I guess only the x-ray tech was impressed with my nimble toes. I want you all to be impressed though, so I'm sharing the picture here. Be very impressed. Possibly even jealous. Your call.
It's a hairline fracture. And the doctor didn't want to tape it today because it's all big, fat and swollen and would probably bug me more to have it taped than to have it loose. Also, he told me it'll hurt for several weeks, and then if it continues to hurt after that, I should just suck it up. Okay, so he didn't actually say suck it up. He actually said, verbatim "walk it off."
Then he offered up some vicodin, which I passed on. Some 800 mg Motrin is more than enough, thank you.
Been a fun day, really. Hope your Saturday had more adventure than mine.
"I"m flexible, I guess." Great, so that's great. You've never seen someone do that before. Can you just shoot the damned x-ray already so I can get my toe taped up and get out of here already?
"No really, where'd you learn to fan your toes out like that?"
"I swim a lot, and I guess it's given me flexible feet." Seriously, can we get on with this because while I might be good at holding my toes out in that pretty, perfect fan you've never seen before, I'm cramping up because of my big, fat, swollen toe. You know, the one that is purple on top and on bottom.
"Wow. The doctor is going to be so impressed with this x-ray."
"Cool."
"Most people can fan out their fingers, but you're the first one I've ever seen be able to do it with their toes in the 17 years I've been shooting films."
"Uh huh." Toes are still cramping here, press the damned button already.
"Can you do it with your other foot?"
"Yes. I can also spread my toes apart like I splay my fingers. Will that help you get these images done?" Oh shit, I said that out loud. I hope she doesn't want that because that's going to hurt like hell.
"No, but that is so cool! You can relax now and we'll walk back to your exam room."
Greatttttttt. Everyone likes walking on a cold tile floor barefoot with a big, fat, swollen, purple toe!
And the doctor didn't say a damned thing when he came into the room. I guess only the x-ray tech was impressed with my nimble toes. I want you all to be impressed though, so I'm sharing the picture here. Be very impressed. Possibly even jealous. Your call.
It's a hairline fracture. And the doctor didn't want to tape it today because it's all big, fat and swollen and would probably bug me more to have it taped than to have it loose. Also, he told me it'll hurt for several weeks, and then if it continues to hurt after that, I should just suck it up. Okay, so he didn't actually say suck it up. He actually said, verbatim "walk it off."
Then he offered up some vicodin, which I passed on. Some 800 mg Motrin is more than enough, thank you.
Been a fun day, really. Hope your Saturday had more adventure than mine.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Grrrrrrrrrrrr-reat!
I understand that every so often programs the Red Cross has been teaching need updated into the current century. I understand that the rollout of those updates doesn't always go smoothly. I understand that paper is expensive, and so is ink.
But helloooooooooooooooooooo?
Are you seriously telling me you couldn't have popped the 250 plus page instructor trainer guide I need into my email a week ago, instead of mailing it to me yesterday? Because you mailed it to me yesterday, on a CD, when I got home, I had to print it.
That shit takes forever, on an inkjet, going screeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, woosh, woosh, woosh, click, screeeeeeeee... You get what I'm saying.
And it's not like inkjet printed stuff is waterproof, is it?
Yeah, of course it's not.
So let's print the swim instructor manual at home, sure!
*mutters*
This is so not going to end well for my new manual, is all I'm saying. Just not at all.
I really don't think it would have killed the Red Cross to run it off on one of the kajillion laser printers they have, and then run it through the copy machine the way they always used to. Progress, in this case, is pissing me off.
Because it's inconvenient to me.
I don't think I'd be half as irritable about it all if I didn't have to teach the new program Monday. Which meant that today was my last day in the office before I spend a week in the field teaching. So last night at 1 am, when the printing finished, I was sticking those little post it note flags all over my newly minted instructor trainer guide so I'd know what to copy.
(I must say though, that I'm amazed I found the little post it flags, too, because the nieces love those things, and I can't blame 'em a bit. I must have hidden them well, is all I'm saying.)
I'm really hoping I managed to copy all the right stuff because I flipped back to the appendix and made a best guess.
Tomorrow when I try to put things into my brain, so I don't look like a fool teaching (I always look like a fool teaching, but usually a confident fool!) I'll figure out what I did or didn't get right, I guess.
