So, about that-

Got the following items in my mail yesterday. (The real mail. Not the email. Nobody emails me. This is not awful.)

1. A "Gee, we're so glad you still work here, and you should totally check out your benefits because they really rock" letter from the HR department at work.

2. A notice of another job posting with the Chillin' and Yoot department. Of course, yes, let me drop everything, and attempt to go through this process again, only so you can make me interview, then never EVER get back to me. Why yes, that sounds positively peachy. Sign me up, will you? Fear not, C, I'm sending it back with "sorry, not available" checked off.

Aside to C... Your hot hospital boyfriend is totally trying to poach ferret trimmin' girl over to his department, which is part of what the drama was on Friday. (Seriously. He sent an emissary to convince her to defect. She's seriously considering it. Lovely.)

In other news: Went geocaching again today. This time we had very limited time, and the caches were hidden by the Marquis de Sade. (Honestly- what kind of sick bastard decides that his cache will be a CLEAR 35mm film canister in a canopy of brush?) We only found 1 of 3 we set out for, but the one we did find was pretty neat.

Shiny Computer Goodness

Ok, you know what's really cool about having the new PC?

I can FINALLY upload all my shit into my iPod.

As we speak, the Grateful Dead's American Beauty is making its way in there, to be shortly followed by Hank III, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, The All Mighty Senators, Jared Michael Hobgood, REM, the Pogues, More Beastie Boys than you can shake a stick at, Nirvana, and some Steve Earle, Modest Mouse, Bruce Springsteen, and then I'll work through P's MP3 collection, and see if I can coax him into downloading me some Bob Marley. (Though I should really just go out and get the albums already...)

I am fairly giddy with anticipation.

I also found the best scarf ever, at target. It's a men's muffler, a very soft one with tiny thin stripes of reds, oranges, blues, greens, browns, and even some thin threads of black/white. It matches my favorite olive green sweater, looks great with my blue corduroy fall jacket, and will look stunning with my winter coats. Not a bad deal for 13.00.

And now I'm going to go be all geeky.

No, they didn't win

The terrorists have not won, our computer simply died.

Of course I've been jonesing for an email fix over the past few days- I can't check my gmail at work, and I don't want to dooced, so...

The sad news is there's absolutely nothing to report. So instead, I'll answer a comment question from the lovely and talented MWN.

What did I find while I was geocaching? Most of the items were run of the mill, though we did find quite a few religious tracts (go figure). In all we found 4. The most interesting one had a travel bug in it- a stuffed pelican who started his journey in Newfoundland, and made his way across the US and Canada. That was really pretty damned cool. P's stuck working this weekend, but is off next weekend. I hope the weather stays nice so maybe we can do it again. It's kind of like going on a scavenger hunt, but for grownups. (Geeky grownups, but grownups nonetheless.)

G. Monkey's coming over tonight for bad movies and bad for you food, so this should be fun. I was considering (and now with P having to work, I may still do so) a few Decemberween (In October) costumes- my favorite is as follows:

Me: Attired normally, with a "Hi! My name is:" Sticker, marked "Your Ex Girlfriend". In my arms is a wee tot, with a similar sticker marked "Yours", and perhaps a DNA test or Child Support documents.

Ever the more amusing, since I had to go buy a pregnancy test on Tuesday. NOT FOR ME. Let me reiterate, the Sauce. Is not. With child. (and while it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility, sort of like Britney Spears's kid NOT turning into a trailer trash 'neck, it's merely HIGHLY unlikely.) No, I had to buy it for my coworker. At work. In the convenience pharmacy. And who waits on me? The Tom Green lookin' guy that I ride the shuttle van to work with all the damn time.

Yeah. That wasn't awkward.

And for the record, SHE isn't knocked up either. (And for those who read Fiber's blog? Yes, I work with the girl who cut herself whilst trimmin' the ferret.)
Anyway.
More later.

Sum-ma-ma-bitch!

After all that?

I was apparently booked too early. I may indeed be the only girl out there who's disappointed she didn't get to have her exam today. Oh well. I've scheduled it for my day off now. Whatta way to celebrate.

Otherwise? I got nothin'.

It's cold. My car's being stupid. Oddly enough the above didn't bother me.

And the tooth fairy's really your mom.

Seriously, People.

Last night, apparently, the local DA and assorted drug task force type people held some kind of public symposium on meth. No, they did not give out goodie bags. Rather, they attempted to inform the public about the scourge that is Meth. And, according to the delightful(ly bitchy) woman on the local news there was a mock meth lab set up for all to tour/see. That wasn't newsworthy in itself.

No, what was newsworthy was the fact that the majority of those in attendance had no idea that you could make meth out of common household items, including Sudafed.

Have they been living under a rock?

I do not exactly have my finger on the pulse of what's hip, now, new, or anything even remotely timely, but even *I* knew that there was a reason you have to fellate someone to get some decent cold medication these days. (I mean, besides it being written into the Pharmacist's contract...) I knew I lived in a rural community, but apparently not rural enough. Because let me tell you, folks up home? Probably have weekly/monthly meth recipe swaps like we have quilting parties. They've probably got the daily Meth Minute on the noon radio broadcast, right in between Who's in the Hospital, and the Happy Birthdays*.


Speechless people. Speechless.


