It was the day before the winter Christmas party - a formal event that I normally didn't have the privilege of attending due to the fact that I normally worked weekends on the night shift.
This year, however, one of my managers offered to work for me - just so I could attend.
I had a dress. I had a date.
I was excited.
It was 1 day away!
I woke up that morning after hitting the bars, which was a normal after work venture, and when I looked in the mirror, my right eye looked puffy.
That's funny, I thought to myself as I leaned into the mirror to examine further. I don't remember getting punched or falling on my face.
Weird.
Well, the moment I walked outside on that sunny, wintery day, my eye started to water heavily. And seep. Grossssss. So I hopped into the car and stopped at Walgreens on my way to work, driving with one eye (which for the record is kind of hard to do.)
I flooded my eye with eyedrops all day at work, but it felt like it was growing and I was starting to get funny looks from co-workers.
A good night's rest. That's what I need. So I went home after work in an effort to sleep it off.
The next morning, I woke up and attempted to open my eyes... plural. Today was the big day! However, only one eye opened, and when I felt my orbital bone, I felt flesh where there normally wasn't flesh.
RUT ROH. It didn't go away. It grew.
I sprinted to the bathroom to assess the damage. I flipped on the light, and immediately it started seeping. I didn't have to lean into the mirror this time.
I looked like Igor.
From 100 yards away.
OMG. I'm dying.
My brain has finally pushed my right eye out of my head.
Or I have a tumor.
Or... something.
Something bad.
Very bad.
Either way, I knew a trip to the ER was in order if I had any hope of making it to the Christmas party. Perhaps I knew that was highly unlikely at the time, but I am an eternal optimist and was really hoping for a Christmas miracle.
I called my boyfriend, and told him I had to run to the ER and that our hot date was in jeopardy. He had been excited to see me dolled up (i don't do it often!) and in that cute new dress. He immediately offered to take me to the ER.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo way Jose! I can't let you see me like this."
"How bad can it be?" he asked.
"It's bad. Realllllly bad. It is something that you won't be able to unsee when you look at me in the future and I don't want to scar you like that" I promptly advised him.
"I don't care how you look, dummy. There is nothing so bad as to freak me out enough to scare me away," he insisted.
Bullshit. I thought to myself. You haven't seen this yet. Easier said than done. I look like I've been punched by Mike Tyson. For that reason, I refused to tell him which hospital I was going to, just to avoid the sheer embarrassment of him seeing me.
I ended up not being able to drive, so I walked to the hospital, which - thankfully - was only a few blocks away. Several doctors and specialists came into the room and stared at me like I was a freak and no one seemed to have any clue how to fix it. After a CAT scan and an MRI, they assured me my brain was still in place and that I wasn't dying. They did not know, however, what was causing this so they prescribed some random antibiotics and sent me home.
I had to miss the party. Boooooo.
I don't know who was more disappointed, me or him. I'm still not sure if there were actual tears falling from my eyes or if it was mostly the one eye uncontrollably seeping.
So that night I sat at home popping antibiotics like Pez candy in the hopes it would miraculously clear up in time for the party so I could make a midnight entrance like Cinderella.
It did not.
Even so, if I stopped looking like Igor's ugly cousin by daybreak, I would be relieved.
But that was not in the cards.
Sunday morning I woke up, and - yet again - it had grown. I was worried I was running out of skin and at some point it would pop open and my eyeball, trapped within the confines of a completely swollen shut eye, would come flying out.
He called to check on me, and insisted on coming over. There was no way I could delay this. I needed to go back to the hospital, and I needed him to drive me as if I walked I would have to go thru a playground and frighten a myriad of innocent children just trying to have a playful afternoon. Either way, this would not be good.
When he arrived, I greeted him wearing an old pillowcase which I had decided had seen its day and cut one eyehole out so I could see.
He clearly thought this was kind of funny.
I did not.
He begged me to show him, and at that point, I swallowed every ounce of pride and showed him. He gave me a hug and said "Let's go figure this shit out!"
At no point did he make me feel weird about it. He was a handsome guy who was older than I, and me - being in my early 20's - was apparently still under the assumption that all men are shallow and vapid.
Okay, he'll take me to the hospital, this will get fixed, and then he'll never call me again is what went through my head. Won't matter if he dumps me if I'm dead. And my prospects for respectable suitors will drop when I lose my eye anyway, I convinced myself.
The hospital decided I needed to see an actual specialist, none of which were available on a Sunday. So back home I went, with my fleshy protuberance, my humility, and a guy I would never see again after today.
The next morning it hadn't grown, but it hadn't receded, and I awoke to a phone call from him. "I got you in with the best in the city, I'll pick you up in 45 minutes."
Wait - WHAT? He took off work to make sure his weirdo fright of a girlfriend got to the specialist? AFTER seeing said deformity?
Mind blown.
He came and picked me up. The specialist took one horrified look at me and said he was pretty certain it was a clogged tear duct. After a little bit of poking and prodding, he conceded it was one of the worse cases he had ever seen, but was confident that was the answer. He wrote a prescription, and sent me off on my merry way. I must admit, I was dubious. He made it all sound so simple.
The next morning, the swelling had decreased exponentially. The day after? Gone.
And the best part? We dated for quite awhile after that. I asked him how he could look at me without seeing that every time. His answer? "You're awesome no matter what you look like. Sure I was initially attracted to you because you're cute, but I didn't fall in love with your face - I fell in love with your heart, your brain, your laugh, your wit - all of which remain unchanged by some weird grapefruit sized protuberance jutting out of your head."
We laughed.
Plus, I think he still wanted to see me dolled up in that dress.
I learned a great lesson in this - that looks aren't everything... even if you look like something straight out of a horror movie.
Endnote: I found some pictures online that are equivalent to what it looked like, but they are gross... because it was gross. I'll spare you the details.
I've been asked several times why we broke up... the answer is simple. He wanted me to be a stay at home mom with a litter of children. And anyone that knows me, know that wasn't going to happen... I'm kind of an outside cat.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Thermostat cat
I'm having a bad day.
When that happens, I try to write to keep my mind occupied.
Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's not.
I really don't care.
Normally this is my favorite day of the year because I have made it through the nauseating day that yesterday brings. I'm exhausted from punching teddy bears at Walgreens and the dirty looks that often accompany said punches.
The puzzle of the day however, entails how my thermostat keeps getting turned up.
At first I thought maybe I was clumsy and I bumped it. That's not out of the realm of possibilities because I tend to be a bit of an oaf. Certainly plausible... at first.
Howeverrrrrrr, when it started happening repeatedly, I began to get a little more concerned.
Not only concerned for my lack of spatial awareness and balance, but for my electric bill.
When the thermostat goes up, so does the bill. It's winter.
So after a few of these episodes when I thought I was especially avoiding that wall, I decided to take matters into my own hands and bought a little cage for it.
Yes. They make little houses for thermostats for lummoxes like me. Amazing.
My hope was that this little cage would clod proof this evil instrument.
So I successfully snapped that puppy on and waited.
THREE days went by and I thought i was home free.
I was wrong.
On day 4 it mysteriously was turned up again... WITH THE CAGEY THINGY FIRMLY IN PLACE.
Now a reasonable person like myself would come to one of the following conclusions:
A) My house is haunted
B) The cat is not happy with the climate control in the abode we share and has sinisterly figured out how to mess with it whilst I'm at work.
Now let's think about this.
Option A, cannot be an option. I don't know if I believe in ghosts or not, but to entertain this as an actual possibility would mean things I'm not prepared to address. I don't want to have to pack and leave in the middle of the night poltergeist style.
So... option B. From a logistical standpoint, the paw "could" fit through the cagey thingy.
She can jump that high... so maybe it took her 3 days of practice before nailing it. I'm fairly certain she is not pulling up a chair and taking her time adjusting it before returning the chair to its original place. If Toonces can drive, there are things I cannot dismiss.
Case in point: I went on vacation and put her treats on the shelf that lies about 5 1/2 feet off the ground. I came home to an empty bag of treats on the floor full of puncture marks.
Do I have any idea how she did it?
No.
But she figured it out.
Apparently I have underestimated the will and determination of this evildoer.
I don't know what to do at this point. I tried talking to her.
She appeared aloof and disinterested in everything I was saying.
Not exactly the response I was hoping for.
I just know this roommate situation is still not working out.
When that happens, I try to write to keep my mind occupied.
Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's not.
I really don't care.
Normally this is my favorite day of the year because I have made it through the nauseating day that yesterday brings. I'm exhausted from punching teddy bears at Walgreens and the dirty looks that often accompany said punches.
The puzzle of the day however, entails how my thermostat keeps getting turned up.
At first I thought maybe I was clumsy and I bumped it. That's not out of the realm of possibilities because I tend to be a bit of an oaf. Certainly plausible... at first.
Howeverrrrrrr, when it started happening repeatedly, I began to get a little more concerned.
Not only concerned for my lack of spatial awareness and balance, but for my electric bill.
When the thermostat goes up, so does the bill. It's winter.
So after a few of these episodes when I thought I was especially avoiding that wall, I decided to take matters into my own hands and bought a little cage for it.
Yes. They make little houses for thermostats for lummoxes like me. Amazing.
My hope was that this little cage would clod proof this evil instrument.
So I successfully snapped that puppy on and waited.
THREE days went by and I thought i was home free.
I was wrong.
On day 4 it mysteriously was turned up again... WITH THE CAGEY THINGY FIRMLY IN PLACE.
Now a reasonable person like myself would come to one of the following conclusions:
A) My house is haunted
B) The cat is not happy with the climate control in the abode we share and has sinisterly figured out how to mess with it whilst I'm at work.
Now let's think about this.
Option A, cannot be an option. I don't know if I believe in ghosts or not, but to entertain this as an actual possibility would mean things I'm not prepared to address. I don't want to have to pack and leave in the middle of the night poltergeist style.
So... option B. From a logistical standpoint, the paw "could" fit through the cagey thingy.
She can jump that high... so maybe it took her 3 days of practice before nailing it. I'm fairly certain she is not pulling up a chair and taking her time adjusting it before returning the chair to its original place. If Toonces can drive, there are things I cannot dismiss.
Case in point: I went on vacation and put her treats on the shelf that lies about 5 1/2 feet off the ground. I came home to an empty bag of treats on the floor full of puncture marks.
Do I have any idea how she did it?
No.
But she figured it out.
Apparently I have underestimated the will and determination of this evildoer.
I don't know what to do at this point. I tried talking to her.
She appeared aloof and disinterested in everything I was saying.
Not exactly the response I was hoping for.
I just know this roommate situation is still not working out.
Thursday, December 8, 2016
Egg Salad & Feet
I don't know what it is about me and planes.
Although, I must admit since I've been flying Southwest, I have had minimal issues with the exception of the guy that was shouting to Jesus every time we hit turbulence and kept trying to make a cell phone call from the plane. That was oddly amusing. This flight was not.
Yesterday, I veered off the Southwest plan, and I'm not sure when I will do that again.
I have a hard time with goodbyes, I always have. So after my sister and I literally wrestled over me leaving her money, I gave her a HUGE tear-filled hug and went to check in.
No curbside check-in. (Groan.)
Kiosk #1. Not working.
Kiosk #2. Slow.
All the while I'm watching the bag drop line grow, and grow. Anxiety is starting to set in. Frontier had a line with 96 people in it (yes - i counted) and 4 people to handle those people. I might miss my flight! So I finally conquered Kiosk #2, and RAN into line.
I got through in 29 minutes, which was long enough.
Now to get through security. I looked down and saw an atrium packed full of mice winding their way through a gigantic maze - which had to be at least an hour. Thank God for precheck, but even that line was long. Then a security agent who had wings on her back and was donning a glowing halo told me if I was flying Frontier, there was no wait across the bridge.
WONDERFUL!
What she didn't tell me was that I'd be hoofing it across the bridge, over the river, through the woods, and be halfway to Colorado Springs by the time I finished. At at the end of that rainbow, no precheck.
Lovely.