Someone bring me a caramel latte, because I'm going to need it!
But helloooooooooooooooooooo?
Are you seriously telling me you couldn't have popped the 250 plus page instructor trainer guide I need into my email a week ago, instead of mailing it to me yesterday? Because you mailed it to me yesterday, on a CD, when I got home, I had to print it.
That shit takes forever, on an inkjet, going screeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, woosh, woosh, woosh, click, screeeeeeeee... You get what I'm saying.
And it's not like inkjet printed stuff is waterproof, is it?
Yeah, of course it's not.
So let's print the swim instructor manual at home, sure!
*mutters*
This is so not going to end well for my new manual, is all I'm saying. Just not at all.
I really don't think it would have killed the Red Cross to run it off on one of the kajillion laser printers they have, and then run it through the copy machine the way they always used to. Progress, in this case, is pissing me off.
Because it's inconvenient to me.
I don't think I'd be half as irritable about it all if I didn't have to teach the new program Monday. Which meant that today was my last day in the office before I spend a week in the field teaching. So last night at 1 am, when the printing finished, I was sticking those little post it note flags all over my newly minted instructor trainer guide so I'd know what to copy.
(I must say though, that I'm amazed I found the little post it flags, too, because the nieces love those things, and I can't blame 'em a bit. I must have hidden them well, is all I'm saying.)
I'm really hoping I managed to copy all the right stuff because I flipped back to the appendix and made a best guess.
Tomorrow when I try to put things into my brain, so I don't look like a fool teaching (I always look like a fool teaching, but usually a confident fool!) I'll figure out what I did or didn't get right, I guess.
Someone bring me a caramel latte, because I'm going to need it!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Dirt here, get yer dirt here!
I bought some dirt. Some lovely gardening soil, actually, but for all I know, it's dirt. It's always dirt. And it's never going to be anything other than dirt, unless I have to pay over fifty bucks a cubic yard for it, in which case it will be somebody else's dirt, because that's just not happening.
So I bought some dirt. It's got lovely organic matter mixed into it, according to the specifications. Not to be a ninny though, but I kind of thought you couldn't get much more organic than dirt to begin with. God made dirt and dirt don't hurt, so eat the weiner you dropped on the ground already.
Anyway, a humongo dump truck pulled up in front of the house yesterday, on a balmy spring afternoon where temperatures were rapidly climbing into the mid 80's. He honked. I went out and pointed the approximate goal for the dirt because everything is debatable when you have an entire dump truck ready to rumble across your lawn. What is it anyway, about great big trucks and little bitty drivers? Compensate much?
My friend Deb and her lovely Matteo were visiting, too, to get some chairs that match the table they have in either the house or the art bodega. And they also picked up a bunch of other stuff that will be repurposed, but was called "shit in the garage" as late as Monday afternoon. Seriously, the truck they borrowed looked like the home for orphan bowling balls, fabric remnants, and wrapping paper they really didn't want but got suckered into taking anyway.
When the truck honked, we'd been gorging on some gorgeous shrimp, crackers and cheese. Then it became a party when we all went out and watched the little bitty man back the big truck right up onto the lawn and dump the dirt. In our neighborhood, for no other reason than surplus bricks, we all have brick mailboxes. And every mailbox seems to line up with the driveway across the street from it. The neighbors also insist on parking their car, their work van, and the teenage son's girlfriend's car right at the end of our driveway too. Most days we're lucky to get into our own driveway.
I thought about it, for about a minute, when the driver was getting closer and closer to hitting the teenage son's car, as he kept doing his 3 point turns to get into the right spot on the grass, and then went and knocked on the door to ask the teenage son to move it. I'm very generous, I know. You should all be so lucky to live across the street from me.
Long story short, sevennnnnnnnnnnn yards of dirt were sitting in the front yard, on a serious spread of leaves, since the live oaks don't seem to know they're supposed to drop their leaves in the fall, not the spring. The driver pulled off. Matteo offered to shovel and I waved him off because he had a bathroom to finish back home at their bed and breakfast. And a lovely late morning turned into an afternoon of work.