*No. I'm not making that up. They do broadcast who's in the hospital (or have since relegated that to only the newspaper) and birthdays. Right after Paul Harvey. And that's the rest of the story.

A bit too much information.

Private to the person who found my blog by googling "burning sensation upon urination and vomiting" you might want to see a doctor about that.

Today was remarkably uneventful. Well, except for NOT being informed that there was a food order to pick up and take to one of the units. A piece of information that could have been passed along before someone I work with took today off...


Caution: I'm about to get girly and squicky about stuff that you probably don't care about, even if you don't have a penis. You've been duly warned.


Tomorrow I get to do my annual "hey-why-are-you-touching-me-there-you-didn't-even-offer-to-buy-me-dinner-yet" fling. At least this time I've got insurance.
Enh, at least I'm visiting my friends at Planned Parenthood. I seriously love the nurse practitioner there. If I've got to show off my goodies to a virtual stranger, I'm glad it's her. Socks on the stirrups, and she at least has a sense of humor. Not quite the "pulling a silk scarf out of your hoo-hah" sense of humor, or a wacky squirting speculum type, but she's just warped enough.

While I'm there, I'm thinking I may switch off to the patch, and/or perhaps try this whole "no really, you only have to bleed 4 times a year" thing again. Anyone had any luck with either? I tried the poor man's seasonale last year (take your ortho cyclen for 3 months solid, skipping the inactive pills) and was significantly less than thrilled with the results. (can we say... "got my period anyway and it lasted forever"? I knew you could, boys and girls...) The rationale is it MIGHT help my headaches. They seem to have improved somewhat (meaning they haven't been as severe, but they also haven't been as predictable) while I was off the pill, but I really can't NOT be on the pill anymore. So we'll see.

Or something.

There's a first time for everything.

I went Geocaching with P. today. That was fun- had never done that before.

For the uninitiated? Google it. *thppt*

Was nice to be out- it was a sunny, albeit breezy and cool day. Definitely not something I would have done on my own, but he's got all the techno-weenie equipment you need to do this (OK, just the GPS), and we had a blast. And again, I think this one's a pretty good egg. More and more I find myself really just wanting to wake up next to him (poking totally optional). Creepy. Schmaltzy. So utterly unlike me. If I start doodling my first name and his last name, please flog me.

Anyway. I made truffles today. Well, part of the batch of truffles. The remainder will get made Monday night, so yes, C. I will be bringing some to share. They're ridiculously simple- the new Ghiardelli bittersweet morsels, cream, butter. Melt. Mix together. Let set up. Scoop. Roll in cocoa powder, espresso powder with a tinch of sugar, or nuts. The end. Very good.

Now, I'm off to bed, because I just realized I have to be there early, since I'm the only one there tomorrow. Fie.

What did y'all do this weekend?

Plugging

The recipe for "Boyfriend Chicken" is up at foodage. Check it out if you are so inclined...


Also- people at Target? GET OUT OF MY WAY!

Aiee!

So who has two thumbs, a sparkly Mexican Lampshade Skirt, and is going to see Hank Williams III on November 3?


This guy.

G. Monkey was going to surprise me by simply leaving tickets around her house, but it was too late. I had spied the October club schedule on her kitchen countertop. I think I literally screamed with glee. It's a Thursday show, so I believe I'm going to take Friday off. I love the old school country stuff, and I like the hellbilly metal too.

Because, really. There are only about 3 shows I really get stoked about at the club, and that's just because I'm a pathetic homebody. Hank III, The All Mighty Senators, the Rev. Horton Heat, and that's kinda it. Henry Rollins doesn't come by that often, neither does Brave Combo, so I take what I can get, where I can get it. So I am thrillllllled!

Oh, and what did I wake up to this morning? An email from Bosslady.
Not going there.

I have a delightful Saturday planned, of hitting the fabric outlet, reading the stack of magazines I snagged from work (and catching up on New Yorkers) and fixing the screwed up rows on both Samus and Branching Out. Yarr.

So here's the deal-

Ladies I work with. I need your attention. Not the ones who work in my office, because y'all are perfect, wonderful, and would never commit such an atrocity.

Anyway, Ladies. We need to talk about the bathroom. The loo. The water closet. The "office", the shitter, if you would. Because obviously, y'all have forgotten the rules, and I'm here to clarify.

The bathroom is there for you to relieve yourself when, say, you've had too much coffee, or the water was especially tasty that day. You zip in, pee, zip up, and zip out. Seatcovers are provided for the especially squeamish, and it is reasonably clean. So why is it that you continue to pee on the seat, or worse yet, the floor? Are you standing up? Is our bathroom being used by men who get confused because there's no sign on the men's room next door? No excuse people. Your pee goes IN the round white thing, not on it.

And while we're at it. The first two stalls? They're for peeing only. ONLY. You heard me. The first stall, and the one with the creepy missing part to the lock are for peeing only. the third/handicapped stall, that's where you can do your nasty shit. Universal rule, folks. If I nip in to pee, my eyeballs shouldn't immediately fly out my head and roll onto the ground because you decided to flout convention and poop in the first stall. Those stalls have no circulation. Your gift lingers, so Stop it already.

And pick up your damn paper towels. The Env. Svc. folks have enough to do without picking up after your lazy, sloppy, poopin' in the first stall, self.

