Note to Future Self

Next time you get pregnant, DO NOT, under any circumstances, stuff your face with Checkers through all 3 trimesters and then for 3 months postpartem. It does not end well. The placenta? It does not weight 80 lbs. Because now, self, you have to lose all that Checkers weight.

So there's the gym. Where now I have to work so very, very hard and sweat so very, very much to lose the weight. And going to a spinning class when you are fat and out of shape? I'm not going to lie. . .it hurts. I just went up to get something from the printer and nearly fell over.

Eating healthfully really isn't so bad, but going from a diet of carb laden wonderfulness of bagel sandwiches and frosted cookies and shoving whatever appears in front of me into my pie hole to salads and whole grains and no added sugars. . .well, it's an adjustment. And then there are portions. Going from a non-portion life to a life with portions and then asking my poor husband who just finished cooking dinner "how many teaspoons of oil did you use?" and instead of chucking it at my head, my husband will just sigh, make up a number and hope that I don't go crazy.

Here's to hoping Future Self is much smarter than Present Self.

I know, I know - customer service is dead

Now, I know most people say this a lot: whatever happened to customer service?

There is the usual culprit, the minimum wage service worker talking on their cell phone when you walk up to the register, then rolling their eyes and continuing their conversation. Yes, those people are annoying. But they are also getting paid like $5/hour and have to deal with crap customers. Yeah, they are wrong, but I have come to expect it.

I have been noticing, however, that this is extending to other service sectors. Like when I called my credit card company to complain about a new annual fee they imposed after 7 years without one, they were like "So?" and I said, "I want to cancel then." Their reply? "OK, bye." Or when I called the cable/internet company because the cable was STILL not working and I didn't understand why I had to (over)pay for service that is awful and intermittent at best, I had to screech "do you seriously want to keep me as a customer? I have one foot out the door." Their reply? "Well, we can fix it in a couple of weeks. Don't like that? See you."

Old capitalist/free market society equation:
product + caring about quality of product + good customer service = sales = $$ profits

New capitalist/free market/dead beat customer service equation:
product + finding ways to make product cheaper and crappier + minimum wage workers phones with no incentive to sell + indifference to product = what? crappier products that I can buy from surly workers.

I just called the alarm company and was all "We don't use the service because the keypad isn't near the door and we can't use the motion detector. I was thinking of canceling but then thought about how we could make this work better. What are my options? Can you send someone out to talk about it and look at our system?" I spoke to the upgrades departement and was totally prepared for the hard sell. I mean UPGRADES department. But it was like pulling teeth. I looked it up online and then read him each upgrade and he was all "oh, yar, that would be good." So I was all, "do you have a salesperson to come out and pitch me all the upgrades/packages after looking at our place?" Then he woke up and said "No. You can pay $800 to get what you need and an extra $10/month - I can see your system over the phone. Oh, and you can pay to have the sensors that are broken fixed. But that's another department and no, you can't schedule the fixes and the upgrades at the same time, it has to be as inconvenient as possible." I was all "um, this is kind of expensive. . .I'm not sure if it's worth that much." His reply "OK, bye."

I mean, I don't want people to bend over backwards and kiss my ass, but I sort of want customer service reps to CARE if people cancel their service/product. Even if you don't cut me a break on pricing, at least give me the shtick on why I need your product. Try, would you? I would and have. I didn't love coffee when I worked at Starbucks, but I sold the shit out of it. I mean, the company's longevity would keep me in a job, no? I used to at least make the effort to get my supervisor to soothe the unctuous customer (or at least pretend to be the supervisor). And even knew the propaganda about why our product is superior.

Am I just an old man shaking my cane? Everything was better in the olden days?

We'll Sleep When We're Dead

This is long overdue. Yours truly was the subject of a sleep study a few months back. It was awesome, in terms of the fact that it involved not only retching, but crying.

So, I don't sleep. Seriously, I'm like a gazelle, half awake, waiting for the lions to eat me all night long. The entire night? AWAKE. But only half so, as it turns out.

Anyways, the sleep issue was getting progressivly worse, and nothing was fixing it. Melatonin? PFFFF. Tylenol PM? I MOCK YOU. Ambien? Try this: sleep for 30 minutes and then WIDE AWAKE AND READY TO KILL. Honestly, that drug is a crock.

So....the study. I was nervous (what, me, worked up? NEVER), so I went in advance and checked to make sure that I A: wasn't allergic to the adhesives and B: that they could move some of the leads so as not to trigger a migrain (I have pain points on my skull.)

So, my demands met, I show up at 9 as requested. To find that they weren't putting me to bed for two hours. You know what ratchets me up? WAITING. With some dudes I don't know. And no cat. Or any comforts at all.

I request a walk around the area for a bit, which they grudgingly permitted. Maybe they thought I'd run away? Who knows why this was such an issue, but it was. After about an hour, I returned, and awaited my fate.

Apparently no one had received the memo about moving the leads, so I had to tell them again and again. I need special tape and NO LEADS ON MAH FACE. I did agree to the one on my leg, because, you know, who cares if the skin comes off there anyhow? It's just a leg.