It's cool though. Mom and I shoveled and wheeled, and got the garden beds all filled up. Then I ran the lines across them to create the "foot" sections of the square foot garden fame. We're sure to deviate from that crap in about a hot minute because rules don't mean much to us, but I thought I'd start us off at least attempting to follow directions. (That's kind of how I bake, too, now that I think about it, which explains the really flat, really yummy macaroons I made the other day.)
It was a good day.
And then we woke up and had to shovel more dirt. Damn dirt.
Today was the front yard, to try and give the oak trees back some dirt on the roots, and fill in the flower beds. Mom was working. I was working. We were working. And then she noticed the lawn crew up the street. And then she went inside, got some cash, walked down the street, and a half hour later had someone else working while we rested. Great work Mom. Seriously. You rock.
And now....
The garden beds....
(Shut up. I know there's nothing in them yet.)
Monday, March 9, 2009
My favorite thing to do!
In case you never noticed, Houston is a bigggggggggggggg freaking city. Sure, I find it a collection of small towns all crammed together, because there are at least two dozen cities within the city that I can name, but really, it covers a lot of real estate. Something like 6,000 square miles, given the suburbs that the middle class lives in. So yeah, driving around this town takes a whole lot of patience, and a good sense of direction.
And that's exactly what I didn't have today, when Chucklehead sent me haring off all over town to try and find a part for his refrigerator. Which led to me driving around trying to call people on phones that they were too busy to answer. F*cking a, answer the damned phone if you want me to go to some place you think is off of some street near some other street. Because those kind of directions are just going to piss me off.
So here's a list of things that piss me off faster than someone stealing my drink on a hot day:
1. Tell me to meet you somewhere you can't remember the name of
2. Make sure you don't know have the address of where you want me to go
3. Take the only copy of the directions, with the address on it, with you, and tell me to meet you there
4. Give me the wrong name of where I need to go, so that when I try to map it, I can't
5. Call me and ask me to do an errand, and that you'll call me back with directions.... and then never do.
Because I just looooooooooooooooove driving around this city randomly searching for something or someone to get you something from somewhere.
Traffic here sucks. Even when it's moving, it sucks. No, it does.
I love Houston, really, I do. I missed it the entire time I was gone. But the driving here is insane. I'm still not up to the proper aggressive level I need to maintain for driving here. It would help if the jeep would quit randomly, mysteriously stalling out, but since that isn't really going to happen any time soon, I would prefer not to run any errands for you without having proper effing directions!
And once I get all pissed off about any of those things above, it just continues until I'm finally back in my comfort zone, okay, so I do NOT appreciate you Mister Police Officer stopping in the middle lane of a 3 lane underpass to pull someone over in the right lane. At 4:30 in the afternoon. With the roads stacked with traffic and people trying to get home. Asshole. Could have let the SUV drive a sixteenth of a mile up the road to get out of the underpass and pulled her over on the side of the road, but that would have been too damned easy. Instead, you can put your little black cowboy hat on your head, straighten your little clip on tie, and then strut into traffic as you exit your car.
Yeah, driving around with crappy directions is my favorite thing to do....
And that's exactly what I didn't have today, when Chucklehead sent me haring off all over town to try and find a part for his refrigerator. Which led to me driving around trying to call people on phones that they were too busy to answer. F*cking a, answer the damned phone if you want me to go to some place you think is off of some street near some other street. Because those kind of directions are just going to piss me off.
So here's a list of things that piss me off faster than someone stealing my drink on a hot day:
1. Tell me to meet you somewhere you can't remember the name of
2. Make sure you don't know have the address of where you want me to go
3. Take the only copy of the directions, with the address on it, with you, and tell me to meet you there
4. Give me the wrong name of where I need to go, so that when I try to map it, I can't
5. Call me and ask me to do an errand, and that you'll call me back with directions.... and then never do.
Because I just looooooooooooooooove driving around this city randomly searching for something or someone to get you something from somewhere.
Traffic here sucks. Even when it's moving, it sucks. No, it does.
I love Houston, really, I do. I missed it the entire time I was gone. But the driving here is insane. I'm still not up to the proper aggressive level I need to maintain for driving here. It would help if the jeep would quit randomly, mysteriously stalling out, but since that isn't really going to happen any time soon, I would prefer not to run any errands for you without having proper effing directions!