Thank you.

Special Sauce




Chicken recipe tonight, assuming I don't go do something with P. and not end up coming home till 11.

Tastes like chicken.

Yeah, so the now retitled boyfriend chicken? Awesome.
Recipe? Manana.

Why is it that my phone doesn't ring, ever, from 4:30 till 5:00 on a day when I have all the time in the world to do whatever I freakin' want after work, but when I've got to get the hell out of there at 5:00:01 I get a call that will take me a half hour to deal with?

Mind you, I get paid to show the overnight accomodations for out of town families in need. But seriously it takes a half hour, minimum, and when did the concierge call me? 4:56. Say it with me, boys and girls. $()!()#!&$*@!($#*~!! The people I took around were very nice, and exceptionally appreciative, but that didn't change the fact that I didn't leave work till 5:30, and had really hoped to have picked up some prosciutto and been home by then. That? Didn't happen. Oh well.

And dessert? Ginger Creme Brulee. And no, he was not aware beforehand that Creme Brulee is my absolute favorite dessert. And yes, he has a pocket blowtorch, and yes, it was utterly fabulous. The ginger was there, but wasn't overly strong (like a ginger altoid), and the whole thing was... damn. It was awesome.

This one? Definitely a keeper. (Shit, did I just say that?)

Your mission,

should you chose to accept it, is to go on over right now (really, right now. I'll wait) to the Fabulous C.'s blog. You may already know the Fabulous C. as the Yarn Enabler. She doth rock, and her blog doth deserve your attention.

And you know it's late at night when I start throwing doths around like they're going out of style. So unless you found my site looking for porn, I recommend that you stop over there, say hi, and tell her that I hear Glove Boy's bought her little something... and that I prefer my cash donations to be freshly laundered.


In other, randomly squishy news, I'm cooking for HWHYTBN (though while we're on the initial kick, he may just be P, or perhaps Diddy, because it amuses me)tomorrow night. The hereby declared "Boyfriend Chicken" (though I know that the original recipe for boyfriend chicken looks nothing like what I'll be preparing. I just like the name. So there. Thppt.)

And because I know she'll ask...
C- I ended up hitting Target, AND going to P's for dinner, then going to the grocery store. I did the whirlwind Target tour, but barely covered any serious ground- I whipped through HBA like a madwoman, and tried on a few outfits (buying one) but had to race out of there to make it to P's by 7. Craziness.

More when I know it.

Well, that was fun!

This is where I went yesterday with He Who Has Yet To Be Named. (Susquehannock park, for those who are lazy.) Nothing challenging as far as hiking- just nice walk, but we did see an eagle, and that? Was awesome. It was pretty funny too- we were sitting there, and he literally just said "Well, I honestly didn't expect to see an eagle today." and about a half second later, up flies one, right past us.

We went down to Lock 12, and played around on the rocks there too. In all, it was a beautiful day, and totally kept me from thinking about that godawful football game. Heh.

I never stop watching games halfway through, unless I can help it. Yesterday's steelers game? I didn't even make it to the half. I don't think Tommy Maddox knows that the guys in the black shirts are on his team, and the guys in the white shirts are the other guys. And the guys running around in tutus that nobody else can see? They don't exist. The white shirts and the tutus are not who you're supposed to throw the ball to.

Honestly. I could see Ben and Charlie on the sidelines going- Coach. Seriously. You let THIS guy play? Maddox was injured in practice. He was throwing to people who weren't even there, (when he wasn't throwing to the guys on the other team) it wasn't just bad, it was godawful. So I left.

But on the upside? Odie's new apartment is nice. And the further up side? I totally got to spend the day with HWHNBNY and that was rather good. Rather good indeed.

Now, if i just didn't wake up at 5 ayem to make breakfast for Boss's day. (ugh. Still have the headache I started yesterday. still can't find my hospital ID, and I've torn the house APART looking for it. I even cleaned out my car, to no avail. I think the cat carried it off. Damnit.)

Almost Famous.

Sorta.

The neighbor's raid made it to the paper. The girl they arrested had 26 baggies of heroin and multiple (I forget how many) baggies of coke up the sleeve of her sweater when the cops came busting in. The twit on the lease was holding a crack pipe and a "small quantity of cocaine", and the guy that has been in and out of there also had a pipe. The two brain trusts were released with a summons, and the other one (sweater girl) is still in jail because she couldn't raise the bond.

I certainly hope they send the twit off too.

There were still people comin' up in here today trying to buy, and the twit kept goin' out "no, i don't have anything" and they'd turn around and leave.

In non-drug-related news:

I've gotten about 7 or 8 pattern repeats on Branching Out done. I really like how this looks, and it's going quickly. I see this being whipped up for several people this holiday season. And thanks to The Enabler's de-stashing, I have several additional colors of Zephyr to make it from. (I bought #58, and received 9,67, and I believe 68). In the new year, perhaps, once my sweater's done, I will attempt a bigger lace project.

So far I'm liking the lacework, but it's definitely not something mindless, and I suck at memorizing pattern repeats, so I am perpetually checking my place. I have to stay really focused on what I'm doing, but in a way, it's very meditative. (I know. I know. Knitting is the new hot stone massage. But, for me, that's a good thing- being inordinately focused on something takes me out of the constant dialog in my brain. I don't have room to be freaking out over something stupid if I'm trying to remember if I just SSK'd or s2-k1-p2sso'd.)