I've become snobbishly accustomed to not having to remove my shoes & laptop - and the one trip I bring a laptop, is the one trip I have to dig it out.
Still, I'm in trooper mode. I got this.
I make it to the gate on time, tears have subsided, and now I'm just waiting to board the plane. Since they already started boarding, I was in no hurry to stand in another long line, so I sat down and waited as I recovered from my arduous trek.
As the line shortened, I observed a mom with not one but THREE screaming toddlers (poor thing) hovering the way I was. That alone was incentive for me to get up and get in line as I did not want ANY part of that.
As I make my way to Row 2 - middle seat I survey my neighbors with whom I will be sitting close to for the next 3 hours (I'm not a middle seat fan, but I'm preassigned and I got one with bonus leg room that others paid for). Common courtesy tells you when someone arrives in your row donning a big ass backpack, that the person in the aisle stand up and let them in. The lady in the aisle never got that memo, and that would become increasingly and abundantly clear throughout the flight. Since she refused to stand up, I tried to gingerly sneak past her as she half-heartedly tucked her knees in, but I still ended up whapping her in the face with my backpack.
She immediately made a noise that sounded like I hit her with a truck and grabbed her mouth like I ruined her face for life. "I'm so sorry!", said I, as I continued to negotiate the removal of said backpack with her still comfortably seated. "Are you okay?" I inquired, worried I would have to summon a team of medics to address whatever her issue was.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, clearly not happy about the situation. I was secretly hoping she would learn a valuable lesson at this point, but would later learn some people are just beyond hope... or courtesy.
As luck would have it, the SAME little old man (Ralph) that sat to my left on the ride TO Denver, was again seated to my left on the ride home. (What are the chances?!?) He immediately recognized my frustration with aisle lady, and attempt to assuage my frustration by asking how the visit with my nieces went. I asked him about the conference he had attended and after a few minutes of exchanging niceties, earbuds went in and I wanted to just take off. It was then that I noticed my portable battery charger was dead, despite charging it overnight. Gah. Must. Use. Phone. Sparingly.
Im pretty sure the last time I changed the time on the watch I was wearing I was in Phoenix, and had since been through three more time zone changes and daylight saving time, so while I can't pay attention to the hour, the minutes are accurate. But when I looked down, my watch said 40 minutes after.
Wait.
We were supposed to be wheels up at 5:30. Is my watch wrong? So I tap Ralph and ask for the time, and he gives me 5:41. The accordion looking thingy was still attached to the plane. It was right about then that the flight attendants began to congregate in the front of the plane staring at the door like it was a confusing puzzle. This was not the reassurance I was looking for...
Still, more time passed and additional personnel continued to come down the accordion thingy and it was clear there was a problem.
It wasn't until panic had spread throughout the plane that the pilot finally came over the P.A. system to tell us there was a problem with the door, but it was being addressed and we should be on our way shortly.
He has an odd definition of "shortly". To make matters worse, on the flight out, Ralph told me about being on a flight over Kentucky when the door flew off and the oxygen masks dropped and how the pilot did a nosedive to get them to lower altitude... emergency landing... medical clearances... the whole nine yards. So this was what I thought I would have to be prepared for. I actually read the emergency guide and listened to the pre flight instructions. After a lot of disconcerting banging and thumping, the door somehow got closed around 6:15 and we sat there... for another 10 minutes.
As we began to taxi away from the terminal, I noticed all the other planes were in a line for deicing. Apparently we decided to skip that because we were running behind, but again - I have friends that build airplanes who have said if you ever see ice on the wing, GET OFF THE PLANE.
Perhaps it was better that I was too far forward to inspect the wings, as I'm sure I would have seen something I deemed to be ice.
So, we're finally in the air, and the seat-belt light goes off as we have reached cruising altitude. Aisle lady decides this was a good time to air out her feet. It is one thing to kick off your high heels, and another thing altogether to unlace boots that have been suffocating stinky feet for Lord-only-knows how long and let them puppies breathe. In a confined space. With limited air.
How dare ye assault my snout in such an offensive manner.
Jiminy Christmas.
Do people really not smell their own stink? Because we were in the 2nd row and I'm pretty sure anyone using the rear lavatory could smell that over even the heftiest number 2 anyone could drop. So now not only do I have to worry about crashing, now I have to worry about gagging. Thank goodness it had been hours since I had eaten.
Hold your breath, plug your nose.
I wasn't sure how long I could keep this up, but the watering my eyes were doing on even a half breath led me to stick with the plan. Do not inhale through your nose.
After about 30 minutes in the air, I did a brief nose check, and I don't know if the stench had evenly coated the whole cabin or what, but it seemed to have dissipated enough where I didn't have to hold my breath. Still bad, but not gagville, and holding my breath was getting exhausting.
Moments after I was re acclimating to breathing through my nose, the flight attendant came over the air with a reminder not to congregate in the lavatories... or the aisles she added at the end almost as an afterthought to avoid drawing attention to what she was actually saying.
Odd.
Apparently people like to join the mile high club in the mile high city.
I giggled. I'd just never have the stones for that type of adventure.
But I find it utterly hilarious that someone does.
Well apparently that put ideas in other couples heads, because that announcement would be repeated THREE times throughout the flight. The line for the bathroom in the front of the plane continued to grow because the rear bathroom was clearly "occupied." I felt like I was on the airplane version of the Love Boat.
I wanted to turn around and watch the rear lavatory, but that just seemed rude. Maybe they just wanted a sealed place to escape from the cloud created by aisle lady's feet. Now that I could understand, as I had contemplated going to the bathroom just to stand there for a breathing break. I just wasn't convinced the stench wouldn't have breached the door and permeated the lavatory anyway.
Little did I know, it was about to get worse.
Aisle lady was about to strike again. With a vengeance. Apparently hearing the flight attendant come around and ask if anyone wanted snacks or drinks (none of which were complimentary) was enough to trigger aisle lady's recollection that she had her own stash of food. Down her head went, as she dug through her bag and resurfaced with a 8" by 4" by 4" plastic container like the ones you get at a deli when they send you off with a big ass hoagie sandwich.
Except this was no sandwich.
It was egg salad.
OMG.
Anyone that knows me that I abhor, abhor, the smell of a few foods. Canned tuna, potato salad, coleslaw, and egg salad. To add to that, I'm a consistency freak. The noises it makes when you dig your spoon into it make me shiver.
So as she popped the top on that bad boy, I immediately went back into breath-holding mode. What I couldn't escape, however, was the noises she kept making as she stirred it around and smacked it in her mouth. Even with my earbuds in I could hear her. LOUD AND CLEAR. I kept checking the battery life of my phone, hoping it was a mistake and I could afford to listen to something - anything - while she loudly swirled, sampled and stirred through what appeared to be a half gallon of egg salad.
To make matters worse, she was savoring it. Like she was eating a delicacy of immense proportions. This was not going to be a quick endeavor.
I somehow managed to quietly gag intermittently without losing any food myself. I refused to replenish my dehydrated self with water from my bottle out of fear I would lose it as soon as it went down, especially since there were no barf bags in sight.
The pilot somehow managed to only make us 15 minutes late... sort of. Aisle lady said we must have been speeding. "Thank God there are no police in the air," she quipped, clearly amused at her own wit.
How ironic that statement was... Ralph giggled.
Upon landing, we made our way to the gate, and no one wanted off that plane more than I. Apparently fate did not have that in the cards for me - or anyone else - anytime soon.
We pulled up to the accordion thingy, and people stood there and looked. And waited. And looked.
After 10 minutes the pilot advised us that they were having problems popping the hatch door.
OMG.
I landed safely, and now I'm still going to rot away on this plane. The lady that popped the emergency door on the plane a few weeks ago started to sound like a reasonable person with a reasonable solution.
Alas, just as the masses began to get really restless, the door popped open. However, as we have established, aisle lady did not think about others during our 20 minute wait to get off the plane. Apparently that seemed like an inopportune time to collect her belongings and empty the seat pocket. So as everyone else was itching to get off the plane, she blocked the aisle with her ass as she packed up her belongings and relaced her boots as if she didn't have to be anywhere for days.
I almost hurdled her, but someone a few rows back said "Jesus lady, you have got to be the rudest, ignorant, most self absorbed passengers I've ever seen... and I travel a lot." I couldn't help but smile. Freedom was feet away. No pun intended.
Perhaps they need to make a brochure on how not to be an asshole passenger.
My next flight will be with Southwest. If I can help it.
Sidenote: My mom called me while writing this asking what I needed for Christmas. I always say nothing. She also refuses to read my blog. If she read it, she'd know I need a new portable charger.
Although, I must admit since I've been flying Southwest, I have had minimal issues with the exception of the guy that was shouting to Jesus every time we hit turbulence and kept trying to make a cell phone call from the plane. That was oddly amusing. This flight was not.
Yesterday, I veered off the Southwest plan, and I'm not sure when I will do that again.
I have a hard time with goodbyes, I always have. So after my sister and I literally wrestled over me leaving her money, I gave her a HUGE tear-filled hug and went to check in.
No curbside check-in. (Groan.)
Kiosk #1. Not working.
Kiosk #2. Slow.
All the while I'm watching the bag drop line grow, and grow. Anxiety is starting to set in. Frontier had a line with 96 people in it (yes - i counted) and 4 people to handle those people. I might miss my flight! So I finally conquered Kiosk #2, and RAN into line.
I got through in 29 minutes, which was long enough.
Now to get through security. I looked down and saw an atrium packed full of mice winding their way through a gigantic maze - which had to be at least an hour. Thank God for precheck, but even that line was long. Then a security agent who had wings on her back and was donning a glowing halo told me if I was flying Frontier, there was no wait across the bridge.
WONDERFUL!
What she didn't tell me was that I'd be hoofing it across the bridge, over the river, through the woods, and be halfway to Colorado Springs by the time I finished. At at the end of that rainbow, no precheck.
Lovely.
I've become snobbishly accustomed to not having to remove my shoes & laptop - and the one trip I bring a laptop, is the one trip I have to dig it out.
Still, I'm in trooper mode. I got this.
I make it to the gate on time, tears have subsided, and now I'm just waiting to board the plane. Since they already started boarding, I was in no hurry to stand in another long line, so I sat down and waited as I recovered from my arduous trek.
As the line shortened, I observed a mom with not one but THREE screaming toddlers (poor thing) hovering the way I was. That alone was incentive for me to get up and get in line as I did not want ANY part of that.
As I make my way to Row 2 - middle seat I survey my neighbors with whom I will be sitting close to for the next 3 hours (I'm not a middle seat fan, but I'm preassigned and I got one with bonus leg room that others paid for). Common courtesy tells you when someone arrives in your row donning a big ass backpack, that the person in the aisle stand up and let them in. The lady in the aisle never got that memo, and that would become increasingly and abundantly clear throughout the flight. Since she refused to stand up, I tried to gingerly sneak past her as she half-heartedly tucked her knees in, but I still ended up whapping her in the face with my backpack.
She immediately made a noise that sounded like I hit her with a truck and grabbed her mouth like I ruined her face for life. "I'm so sorry!", said I, as I continued to negotiate the removal of said backpack with her still comfortably seated. "Are you okay?" I inquired, worried I would have to summon a team of medics to address whatever her issue was.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, clearly not happy about the situation. I was secretly hoping she would learn a valuable lesson at this point, but would later learn some people are just beyond hope... or courtesy.
As luck would have it, the SAME little old man (Ralph) that sat to my left on the ride TO Denver, was again seated to my left on the ride home. (What are the chances?!?) He immediately recognized my frustration with aisle lady, and attempt to assuage my frustration by asking how the visit with my nieces went. I asked him about the conference he had attended and after a few minutes of exchanging niceties, earbuds went in and I wanted to just take off. It was then that I noticed my portable battery charger was dead, despite charging it overnight. Gah. Must. Use. Phone. Sparingly.
Im pretty sure the last time I changed the time on the watch I was wearing I was in Phoenix, and had since been through three more time zone changes and daylight saving time, so while I can't pay attention to the hour, the minutes are accurate. But when I looked down, my watch said 40 minutes after.