So, my surly helper attempted to put all the leads in. A challenge, considering I have the most unruly hair, and it had to be clean. She would part, it would fall over what she was working on. As time progressed, she was pressing into my head harder and harder with each lead, as they didn't want to stick to my scalp, either. At this point, I was starting to feel nauseous, and the lights were starting to star out-a sure sign a migraine was brewing. She strapped me into bed (Seriously, there's this stupid belt thing that goes around your waist and you're also tethered by your brain. and they expect people to sleep like this.)

The nausea rising, I request that the trash can come for a visit. I get glared at, but she DID thrust the bin at me, so I wouldn't puke myself. Nice.

For the final insult to injury, she then got an oxygen lead? You know, the thing with the prongs that goes in your nose. YEAH. That. Which reeked. Like an old strawberry shortvake doll. And it was huge, filling one side of my nose entirely, as I have a deviated septum-one side has less room than the other.

Let me tell you, IS A JOY to have stinky things stuck up your nose when you're already migraning. STENCH FTW! Within minutes I was retching. Violently. OVER AND OVER, because every time I tried to breath, it smelled of that horrible, weird, plastic-toy smell. The leads were burning into my skull, and it reeked, and I had a weight belt on.

Apparently, they could hear me. After about 20 minutes, they asked if I was okay. At this point, I was quietly sobbing on the floor, OUT OF BED. After much begging on my part, they called the neurologist, who gave the go ahead for pain meds. THANK THE GODS.

At that point, I was told to go back to bed. Did I mention the bed was made of rocks? And springs? And everytime I moved, I hurt from it? I curled up on my side (BAD CALL) and festered there. I think I fell asleep for about 15 minutes. At which point I awakened in MASSIVE PAIN because the bed was so hard.

At 3:45 I threw in the towel and demanded release. I walked home, after much admonition that IT WASN'T SAFE. Yeah, my neighborhood, the DC equivalent of Rodeo Drive? SO DANGEROUS. Did I mention I saw two people walking their dogs when I went home? And one dude jogging? THOSE SCARY PEOPLE. WITH THEIR PETS AND THEIR EXERCISE.

Turns out I slept about an hour total. But I was able to tell the doctor everything that was said and everything that happened in the place overnight. She tells me I don't really go to sleep-I'm asleep, in REM and all that jazz, but I'm constantly waking up because OMG! WOLVES!

I would have made a great sentinel back in the day. Alas, nowadays, I am the girl that doesn't sleep, because OMG! CAT! OMG! CLICKING! OMG! LIGHT! OMG! WAS THAT SOME RAIN? HALP! COULD ATTACK AT ANY MOMENT. OMG! I MOVED! SOMETHING MUST BE COMING.

Yeah.....so, we'll see. it's a hard issue to treat. But at least I won't have to sleep on rocky, the bed of doom again.

RHoDC: Summary of Awful People

Since having a baby six weeks ago, I have readjusted my priorities. And watching the Real Housewives of DC is one of them. I also make Baby watch repeats of West Wing, so he can understand politics.

I have great love for any shows that purportedly take place in DC. We don't get much love and when we do, it's often filmed in Ontario and then passed off as DC (Bones, I am looking at you with the fake subway and the Rock Creek stop and perpetual drives that only go past the Capitol because that's the only road in Bones' DC). And possibly DC may be getting some love with Obama in the White House, a non-crack-smoking mayor and with east moving gentrification which has made the city so much nicer than in the 80s (I saw my first prostitute on 14th St who propositioned my father with my sister and I in the back seat). I hope the DC gets some more entertainment cred, but RHoDC is not helping the situation.

So I saw RHoDC the other night. And it was even more awful that I thought it would be, which is bad. First of all, most of us have grown up in the DC Area and understand that DC is not a city for reality show whores because the powerful people in DC are too busy being powerful and important to have people film them. There are important people in DC who are classy and elegant, who think that reality shows are tacky and awful. Therefore (like all reality shows) Bravo is going to get the scrapings at the bottom of the shit barrel. But the people on this show are truly in a league of their own.

Here is the breakdown of the "ladies":

MARY: oh holy jeebus. She name dropped about a million names in the first ten minutes and she lives in McLean (across the street from Colin Powell and she summered with the Kennedys and WE GET IT.) Husband said she looked young but I think she looked a bit stretched and I told him to poke me when her shiny smooth forehead actually moved. Throughout the show she looked stoned and dead behind the eyes. Oh, and at her birthday dinner (at Equinox which really isn't that exclusive, but whatever), she totally started going off on how salons need to integrate and AWKWARD. She went on and on about how black and white hair should be treated the same. And then she dresses her husband in SEAFOAM pants and a blazer for the Washingtonian Style Award (she's best friends with the owner, NATCH).

STACIE: I actually didn't hate her so much. I think she might actually live in DC, she talked shit about people from the suburbs pretending they were from DC and she talked about how DC used to be a chocolate city. I hear that phrase bandied about a lot on the B2 bus - often people are lamenting the lack of chocolate and look at me as I am the only representative of whitey on that bus. Anyway, she is a realtor and says it's expensive to live in DC (she is insightful) and also knew Obama back when. She has some hawt love for Obama and she has very cute kids.