Thank God.

Lung Cancer.

Don't smoke. People. It'll kill ya.

Doesn't mean I won't ask the ladies at PP to still be extra vigilant, but... hey.

Doesn't mean I won't feel guilty about blowing off that email before he died, but at least I know, now.


(See below)

Oh for the love of Elvis.

So I didn't have high hopes for today. The rest of the week was assy, getting progressively worse, so I fully anticipated today to suck. What I didn't expect was that it would suck a dead dog's dick so hard it's head collapsed.

So I come in to find a pay stub on my desk. Not a live check, as I had anticipated, since they said my direct deposit was a no-go. I check my bank, and there's no incoming deposit. Shit. OK. So I call the bank to confirm. Nope, no go. But try the branch- they say- becase maybe they can contact the ACH department.

So I call my branch. This happens to be the branch I worked for. The bad news is that the check isn't on its way to me. The OK news is that it should bounce back to the hospital on Monday, so I can get paid then. We hope. The shitty news? Mary informs me that Rob (who, because I feel a smidge guilty, is losing the Cokehead moniker for the time being) died a few months ago.

...Say what?

Dude was only 35. There's no reason for him to be up and croaking. So on top of all of the rest of this bullshit, sitting on hold for nine hundred hours with payroll, only to find out that I am NOT going to get paid till they get the money from my bank (and Elvis only knows when that will really happen), and I have less than 20 bucks in the account and an empty gas tank, and a 1 year old's birthday party tomorrow... (I can borrow, but I fucking hate that- nothing is more damned demeaning than asking your parents for money. NOTHING.) but now I'm freaking the fuck out. Granted, I'm more freaked out because I'm not freaked that he's dead. No. I am freaked out because I want to know HOW HE DIED. Seriously. If it was something communicable, I need to know. If he od'd, killed himself, had a heart attack, cancer, auto-erotic-asphyxiation, or his ego smothered him, I. Need. To. Know. That's what's freaking me out.

And I feel like an ass for not being more upset over the fact that he is dead, but we were no longer close, and things didn't end on wonderful terms. I feel bad for his family.

Magicdude has been put on the case, hopefully someone will know. I'm scheduled for my annual anyway, so I'll ask the ladies at PP to be extra vigilant, and we'll go from there.

And I am so freaking frustrated and stressed right now that I actually did go to my car and cry. I? Not a crier. My boss is being a douchebag, my ancillary bosses are being shirty, and apparently my direct boss may have just gotten a promotion to a vp level. And it's probably mean, but I really hope he doesn't take me with him. I hope he gets thrust onto someone else- because I'd rather have a different director than have to be HIS exec. sec.

And I have to kiss ass and be at work by 7 Monday so we can do breakfast for Boss's day. My stupid fucking idea. Here's a gift- you're off on the 16th, and you've got competent staff. That's fucking gift enough. *sigh*
lets hope that next week goes better, and I'm off to take a hot shower and play with the new batch of "stash cleanout" that the enabler gave me.

Make with the sunlight, already!

Seriously. The rain that we've had for the past week? It needs to stop already. This is why I'd never make it in say... Portland. I'd kill someone. Possibly myself. And to make things worse- everyone (and I do mean everyone) at work is in a totally shirty mood, and since shit rolls downhill, we peons get the brunt of the bad attitudes.

I will be overjoyed tomorrow at 5:00, and plan on getting out of there so fast that there will actually be a little me-shaped-puff-of-smoke left in my wake.

Things however, are looking up. As we type the local drug enforcement task force is executing a search warrant on my drug-dealing-douchebag neighbors.
I sure as shit hope they find something, and haul their asses off to jail.

Because if they don't, I really don't want to be alone in this house all next week.

More news as I have it.

Edited to add:
Well, they came. They saw. They didn't arrest the bitch. They did, however, arrest the other girl that was there. Maybe she had outstanding warrants or something. I feel really bad for the oldest kid. She came tooling up the driveway (at eight PM, in the dark, and rain, unsupervised) on her bike, and rode smack dab into the middle of all of this. DETF guy shone the light on her and scared the shit out of her for sure.

I certainly hope this wises the woman up, but I wouldn't hold my breath. I'll see how things go this weekend- but I'm not super thrilled about being alone in the house next week. I'll have visitors a few nights, and try to make it look like more people are around, and have the phones with me just in case. I guess. Fie. More to come, I'm sure.

You might be a redneck if...

When you leave for work in the morning, your driveway is empty. When you come home again in the afternoon, there's an outhouse smack dab in the middle of it... you might be a redneck.

Ayuh. There's a shitter in my driveway.

Pa's building one for someone's cabin in New York state. It is making me giggle. A lot. But I'm a bit weird like that.

In other news: Everyone was a bit bitchtastic at work today, including me. And the next person that gripes about the coffee is getting a swift kick to the head. I did rearrange my new boss's office furniture this afternoon (mostly because I'm all she-ra like that, and if I did one more .doc to .pdf conversion I was going to puke blood) and I learned that "It's good to joke with the director of environmental services". Because he likes that. And when he likes you, he will commandeer things for you from the ultra-secret stashes of surplus office furniture, even if they're already technically on hold for someone else.