Wait.
We were supposed to be wheels up at 5:30. Is my watch wrong? So I tap Ralph and ask for the time, and he gives me 5:41. The accordion looking thingy was still attached to the plane. It was right about then that the flight attendants began to congregate in the front of the plane staring at the door like it was a confusing puzzle. This was not the reassurance I was looking for...
Still, more time passed and additional personnel continued to come down the accordion thingy and it was clear there was a problem.
It wasn't until panic had spread throughout the plane that the pilot finally came over the P.A. system to tell us there was a problem with the door, but it was being addressed and we should be on our way shortly.
He has an odd definition of "shortly". To make matters worse, on the flight out, Ralph told me about being on a flight over Kentucky when the door flew off and the oxygen masks dropped and how the pilot did a nosedive to get them to lower altitude... emergency landing... medical clearances... the whole nine yards. So this was what I thought I would have to be prepared for. I actually read the emergency guide and listened to the pre flight instructions. After a lot of disconcerting banging and thumping, the door somehow got closed around 6:15 and we sat there... for another 10 minutes.
As we began to taxi away from the terminal, I noticed all the other planes were in a line for deicing. Apparently we decided to skip that because we were running behind, but again - I have friends that build airplanes who have said if you ever see ice on the wing, GET OFF THE PLANE.
Perhaps it was better that I was too far forward to inspect the wings, as I'm sure I would have seen something I deemed to be ice.
So, we're finally in the air, and the seat-belt light goes off as we have reached cruising altitude. Aisle lady decides this was a good time to air out her feet. It is one thing to kick off your high heels, and another thing altogether to unlace boots that have been suffocating stinky feet for Lord-only-knows how long and let them puppies breathe. In a confined space. With limited air.
How dare ye assault my snout in such an offensive manner.
Jiminy Christmas.
Do people really not smell their own stink? Because we were in the 2nd row and I'm pretty sure anyone using the rear lavatory could smell that over even the heftiest number 2 anyone could drop. So now not only do I have to worry about crashing, now I have to worry about gagging. Thank goodness it had been hours since I had eaten.
Hold your breath, plug your nose.
I wasn't sure how long I could keep this up, but the watering my eyes were doing on even a half breath led me to stick with the plan. Do not inhale through your nose.
After about 30 minutes in the air, I did a brief nose check, and I don't know if the stench had evenly coated the whole cabin or what, but it seemed to have dissipated enough where I didn't have to hold my breath. Still bad, but not gagville, and holding my breath was getting exhausting.
Moments after I was re acclimating to breathing through my nose, the flight attendant came over the air with a reminder not to congregate in the lavatories... or the aisles she added at the end almost as an afterthought to avoid drawing attention to what she was actually saying.
Odd.
Apparently people like to join the mile high club in the mile high city.
I giggled. I'd just never have the stones for that type of adventure.
But I find it utterly hilarious that someone does.
Well apparently that put ideas in other couples heads, because that announcement would be repeated THREE times throughout the flight. The line for the bathroom in the front of the plane continued to grow because the rear bathroom was clearly "occupied." I felt like I was on the airplane version of the Love Boat.
I wanted to turn around and watch the rear lavatory, but that just seemed rude. Maybe they just wanted a sealed place to escape from the cloud created by aisle lady's feet. Now that I could understand, as I had contemplated going to the bathroom just to stand there for a breathing break. I just wasn't convinced the stench wouldn't have breached the door and permeated the lavatory anyway.
Little did I know, it was about to get worse.
Aisle lady was about to strike again. With a vengeance. Apparently hearing the flight attendant come around and ask if anyone wanted snacks or drinks (none of which were complimentary) was enough to trigger aisle lady's recollection that she had her own stash of food. Down her head went, as she dug through her bag and resurfaced with a 8" by 4" by 4" plastic container like the ones you get at a deli when they send you off with a big ass hoagie sandwich.
Except this was no sandwich.
It was egg salad.
OMG.
Anyone that knows me that I abhor, abhor, the smell of a few foods. Canned tuna, potato salad, coleslaw, and egg salad. To add to that, I'm a consistency freak. The noises it makes when you dig your spoon into it make me shiver.
So as she popped the top on that bad boy, I immediately went back into breath-holding mode. What I couldn't escape, however, was the noises she kept making as she stirred it around and smacked it in her mouth. Even with my earbuds in I could hear her. LOUD AND CLEAR. I kept checking the battery life of my phone, hoping it was a mistake and I could afford to listen to something - anything - while she loudly swirled, sampled and stirred through what appeared to be a half gallon of egg salad.
To make matters worse, she was savoring it. Like she was eating a delicacy of immense proportions. This was not going to be a quick endeavor.
I somehow managed to quietly gag intermittently without losing any food myself. I refused to replenish my dehydrated self with water from my bottle out of fear I would lose it as soon as it went down, especially since there were no barf bags in sight.
The pilot somehow managed to only make us 15 minutes late... sort of. Aisle lady said we must have been speeding. "Thank God there are no police in the air," she quipped, clearly amused at her own wit.
How ironic that statement was... Ralph giggled.
Upon landing, we made our way to the gate, and no one wanted off that plane more than I. Apparently fate did not have that in the cards for me - or anyone else - anytime soon.
We pulled up to the accordion thingy, and people stood there and looked. And waited. And looked.
After 10 minutes the pilot advised us that they were having problems popping the hatch door.
OMG.
I landed safely, and now I'm still going to rot away on this plane. The lady that popped the emergency door on the plane a few weeks ago started to sound like a reasonable person with a reasonable solution.
Alas, just as the masses began to get really restless, the door popped open. However, as we have established, aisle lady did not think about others during our 20 minute wait to get off the plane. Apparently that seemed like an inopportune time to collect her belongings and empty the seat pocket. So as everyone else was itching to get off the plane, she blocked the aisle with her ass as she packed up her belongings and relaced her boots as if she didn't have to be anywhere for days.
I almost hurdled her, but someone a few rows back said "Jesus lady, you have got to be the rudest, ignorant, most self absorbed passengers I've ever seen... and I travel a lot." I couldn't help but smile. Freedom was feet away. No pun intended.
Perhaps they need to make a brochure on how not to be an asshole passenger.
My next flight will be with Southwest. If I can help it.
Sidenote: My mom called me while writing this asking what I needed for Christmas. I always say nothing. She also refuses to read my blog. If she read it, she'd know I need a new portable charger.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Hankies are dumb
So... funerals suck enough.
Im about to get ready for another one at the end of this week, which precipitated this rant.
I asked my mom who was coming, and she said she didn't know... but added that people don't like funerals.
NO SHIT.
I don't go because they are "fun." I go out of respect because no one wants 5 people at their funeral.
And... to support those left behind. The loved ones. Who need to know their person was special to others too.
My grandmother's "dying wish" was that I sing at her funeral. If that wasn't some BS. It was a hard enough day, and now you want me to sing??? I don't know how I made it through the song but Im sure I sounded awful.
Okay, so back to the story that brought us here. The first funeral of which I have vivid memories happened my senior year when a friend and classmate killed himself under kind of suspicious circumstances. It was a shock. To all of us.
So, there we are, at the funeral, with a bunch of us squeezed into the same pew bawling our heads off. Im sure we sounded like a gaggle of dying cats for THE ENTIRE SERVICE. Well I must have looked especially pathetic as I excessively sniffled trying to stifle a full on bawling session, because at some point an older man turned around and offered me his handkerchief.
I gracefully accepted the kind offering, and that was where any modicum of grace ended.
WHAT THE BEJEEZ AM I SUPPOSE TO DO WITH YOUR HANKIE?
Not wanting to be rude, I used the mf...
...and it wasn't to coyly dab my eyes.
I was so despondent I wasn't thinking straight and I unloaded a ginormous snot rocket into this man's hankie. Half the church heard it, I'm sure... including the donor of the cloth snot collecting square.
IT FELT GREAT. All that pressure that was building over the course of the service had instantly dissipated.
Until I realized what I had actually done.
I had just fully vacated the contents of my entire nasal cavity into a stranger's hankie.
It was actually heavy. Not so heavy I could throw it into a sock and knock someone out with it, but it was not light.
NOW WHAT ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH DO I DO?
I politely tried to fold it in half a bazillion times in an attempt to contain the volume of God-only-knows-what that I had just unloaded into this poor stranger's hankie.
DO I GIVE IT BACK?
DO I KEEP IT?
I had no idea what to do. It seemed odd handing this man a handful of snot, but it didn't feel right keeping it either.
I wanted to die. I wanted to hop in the casket and just hide.
So I did the unthinkable.
I tried to minimize the damage by wiping it on the underside of the pew. Don't judge. Im pretty sure God understood in the moment.
It was soaked.
I waved it back and forth under the pew as I sat there trying to dry it out to no avail. I looked at my friend for help and she had nothing. She even cracked a smile because I'm sure I had a look of utter horror on my face.
After the service as we followed the casket out, I handed the man back his handkerchief, doing my best to avoid making eye contact. I would later learn it was the deceased's uncle. I don't know if that tidbit made it better or worse.
The moral of this story?
HANKIES ARE DUMB.
DON'T ACCEPT HANKIES FROM STRANGERS.
OR CANDY.
Im about to get ready for another one at the end of this week, which precipitated this rant.
I asked my mom who was coming, and she said she didn't know... but added that people don't like funerals.
NO SHIT.
I don't go because they are "fun." I go out of respect because no one wants 5 people at their funeral.
And... to support those left behind. The loved ones. Who need to know their person was special to others too.
My grandmother's "dying wish" was that I sing at her funeral. If that wasn't some BS. It was a hard enough day, and now you want me to sing??? I don't know how I made it through the song but Im sure I sounded awful.
Okay, so back to the story that brought us here. The first funeral of which I have vivid memories happened my senior year when a friend and classmate killed himself under kind of suspicious circumstances. It was a shock. To all of us.
So, there we are, at the funeral, with a bunch of us squeezed into the same pew bawling our heads off. Im sure we sounded like a gaggle of dying cats for THE ENTIRE SERVICE. Well I must have looked especially pathetic as I excessively sniffled trying to stifle a full on bawling session, because at some point an older man turned around and offered me his handkerchief.
I gracefully accepted the kind offering, and that was where any modicum of grace ended.
WHAT THE BEJEEZ AM I SUPPOSE TO DO WITH YOUR HANKIE?
Not wanting to be rude, I used the mf...
...and it wasn't to coyly dab my eyes.
I was so despondent I wasn't thinking straight and I unloaded a ginormous snot rocket into this man's hankie. Half the church heard it, I'm sure... including the donor of the cloth snot collecting square.
IT FELT GREAT. All that pressure that was building over the course of the service had instantly dissipated.
Until I realized what I had actually done.
I had just fully vacated the contents of my entire nasal cavity into a stranger's hankie.
It was actually heavy. Not so heavy I could throw it into a sock and knock someone out with it, but it was not light.
NOW WHAT ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH DO I DO?
I politely tried to fold it in half a bazillion times in an attempt to contain the volume of God-only-knows-what that I had just unloaded into this poor stranger's hankie.
DO I GIVE IT BACK?
DO I KEEP IT?
I had no idea what to do. It seemed odd handing this man a handful of snot, but it didn't feel right keeping it either.
I wanted to die. I wanted to hop in the casket and just hide.
So I did the unthinkable.
I tried to minimize the damage by wiping it on the underside of the pew. Don't judge. Im pretty sure God understood in the moment.
It was soaked.
I waved it back and forth under the pew as I sat there trying to dry it out to no avail. I looked at my friend for help and she had nothing. She even cracked a smile because I'm sure I had a look of utter horror on my face.
After the service as we followed the casket out, I handed the man back his handkerchief, doing my best to avoid making eye contact. I would later learn it was the deceased's uncle. I don't know if that tidbit made it better or worse.
The moral of this story?
HANKIES ARE DUMB.
DON'T ACCEPT HANKIES FROM STRANGERS.
OR CANDY.