LYNDA: runs a "modeling" agency out of someone's basement and hates social climbers. She is dating a lovely black man half her age named Ebong. And that is awesome. She looked a little Maria Shriver-skeletal and has lots of kids. She called the polo match a goat rodeo and I repeated that phrase for the rest of the night. I loved her for that phrase alone, even though Husband and I were wondering what the hell a modeling agency was doing in DC (Hollywood for Ugly People). She says that she sends the girls out to embassies and dignitaries (*cough*escort service*cough*). I think she might actually live in DC as well.

BRITISH LADY: she is married to a White House photographer and had some romantic story about it but I so didn't care. She lives in some suburb in a very normal looking house (it could be something one of us lives in and why do I want to watch someone who isn't richer than I am?) and makes everything all about her. She loves Bush as a man because he RSVP'd to her wedding when Obama didn't (holy fuck, I wanted to smack her when she said that - deranged social climber and you are a waste of a British person).

SOCIAL CLIMBING ANOREXIC: this is the White House party crasher lady who I hate so much I don't even want to look up the spelling of her name. We had to start fast forwarding through her bullshit pretty early on. She started out with her low rent polo match (GOAT RODEO!) with the most famous person being the "celebrity stylist" from the local DC50 commercials (Paul Wharton - this is his blog: www.dc50tv.com/lifestyle/trendc). Oh, and some lobbyist who was dressed like a clown and then SCA starts talking about how she was a lobbyist at the state level. WTF. She lives in wine country and is a deadbeat.

So those are the Housewives.

I speak like Stevie from Malcolm in the M

Douchebags Save Metro from Crazy Pregnant Lady

As a full-time Metro rider, I often suppress my fury at the issues Metro faces and/or creates. I feel as if I spend lots of time on Metro platforms and on bus stops trying to suppress impatience and helpless anger at the way Metro is run. What helps me get through it is watching the people who ride the Metro. It keeps me from going completely crazy on the Metro and from rushing the driver's seat and driving the train myself. I could even do it without texting or having my friends hang out in the driver's seat with me (oh, Metro).

So last night around 9:30pm, I am riding the red line from Silver Spring. I finally got on a train, after the message boards were broken and there was "track maintenance" at Medical Center, 15 stops away, so I had been waiting for a while. There was a dearth of entertaining people on the train. No random person preaching about Satan or telling the women they had demons and there wasn't even any singing. But then we hit the CUA stop and I hit the motherlode. A hoarde of douches alighted the Metro - law students from CUA. Now, I was once a law student at CUA. And it seems that nothing has changed - these were not only douches, but they were also typical DC guys (and CUA law students) who are maybe a 2 out of 10, but think they are an 11.

The median age of the whole group looked to be 23 and most looked nervous being on the train after dark. Most of the kids sat in the seats, clutching their Contracts text and smiled nervously. But the douche kings swaggered into the train and clustered right by the door. In case we weren't aware they were law students by their ostentatious carrying of a Torts book (which also means that they are first years, which hahaha, poser tools), they start talking loudly about how awesome they are at law school while simultaneously texting because they are busy and important.

Since they were standing in front of the doors, they had to pick up all of their books and man purses every time someone came on the Metro. One kid actually figured out that this was inconvenient and he moved - which promptly got his douche membership revoked. But the rest of them just kept sighing heavily and acting all put out when someone came on the Metro. Obviously, if the alighting passengers had been aware that they were FIRST YEAR LAW STUDENTS, they would have gone in a different way.

Destruction

Bad. So bad. I shudder when I think of it.

We have mice. But specifically, there is one ballsy mouse who comes out while we are watching television, says hello and then runs behind the television. We recently found the nest in our television cabinet, which was bad enough, but then it turns out the mouse was defiling the PS3 and we went on CODE RED HIGH ALERT. Ryoko, our dog, has been trying so hard, but she is an Epic Fail at catching it. But we needed to up the ante, because the PS3 might be in danger, people.

This morning, Ryoko runs to the television cabinet as soon as we come downstairs (as usual), to start her vigilant stalking (and CATCHING FAIL) of the disrespectful mouse. As Brian opens up the cabinet, he sees the mouse tail disappearing under the record player. He moves it, and the mouse comes running out - but I am alert and block her way with my foot (showing some amazing reflexes which haven't been apparent since I was 16 and caused me to check for spider bites that I may have gotten in a laboratory) and she runs into a bag of kindling, in which the mouse is trapped! My joy is fleeting because then I realize we have to kill the mouse. We simply cannot let this mouse live, IT WILL DESTROY THE TELEVISION.

Brian takes it to the kitchen to kill it.

"How are you going to kill it?"
"I'm going to chop it's head off."
"WHAT? Are you a serial killer? Who does that? OMG, GAH, GAH, GAH!"

I am in the dining room, being totally helpful, by screaming really loudly and making references to Silence of the Lambs.

"GAH!" from the kitchen
"WHAT?"
"The head is off and the mouse is STILL MOVING!"

Cue more screaming and flailing from me. Ryoko is so excited she can barely contain herself because she wants to carry the bloody corpse around the entire house and play with it. Which NO, just NONONONONO.

"Why did you chop it's head off? Why didn't you just knock it over the head with the skillet?"
"Oh. Hmm. . ." said the Serial Killer.

So the whole ride to the Metro, we were quiet and subdued, like we had just killed a hooker in Vegas and buried the body and eventually the madness will descend and more people will have to be killed to cover up the first murder and OH MY LORD. We shall not speak of the MOUSE DECAPITATION. Except when I do. A lot. To anyone who will listen. Whatever.