Aw yeah.

And we won the game last night. Ben R. was injured, but might play on Sunday. Fingers are crossed. Maddox is OK, but he's not so thrilling with the pass completions (then again, Ben? Not so much with the getting the ball into the hands of OUR players) but if he's got Bettis, Parker AND Staley healthy, we could pull it off on our running game alone. So... fingers crossed.

First Annual Special Saucetest

Actually, I'm hoping I won't have to do this again in the near future, but one never knows.

This is a picture of "He who currently makes my weekend evenings a whole lot more interesting, and the mere thought of whom makes a strange grin appear upon my face, causing me to look more than mildly retarded." He needs a new name. (He'd also be the one kneeling down. Not his mom, who is standing next to him.)




Anyway. That's him. He needs a new nickname. Y'all need to help me out. I'd like suggestions, because I'm pretty much scraping the bottom of the nickname barrel. Here are the rules:

1. I refuse to go sappy or cute. No "Dear" anything, "The Boy" or "Himself" are in use by people I already know. No "Schnookums", "oogy-boogy", or anything remotely resembling baby-talk.
2. Nothing Obscene (Which, regrettably means that "boo-boo-kitty-fuck" is out) as this nickname will likely be used to refer to him in places beside this blog, but not necessarly directly TO him.
3. It should be creative and/or make me laugh, be short enough to be manageable, and do the job. (i.e. "The Hugless Wonder", which is no longer applicable.)


With that said. Here's the skinny on the guy.

He's 4 years older than I am, digs the great outdoors (but appreciates flush toilets), is (as Magicdude said) smart enough for me to bother with, and has goals/ambitions, he has a clean car, smells good, cleans up after himself, cooks, has a decent relationship with his mother, has a very warped sense of humor (but not in the serial killer kind of way), can light his finger on fire, and has done so in front of me... (bet you never thought to do THAT with mouthwash...), thinks I'm cute, is a great kisser, isn't an x-box monkey, likes cats (prefers dogs), makes me laugh (and not in the pointing and jeering way), isn't a cokehead, doesn't talk trash about his exes, doesn't seem to exhibit any stalkerish tendencies, has a job, all his teeth, a car, and a reasonably optimistic demeanor. He's easy to talk to, but when there's nothing to say, it's not awkward. And yes, there's the whole stupid grin thing every time I think of him. Heh.

There's more, but that's what comes to mind first... so, anyway...
Get to naming, and I'll get back to being bitchy.


Dear Coffee-Flavored-Coffee Woman,

What part of "Our Supplier Is Having Difficulties Getting Coffee From Their Supplier" did you not get? That means we? Don't have any more fucking coffee. But guess what. There's a whole lot of coffee in the cafeteria. Here's an idea, instead of bitching to the two secretaries, why don't you hike your ass on down to the caf. and get a cup? Oh. Because that coffee's not free. Well, suck it up and try some southern pecan, or shut the fuck up. OK?

Believe me, I understand the necessity of a good cup of coffee. But you know what? I ordered coffee last week. The supplier? Is out. Their supplier? Also out. I should be getting plain coffee on Wednesday. If it doesn't come, I'm sorry. I'm not a monkey or a lemur, or whatever that animal is that shits out coffee beans. I mean, I could try, but I can guarantee you're not going to like what I put out. Ok? So, lets recap, shall we?

1. I ordered the fucking coffee.
2. There is no fucking coffee to deliver.
3. Coffee MIGHT be here Wednesday, but I'll only put it out if you stop bitching.

Sincerely,
Belgian Chocolate Nut is really quite tasty

Seriously.

This is the All Football Post- written during the Steelers/Chargers game.




9:58 PM.

Dear Marty Schottenheimer,

Suck my dick.

Sincerely,

Special Sauce.

PS- Randle El was not down by contact, the guy never even TOUCHED him. I have it on good authority that the fucking ref has a family history of glaucoma and has untreated macular degeneration. And he smoked a big fat joint before coming to work.


FYI- Marty Schottenheimer is the head coach for the Chargers.


10:00
Ben Rothlisberger. the Quarterback Ran the ball in for a touchdown. Throw your little red flag at THAT, Schottenheimer.

And you can still suck my dick. Marty.

And 10:12-
Who's your daddy? James Harrison is, and don't you forget it, come the third Sunday in June, Antonio Gates.

And we'll take that 15 yard Unnecessary Roughness penalty to be assessed after the fact. Thanks. And that other Unnecessary roughness penalty? 15 more yards? We'll take that too. And while we're at it? We'll take that Half the Distance to the Goal and automatic first down too. Oh. And we'll score.

Again, with the dick, Marty. 14-0. What's that? Smells like 7 penalties for nearly 90 yards.


10:30
This just in: Troy Polamalu is still the hottest football player in the league. Quite possibly ever.

10:35. Ok. We deserved that one. We did face mask, and horse collar. Half the distance to the goal, that's fair. 14-7. Still, Marty, I invite you to go ahead and eat a dick anyway. Perhaps at the half? It'll maybe make your team suck less.

10:45.