And once I get all pissed off about any of those things above, it just continues until I'm finally back in my comfort zone, okay, so I do NOT appreciate you Mister Police Officer stopping in the middle lane of a 3 lane underpass to pull someone over in the right lane. At 4:30 in the afternoon. With the roads stacked with traffic and people trying to get home. Asshole. Could have let the SUV drive a sixteenth of a mile up the road to get out of the underpass and pulled her over on the side of the road, but that would have been too damned easy. Instead, you can put your little black cowboy hat on your head, straighten your little clip on tie, and then strut into traffic as you exit your car.
Yeah, driving around with crappy directions is my favorite thing to do....
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The garden, oh the garden....
So my friend OhioT, who hasn't been feeling well lately due to some spinal problems, usually
plants a garden. This summer it looks like that is out, unless some of you are going to be near
Cincinnati and have an afternoon to till a garden for me. (Seriously. Let me know. He's a good
man and needs a little help.) His lack of gardening turned into my half-assed, "we could put in
a garden" comment.
And then the party began.
Damn those half-assed comments anyway.
One of these days I'm going to realize that my glib remarks are getting me involved in things I
don't particularly feel like doing, simply because they seem easy enough at the time. You wanna go out and close down the bar with a dozen of your firefighter friends? Bring it on. (I can't even begin to tell you how hard it is to find a car wash that is open at 3 am, to get the puke off the jeep.) You think a family vacation to Disney with all of us in the same house will work out? OK. (That one pretty much did, because everyone stayed on eggshells.) And now, how much work can a container garden be?
Oh hell.
But no, really, I'm game. I can grow stuff. My house plants flourished and thrived until I went
to Iraq, and then they came here, where they had to learn to suck humidity out of the air if they
wanted to get watered at all. I did some research with OhioT, who had nothing but good stuff to
say about putting in a square foot garden. I found some construction plans I could work with,
and then I called Chucklehead, because he drives an Expedition and so he got to go to the Home Depot for me. I'm up for an adventure, but it seemed a hell of a lot easier to let him haul the lumber home than me trying to cram it into the jeep.
Anyway, pre shopping trip, we reconnoitered. We both agreed the plans I had for building the
raised beds looked sound, and easy enough. And made a shopping list. He went, he shopped, he
delivered. I really like that no-nonsense approach of his.
I measured off the boards, because some cuts were going to need to be made, and then couldn't find the circular saw on Friday. Dad was gone, and it's his saw, so I just waited until Saturday. Biggggggggggg mistake. Because that's when a 2 hour project that a blind amputee could have done turned into a circus.
Family, friends of family, and the 80 year old neighbor who lives across the street came by and got in on the action! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And Mom cooked bacon. She cooked bacon for hours. I dunno. I don't ask. It's just easier. But really, five pounds of bacon?! I called Chucklehead in a plea for help because that's when Dad, the friends, and the 80 year old neighbor, who will henceforth be called Squishy, talked about going to the hardware store. Apparently I wasn't doing that shit right. And they had a better idea of how to do it while inside, on the couch, watching some basketball.
The boxes are built. They're hanging out in the side yard, so we can make sure they get juuuuuust the right amount of sunlight before the gardening soil gets here and is shoveled in. And all those parts that were bought by the guys at Home Depot on Saturday are going right back to the store, because this chick knows what the hell she's doing. Squishy said if he ever needs anything done that he's going to call me, because it will be done right!
Now, if I can just survive getting the garden into the ground, without it turning into another circus. If it does though, I'm totally going inside and putting on a clown face.
plants a garden. This summer it looks like that is out, unless some of you are going to be near
Cincinnati and have an afternoon to till a garden for me. (Seriously. Let me know. He's a good
man and needs a little help.) His lack of gardening turned into my half-assed, "we could put in
a garden" comment.
And then the party began.
Damn those half-assed comments anyway.
One of these days I'm going to realize that my glib remarks are getting me involved in things I
don't particularly feel like doing, simply because they seem easy enough at the time. You wanna go out and close down the bar with a dozen of your firefighter friends? Bring it on. (I can't even begin to tell you how hard it is to find a car wash that is open at 3 am, to get the puke off the jeep.) You think a family vacation to Disney with all of us in the same house will work out? OK. (That one pretty much did, because everyone stayed on eggshells.) And now, how much work can a container garden be?