Soylent Allergy

I've been on an elimination diet for a couple of weeks now. Good times. Said diet consists of meat (good), rice (acceptable), fruit (eh, depends on which ones), and vegetables (ew). Yeah. No spices. No sugar. No flavor. No delicious, delicious tositos. No frosted cereals, the love of my life, and main staple of my diet. I SHALL DIE A PAINFUL DEATH WITHOUT MY BELOVED FROSTED FLAKES.

Aside from discovering that one should not drop both coffee and sugar simultaneously, as it will cause near-death experiences in the form of running over the curb, snow piles, and anything else with your auto, it's been....fine. Except for one thing. Apparently, MAH BODY HATES TEH FROOT. AND VEGETABLES. Every day, I awaken with abdominal cramps, and have to run to the toilet. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES FOR YOUR OVERALL MOOD, KIDS? I am a POOP MACHINE. Seriously. NOTHING BUT POOP. This diet is supposed to HELP with allergies, NOT CREATE GASTRIC WOE. Also, am becoming fashionably gaunt. Why isn't it bathing suit season?

Anyhow, the likely culprit at this point? FRUCTOSE. Seriously. What else?

I've already had reactions to DAIRY (makes me congested, sneeze), WHEAT (migraines), and EGGS (vertigo, migraines). WHAT THE HELL, BODY? I am going to get scurvy at the rate we're going at. That or beri beri. Or rickets. Or some other old fashioned disease, like when I got scarlet fever as a kid.

Oh, the horrors. Anyhow, I cut back on the froot, supplementing with the healthy exchange of POTATO CHIPS (natural variety, no additives). Lo & behold, feeling MUCH BETTER.

In short, my body can only handle MEAT, MEAT, RICE, POTATO, LARD, MEAT, LARD, SALT. AND COFFEE. Go figure. Oh, and bananas. I ate about 10 of those in the past 2 days as well. So there's that.

Off to the allergist with me, as one of my friends noted that at this rate, the only food left on the list is soylent green.

Old Dog

Hobo is the name of our family dog. My dad, sister and brother went to the pound one day to get a cat in 1994, but when they came back, they had a dog who had mange, a cone and flies buzzing around him. They were all "they were going to euthanize him! but we had to save him, look at his face! He's so sweet." When my mom and dad died died, I took over running the house, the teenage brother and Hobo, who was about 11-ish at the time. Needless to say, it was very difficult trying to maintain a large house with a useless. . . er. ..troubled teenager and a dog who was bordering on elderly and often escaped from the yard to defecate on other lawns, thus making all the neighbors want to get together and lynch us. Then, after many years, I bought a condo and my sister took the dog. Now, my sister is selling her place and I live in a house, so Hobo has returned (thankfully minus the useless teenage appendage who is away at college).

Hobo is now officially OLD. We don't know how old he was when we got him in 1994, but at the minimum, he would be about 16 or 17 now. Which is ELDERLY. He is:

• Mostly deaf
• Sort of blind
• Somewhat incontinent (conditions apply)
• Lost a lot of sense of smell
• Underweight, possibly because of some teeth issues where he can't eat
  
• Crippled (right rear leg is completely useless, front left is bowed)
• His farts smell like he's just taken a dump, which leads to. . .
  

. . .the poop issue. My theories are that he is either:

• Incontinent and can't tell when he has to go
• Too crippled to get to the door to let us know he has to go out
• Too deaf/blind/smell impaired to realize he's not outside
• Forgotten his house training
• Just decided that he's too old to even bother and just says "ah, fuck it"

Also, he can't really squat or lift his leg to pee, so it looks like he is just standing there, staring into space, when you notice that he's peeing.

On a sidenote, our other dog is totally using this as an opportunity to remind us how great she is. She ostentatiously goes to the bathroom in appropriate places, with triumphant glances at Hobo (who really can't see them anyway). She is totally overcompensating by doing every cute trick she has in her repertoire.

So this dog. This dog. He is not in good shape. The question would be "why don't you put him to sleep?" which is a logical step. However, every time he gets sick or we decide he's miserable and take him to the vet, he KNOWS and is all "I want to live! And DANCE! I love you and you and you so much and see? I only have a little bit of a limp! I am so happy and joyful, let me just put my head on your lap!" So we decide, well, he seems happy and then he is spared because I can't bear to put a dog to sleep who wants to live.

When he came, I was like "Husband will be able to put him to sleep, I'm too emotionally involved." Alas, this is not the case as the Husband has fallen under the spell that is the poor, sad, lovely, sweet, decrepit dog. He does have a sweet face. So we are investing in rug cleaner, towels, a crate and a lot of patience.

It's 10 AM, Do You Know Where Your Ovary Is?

So, had to have an ultrasound, and what a joy that was, let me tell you. First off, said procedure involves drinking fluids and NOT PEEING FOR HOURS. They say drink, oh, ELEVENTY-TWELVE OUNCES of water, and then go to the appointment, and, you know, just HOLD IT, since this is the SAME TEST USED ON PREGNANT LADIES. WITH BLADDERS THE SIZE OF THIMBLES. Anyhow, this time, I learned, and just had a cup of coffee, and proceeded as usual, figuring, hell, they wouldn't notice that I was flagrantly disregarding their rules. I was correct. So let this be a lesson: coffee fixes everything.