Halftime

Fear not, I won't be watching/snarking on the whole game. I have to work in the morning.
But I'm glad we're still up. And if the Chargers can continue to remember that "Hey, wait- we're the chargers", and the Steelers remember- "oh yeah! We're the Steelers, and we don't suck anymore!" this game will be just dandy...

Just because...

Even though everything else is going well, that doesn't mean I can't get a little snarktastic. Or a lot snarktastic.

I tried to post this the other morning, but blogger was being a bitch.

Dear Fundraising Moms:

Part of the joy of having children is educating them. Bully on you for electing to send them to a private school, when public education in our county is actually rather exceptional. Of course, no matter where you send kids, they're bound to be pressed into service selling crap for school. It happens. And you, trying to be the good parent you believe yourself to be, take the order forms to work. Congratulations. Most parents seem to have grasped the "leave the order sheet lying about, or post it in the kitchen, and if someone wants to order, they will" concept.

Not you. Oh no.

Not only did you bring me the sheet, and beg me to circulate it, (and technically, I did. I put it in someone else's inbox) but you whined at me, and kept pestering me till I ordered one of your stupid subs (out of sheer desperation, so you'd shut up and let me work, already). Fine. Dandy. I've got lunch for a day. You went away. Life is great. Right?

Wrong.

Other parents also have grasped the concept that "I sold this crap for my kid, so I have to make sure the appropriate parties get the crap I sold them". Not you.

For your future reference, it is highly irritating, wholly inexcusable, and right pisses me off when you call my line, and address me by my coworker's name (nevermind that I say my name in my greeting)and spit out "This is StupidMom and I've got the subs. I've got my kids in the car, so you're going to have to pick them up. Bye." See, my job as Nursing Administration's Bitch involves things like scheduling meetings, filing, typing minutes, attending to projects, and generally doing whatever my three bosses want. And I'm pretty sure that not only are you not my boss, but "delivering your damned fundraiser shit" wasn't on the list of assignments any of my real bosses did give me.

And listen, just because my co-worker got wrangled into doing this shit last year? Doesn't mean I will. I will slap your subs into the refrigerator. I will put a note up that says they're here, but I will not distribute them. I will not collect money for them. I will not expend any more effort than absolutely necessary on them. Why? Because they're not my goddamn kids, and last I checked, I didn't force anyone to buy them. You? Did. And I? Don't have time for that shit.

So in short, either Brittney and Kaylor sell their own shit, or you just deal with it.

Sincerely,

Special Sauce
Who totally sold her sub to someone else because she was so pissed off.

Stupid, stupid Blogger.

It's being picky this morning...

Guys, you may want to go ahead and skip this posting, for herein, I am about to get semisquishy, and reveal particulars about the "Special Sauce Guy Grading Guide".



Really. This is your last chance...




OK. Everyone else? He made dinner last night. And I'm not talking "He threw hunks of meat on the grill and poked at it. No. He cooked. He utilized multiple preparation methods (only one of which was the grill), wouldn't let me (in the nice way, not the diva french chef way) help, and he did the dishes by himself. (Again, I offered, but he declined.) Do you know how awesome that is? And? He knows the proper use/care/seasoning of cast iron.

We had blackened catfish, grilled asparagus, and a nifty little pilaf.

And it? Was excellent.

And while we're at it? The statement "I'm trying to be well-behaved, because as much as I'd like to get laid, I am not just trying to get laid." was uttered. More points.

And? Total touch-monkey. But none of this? In the skeezy way. Some guys do that and it's unbelievably creepy. I was talking to Magicdude on the way home last night and shared some of the more salient points, and he's echoed what G. Monkey said... "From everything you've told me, I really like this guy. What's wrong with him?" I mean... he likes football, hasn't attempted to tear my clothes off with his teeth (though the thought has crossed both our minds), does not show signs of being an x-box/playstation junkie, cleans, can dress himself, smells wonderful, is polite, has a decent relationship with his mother, doesn't dis' his exes, lives in the same county/state as I do, and cooks. The hell?

Anyway. Just wanted to let that out somewhere, eh?

Not like I'm hitchin' my life to anyone/anything right now- but this whole "being happy" thing? Kinda nice.

Ain't talkin' 'bout love

(just lots of appostrophes)

Guys, you may want to go ahead and skip this posting, for herein, I am about to get semisquishy, and reveal particulars about the "Special Sauce Guy Grading Guide".



Really. This is your last chance...




OK. Everyone else? He made dinner last night. And I'm not talking "He threw hunks of meat on the grill and poked at it. No. He cooked. He utilized multiple preparation methods (only one of which was the grill), wouldn't let me (in the nice way, not the diva french chef way) help, and he did the dishes by himself. (Again, I offered, but he declined.) Do you know how awesome that is? And? He knows the proper use/care/seasoning of cast iron.

We had blackened catfish, grilled asparagus, and a nifty little pilaf.

And it? Was excellent.

And while we're at it? The statement "I'm trying to be well-behaved, because as much as I'd like to get laid, I am not just trying to get laid." was uttered. More points.