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Beware: Splash Zone
What is with modern toilets in public spaces???
Case in point, the new bathrooms at work.
To give you a little history, they used to
not have the strength to swallow a single one-ply square.
Now they are fully automatic with that
sensor thingy that flushes every time you move. While this solves the horrible problem of
people who have an inability to flush, it creates so many more.
Talk about hypersensitivity.
So you walk in the stall, and prepare to line the toilet with paper or a
liner. What you aren't prepared for, however, is while bent over you are about to set the first of many triggered flushes
off resulting in a power wash to your face.
Its disgusting.
Someone decided the settings on the flush must be set in jigawatts due to some anticipated need for the capacity to flush a silo worth of shit, because it flushes with so much velocity and thrust it actually escapes the toilet and soaks the floor. There is no "Do not flush sanitary products" sign, likely because that beast could handle a diaper... pail.
Someone decided the settings on the flush must be set in jigawatts due to some anticipated need for the capacity to flush a silo worth of shit, because it flushes with so much velocity and thrust it actually escapes the toilet and soaks the floor. There is no "Do not flush sanitary products" sign, likely because that beast could handle a diaper... pail.
Then, mid-business, it decides you are finished before
you’ve barely started and gives you a flush with so much horsepower it’s like a
super bidet. And believe me when I say there is no surprise like that surprise when you are not expecting it. You feel like Old Faithful just made a cameo appearance in your bathroom stall, yet you don't feel the slightest bit lucky about it. Now you have another problem. Not only did it sandblast your bits, it also got your cheeks so wet you need a beach towel to dry off. The problem is, you still haven't done the job you came there to do.
So now you have to figure out how to dry yourself off without aforementioned beach towel, and without moving enough to tilt the light in a way that would trigger another flush. Its like being a deer caught in headlights. Don't. Move. And there will be no problem.
Then comes the dismount.
This is the trickiest part of all.
Because just as you stand you hear the low growl of the incoming flush
which is no longer capped by your ass and you know it is about to send water
flying through the stall akin to being in the Splash Zone at a Shamu show. So, pants at your ankles, thighs, it doesn't matter - because you are about to make a dive for the
door knowing there is a 6” swath by the door that remains unaffected by the
splash and you don’t feel like getting drenched... again. Nothing like the toilet version of Deepwater Horizon blowing up in your stall, except instead of sending oil into the air with astounding force, its sending your urine flying high into the air. And your safe zone is hardly accommodating. Now to escape before the damn thing goes off again when you open the door.
You feel lucky to escape with your life.
It’s all ridiculous.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Mamm-O'-Gram
Fun things have dashes.
Tilt-A-Whirl...
Whack-A-Mole...
So when the time came for my first mammogram, and having heard nightmares about how awful they can be, I decided to put my own spin on it as I often do.
Mamm-O-Gram.
Andddddd I say it in a Bob Barker come on down! kind of way.
Kinda sounds like someone is sending boobs through Western Union, but at least it sounded more fun than it was supposed to. Isn't that the point of life?
So the day of the squish, they tell you to not wear deodorant. Which I of course forgot about until it was already applied. So there I am, scrubbing the bejeezus out of my armpits until the skin was raw.
RAW.
Not a good start.
Now, Im not a big sweater (and now it sounds like Im calling myself an item of clothing so let's try this again.)
Now, Im not usually one who over-perspires, but the day you're told you CAN'T wear any you just feel, well, GROSS. Im pretty sure I was oversniffing my pits.
Upon arrival, they gave me a lovely gown that opens in the front and asked me like 20 times if I wore deodorant. Okay, now I started freaking out. Apparently, this is a big deal. And despite the fact that my armpits were neon red, I couldn't help but think I missed a spot somewhere and the test results were going to run amok.
So I used their industrial strength bleach wipes on already extremely raw skin. Im pretty sure I cursed like a sailor and made some pretty primal howls as i succumbed to the burning sensation, because when I opened the door everyone was staring at me. Oh well.
After sitting in awkward silence in a little room with a bunch of other people waiting to get their boobs smooshed, my turn finally came. As I got up for my turn, I saw the looks of sympathy shot at me as if I was about to walk the Green Mile and never return.
The nurse was super clincal about the whole thing. I suppose. She squishes boobs all day. I think she was happy she had something to work with on my end. I have NO idea how they do this to flat chested women.
And actually, the first time it was kind of amusing. Kind of. The glass is see-through, so you get to watch something you've seen daily for nearly 40 years contorted in a way you've never seen them before. And geeeeeeez did they look funny. I giggled more than once, which you could tell was an abnormal reaction by the look on the nurse's face. I think she was amused at my amusement.
Who knows. Maybe she was amused by my bright red armpits. Whatever the case, it was pretty quick and painless and I was on my merry way quicker than a morning drive-thru at McDonald's.
Then the call came.
"We need you to come back in."
Oh. Shit.
My life has impeccable timing. Every vacation I have ever been on, every dance I have ever been to, good ol' mother nature loves to show up and rain on my parade. Once again, impeccable timing. I got the call the day before I was to leave to visit a guy I had recently started seeing in another state. Gah. See aforementioned post (if its still up) about the tragedy surrounding that trip. Some days, you just can't win, and this trip was one to beat the band.
They wanted me to come in as soon as possible, but seeing as how I was boarding a plane the next day and would be 2000 miles away for 5 days, that wasn't going to happen.
Needless to say, I was preoccupied for that trip.
In the back of my head, I kept going over whether or not I was able to successfully remove ALL of the deodorant. I tried really hard to at least blame the deodorant so I could get through the trip without being too weird. Weird being a relative term.
Upon returning, I went in for my follow-up. Back to the squish room I went, and following the re-squish, I went to a room that was weirdly set up. Noodles and wedges and every shape of foam you could imagine next to a stretcher/bed, which was adjacent to a computer with contraptions galore.
Shit was about to get serious.
Ive never been a flash my boobs person - AT ALL - so having someone basically ask me to walk around without my shirt on really weirded me out. So she lays me down and wedges me into the most awkward position imaginable. She then starts with this ultrasound probe thingy and less than 5 seconds in I hear her take a picture. It literally made a shutter sound. Immediately following that, she busted out a measuring tape and - using my nipple as home base, measured in the appropriate cardinal direction. As in, picture is 1.2 inches west-northwest of nipple. The whole thing was... weird.
63 measurements and 139 pictures later I was certain I was in the end stages of terminal breast cancer and I was going to die. And yes, I counted. And tried to read her face. I do that for a living, so I figured I could get SOMETHING. But she was goooooooood.
Nothing. She gave me nothing.
No look of pity, no look of encouragement, NOTHING.
Then she prints out a LONG ASS string of photos, and leaves the room. Are you effin kidding me? Not even a "you can cover up now?"
Leaves me there 1/2 naked, convinced I was about to get reallllly bad news and in my head I began thinking of the various courses of treatment.
Fifteen minutes later, the doc came in and said I needed a recheck in 6 months, but for now, all looked "okay". He explained I have really cysty boobs. Great! He made me feel like my boobs were ultra lumpy. WTF.
But I was good. For now.
And never again will I try to use Mamm-O'-Gram and Tilt-A-Whirl in the same sentence.
Me and my lumpy boobs will find something better to joke about.
Tilt-A-Whirl...
Whack-A-Mole...
So when the time came for my first mammogram, and having heard nightmares about how awful they can be, I decided to put my own spin on it as I often do.
Mamm-O-Gram.
Andddddd I say it in a Bob Barker come on down! kind of way.
Kinda sounds like someone is sending boobs through Western Union, but at least it sounded more fun than it was supposed to. Isn't that the point of life?
So the day of the squish, they tell you to not wear deodorant. Which I of course forgot about until it was already applied. So there I am, scrubbing the bejeezus out of my armpits until the skin was raw.
RAW.
Not a good start.
Now, Im not a big sweater (and now it sounds like Im calling myself an item of clothing so let's try this again.)
Now, Im not usually one who over-perspires, but the day you're told you CAN'T wear any you just feel, well, GROSS. Im pretty sure I was oversniffing my pits.
Upon arrival, they gave me a lovely gown that opens in the front and asked me like 20 times if I wore deodorant. Okay, now I started freaking out. Apparently, this is a big deal. And despite the fact that my armpits were neon red, I couldn't help but think I missed a spot somewhere and the test results were going to run amok.
So I used their industrial strength bleach wipes on already extremely raw skin. Im pretty sure I cursed like a sailor and made some pretty primal howls as i succumbed to the burning sensation, because when I opened the door everyone was staring at me. Oh well.
After sitting in awkward silence in a little room with a bunch of other people waiting to get their boobs smooshed, my turn finally came. As I got up for my turn, I saw the looks of sympathy shot at me as if I was about to walk the Green Mile and never return.
The nurse was super clincal about the whole thing. I suppose. She squishes boobs all day. I think she was happy she had something to work with on my end. I have NO idea how they do this to flat chested women.
And actually, the first time it was kind of amusing. Kind of. The glass is see-through, so you get to watch something you've seen daily for nearly 40 years contorted in a way you've never seen them before. And geeeeeeez did they look funny. I giggled more than once, which you could tell was an abnormal reaction by the look on the nurse's face. I think she was amused at my amusement.
Who knows. Maybe she was amused by my bright red armpits. Whatever the case, it was pretty quick and painless and I was on my merry way quicker than a morning drive-thru at McDonald's.
Then the call came.
"We need you to come back in."
Oh. Shit.
My life has impeccable timing. Every vacation I have ever been on, every dance I have ever been to, good ol' mother nature loves to show up and rain on my parade. Once again, impeccable timing. I got the call the day before I was to leave to visit a guy I had recently started seeing in another state. Gah. See aforementioned post (if its still up) about the tragedy surrounding that trip. Some days, you just can't win, and this trip was one to beat the band.
They wanted me to come in as soon as possible, but seeing as how I was boarding a plane the next day and would be 2000 miles away for 5 days, that wasn't going to happen.
Needless to say, I was preoccupied for that trip.
In the back of my head, I kept going over whether or not I was able to successfully remove ALL of the deodorant. I tried really hard to at least blame the deodorant so I could get through the trip without being too weird. Weird being a relative term.
Upon returning, I went in for my follow-up. Back to the squish room I went, and following the re-squish, I went to a room that was weirdly set up. Noodles and wedges and every shape of foam you could imagine next to a stretcher/bed, which was adjacent to a computer with contraptions galore.
Shit was about to get serious.
Ive never been a flash my boobs person - AT ALL - so having someone basically ask me to walk around without my shirt on really weirded me out. So she lays me down and wedges me into the most awkward position imaginable. She then starts with this ultrasound probe thingy and less than 5 seconds in I hear her take a picture. It literally made a shutter sound. Immediately following that, she busted out a measuring tape and - using my nipple as home base, measured in the appropriate cardinal direction. As in, picture is 1.2 inches west-northwest of nipple. The whole thing was... weird.
63 measurements and 139 pictures later I was certain I was in the end stages of terminal breast cancer and I was going to die. And yes, I counted. And tried to read her face. I do that for a living, so I figured I could get SOMETHING. But she was goooooooood.
Nothing. She gave me nothing.
No look of pity, no look of encouragement, NOTHING.
Then she prints out a LONG ASS string of photos, and leaves the room. Are you effin kidding me? Not even a "you can cover up now?"
Leaves me there 1/2 naked, convinced I was about to get reallllly bad news and in my head I began thinking of the various courses of treatment.
Fifteen minutes later, the doc came in and said I needed a recheck in 6 months, but for now, all looked "okay". He explained I have really cysty boobs. Great! He made me feel like my boobs were ultra lumpy. WTF.
But I was good. For now.
And never again will I try to use Mamm-O'-Gram and Tilt-A-Whirl in the same sentence.
Me and my lumpy boobs will find something better to joke about.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Eff You Valentines Day
Valentines Day used to be one of my favorite holidays. I don't even know why, since the idiot I've been with for the last 10 years never did shit anyway. But at least I had a Valentine.