Anyhow, I proceeded to the appointment, whereby they where searching for our pals, the Rice Cysties, the harbringers of pain and doom. Said pals are small, and usually to be found on the right ovary. Which, as far as I know, is located in my abdominal cavity. Somewhere nearish to my uterus. Or something.

Everything was going according to plan, my belly beginning to itch dramatically from the ultrasound fluid (note to self: HOW IN HELL CAN YOU BE ALLERGIC TO AN HYPOALLEGENIC GEL?), and as I'm talking to the tech about my issues, she notes that my ovary appears to be rather small. Well yes, part of it was peeled off in a surgery, removing a prior Cystie, but hey, there should be THREE MORE THERE.

The radiologist then enters the room, and looks at the images, and announces, that NO, THAT IS NOT MAH OVARY. Okay. What is it then? A ghost? She then asks me if I know where my ovary is. Dude. Really? I mean, yes, I've had a few anatomy classes, but this is a pretty small organ, and I'm retroverted, so mine's not exactly in the normal placement, and it's a little smaller than average. So no, I can't just POINT TO IT FOR YOU. And HELLO, YOU ARE THE ONE WITH THE HOITY-TOITY DEGREE.

My confidence rapidly falling, she then states that maybe I don't have a right ovary at all. Hmmm. 6 months ago I had one. Did I somehow lose it? Did I leave it in the car last week? Or in the office? Did something EAT IT? I don't know. Then she claims to see a fallopian tube. Yeah...those were sort of burnt out, in a surgery, last I was told. So what are we seeing, exactly?

At the end of this, she tells me I have no Cysties....but riddle me this, Batman: IF YOU COULDN'T FIND MY DAMN OVARY, HOW DO WE KNOW THERE AREN'T ANY CYSTIES?

To be honest, I'm a bit perplexed. And ironies of ironies, it's acting up today, and I think I actually could point to it this morning, hahaha.

Two words.

When will people learn that 'a lot' is two words? If you don't already know this, consider this your lesson, America.

That's all.

A Pot To Piss In

So, my building has been undergoing a wonderful pipe-lining project. Run by chimpanzees. The project entails cutting large holes in the wall, scratching one's head confusedly, and then leaving taped up holes in the wall for the cat to investigate.

Oh, and did I mention that they couldn't figure out how to open the door to my deck so they chose to jump through the window, Dukes of Hazzard style? Awesome!

The project was supposed to consist of lining the pipes with some space-age polymer that would prevent pinhole leaks. This was supposed to be completed with a minimal amount of wall holeage, dust, damage and the like. The first few rooms went as planned, save for replacing my washer and dryer right justified, so that I couldn't open my dryer.

Anyhow, when they reached master bathroom, a little snag was encountered. Namely, the pipes, they weren't there, where they thought they were, because, you know, RESEARCH? Not their strong suit. So, another chunk of wall was removed, and taped over, for decorative effect, and then they left, for, oh, let's say, three weeks or so.

When they returned, the seasons had changed, and so had my temper. Needless to say, I was not amused by the clown college sent in to fix my bathroom. Reassured by the building manager, they set about their job, speaking to "El Gato" in Spanish, who entertained them by running back and forth at top speed and trying to sleep in the bathtub while they were working. They also spent an inordinate amount of time attempting to chat me up while I was attempting to work. Hello? See the multiple laptops and files strewn about? This means I have a JOB.

In the afternoon, I was called in to glance at their handiwork, they turned on the faucets and I was sent away. Satisfied, I hurried back to work, not noticing what lurked in the shower. When I returned to clean later that weekend, I noticed that the spigot looked a little...odd....off kilter, perhaps....more like....three sheets to the wind. It was decidedly listing to the left. Poking at it, it MOVED. That ain't right. That's when I noticed a GAPING HOLE under it. about the size of a piece of Trident Gum. Yes, large enough for plenty of water flow. Visible. Also around the plate surrounding the handle was a cracked tile and a small gap. NIIIIIICCCEEE.

CLOWNS HAD INSTALLED MY SHOWER PLUMBING. I think *I* could have done a better job with some gum and some wet sand. Seriously.

So we get that repaired, and then the following Monday, the building engineer appears at my door, to let me know that my batty underneath neighbor's bathroom has flooded. HOORAY!

MY TOILET BROKE. The one in the same bathroom, where Team Chimp has recently hooked up some hoses. Coincidence? I think not!

So now, no pot to piss in for the master bathroom for a couple of days! WOOT!

General Kvetchery

Things that are bothering me today:

1. Supermarionation. Beyond creepy. One day, I will be released from my torment when God wipes away all vestiges of this unnatural and wrong television technique.
2. ETS. They have such a racket going. I need to PAY them to take a test for graduate school, that won't accurately predict my acumen for graduate school, but rather will add stress to my life while I try to remember math I never really understood in the first place. And of course I can't use the LSAT for grad school because then they would be out the $150 I have to pay for the GRE.
   
