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!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
General Kvetchery
Things that are bothering me today:
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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?
- 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?
- 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?)
- 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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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.
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..."
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.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
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.
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.
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