Oh hell.
But no, really, I'm game. I can grow stuff. My house plants flourished and thrived until I went
to Iraq, and then they came here, where they had to learn to suck humidity out of the air if they
wanted to get watered at all. I did some research with OhioT, who had nothing but good stuff to
say about putting in a square foot garden. I found some construction plans I could work with,
and then I called Chucklehead, because he drives an Expedition and so he got to go to the Home Depot for me. I'm up for an adventure, but it seemed a hell of a lot easier to let him haul the lumber home than me trying to cram it into the jeep.
Anyway, pre shopping trip, we reconnoitered. We both agreed the plans I had for building the
raised beds looked sound, and easy enough. And made a shopping list. He went, he shopped, he
delivered. I really like that no-nonsense approach of his.
I measured off the boards, because some cuts were going to need to be made, and then couldn't find the circular saw on Friday. Dad was gone, and it's his saw, so I just waited until Saturday. Biggggggggggg mistake. Because that's when a 2 hour project that a blind amputee could have done turned into a circus.
Family, friends of family, and the 80 year old neighbor who lives across the street came by and got in on the action! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And Mom cooked bacon. She cooked bacon for hours. I dunno. I don't ask. It's just easier. But really, five pounds of bacon?! I called Chucklehead in a plea for help because that's when Dad, the friends, and the 80 year old neighbor, who will henceforth be called Squishy, talked about going to the hardware store. Apparently I wasn't doing that shit right. And they had a better idea of how to do it while inside, on the couch, watching some basketball.
The boxes are built. They're hanging out in the side yard, so we can make sure they get juuuuuust the right amount of sunlight before the gardening soil gets here and is shoveled in. And all those parts that were bought by the guys at Home Depot on Saturday are going right back to the store, because this chick knows what the hell she's doing. Squishy said if he ever needs anything done that he's going to call me, because it will be done right!
Now, if I can just survive getting the garden into the ground, without it turning into another circus. If it does though, I'm totally going inside and putting on a clown face.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Alright Already!
I get it, I get it. Story Hour. Fine.
But you do realize that up until last year, I've been cranking out Story Hour for well over
ten years, and it has been getting a bit tedious to recount all those bad dates, crazy Houston
drivers, and of course, eighteen months in Iraq. I'm not even going to get into the sheer misery
that was my last year, when I chose to exile myself to North Carolina for a job that looked
great and turned out to be full of backstabbing ineptitude that made it unbearable to continue
being there for another second.
The long and the short of it is, I figured I was done writing and y'all were done reading. But
the outcry, nay, the freaking demand, and you people are pretty demanding, has told me
otherwise. You want more. You gluttons for punishment.
See, it was fine when Story Hour was a small, intimate group to which I could bitch and
whine without mercy. I pretty much didn't have a limit on what I could say, and really, I still
don't, but I find it bad form to bite the hand that feeds me. In other words I don't really want
to complain about my family in SH when they're reading SH. And sure, I'm going to complain
about them. I'm going to roll my eyes, bite my tongue and rant and rave to people who aren't
tied to me by blood. Because that's what families do.
They're readers though. (Waves. Hey y'all.) And it seems mean to be griping about them.
Sure, I have no shame and will crucify a guy I went out with here, because chances are
realllllllllly good he's never going to know about it, and it's also wicked entertaining.
After a Keira project turned into a family project today though, and I was contemplating
running away from home, something came up at dinner. (Tex Mex, incidentally, leaves me
too bloated with cheese and beans and yummy goodness, to run away from home. Remind
me of that in the future, mmkay?) The Mom told me I should write about today in Story
Hour. Then the Mom and the Brother, Chucklehead, got into a discussion about who had and
hadn't been allowed to read SH in the past, and I said I couldn't gripe about the family in it.
They said I could. So it's on like donkey kong, from here on out.
Because right now, I live with my family. The Mom says I'm never allowed to move out
again, because I give her massage therapy at least 2-3 times a week. The Dad just watches
me. A lot. I dunno why. And they all get confused why I tend to hang out in my room.