3. People who can't write cursive. Speaking of the LSAT, we had to write a pledge at the end of that test in cursive. Hands flying up when this is read because these are college graduates who DO NOT KNOW HOW TO WRITE CURSIVE. I know it's really not the most useful thing to know if our texting/Twitter/Facebook/IM society, but how do they sign their names? I love cursive personally. My notes written in cursive are now going to by cryptologically secure. I'm like a code talker.
   
4. X8, X3 buses. Why don't you ever come? I should NEVER have to go onto the Next Bus site and see that the next bus is in 87 minutes during rush hour. And the B2? You come every 3.7 minutes, a lot of times two at once. But the X3 can only come every 80 minutes?
   
5. WMATA's Trip Planner. Thank you WMATA for having a trip planner. However, stop telling me to take the B2 bus the 10 feet to the end of my street, even when I use the advanced options and tell you I am willing to walk almost a mile. Is the B2 bus like PHARMA to WMATAs Congress?
   
6. Congress. The President gave you the bill. Mandates without fines? No public option? This was your chance to restore American's faith in our government. A chance for me to start believing that I am represented in government and that reelection prospects and big corporation lobbies come second to what the American people want. That was the dream. And it has been defecated on. And can you PLEASE stop putting Abstinence clauses on everything? Get a grip, you know that is just going to delay everything more. Let's just work on healthcare so that Americans can stop going bankrupt and that we can maybe move above Easter Bloc countries in terms of health care spending v quality of healthcare (and would you look at that? it's the same with education and taxes in general - we are spending tons of citizen money and getting nothing for it - do you see a pattern yet?)
   
7. Seven Corners. WTF. The population density of your area is 12,773.2 per square mile. And each person owns a car and drives around Seven Corners 24 hours a day. Can you PLEASE vote for someone who will give NoVA more than three roads and possibly even another bridge and possibly some metro access? I understand that you don't want to pay more taxes, but you only have three roads and 100 billion cars. If you don't, then Virginians have no right to complain about traffic any more. I have decreed this.
   
   

Perhaps This Will Explain Why I Kvetch

So, my Grandfather, he is 92 years old. Interestingly, he has ALWAYS been this cantankerous, as far as I can tell. We cannot blame the following story on age.

Anyhow, my grandparents are the sort that frequent those diners that have 1,000 items on the menu and have names like "The Nautilus" and the like. You know the sort of places of which I speak. Bland, non-offensive establishments that cater to the masses.

As of late, my grandad has switched between multiple diners for these reasons:

Left dining establishment #1 due to a 40% increase in the price of coffee, also known as 10 cent hike in price. Yes, over a DIME A CUP.

Left establishment #2 over ordering a pork chop sandwich, which was a BONE-IN pork chop sandwich (okay, yes, this IS a bit odd. You could BREAK A TOOTH here, people.) However, the real issue was that there was NOT ENOUGH SORROW ON THE PART OF THE OWNER.

Left establishment #3 as a lady patron, who eats at the same time as my grandparents, has the audacity to say hello and ask how my grandmother is doing. EVERY DAMN TIME THEY GO THERE.

So now they are returning to establishment #2, as it is under new management, who might express more sorrow. Because we all know it is ALL ABOUT THE SORROW.

This is also the same man that complained that a bratwurst he ordered had been "downsized."

And people wonder where I get all this rage from?

Vomitorium

Apparently we're all slackers over here at KISTNB. Aside from Twinkie, that is. He can ALWAYS be assured of producing, at least when it comes to bodily fluids.

The other week, a horrific project known as Curaflo aka "PIPE LINING PROJECT OF DOOM THAT WILL CAUSE MASS DISRUPTION OF YOUR LIFE" began in the condo. Which meant Twinkie was shuttled off to Cat Camp (not to be confused with Fat Camp, as my parents chose to feed him about eleventy-twelve cans of cat food daily) so as not to cause mass havoc with the workers. Sadly, the project did not go as planned, and Twinkie returned before it was completed. But QD digresses.

Anyhow, Twinkie found cat camp to be ALL TOO MUCH for his sensitive digestive tract. From the HORROR OF HORRORS, neighboring cats, to the MASSIVE QUANTITIES OF GIBLETS consumed, it was just horribly disturbing.

That and god forbid, the litter boxes were, oh, twenty feet apart from one another, instead of their normal convenient side-by-side configuration. Can we all see where this is going?

So my parents leave town for a weekend, the same weekend that Paperpusher leaves town. Leaving yours truly to care for ALL CATS. In the confusion, Queen Dweeb forgets her own cat for a day. OH YES SHE DOES.

Have we mentioned this is a very productive cat? Sir poops-a-lot should not be forgotten, oh no. The next day, in a panic, racing over to the parental compound, heart beating rapidly in fear of what's to come, our faithful heroine cracks open the basement door....and the STENCH. OH HELLS NO.

You could smell it all the way up the stairs. Worse than the carvel cake/fish combination, a fetid, warm mix of cat turd and vomit wafted up the stairs. Trust me. Not a smell anyone wants to come home to. ESPECIALLY NOT MY CLEAN FREAK PARENTS.

Slowly, creeping down the stairs, as if, by taking smaller steps, one could will the incipient piles of puke away, finally, the corner is rounded. And the horror begins. Ever seen the Exorcist? Think Twinkie has.