After the ending of a long relationship, the firsts are always the worst.
The first football season alone, the first Christmas alone, and of course the ever dreaded first Valentine's Day alone.
I used to be such a fan of cute, stuffed animals.
Now I find myself walking through Walgreen's and wanting to throat punch EVERY. SINGLE. TEDDY. BEAR.
All 500 of them.
I work in a male dominated field, so this week I get to sit and listen to what everyone is planning to do for and with their wife, girlfriend, and in some cases mistresses. (Don't get me started.)
That's the equivalent of some really bizarre medieval torture to me. Bleh.
You cannot escape it either. Its like the event horizon of a black hole.
Case in point:
Today I went to the grocery store. The flowers were everywhere and for a second I thought I was in a greenhouse not a grocery store. The highly oversaturated signage a nonstop reminder of a day I would much rather fast forward through. The sweet smell was overpowering to the point I thought they should have barf buckets supplied at the end of the aisles. Made me nauseous,
The funny thing is, I am dating someone.
Who lives 2000 miles away.
And probably isn't the Valentine's Day type.
Those are his only two flaws, I swear. He's amazing.
He's not the type of guy who will ever fly 1/2 way across the country to surprise me*** or do a lot of those things we all see in the movies but rarely, if ever, see in real life. Romantic men are like unicorns. The sooner we all accept that, the less delusional we will all be.
And he has to work, anyway.
Not being able to be with the person you really kinda want to be with, makes it all that much worse.
So I will be spending Valentine's Day alone.
Punching teddy bears.
Don't judge me.
*** I stand corrected. He WILL fly 1/2 way across the country to surprise me. Or maybe for completely selfish reasons, but I can no longer make the blanket statement of never.
And he's still amazing.
Friday, January 22, 2016
FOR RENT: CAT
Are you sick and tired of being the only person well-rested at work? Does it make you angry that you consistently get at least 8 hours of sleep every night?
Well say no more.
I have a guaranteed solution to your problem!
For a nominal fee, you can rent this cat! (I'd offer her for sale, but she's technically not mine, so I gotta work with what I've got.) She is highly anti-social and anxious, so she will be no trouble during the day. At night, however, she will make a non-stop screeching noise akin to a rabbit getting killed.
If you've never heard a rabbit getting killed, hit the YouTube and search screaming rabbit...I reckon the getting killed part might be against their terms of service, but you'll get the idea.
Now imagine that on repeat. For 8-10 hours. It will make your ears bleed. You will question your sanity. You will want to die.
PROBLEM SOLVED! You can now conform with the rest of your poorly rested co-workers, which will likely end any perkiness that alienated you from them in the first place. Call it a bonding opportunity over common ground...
Other bonuses to aforementioned cat rental:
* She will find every pair of nice leather shoes you own and claw the living shit out of them in an attempt to sharpen her claws. I know you're thinking - WAIT, she's not declawed? No. I normally do not confess this, but she belongs to a bleeding heart liberal who thought it would be mean to do that to her. Easy for him to say, it wasn't HIS shoes or furniture she would do Edward Scissorhands impersonations of... Lucky for you, she has discerning taste & only likes nice shoes. So if you keep your ratty shit out, you'll be in the clear.
* She is litterbox trained. However, depending on the length of your desired rental, I must disclose the following: The little princess will not go in a dirty litterbox. Anything short of sparkling & pristine will cause the little rat to drop a dolphin right outside the box. Im pretty sure its her way of saying "Fuck You, Im a Princess."
* She is not fixed. So if you need any inanimate objects in your house to be grinded on or snuggled with, she is not very picky. This includes chairs, stuffed animals, bath towels... pretty much anything she can attempt to gain love from. Disclaimer: This is during both the "heat" and the "preheat" stages.
*Entertainment value! She is also apparently a hot commodity in the feline world, because a few of her screeches will have every male cat in the neighborhood outside your door making equally disturbing sounds in an attempt to woo her. You haven't lived until you've heard a gaggle of male cats singing to a horny she-kitty they wanna tap. Its quite the orchestra.
* Deterrent! Have your kids been nagging you about getting a cat? What a wonderful way to test drive the situation! Your kids are sure to change their mind after hourly litterbox cleanings for an anti social cat that will not go near them. She hides so well, sometimes I don't see her for days even when Im looking for her.
* On A Timer! When you wake up in the morning, disheveled and duffle bags under your eyes looking like the Bride of Chucky because you haven't slept in weeks, she'll retreat to her spot and promptly fall asleep.
Serious inquiries only, please. Hell, I'll even throw some free nights in for you. My sleep deprivation has piqued my generosity. Don't let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity pass you by!
Well say no more.
I have a guaranteed solution to your problem!
For a nominal fee, you can rent this cat! (I'd offer her for sale, but she's technically not mine, so I gotta work with what I've got.) She is highly anti-social and anxious, so she will be no trouble during the day. At night, however, she will make a non-stop screeching noise akin to a rabbit getting killed.
If you've never heard a rabbit getting killed, hit the YouTube and search screaming rabbit...I reckon the getting killed part might be against their terms of service, but you'll get the idea.
Now imagine that on repeat. For 8-10 hours. It will make your ears bleed. You will question your sanity. You will want to die.
PROBLEM SOLVED! You can now conform with the rest of your poorly rested co-workers, which will likely end any perkiness that alienated you from them in the first place. Call it a bonding opportunity over common ground...
Other bonuses to aforementioned cat rental:
* She will find every pair of nice leather shoes you own and claw the living shit out of them in an attempt to sharpen her claws. I know you're thinking - WAIT, she's not declawed? No. I normally do not confess this, but she belongs to a bleeding heart liberal who thought it would be mean to do that to her. Easy for him to say, it wasn't HIS shoes or furniture she would do Edward Scissorhands impersonations of... Lucky for you, she has discerning taste & only likes nice shoes. So if you keep your ratty shit out, you'll be in the clear.
* She is litterbox trained. However, depending on the length of your desired rental, I must disclose the following: The little princess will not go in a dirty litterbox. Anything short of sparkling & pristine will cause the little rat to drop a dolphin right outside the box. Im pretty sure its her way of saying "Fuck You, Im a Princess."
* She is not fixed. So if you need any inanimate objects in your house to be grinded on or snuggled with, she is not very picky. This includes chairs, stuffed animals, bath towels... pretty much anything she can attempt to gain love from. Disclaimer: This is during both the "heat" and the "preheat" stages.
*Entertainment value! She is also apparently a hot commodity in the feline world, because a few of her screeches will have every male cat in the neighborhood outside your door making equally disturbing sounds in an attempt to woo her. You haven't lived until you've heard a gaggle of male cats singing to a horny she-kitty they wanna tap. Its quite the orchestra.
* Deterrent! Have your kids been nagging you about getting a cat? What a wonderful way to test drive the situation! Your kids are sure to change their mind after hourly litterbox cleanings for an anti social cat that will not go near them. She hides so well, sometimes I don't see her for days even when Im looking for her.
* On A Timer! When you wake up in the morning, disheveled and duffle bags under your eyes looking like the Bride of Chucky because you haven't slept in weeks, she'll retreat to her spot and promptly fall asleep.
Serious inquiries only, please. Hell, I'll even throw some free nights in for you. My sleep deprivation has piqued my generosity. Don't let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity pass you by!
Sunday, September 1, 2013
I made a pie!
So yesterday was the end of my week long hiatus in South Carolina. Back to the grind for me, which included the plane ride home.
I should have known I'd be in for a doozy of a day when we had to board, deplane, replane, deplane, and replane one final time before actually heading into the friendly skies. Looking back now, that was the tame part of my flying experience.
Upon arriving in Cleveland, my now 1 1/2 hour layover had been reduced to 8 minutes, which caused me to run like my ass was on fire just to make the flight.
I found my seat, and it soon became apparent that the little old lady seated next to me in seat C was flying with her daughter & son-in-law (seated across the aisle in A & B). I thought it odd that the daughter didn't sit with her mother and let her husband sit next to a stranger. I would soon learn why.
During pre-flight instructions, she began flipping through the magazines from the seat back.
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.
She tore a sheet out. I saw it had a coupon, so I didn't think much about it except for the loud noise it made.
While the flight attendant was still giving instructions, (including that these magazines were complimentary) a second RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP even caught the attention of nearby passengers. Everyone except for her family I guess. Or maybe they were just used to it.
She proceeded to shred through the various magazines through the entire taxi and take-off, until she was satisfied with her pile of sheets. She even tore out the Sudoku puzzles, which... were completed.
OMG. This is going to be a LONG flight, I thought to myself.
I should have known I'd be in for a doozy of a day when we had to board, deplane, replane, deplane, and replane one final time before actually heading into the friendly skies. Looking back now, that was the tame part of my flying experience.
Upon arriving in Cleveland, my now 1 1/2 hour layover had been reduced to 8 minutes, which caused me to run like my ass was on fire just to make the flight.
I found my seat, and it soon became apparent that the little old lady seated next to me in seat C was flying with her daughter & son-in-law (seated across the aisle in A & B). I thought it odd that the daughter didn't sit with her mother and let her husband sit next to a stranger. I would soon learn why.
During pre-flight instructions, she began flipping through the magazines from the seat back.
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.
She tore a sheet out. I saw it had a coupon, so I didn't think much about it except for the loud noise it made.
While the flight attendant was still giving instructions, (including that these magazines were complimentary) a second RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP even caught the attention of nearby passengers. Everyone except for her family I guess. Or maybe they were just used to it.
She proceeded to shred through the various magazines through the entire taxi and take-off, until she was satisfied with her pile of sheets. She even tore out the Sudoku puzzles, which... were completed.
OMG. This is going to be a LONG flight, I thought to myself.
I had no idea how right I was.
So after we approach cruising altitude, it becomes apparent that once her ears 'pop' she can't hear and now speaks in a volume so loud I'm sure geese outside of our pressurized cabin could clearly discern what she was saying. Shit, the pilot could probably hear her with the cockpit doors shut and the headphones on.
So she turns to me andsays shouts, "I'm sorry I'm a little gassy today." I smile with every ounce of politeness I could muster and politely say "That's okay." What she didn't tell me, however, was that she would lean to the right & left every time she had to tear one loose and follow it with a verbal "Oh!"
If I was seated out of the line of fire, I would have no doubt found this beyond hilarious. However, given my current position, I was less than amused. My only saving grace was that they didn't stink up the whole cabin. More bark than bite, if you will.
After she made the announcement about being gassy to everyone around us, her daughter tried to intervene and whisper something across the aisle to her. Several attempts proved futile as she couldn't hear a thing, so I think the daughter gave up. The son-in-law just stared straight out the window the entire time, and I'd reckon to say this was completely intentional on his part.
The statement "a little gassy" is like saying Cherynobl was a firecracker... and I honestly couldn't decide if it was worse when she leaned into me, grunted, and shot it into the aisle, or leaned into the aisle & shot it my way.
About 35 minutes into the flight, the little old lady leans over, as she had done countless times before, but instead of the staccato "Oh" that always followed, this one was followed by "Oh!...oh. oh. oh." I knew this couldn't be good.
She wiggled around in her seat for about 15 seconds and then grabbed her daughter's arm across the aisle and shouted "I made a pie! I made a pie!" This statement completely escaped me at first, but once I saw the horrified look on her daughter's face, it soon became apparent just what kind of "pie" she had just made. I heard her shout something about leaking, and her daughter told her to stand up.
I will spare you the details, but the seat next to me was wet. And so were her pants. SOAKED. And then the smell hit me.
OMFG.
I wanted to jump out of my own seat. I had been pondering the idea of asking for a parachute earlier in the flight, but now it seriously sounded like a good idea.
The daughter summoned the flight attendant, and was obviously explaining the situation because the flight attendant turned and gave me a sympathetic look. I don't want sympathy, just get me the hell out of here!
I think she read my mind, because she instantly offered to move me to a seat in first class. While I was more than happy to do so, maneuvering past a dripping seat both tested my balance & agility and skeeved the living shit out of me. No pun intended.