I like my room, it's where all my stuff is, and whatever project I do is mine. Unlike the
garden boxes which got out of hand today.
I think carne asada and cheese enchiladas are going to be my new meditation point.
Ohhhhhmmm
But you do realize that up until last year, I've been cranking out Story Hour for well over
ten years, and it has been getting a bit tedious to recount all those bad dates, crazy Houston
drivers, and of course, eighteen months in Iraq. I'm not even going to get into the sheer misery
that was my last year, when I chose to exile myself to North Carolina for a job that looked
great and turned out to be full of backstabbing ineptitude that made it unbearable to continue
being there for another second.
The long and the short of it is, I figured I was done writing and y'all were done reading. But
the outcry, nay, the freaking demand, and you people are pretty demanding, has told me
otherwise. You want more. You gluttons for punishment.
See, it was fine when Story Hour was a small, intimate group to which I could bitch and
whine without mercy. I pretty much didn't have a limit on what I could say, and really, I still
don't, but I find it bad form to bite the hand that feeds me. In other words I don't really want
to complain about my family in SH when they're reading SH. And sure, I'm going to complain
about them. I'm going to roll my eyes, bite my tongue and rant and rave to people who aren't
tied to me by blood. Because that's what families do.
They're readers though. (Waves. Hey y'all.) And it seems mean to be griping about them.
Sure, I have no shame and will crucify a guy I went out with here, because chances are
realllllllllly good he's never going to know about it, and it's also wicked entertaining.
After a Keira project turned into a family project today though, and I was contemplating
running away from home, something came up at dinner. (Tex Mex, incidentally, leaves me
too bloated with cheese and beans and yummy goodness, to run away from home. Remind
me of that in the future, mmkay?) The Mom told me I should write about today in Story
Hour. Then the Mom and the Brother, Chucklehead, got into a discussion about who had and
hadn't been allowed to read SH in the past, and I said I couldn't gripe about the family in it.
They said I could. So it's on like donkey kong, from here on out.
Because right now, I live with my family. The Mom says I'm never allowed to move out
again, because I give her massage therapy at least 2-3 times a week. The Dad just watches
me. A lot. I dunno why. And they all get confused why I tend to hang out in my room.
I like my room, it's where all my stuff is, and whatever project I do is mine. Unlike the
garden boxes which got out of hand today.
I think carne asada and cheese enchiladas are going to be my new meditation point.
Ohhhhhmmm
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Post Office
So I have this unwritten rule to always be nice at the post office. After all, they carry mail to places no one else will, and do it for pennies, too. Further, they get griped at constantly, sniped, like the clerk at the counter is personally responsible for the impending postal rate increase, or that they are the ones who decide how much bulk mail you're getting advertising discounted car washes and oil changes. The people at the counter work hard, and process a huge amount of mail for cranky people, so yeah, I always try to be nice.
Today though, the Post Office defeated me.
I've had a cold for a couple weeks, and then topped it off with the flu this past weekend. Today was the first day I've felt remotely close to human since the double whammy of germ warfare my niece accidentally waged on me, and so I bundled up the stuff I needed to mail and headed off to the local station.
I always expect to wait. I bring my own pen. I bring a spare pen. I complete my forms ahead of time, according to the postal website, and I am prepared.So the post office doesn't usually get to me.
I left feeling like I'd just relapsed with the flu.
"Hi, I need to mail this small flat rate box to an APO."
"Do you have your customs form?"
I held it up.
"There isn't a small flat rate box."
"Yes there is. This box is labeled a small flat rate box."
"No there isn't."
I turn the box over and show the USPS printed tag. Sho' nuff, small flat rate box was printed on it.
"How did you get this box? We don't have these boxes."
"I ordered it off the USPS website."
Disdainful sniff. "You need the other customs form."
I begin filling out the other customs form.
"Oh, wait. You might be able to use this form."
I continue filling out the other customs form.
"What is this? You can't mail this like this."
"It's called a Tickelope, ma'am, and it can be mailed as is. It's been approved by the Post Office at the manufacturers level."
"I don't know..... I think we have to charge you for a parcel for this, instead of a letter."
And then there was a conference.