Six piles of vomit. One lovely trail of puke, as if someone was TERRIFIED of the aforementioned vomitorium and attempted to escape, leaving said trail. THREE PILES OF POOP, RIGHT NEXT TO THE LITTERBOX (what? it's not good enough for you, pal?) and a nice trail o' whiz down the WALL where SOMEBODY MISSED THE BOX.

The other litterbox? Untouched. Sparkling clean, really.

Luckily, the carpet is getting replaced this week, so I wasn't too concerned with stains, but the REEK. THE FOUL AROMA. An entire bottle of oxyclean, 2 rolls of paper towels, one pitcher of hot water and 1 canister of lysol wipes later, the basement was satisfactorily disinfected. Only took AN HOUR OR SO.

Oh, Twinkie. No more cat camp for you. Twinkie was banished from the parental compound shortly thereafter.

In Which I Relearn a Valuable Lesson

I am a slow learner.

I get a call from a friend of mine, saying that she thinks her relationship is ending. Lady is sad and upset, convinced that this relationship is leading nowhere. It's typical reasons that boil down to the fact that neither party is happy and that they are not compatible. No arguing that - you can't force something that isn't there. Sad and hard for those involved, but not an unheard of situation.

This is when I make my mistake. I join Lady in a tremendous bitch-fest about the Boy. Because there is nothing I love more than bitchfests. I know this is a mistake when it's happening, but I can't help it, the bitch just does itself. Not only is the bitching wrong and. . .bitchy, but its like McDonald's - satisfying at the time, but afterwards I feel sullied and greasy and hungry for more like 5 minutes later.

The thing is, I learned this lesson in high school. Here is a sample:

HS Girl: sobbing, "I hate him! He's so evil! We are breaking up!"
HS Me: supportive yet also gleefully abitching "Totally! He's a dumbass. He totally cheated on you and gets drunk with all his friends and pukes on people and I hate his stupid hair! He looks like an ape! Do it!"
HS Girl: "I will, he's so dumb. It's over! Totally! His hair is totally awful."
Two Weeks Later. . .
HS Girl: starry-eyed "I love him! He's so amazing! Doesn't he have the best hair? We will be together FOREVER!"
HS Me: stupidly sighs "Er. . . totally awesome. But. .. didn't he get drunk/puke on your mom/hook up with your sister/shoplift you gifts from Sears?"
HS Girl: slit-eyed "You are just jealous of us because we are so in love! Why did you try to break us up?"
HS Me: sighing and sarcastic, "Yes, you're right. I am jealous that my Prince hasn't come and that I, too, can't have sex in the back of his mom's Previa and get stolen items from Sears."
HS Girl: annoyingly, smugly "True love is unconditional - you'll find out someday*"
HS Me: apparently not learning valuable lesson

*let me point out here that my boyfriend in high school? Made a mix tape for me of all Mariah Carey songs and wrote me a poem using all the song lyrics. I started calling him GayBoyfriend after that. So maybe I didn't know from high school lurve.

So I know that agreeing with HS Girl is a bad idea, but I did it anyway. And took it to the next level. So when Lady came to me, I thought "we aren't in high school, she's committed to breaking up!"

Lady and Boy got back together. Of course. And the bitching? Bit me in the ass. This is the place where I could enumerate the 10,000 reasons why I was complaining, but I am learning my lesson. Though my brain is screaming at me to write these things down and am having a multiple personality bitchfest in my head, and now they are calling each other names. Anyway, she wrote me an e-mail about how I didn't understand love and she copied my husband. Appropriate.

In a fit of awesome, though, Husband wrote back and was all "My wife is not the only who thinks these things." Got my back, that one.

I do understand that by blogging about this, I am the one creating more drama. Because apparently I roll Blair Waldorf style, but without the awesome clothes.

So if you come to me with the fact that you are breaking up with your significant other, you will only hear murmurs and cliches from me.

Epilogue:

Lady wrote me back and apologized (but didn't copy Husband on that e-mail). She also let drop that I was right. I would say that I told you so, but I lost two crazies masquerading as friends, so it's a little bittersweet.

Street Meat

This has been a very frustrating day- problems with my internet connection, the continuing inability of our HVAC company to keep our system working properly, and that flouride goo the dentist gives you had all put me in a bit of a mood. But all of that frustration has been lifted, due to the arrival at my doorstep of a guy trying to sell me meat out of a truck.

I had the front door open, as I'm watering a patch of hopefully soon-to-be grass on my front lawn, so I couldn't ignore the tap on the door. There was a guy standing there, and parked behind him on the street was a van that said "Capital Meats" on it and was fully covered in pictures of meat. This is approximately how this conversation went (with my snarky asides in parentheses):

Guy: Hi, I'm with Capital Meats. We've just sold some meat to one of your neighbors (my ass you did), and we have some left over that we're trying to get rid of. Do you and your family eat steak and seafood?

Me: We don't cook much meat ourselves, so I don't think we'd be interested.

Guy: (Looks at my t-shirt) Are you a Redskins fan? (No- I hate them, but I wear the t-shirt to confuse people)

Me: Yes.

Guy: We just signed Sellers (semi-obscure fullback for the Redskins) to endorse us. And one other player. (Calls to other guy walking up the street)- JIMBO! (I swear) This guy's a Redskins fan!

JIMBO: Awwww yeeeeeaaahhhh. Aren't we all?

Guy: Who's the other Redskin that endorsed us. Sellers and.... ?