I ran to the front, leaving everything behind. I wanted to turn around and watch the conclusion of the freak show, but felt too nosy when I turned around to even peek.
I don't know what I would've done if that flight had been full.
I will never look at pies the same way either.
Next time, maybe I'll drive... even if its to Hawaii.
So after we approach cruising altitude, it becomes apparent that once her ears 'pop' she can't hear and now speaks in a volume so loud I'm sure geese outside of our pressurized cabin could clearly discern what she was saying. Shit, the pilot could probably hear her with the cockpit doors shut and the headphones on.
So she turns to me and
If I was seated out of the line of fire, I would have no doubt found this beyond hilarious. However, given my current position, I was less than amused. My only saving grace was that they didn't stink up the whole cabin. More bark than bite, if you will.
After she made the announcement about being gassy to everyone around us, her daughter tried to intervene and whisper something across the aisle to her. Several attempts proved futile as she couldn't hear a thing, so I think the daughter gave up. The son-in-law just stared straight out the window the entire time, and I'd reckon to say this was completely intentional on his part.
The statement "a little gassy" is like saying Cherynobl was a firecracker... and I honestly couldn't decide if it was worse when she leaned into me, grunted, and shot it into the aisle, or leaned into the aisle & shot it my way.
About 35 minutes into the flight, the little old lady leans over, as she had done countless times before, but instead of the staccato "Oh" that always followed, this one was followed by "Oh!...oh. oh. oh." I knew this couldn't be good.
She wiggled around in her seat for about 15 seconds and then grabbed her daughter's arm across the aisle and shouted "I made a pie! I made a pie!" This statement completely escaped me at first, but once I saw the horrified look on her daughter's face, it soon became apparent just what kind of "pie" she had just made. I heard her shout something about leaking, and her daughter told her to stand up.
I will spare you the details, but the seat next to me was wet. And so were her pants. SOAKED. And then the smell hit me.
OMFG.
I wanted to jump out of my own seat. I had been pondering the idea of asking for a parachute earlier in the flight, but now it seriously sounded like a good idea.
The daughter summoned the flight attendant, and was obviously explaining the situation because the flight attendant turned and gave me a sympathetic look. I don't want sympathy, just get me the hell out of here!
I think she read my mind, because she instantly offered to move me to a seat in first class. While I was more than happy to do so, maneuvering past a dripping seat both tested my balance & agility and skeeved the living shit out of me. No pun intended.
I ran to the front, leaving everything behind. I wanted to turn around and watch the conclusion of the freak show, but felt too nosy when I turned around to even peek.
I don't know what I would've done if that flight had been full.
I will never look at pies the same way either.
Next time, maybe I'll drive... even if its to Hawaii.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Shit that pisses me off.
Some days, I feel like the world is out to annoy me - that my entire ride on this rock is to test my patience with idiots and others who want to annoy the living fuck out of me.
I am a female, ergo I get a period.
They are suppose to last 3-7 days. But mine are ALWAYS 7 days long and I bleed like a stuck pig. The cramps are BEYOND painful, and it fucking makes me want to poke a sharp stick in my eye. This wouldn't be a problem without the myriad of dumb bitches in my life who have repeatedly brought to my attention shit like the following:
"Oh, I never get cramps."
"My periods are only 3 days."
"I barely know I have my period."
FUCK YOU BITCHES.
SERIOUSLY.
I'm curled up in a ball writhing on the floor knowing I have six more days of this bullshit - WTF did I do to deserve this kind of karma. I am not responsible for the death of Christ, nor did I start the Holocaust. In other words, how did I get buried so deep on the fucked up end of the period spectrum?
The other night we were sitting around a campfire, with about 15 people and I'm the only one getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. The fact that I purposely sat in the smoke and bathed in OFF! before going did nothing to deter those hungry, blood-thirsty mother fuckers. Yet everyone was looking at me like I was crazy. Everyone thought it was quite funny actually, until we went in the house later in the evening and they saw how many times I had actually been bitten. I looked like a leper. Like I'd been raped by an entire swarm of bees. So - for shits & giggles - we counted the welts on my body.
FORTY SEVEN FUCKING BITES.
One person had 2 bites, but then joked the mosquitoes must have misidentified him for me.
The ire within me was indescribable. WHY THE FUCK DOES THIS ONLY HAPPEN TO ME? I get it, I'm a sweet gal, but REALLY?
It irritates the SHIT out of me when you're at the grocery store, and the person ahead of you unloads their cart and just stands there for the total. Then - and ONLY then - they decide to get out their purse, dig through it, dig even longer for a pen (only to find it doesn't work & return to digging in that cesspool you call a purse in search of another pen), pull out the checkbook, and start to write a check.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Did you think you might pay with cash?
Who the fuck uses checks anymore?
You forgot what store you were in?
Were you waiting for bells & whistles to go off and an announcement to be made that your groceries would be free?
You write like a turtle to boot, so pre-write EVERYTHING but the total next time...
People who drive BELOW the speed limit in the left lane, especially when there is a like-idiot in the right lane. Somehow they become instantly oblivious to the 1/2 mile long caravan of cars behind them waiting for them. Out for a Sunday drive.
Its okay. We get it. You have all the time in the world and left any sense of urgency at home. But the rest of the world is trying to get somewhere for fuck's sake. We aren't just out driving around because its a new-found hobby of ours.
SO MOVE THE FUCK OVER.
People who smack their gum... NON-FUCKING STOP. Try being stuck in a car with one of these people and you'll be begging to ride in the trunk in no-time. It's like Chinese water torture. And the more you try to ignore it, the louder and more obnoxious it gets. I often wonder if the mental asylums in this country are full of people who took long road trips with these gum smacking idiots. I can deal with the occasional crack, but chewing your gum like a cow chews its cud is just plain unnecessary. And hateful.
These are just examples from the last 2 weeks of why I think the world is out to get me. Not in a psychological sense, but in a Murphy's law kind of way. So I think I will keep it open & add to it as more things piss me off.
These are the things that make me a bitch... SO FUCKING WHAT?
Case in point, Example #1:
I am a female, ergo I get a period.
They are suppose to last 3-7 days. But mine are ALWAYS 7 days long and I bleed like a stuck pig. The cramps are BEYOND painful, and it fucking makes me want to poke a sharp stick in my eye. This wouldn't be a problem without the myriad of dumb bitches in my life who have repeatedly brought to my attention shit like the following:
"Oh, I never get cramps."
"My periods are only 3 days."
"I barely know I have my period."
FUCK YOU BITCHES.
SERIOUSLY.
I'm curled up in a ball writhing on the floor knowing I have six more days of this bullshit - WTF did I do to deserve this kind of karma. I am not responsible for the death of Christ, nor did I start the Holocaust. In other words, how did I get buried so deep on the fucked up end of the period spectrum?
Example #2:
The other night we were sitting around a campfire, with about 15 people and I'm the only one getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. The fact that I purposely sat in the smoke and bathed in OFF! before going did nothing to deter those hungry, blood-thirsty mother fuckers. Yet everyone was looking at me like I was crazy. Everyone thought it was quite funny actually, until we went in the house later in the evening and they saw how many times I had actually been bitten. I looked like a leper. Like I'd been raped by an entire swarm of bees. So - for shits & giggles - we counted the welts on my body.
FORTY SEVEN FUCKING BITES.
One person had 2 bites, but then joked the mosquitoes must have misidentified him for me.
The ire within me was indescribable. WHY THE FUCK DOES THIS ONLY HAPPEN TO ME? I get it, I'm a sweet gal, but REALLY?
Example #3:
It irritates the SHIT out of me when you're at the grocery store, and the person ahead of you unloads their cart and just stands there for the total. Then - and ONLY then - they decide to get out their purse, dig through it, dig even longer for a pen (only to find it doesn't work & return to digging in that cesspool you call a purse in search of another pen), pull out the checkbook, and start to write a check.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Did you think you might pay with cash?
Who the fuck uses checks anymore?
You forgot what store you were in?
Were you waiting for bells & whistles to go off and an announcement to be made that your groceries would be free?
You write like a turtle to boot, so pre-write EVERYTHING but the total next time...
Example #4:
People who drive BELOW the speed limit in the left lane, especially when there is a like-idiot in the right lane. Somehow they become instantly oblivious to the 1/2 mile long caravan of cars behind them waiting for them. Out for a Sunday drive.
Its okay. We get it. You have all the time in the world and left any sense of urgency at home. But the rest of the world is trying to get somewhere for fuck's sake. We aren't just out driving around because its a new-found hobby of ours.
SO MOVE THE FUCK OVER.
Example #5:
People who smack their gum... NON-FUCKING STOP. Try being stuck in a car with one of these people and you'll be begging to ride in the trunk in no-time. It's like Chinese water torture. And the more you try to ignore it, the louder and more obnoxious it gets. I often wonder if the mental asylums in this country are full of people who took long road trips with these gum smacking idiots. I can deal with the occasional crack, but chewing your gum like a cow chews its cud is just plain unnecessary. And hateful.
These are just examples from the last 2 weeks of why I think the world is out to get me. Not in a psychological sense, but in a Murphy's law kind of way. So I think I will keep it open & add to it as more things piss me off.
These are the things that make me a bitch... SO FUCKING WHAT?
Sunday, August 11, 2013
When Sliders Hit the 'Landing Zone'...
So it's summertime. The short time of the year it's "acceptable" to wear white pants. In my case, they were more like a muted ivory, but you get the picture.
I normally avoid fast food, but I was in between assignments, and was incredibly hungry. It was a hot day, so on my way back to the office, I hit up the drive-thru at Burger King. I was too busy thinking about all the shit I had to get done that afternoon, that I neglected to say the customary easy on the special sauce when ordering my Whopper, a move I would live to regret. I did, however, remember to say with easy ketchup & mustard.
After paying for & receiving said order, I rifled through the bag in search of the Whopper like there was a priceless diamond hidden in it. I tore off the wrapper and proceeded to begin devouring my sandwich as I slowly drove back to work.
And boy, was it tasty.
I still am uncertain what precipitated the next event, but at some point I either wasn't pinching the sandwich hard enough, or the summer sun was what caused one of the sneaky meat patties to slide out of the sandwich and facedown onto my lap.
FUCK.
ME.
It landed square on my crotch.
Face down.
I was so horrified I picked up the patty & flung it into the bag and began going to town on the damage control.
Ketchup?
Check.
Mustard?
Check.
Special Sauce?
Check.
All three were clearly identifiable and on my crotch.
So, naturally, I reach into the bag with the hopes of retrieving napkins I was praying they did not forget to put in the bag. The napkins were there, but they were underneath the patty I chucked so haphazardly into the bag.
I pulled over and frantically started trying to use the clean portions of the napkins to clean the patch on my snatch.
But all I really accomplished was to smear it around and rub it in more.
Fucking wonderful.
Now it looks like I killed something. On my crotch.
I don't know why, but I felt with every passing minute the stain was setting in further, and baking into my crotch in the midday sun. This gave me an urgent sense of purpose. Get back to work AS SOON AS POSSIBLE AND GET THE FUCKING STAIN OUT.
Thank God I was not far away because seconds felt like hours.
I'm sure I looked rather curious at stoplights frantically rubbing on my crotch, but at that point I really didn't give a fuck.
Walking back into the office, I made a bee-line for the bathroom and was sweatin' like a pregnant nun in church. And lord was I praying no one would see me before I got there.
The elevator ride alone was mortifying. M-O-R-T-I-F-Y-I-N-G. "Please don't look at my crotch, please don't look at my crotch...." echoed through my head as I awkwardly tried to place my hands to cover the mess.
Once in the bathroom, I breathed the BIGGEST sigh of relief, even though the work was just about to begin.
I had not thought through the logistics of how this would be handled, and basically bellied up to the sink and started frantically splashing water onto the problem.
Hot? or Cold? FUCK. One sets the other releases, but fuck if I could remember such intricacies under such pressure. So I tried both.
NOT helping.