Meanwhile, a full customs form was completed, and I stamped it, sealed it and stuck in on the small flat rate box I apparently wasn't supposed to have, because the post office didn't have it yet. A full sized form, by the way, covers that box, and it's sides, and the top, entirely. I hope you have a k-bar to break into that box, Doc.
"You have postage on this already. We're gonna have to charge you for a parcel, we think."
"Ohhh-kayyyy..."
"It's going to cost you at least another three dollars, and there isn't room for the postage on this, so you're gonna have to put it into an envelope and mail it. Unless you want me to rip your postage ... " She ripped the postage off, ripping the envelope....
"Ohhh-kayyyy...."
"You need a customs form for this."
I hand her the mini customs form.
She sticks it on the address side, decides she doesn't like it, peels it, and much of the address, off, and then turns it over. "Oooohhh, this is for the military! I hate to cover this up. Maybe we don't need a customs form after all....."
She crumples the customs form up, sticking it all to itself. Three seconds later.... "We need a customs form."
"You know what? Let's just mail this box. I'll take the other envelope home."
"No, we can do it!"
"No, you've already destroyed it. You ripped the envelope portion of it off when you peeled up the customs label, the stamps I had on it are useless now, too, and the whole thing is about ten dollars in the trash. I've had enough fun with this. Let's just finish up mailing the small flat rate box, please, and I'll be done."
Silence.
"You can fill out a complaint to have the stamps replaced...."
"No thank you."
Yeah, the post office beat me up one side and down the other today.
Today though, the Post Office defeated me.
I've had a cold for a couple weeks, and then topped it off with the flu this past weekend. Today was the first day I've felt remotely close to human since the double whammy of germ warfare my niece accidentally waged on me, and so I bundled up the stuff I needed to mail and headed off to the local station.
I always expect to wait. I bring my own pen. I bring a spare pen. I complete my forms ahead of time, according to the postal website, and I am prepared.So the post office doesn't usually get to me.
I left feeling like I'd just relapsed with the flu.
"Hi, I need to mail this small flat rate box to an APO."
"Do you have your customs form?"
I held it up.
"There isn't a small flat rate box."
"Yes there is. This box is labeled a small flat rate box."
"No there isn't."
I turn the box over and show the USPS printed tag. Sho' nuff, small flat rate box was printed on it.
"How did you get this box? We don't have these boxes."
"I ordered it off the USPS website."
Disdainful sniff. "You need the other customs form."
I begin filling out the other customs form.
"Oh, wait. You might be able to use this form."
I continue filling out the other customs form.
"What is this? You can't mail this like this."
"It's called a Tickelope, ma'am, and it can be mailed as is. It's been approved by the Post Office at the manufacturers level."
"I don't know..... I think we have to charge you for a parcel for this, instead of a letter."
And then there was a conference.
Meanwhile, a full customs form was completed, and I stamped it, sealed it and stuck in on the small flat rate box I apparently wasn't supposed to have, because the post office didn't have it yet. A full sized form, by the way, covers that box, and it's sides, and the top, entirely. I hope you have a k-bar to break into that box, Doc.
"You have postage on this already. We're gonna have to charge you for a parcel, we think."
"Ohhh-kayyyy..."
"It's going to cost you at least another three dollars, and there isn't room for the postage on this, so you're gonna have to put it into an envelope and mail it. Unless you want me to rip your postage ... " She ripped the postage off, ripping the envelope....
"Ohhh-kayyyy...."
"You need a customs form for this."
I hand her the mini customs form.
She sticks it on the address side, decides she doesn't like it, peels it, and much of the address, off, and then turns it over. "Oooohhh, this is for the military! I hate to cover this up. Maybe we don't need a customs form after all....."
She crumples the customs form up, sticking it all to itself. Three seconds later.... "We need a customs form."
"You know what? Let's just mail this box. I'll take the other envelope home."
"No, we can do it!"
"No, you've already destroyed it. You ripped the envelope portion of it off when you peeled up the customs label, the stamps I had on it are useless now, too, and the whole thing is about ten dollars in the trash. I've had enough fun with this. Let's just finish up mailing the small flat rate box, please, and I'll be done."
Silence.
"You can fill out a complaint to have the stamps replaced...."
"No thank you."
Yeah, the post office beat me up one side and down the other today.
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