JIMBO: Jason Campbell (nationally known quarterback)

Guy: Right, Jason Cambell (my thought- you remember the obscure fullback but not the QB?)

Guy: Anyway, if you buy the steak, we'll throw in the seafood and chicken for FREE. (Wow- that must be top quality meat!- it's free!)

Me: Look, we just don't cook that much, so I'm not interested. Thanks though.

Guy: OK.

The guy walked away, and I took some pleasure in the fact that he had to walk through my sprinkler.

So that was an amusing enough interaction, but it only gets better. I called my wife, and while telling her about the street meat, I looked up Capital Meats on the web. The second listing on Google is a headline that says "don't buy from these people!" Here are a couple of excerpts from the complaint. I can't be nearly as funny as this person- and the emphases are mine:

"The men were in very baggy pants (enough that I could see their underwear) and they had gotten out of an old pick up truck with a freezer strapped to the back.

There is no way I would even buy meat from that shady looking pick-up truck- even if I did eat meat. The men proceeded to lay meat all over my porch (ew!!) and then he even tried to come in my house (even put his hand on the door and tried to open it) so he could see what kind of freezer I had. ...

I called their Baltimore office (where these salesman are from) to make a formal complaint. The lady who answered said she was the office manager... I asked about a policy of not ringing the bell of people who had a No Soliciting sign and she said she could not enforce that either because those signs are mostly for religious people.

What??? My sign is to deter annoying, relentless salesman! I told her if they stood outside of my door ringing and ringing again, that I would call the cops. She proceeded to just talk over me, telling me she wouldn't let me speak bad about a great company (Everyone on my street hates to see that nasty truck pull up!!) that she has worked for for 6 years and she told me I must have a miserable life and hung up on me...

If this is such a great company, then the least they could do is update their POS trucks with coolers strapped to the back..."

Laying meat on the porch? If I didn't want street meat, I certainly don't want porch meat. I'm taking suggestions for how to mess with them if they ever come around again.

Name That Cyst!

I'm taking entries into my contest for NAME THAT CYST!

As it turns out, that searing, burning pain in my right side? Holla! It the Three Amigos, my new pals, the ovarian cysts.

Since I'm going to be living with them, I'm taking entries into the contest. Winner and prize to be announced on July 1.

I'll update this thread with the names & entries, and yes, fellow bloggers, you are totally allowed to enter. People who have given me names outside of here are allowed as well, I'm tracking who gave me which names first.

Cookie O' Puke

The other day for my totally awesome roommate's birthday I purchased a Carvel cake. Sadly, not Cookie Puss. Or Fudgie the Whale. Giant is low rent, and only offers lame Carvel confections festooned with eleventy pounds of brightly colored confetti icing. Then again, CARVEL is low rent. Have you SEEN those commercials? Cookie O' Puss? Hug Me Bear? How much crack was that guy smoking? Anyhow, I digress...

However, it was still Carvel, and nothing says low-rent birthday like cheaply made ice cream cakes, no? Especially EXTRUDED ice cream cakes. Seriously. Go watch those commercials. The ice cream? It comes out of a TUBE. Like EAZY CHEEZ. After birthday festivities, and consumption of one shared piece (thanks Topamax!), cake sat in the freezer with only one shared piece consumed for about a week or so before it was deemed delicious enough to consume (a.k.a. all other gelatos and ice creams had been eaten and damn if we were going out for more).

Said cake was far too hard to slice up (because I am a wuss with no arm strength), so it was left out on the dining room table to soften. We all see where this is going, right? No. Actually, we DID manage to rescue it before Twinkie set his beady little eyes on it that time, and some cake was served onto plates. But Carvel cake is a bit much for any one person to actually manage an entire piece of, so perhaps the better portion of a slice of cake was left on a plate. And left on the table, while in an ADD fit, perhaps I wandered off to, you know, talk to myself. Or shop online. Or not pick my stuff up off the floor. Or do anything BUT put the cake away.

Yeah....with a cat. A large, CONSTANTLY HUNGRY cat. Who proceeded, the very SECOND that we turned our backs, to scarf down the better portion of a slice of chocolate and vanilla ice cream cake, purring in delight the ENTIRE TIME. Might I add that the cake was festooned with blue confetti icing? I think that added to his enjoyment. Did I try to stop this at the very end, once I realized what was going on? No, I was laughing too hard, and trying to find my camera, to perhaps film this for youtube. Because I am a GOOD CAT PARENT.

About fifteen minutes later, the fateful sound of retching. "TWINKIE, NO!" Roommate gagging as the carpet is now decorated with hot fish chunks and ice cream. Can I tell you? Is a PLEASURE, cleaning hot fish bits from the carpet (also, I must note that pink salmon bits with blue confettis, VERY distubring. and very tough to get out of pale green carpet). May have thrown up in my mouth a bit from this one. Oh, Twinkie.

This was a prelude of what was to come. 36 hours later, toilets for all! Luckily for me, I have the digestive tract of DOOM, and everything runs through me at roughly the speed of light. Whilst agonizing in nature (nothing like laying in the bathroom wishing you were dead), hella fast. My roommate, however: "pooping like a goose." HAHAHAHA.

Thanks, Carvel! You brought down two people and one cat with one cake. AWESOME.