Add soap, Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Now its just a blended mess AND it looks like I wet my pants, which were now see-through. I instantly regretted opting for heart sprinkled underwear that day. Jiminy Friggin Christmas.
I had no choice, these bitches are gonna have to come off.
So I check to see if there is a lock on the door. Of course not. Because there are 2 toilets, there is no lock on the damn door.
Fuck it. I'm standing at the sink in my dress shoes & socks & underwear frantically scrubbing away when in walks a co-worker. Lovely.
But - as luck would have it - she happened to have a Tide stick in her purse.
The clouds parted and a ray of light shone down upon me. A savior to my rescue in this time of need.
Normally I would be all careful and mousy about using it, but I colored that shit like a kindergartener on crack.
At last, I was making headway coloring through the special sauce, and plowing through the ketchup.
But that mustard is a sunnovabitch. And there was still a "grey patch" where I had smeared and pushed the shit so far into the fibers that a 6 month soak in bleach couldn't have got it out. It still looks like my pubic mound barfed.
When I had scrubbed and scrubbed until no further progress could be made (and I was literally panting with exhaustion) I succumbed to the powers of the mustard seed.
Defeated, I put my pants back on, only to realize there was no power hand dryer in the bathroom. Seriously? So off they came as I whipped them up and down in the air as I was trying to send smoke signals.
Needless to say, I walked around the office carrying a very large notebook for the remainder of that afternoon.
The term sliders has new meaning to me. I cringe every time I hear it.
I never did get to enjoy the rest of my fuckin' sandwich.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Tame that furry beast you creeper!
Besides the fact that there are 2 ways to spell mustache... or moustache... I am totally creeped out by them. Something so creepy should not be given 2 different spellings, let alone one.
Some females find them sexy.
Ew. Ew. Ew.
I, do not. Never have. Never will. I find them nasty & repulsive.
They remind me of 70's porn...
If you have a mustache, trim that shit and trim it tight.
If you don't, any conversation we have will consist of me watching the wayward hairs on your mustache bounce in different directions when you talk.
I will also be inspecting for crumbs or various other pieces of GOD only knows what - furtively hidden within the confines of your hairy upper lip.
Many times, I will try to figure out what it was you had for lunch, because the remnants are boppin around in the hairy nest below your nose.
Disgusting.
This is only aggravated by the fact that I work with a lot of males that have them. My fiance has NOTHING to worry about. Instant deal-breaker on so many levels.
One guy keeps a mustache comb in his desk. While this weirds me out, at least it keeps his unruly hairs in line and, as a result, is far less of a conversation distraction for me. However, watching him whip out his mustache comb multiple times a day still grosses the shit out of me.
I don't know why adding a goatee makes a difference, but lone mustaches just give me the eebie jeebies and force me to question your taste. If you think that looks cool or sexy, you are far more misguided than I want any part of.
Unruly, unkept beards aren't hot either. And I mean the crazy Walt Whitman, Unibomber beard. And the older I get, the more tolerable beards become. But NOT the mustache.
Creepers have mustaches.
Weirdos have mustaches.
Wanna-be macho men have mustaches.
Molesters (at least in my mind) have mustaches.
Blech.
Side by side - there is no comparison.... it NEVER looks better with a mustache. NEVER.
November 2012 was a HORRIBLE month for me because of "Mo-vember"... where it became a trend for guys to grow out their mustaches for some kind of cause started by someone in Australia. Someone who wanted to skeeve me out for a month straight. Turning clean shaven men everywhere into monsters with mustaches. Please, Lord. Do NOT let this become a yearly trend. I truly cannot handle seeing mustaches wherever I go.
Stop the insanity. I wish I could walk around with razors as a public service.
But then you get the occasional female who say they like them. They probably like back hair too?
Just googling mustache gives you a shitload of images of mustache cupcakes. WTF! Who wants to insinuate having a furry mound of hair atop a cupcake would be a tasty thing?
No thanks. Seriously.
Seriously.
Some females find them sexy.
Ew. Ew. Ew.
I, do not. Never have. Never will. I find them nasty & repulsive.
They remind me of 70's porn...
If you have a mustache, trim that shit and trim it tight.
If you don't, any conversation we have will consist of me watching the wayward hairs on your mustache bounce in different directions when you talk.
I will also be inspecting for crumbs or various other pieces of GOD only knows what - furtively hidden within the confines of your hairy upper lip.
Many times, I will try to figure out what it was you had for lunch, because the remnants are boppin around in the hairy nest below your nose.
Disgusting.
This is only aggravated by the fact that I work with a lot of males that have them. My fiance has NOTHING to worry about. Instant deal-breaker on so many levels.
One guy keeps a mustache comb in his desk. While this weirds me out, at least it keeps his unruly hairs in line and, as a result, is far less of a conversation distraction for me. However, watching him whip out his mustache comb multiple times a day still grosses the shit out of me.
I don't know why adding a goatee makes a difference, but lone mustaches just give me the eebie jeebies and force me to question your taste. If you think that looks cool or sexy, you are far more misguided than I want any part of.
Unruly, unkept beards aren't hot either. And I mean the crazy Walt Whitman, Unibomber beard. And the older I get, the more tolerable beards become. But NOT the mustache.
Creepers have mustaches.
Weirdos have mustaches.
Wanna-be macho men have mustaches.
Molesters (at least in my mind) have mustaches.
Blech.
Side by side - there is no comparison.... it NEVER looks better with a mustache. NEVER.
November 2012 was a HORRIBLE month for me because of "Mo-vember"... where it became a trend for guys to grow out their mustaches for some kind of cause started by someone in Australia. Someone who wanted to skeeve me out for a month straight. Turning clean shaven men everywhere into monsters with mustaches. Please, Lord. Do NOT let this become a yearly trend. I truly cannot handle seeing mustaches wherever I go.
Stop the insanity. I wish I could walk around with razors as a public service.
But then you get the occasional female who say they like them. They probably like back hair too?
Just googling mustache gives you a shitload of images of mustache cupcakes. WTF! Who wants to insinuate having a furry mound of hair atop a cupcake would be a tasty thing?
No thanks. Seriously.
Seriously.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Pirate for 1/2 a day
I've learned many things during my years on this spinning blue rock, but perhaps one of the most important is this:
The only day it is good to own a white cat, is probably your wedding day.
That cat has shed enough hair to make about 22 more cats of his large size & stature. Knowing this, we decided to rescue another kitten. But this time one with long hair. God we're smart.
So which one do you think sheds more?
Anyone with an appreciation for irony will realize just by posing that question the answer is the short haired cat, which - as it turns out - is not so short when it's on your clothes & furniture. It gets into places that are beyond explanation.
Enter: Friday morning.
Alarm goes off, I sit up. Cat jumps up to greet me. Still in my morning fog, I pet him a few times as I'm emerging from my foggy groggy morning stupor. I rub my eyes, stretch and prepare to take on the world for yet another day.
BUT WAIT.
There is something in my eye. So I rub it more in case my contacts are just being funny. While its nice to have the contacts you can sleep in, sometimes they roll in and out of place creating minor issues in the morning. Little did I know this would be no minor issue.
It soon became apparent that the more I rubbed it the redder & more swollen it got and it was not an eyelash or my contact. So I summoned my he-man to the bathroom to check if there was something in my eye.
So I lift my lid and my eye is blinking and blinking and blinking. Fucking reflexes.
So he says, "I'm trying to see, but you won't keep your eye open."
Brilliant.
Anyone who has ever had anything in their eye knows it waters uncontrollably and begins to override your ability to voluntarily keep it open. It wants to shut.
So after about 5 minutes of us bickering back and forth, he finally gets a long enough look and says "I SEE IT! You've got a cat hair in your eye."
Fucking great. That cat hair has plagued me since the day he entered my life, and now its found a way to the deep crevasses of my eyelid?
Now what?
Of course my response was to yell at he-man to get it out, so he proceeds to tell me to hold still and... wait for it... keep my eye open (GUH) as he attempts to manually remove it with his fat fingers.
Needless to say, that didn't go over so well, and the retrieval of the hair was thus-far a failed endeavor.
I explained that this was my eye, and I will need it for future use...
Miraculously, he was able to remove it - with his fingers. How? I don't give a fuck.
He mumbled something about being late for work, and I thanked him as I started to rub my eye again to make sure it was debris-free.
Uh oh. It felt like something was still in my eye.
Him: Just blink - it'll take a few minutes for the swelling to go down.
Me: Um. Okay...
Five minutes later, he's about to walk out the door, and I tell him I'm pretty sure there is still something in my eye. I can feel it. But GEEZUZ. WTF else could be in my eye? Everything but the kitchen sink?
So I direct him to look again - this time at the left side of my left eye... and there it was.
Another. Fucking. Cat. Hair.
Son-of-a-bitch.
He tells me there is no way he can get to that one with his fingers, and gives me a cap to try an eye flush with. He's a MacGuyver, my honey. Except MacGuyver's shit usually worked.
At this point I'm starting to panic, because I'm going to be late for work. WTF am I going to do? He looks again and says "The only way I'm going to be able to get it is with a tweezers".
A TWEEZERS? IN MY EYE? The idea sent me into instant panic. I've seen him miss with a hammer. And I'm suppose to be chill with a tweezer in an eye that won't stop blinking uncontrollably?
What other option did I have?
So... in he went and out it came... but I must say, THAT is trust.
As soon as my eye is cat hair-free, it instantly felt better. So I thank him and send him on his merry way. It felt better, but holy shit - it did not look better.
My eye looked like I'd been punched by Mike Tyson. The eye was so red, a gallon of Visine wouldn't have put a dent in it. It looked like one of my eyes had been smoking joints all night, and the other was perfectly normal. And the entire area around it was big and puffy and red.
Wonderful.
I had little time to wallow or whine about it though, as I was about to be late for work too.
It wasn't until I physically stepped out into the bright light of the morning sun that I realized how sensitive my eye had become. Not only was it red & swollen, it watered in light. I don't work in a darkroom, so this was going to be a problem, as was driving 17 miles with one eye.
Where is an eyepatch when you really need one?
Needless to say, I drove to work and spent the whole morning walking around with my left eye shut. A fucking pirate. This wasn't helped by the fact that I was filling in for someone and working with a bunch of people I barely knew. Nice impression.
Around noon the swelling went down, but the red eye stuck around til about 230.
You don't even wanna know how many people asked me if I was okay, or if something was the matter. I couldn't help but wonder if they thought I'd been crying or if they thought someone was beating the shit out of me at home.
I have the feeling that no one else in the office had ever had ONE cat hair stuck in their eyelid, let-alone-TWO. Who does this shit happen to?
Me, my friend. ME.
The only day it is good to own a white cat, is probably your wedding day.
That cat has shed enough hair to make about 22 more cats of his large size & stature. Knowing this, we decided to rescue another kitten. But this time one with long hair. God we're smart.
So which one do you think sheds more?
Anyone with an appreciation for irony will realize just by posing that question the answer is the short haired cat, which - as it turns out - is not so short when it's on your clothes & furniture. It gets into places that are beyond explanation.
Enter: Friday morning.
Alarm goes off, I sit up. Cat jumps up to greet me. Still in my morning fog, I pet him a few times as I'm emerging from my foggy groggy morning stupor. I rub my eyes, stretch and prepare to take on the world for yet another day.
BUT WAIT.
There is something in my eye. So I rub it more in case my contacts are just being funny. While its nice to have the contacts you can sleep in, sometimes they roll in and out of place creating minor issues in the morning. Little did I know this would be no minor issue.
It soon became apparent that the more I rubbed it the redder & more swollen it got and it was not an eyelash or my contact. So I summoned my he-man to the bathroom to check if there was something in my eye.
So I lift my lid and my eye is blinking and blinking and blinking. Fucking reflexes.
So he says, "I'm trying to see, but you won't keep your eye open."
Brilliant.
Anyone who has ever had anything in their eye knows it waters uncontrollably and begins to override your ability to voluntarily keep it open. It wants to shut.
So after about 5 minutes of us bickering back and forth, he finally gets a long enough look and says "I SEE IT! You've got a cat hair in your eye."