And? Total touch-monkey. But none of this? In the skeezy way. Some guys do that and it's unbelievably creepy. I was talking to Magicdude on the way home last night and shared some of the more salient points, and he's echoed what G. Monkey said... "From everything you've told me, I really like this guy. What's wrong with him?" I mean... he likes football, hasn't attempted to tear my clothes off with his teeth (though the thought has crossed both our minds), does not show signs of being an x-box/playstation junkie, cleans, can dress himself, smells wonderful, is polite, has a decent relationship with his mother, doesn't dis' his exes, lives in the same county/state as I do, and cooks. The hell?

Anyway. Just wanted to let that out somewhere, eh?

Not like I'm hitchin' my life to anyone/anything right now- but this whole "being happy" thing? Kinda nice. But, just to balance out the sweetness and light:


Dear Fundraising Moms:

I think it's wonderful that you chose to send your kids to a Christian, private school. That's delightful. I'm sure those tuition fees really suck. I know they need cash, and you're selling subs to support them. However, when I got the sheet, and didn't sign up? That meant I didn't want one. And your calling back every several days, while annoying, did eventually wear me down.

But guess what. Part of the responsibility of harassing people into buying your stupid fucking subs? Means delivering the damn things. That doesn't mean that I answer the phone at noon, you call me by my coworker's name, and tell me that you're "In front of the hospital with our subs, and you have your kids in the car" because last time I checked? I didn't have to report to you. Your shit? Not my priority.

Oh? and Delivery? YOUR JOB. Either park, and bring the little bastards in, or get a fucking sitter, because I am too damned busy to track down who gets what sub. And if you don't like the fact that I whipped them into the fridge, tacked up the sign up sheet, and threw a note into the nurse manager's office? Tough shit. We were slammed, and last time I checked? I don't have kids, much less kids in private school, and you? Not the boss of me.

Sincerely,

Special Sauce

I really need to carry a camera...

So tonight, on the way home, I saw a bush in sort of the middle of the berm.

Not where bushes normally are, but smack in the middle of concrete. And it totally looked like the Bugs Bunny cartoons where someone ducks into the shrubbery, then tiptoes around with it when they're trying to hide. And it made me laugh my ass off.

Someone was totally sneaking across the road, and stopped when they saw me coming. I know it. Heh.

No guilt trips on any of y'all. Just making sure you weren't dead, since it got really quiet. Glad to know you're still breathin'!

Cheddar Theater tonight- should be fun- I need it after the mind-numbing day at work today. more details to follow

A small rant

In open letter format, and perhaps Haiku.

Dear operators,

Just because someone's query contains the word "nurse" does not necessarily mean I can answer it. Just because my office name happens to contain the word "nursing" does not mean I am intimately involved with any of the following:
1. Reference checks. These go to HR.
2. Shadowing programs for high school students. These go to HR.
3. Random douchebags asking for "The director of nursing". We have three of them. You're a telemarketer. Go the fuck away.
4. Agency nurses/student nurses/sitters. That's why we have an education department, and a head of supplemental staff services.

I know your job is stressful, and you've got a million ringing lines, but when I have to transfer someone who's been transferred to me, YOU look like an idiot.

Sincerely,
Special Sauce



Dear Friends, Family, Bill Collectors, Drug Connections, Roommates, Pimps, and any other persons associated- even tangentially- to Staff or agency nurses, PCAs, unit clerks, supplemental staff, or anyone else who works on the floor,

I am not your personal messenger service. I do not have the time, nor the patience to track down the person you are looking for, and ask them to call you. 99% of the time, the person you want isn't even here yet/at all.

These people are at work, and they? Are busy. I'm looking at you University of Phoenix lady. Unless you're dead, dying, or otherwise in a condition where you really should be in this hospital, I suggest you leave a message on their cell or home phones, write them a letter, or simply fucking wait. Ok? Because I can pretty much guarantee that whatever the person is doing up on their floor? It's a lot more important than whatever you want to talk about. Comprende?

Sincerely,
Special Sauce

And now the Haiku portion of the evening...

Telemarketer
"Just updating our records"
Yeah right! Bite me! *click*

Telemarketer
My copier model, eh?
I don't think so. *click*

Sleazy Headhunters
Begone! You are useless here!
My phone-fu trumps all.

Squee?

I'm feeling rather giddy, in about a fifteen year old sort of way.

(internally, that is.)

I'm also trying to not spill it, for fear of jinxing it. And because a little part of me always gets a little cyincal and suspicious, and if I keep my shit under wraps, when it eventually goes stupid, I don't look like a total shite.

But really? I'm working on telling that cynical bitch to go fuck herself so the rest of us can... well... whatever.

Also: Any of the talented people out there who read this know if it's possible to convert a .pdf BACK into a word document? I'm working with a full version of Acrobat, so I can* make them, and do all that fun stuff. I've just never been asked to convert back to word. And I really don't want to tarnish my god-like reputation (not just mine- apparently everyone in that office is perceived to be superhuman- copier jams? We're on it. Need a presentation? We're all up in that. Want someone killed? We know the people, and the prices. Unofficially, of course.) so, I don't want to go wreckin' the image.

Neidermyer- you back from Boston yet?
MWN- Do you still tread the earth?
Stephee- 'sup?
GA- How's Bawlmurr?
Parce- you didn't flee to Mexico, did you?
AJ- Still in shock over the swankiness?
And y'all, the ones who read but don't comment- why not say hello?

Buh...whut?

In football-related news. The Chargers beat the Patriots by a whole fucking lot.

Yes. The CHARGERS. And the Pats? Were at HOME.

I'm going to go weep tears of blood now. Why the hell couldn't we swing that last week? Oh. because we would have, if the clock wouldn't have been off by nearly a minute.*

Fuck.

At least this week was a bye week. I couldn't handle the excitement (unwritten) that my weekend had already held, AND football. My head would have exploded. By next weekend, I'll have a better handle on that...

New recipes going up at Foodage. Why don'tchya check it out?

* And yes, I know bloody well that we got our asses handed to us. Allow me to use the clock as a crutch. I'm a bad fan. I will admit it.

G. Monkey Update

So apparently they weren't able to see anything in her MRI, but are waiting for one more blood test to come back. She's still in a lot of pain, and her eye's still being bulge-tastic, but for the moment, it's ok. Her mom and the dick came up to visit yesterday, bearing wygesic. Which she took, but it made her really itchy. Although I'd rather be itchy, with a break in the pain, personally...

She's going to see if she can get a referral elsewhere, to see what her deal might be. I'll know more on Tuesday.

In the meantime- I started working on Samus, but I'm making it in Araucania Nature Wool #25 (a nice warm red hand with subtle variations in the dye- very pretty.) I'm working on the bottom cable right now- about 20 rows into the first pattern repeat- slow going, but it's mostly because I'm stopping every row, staring at it- and saying "Holy shit, I am doing CABLES, yo." and how cool it looks...

I also picked up some laceweight silk/merino for a pittance (a pretty light lavender-y color), so I think I may find a pattern in the Enablers books (She's bringing them to work, perhaps, on Tuesday) or I may modify Branching Out to be bigger and turn it into a wrap... we'll see. Whee! (Anything to avoid finishing that damned tomato stripe scarf that I know I have to finish, but hurts my wrists, and saps my will to live. I HATE garter stitch. Hate. hate. HAAAAAAAAAATE.)

Mmm. Tastes like rage!

Ok. I live in a very touristy area. Think of it as Branson, without electricity or celebrities, and even less attention to personal hygiene. All summer long it's really "New York South" and "New Jersey West", not Pennsylvania. And that's fine. I know better than to go east on route 30 for any reason during the summer. I'm smrt like that. But on a beautiful fall day, you'd think I'd get a little reprieve.

You'd be wrong.

I thought "no problem, it's early. I'm going to get to the swell little yarn shop by 10:00, surely the tourists won't be out yet!"

What a fool I am.

Actually, I was there before 10AM, but decided to drive east a bit, and maybe snag a donut, or a piece of shoo-fly pie or something for breakfast. That was mistake number 1. I drove through bird-in-hand at the speed of dark, behind oceans of SUVs and minivans with out of state plates, rubbernecking at the "real, live, Ay-mish people", idiots taking pictures of buggies in parking lots, and colossal morons lining up to pay to go for a ride in a buggy driven by some guy named Raoul, who couldn't be less Amish if he was wearing neon spandex... it was bad.

So lets get a few things straight, shall we?

Guess what, people. The Amish? They're not really like you or me. They don't use electricity. Much. Unless it's in the barn, and OK their appliances are actually gas-powered, or use power supplied by a generator. They don't use phones. Unless it's in the barn, or a shed in the backyard, or the bishop doesn't find out they've got a cell phone. They don't drive cars. Ok, they do, but only until they've joined the church, and really only then if they're old order. Nouveau Amish drive. Oh, and they dress funny. Unless they're teenagers, and haven't joined the church yet, and are out at a party* or a sports bar. Or the beach.

Anyway. They're people. They're different. Big fucking deal. Do you drive around looking for people in wheelchairs to take pictures of because "they're different"** too? What about burn victims? They look pretty different. You snappin' pictures of them? Hassidic Jews? No? Then Go. The fuck. Home. Give me my town back.

And yes, I am fully aware that we encourage this stupid behavior. We've exploited the hell out of the Amish. And guess what? We're driving them away, because they can't stand it here, and frankly, I don't blame them. If I couldn't do my job without some fucking idiot in a fanny pack and gigantic white sneakers interrupting me every 20 seconds to ask me to pose with my stapler- and then have the guy get PISSED OFF when I tell him no, that posing for pictures is against my religion...*** I'd leave too. Shit, I'm the least-amish looking person out there, and *I* have been asked to pose for dumshit tourists. "Dude. I'm wearing shorts. I may live on a farm, but that doesn't automatically make me Amish. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get my fucking mail."****

In short. Tourists, go the fuck home already. We'll send you a quilt, an Intercourse/Blue Ball postcard, and your obligatory shoo-fly pie, if you'll just go the hell away...



*- There was a big story about 10 years ago? About Amish kids getting mixed up with the Pagan motorcycle club, wild orgies, drug dealing, the whole nine... google it.

**- Yes, I know, they are no different than you or I. I am simply making a point. Sensitive bastards.

***- Yes, it was big news here when a tourist complained to local authorities (chamber of commerce, the cops, someone- I forget) because a guy in his field wouldn't pose for a picture. He thought the Amish were emplyoed by the Chamber or some such... Idiot.

**** Yes, this actually happened, when I was still in High School, and yes, I actually did live on a farm. Yay me.