Fucking great. That cat hair has plagued me since the day he entered my life, and now its found a way to the deep crevasses of my eyelid?
Now what?
Of course my response was to yell at he-man to get it out, so he proceeds to tell me to hold still and... wait for it... keep my eye open (GUH) as he attempts to manually remove it with his fat fingers.
Needless to say, that didn't go over so well, and the retrieval of the hair was thus-far a failed endeavor.
I explained that this was my eye, and I will need it for future use...
Miraculously, he was able to remove it - with his fingers. How? I don't give a fuck.
He mumbled something about being late for work, and I thanked him as I started to rub my eye again to make sure it was debris-free.
Uh oh. It felt like something was still in my eye.
Him: Just blink - it'll take a few minutes for the swelling to go down.
Me: Um. Okay...
Five minutes later, he's about to walk out the door, and I tell him I'm pretty sure there is still something in my eye. I can feel it. But GEEZUZ. WTF else could be in my eye? Everything but the kitchen sink?
So I direct him to look again - this time at the left side of my left eye... and there it was.
Another. Fucking. Cat. Hair.
Son-of-a-bitch.
He tells me there is no way he can get to that one with his fingers, and gives me a cap to try an eye flush with. He's a MacGuyver, my honey. Except MacGuyver's shit usually worked.
At this point I'm starting to panic, because I'm going to be late for work. WTF am I going to do? He looks again and says "The only way I'm going to be able to get it is with a tweezers".
A TWEEZERS? IN MY EYE? The idea sent me into instant panic. I've seen him miss with a hammer. And I'm suppose to be chill with a tweezer in an eye that won't stop blinking uncontrollably?
What other option did I have?
So... in he went and out it came... but I must say, THAT is trust.
As soon as my eye is cat hair-free, it instantly felt better. So I thank him and send him on his merry way. It felt better, but holy shit - it did not look better.
My eye looked like I'd been punched by Mike Tyson. The eye was so red, a gallon of Visine wouldn't have put a dent in it. It looked like one of my eyes had been smoking joints all night, and the other was perfectly normal. And the entire area around it was big and puffy and red.
Wonderful.
I had little time to wallow or whine about it though, as I was about to be late for work too.
It wasn't until I physically stepped out into the bright light of the morning sun that I realized how sensitive my eye had become. Not only was it red & swollen, it watered in light. I don't work in a darkroom, so this was going to be a problem, as was driving 17 miles with one eye.
Where is an eyepatch when you really need one?
Needless to say, I drove to work and spent the whole morning walking around with my left eye shut. A fucking pirate. This wasn't helped by the fact that I was filling in for someone and working with a bunch of people I barely knew. Nice impression.
Around noon the swelling went down, but the red eye stuck around til about 230.
You don't even wanna know how many people asked me if I was okay, or if something was the matter. I couldn't help but wonder if they thought I'd been crying or if they thought someone was beating the shit out of me at home.
I have the feeling that no one else in the office had ever had ONE cat hair stuck in their eyelid, let-alone-TWO. Who does this shit happen to?
Me, my friend. ME.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Operation Fluffy Eyebrows.
I hate very few people, but many things. I figure that's allowed since they aren't human.
And one of those things that I detest more than life itself is plucking my eyebrows.
I'd rather be fucked by a hot curling iron. Well, maybe not. But you get the picture.
It makes me sneeze, my eyes water, and it's painful as hell. One. By. One.
That's the equivalent of torture to me.
But what's the alternative?
This?
I think not.
Or you can have them waxed, which is a pain in the ass for many reasons.
1) It costs money. (Which I'll gladly pay just to NOT have to pluck them, but tally another bullshit thing that chicks have to do that men don't.)
2) You have to make an appointment. (Usually). I work a job that on any given day I can be there for 24+ hours. Doesn't make for easy planning.
And finally - the one that REALLY kills me...
3) Those bitches tell me tell me "for best results" with waxing you should let them grow out a bit.
WTF? WALK AROUND LOOKING LIKE A BUSH WOMAN WHO'S BEEN IN THE JUNGLE FOR 3 MONTHS? ISN'T THAT WHAT I'M TRYING TO AVOID?
Those bitches make it look so easy. Apply. Pull. Apply. Pull.
Seems easy enough.
I can do that.
Those are words I would soon live to regret, and regret I would for some period of time.
So I thought I'd get a do-it-yourself kit from Walgreens. That way whenever my eyebrows got unruly I could WHAP!
So I perused the aisles looking at my options. I decided to pick the one that looked like even a dipshit like me could not screw up. What sold me was the "eyebrow templates." A template? For eyebrows? Of any shape & size?
SOLD.
So I took the box home and was pretty excited to test out my skills.
Sally Hansen can screw herself.
It came with the equivalent of two pieces of duct tape, taped together that you're supposed to rub between your hands to "heat up" the wax.
Oh shit. This was gonna be so much more work than I had anticipated.
Those handy dandy "templates?" Eyebrow stickers. I'm dead fricking serious. Eyebrow fricking stickers.
I think the "idea" was that you'd put it over your brow (after you've made your "brow" selection) and use it as a guide.
But the thin one was like trying to put sticky dental floss on your brow.
What a joke.
And one of those things that I detest more than life itself is plucking my eyebrows.
I'd rather be fucked by a hot curling iron. Well, maybe not. But you get the picture.
It makes me sneeze, my eyes water, and it's painful as hell. One. By. One.
That's the equivalent of torture to me.
But what's the alternative?
This?
I think not.
Or you can have them waxed, which is a pain in the ass for many reasons.
1) It costs money. (Which I'll gladly pay just to NOT have to pluck them, but tally another bullshit thing that chicks have to do that men don't.)
2) You have to make an appointment. (Usually). I work a job that on any given day I can be there for 24+ hours. Doesn't make for easy planning.
And finally - the one that REALLY kills me...
3) Those bitches tell me tell me "for best results" with waxing you should let them grow out a bit.
WTF? WALK AROUND LOOKING LIKE A BUSH WOMAN WHO'S BEEN IN THE JUNGLE FOR 3 MONTHS? ISN'T THAT WHAT I'M TRYING TO AVOID?
Those bitches make it look so easy. Apply. Pull. Apply. Pull.
Seems easy enough.
I can do that.
Those are words I would soon live to regret, and regret I would for some period of time.
So I thought I'd get a do-it-yourself kit from Walgreens. That way whenever my eyebrows got unruly I could WHAP!
So I perused the aisles looking at my options. I decided to pick the one that looked like even a dipshit like me could not screw up. What sold me was the "eyebrow templates." A template? For eyebrows? Of any shape & size?
SOLD.
So I took the box home and was pretty excited to test out my skills.
Sally Hansen can screw herself.
It came with the equivalent of two pieces of duct tape, taped together that you're supposed to rub between your hands to "heat up" the wax.
Oh shit. This was gonna be so much more work than I had anticipated.
Those handy dandy "templates?" Eyebrow stickers. I'm dead fricking serious. Eyebrow fricking stickers.
I think the "idea" was that you'd put it over your brow (after you've made your "brow" selection) and use it as a guide.
But the thin one was like trying to put sticky dental floss on your brow.
What a joke.
Never mind the fact that with my bushy ass eyebrows there was no way the adhesive was making any contact with skin to hold its place. Too much floof.
Yet still, I carried on.
I was on a mission. "Operation Fluffy Eyebrows".
The objective: PARTIAL Elimination of said "fluffy" eyebrows.
After thoroughly reading the instructions - TWICE - I felt ready to conquer the task before me.
So I began rubbing the little wax thingys in my hands.
I looked like Mr. Miyagi doing that magic shit in the Karate Kid - without the dramatic background music or sound effects.
I applied it, pushing on the parts that I wanted removed. It didn't say that in the instructions, but I've seen them do that at the salon so I felt like I was lending my expertise to the instructions.
Bad idea.
What I didn't realize was that the "wax" on these pieces of tape were more akin to Super Glue... you know, the kind when you get a microscopic portion on your finger and you can pick up shit with it for days?
Yeah. Super Glue.
Super.
After I was satisfied that I got all the hairs pushed down, I got prepared for the big pull. Instructions said to go in the opposite direction of the hair growth, which took me more time to figure out than I'd like to admit.
Never-the-less. I took a deep breath, and pulled as fast as I could.
I felt my skin literally lift up from my skull as I did this, and could help but think I'd never felt that at the salon.
But, if it did the job, who fuckin cares.
And then I looked in the mirror to admire my handiwork.
My eye area was so instantaneously swollen & red, I didn't see my eyebrow. So I felt for it with my finger...
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
I didn't see it because it wasn't there.
There was a small chunk next to the bridge of my nose. The rest was..................... gone.
And my face isn't the kind you can easily "pencil in" brows.
But now I had another problem. I was TOTALLY lopsided. So I got the genius idea that maybe if I didn't have either eyebrows, then it wouldn't be as noticable. I was a little more conservative this time But it looked a little something like this. Without the chunk on the left (her right).
Me & my 1/2 centimeter eyebrows.
Me & my bright eye-deas.
The moral of this story is leave it to the damn professionals.
The funny thing is, while I still HATE plucking my eyebrows, I think the incident activated something in my brain that somehow made it a TINY bit more tolerable. Perhaps because I know all too well the consequences of the alternative.
You don't fully appreciate how much our eyebrows help convey various facial expressions and how hard it is to look surprised or puzzled without them. Don't know what you've gone, til their gone... literally.
I would have a picture to show you, but I refused any be taken of me the entire time, although my fiance thought it was funny as hell and tried regularly to take one. Finally I told him with a straight look on my face - if you take a picture of me like this I will castrate you in your sleep.
I think he knew I wasn't kidding.
Yet still, I carried on.
I was on a mission. "Operation Fluffy Eyebrows".
The objective: PARTIAL Elimination of said "fluffy" eyebrows.
After thoroughly reading the instructions - TWICE - I felt ready to conquer the task before me.
So I began rubbing the little wax thingys in my hands.
I looked like Mr. Miyagi doing that magic shit in the Karate Kid - without the dramatic background music or sound effects.
I applied it, pushing on the parts that I wanted removed. It didn't say that in the instructions, but I've seen them do that at the salon so I felt like I was lending my expertise to the instructions.
Bad idea.
What I didn't realize was that the "wax" on these pieces of tape were more akin to Super Glue... you know, the kind when you get a microscopic portion on your finger and you can pick up shit with it for days?
Yeah. Super Glue.
Super.
After I was satisfied that I got all the hairs pushed down, I got prepared for the big pull. Instructions said to go in the opposite direction of the hair growth, which took me more time to figure out than I'd like to admit.
Never-the-less. I took a deep breath, and pulled as fast as I could.
I felt my skin literally lift up from my skull as I did this, and could help but think I'd never felt that at the salon.
But, if it did the job, who fuckin cares.
And then I looked in the mirror to admire my handiwork.
My eye area was so instantaneously swollen & red, I didn't see my eyebrow. So I felt for it with my finger...
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
I didn't see it because it wasn't there.
There was a small chunk next to the bridge of my nose. The rest was..................... gone.
And my face isn't the kind you can easily "pencil in" brows.
I immediately started freaking out and googling how fast eyebrow hair grows, trying to figure out how I was not going to leave the house for that period of time.
Me & my 1/2 centimeter eyebrows.
Me & my bright eye-deas.
The moral of this story is leave it to the damn professionals.
The funny thing is, while I still HATE plucking my eyebrows, I think the incident activated something in my brain that somehow made it a TINY bit more tolerable. Perhaps because I know all too well the consequences of the alternative.
You don't fully appreciate how much our eyebrows help convey various facial expressions and how hard it is to look surprised or puzzled without them. Don't know what you've gone, til their gone... literally.
I would have a picture to show you, but I refused any be taken of me the entire time, although my fiance thought it was funny as hell and tried regularly to take one. Finally I told him with a straight look on my face - if you take a picture of me like this I will castrate you in your sleep.
I think he knew I wasn't kidding.
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