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EncountersI decided to take on one of the most feared of home improvement monsters... the
Continue... IF YOU DARE!!!
The target: Our garage closet, the most poorly used space in the house.
Before:
3 wire shelf units, 5 shelves each: 12"x18"x84, 12x48x84, and 12x60x84. 630 square feet of shelf space.
The results:
Not too shabby for a day's work. Next I have to de-grease the floor, and the garage will no longer be a giant junk closet. It will again be ready for its intended use: fixing goofy old sports cars!
In spite of the fact that I got the "second-from-top-o'-the-line" processor in Intel's Core 2 line, it turns out Dell saw fit to equip my "teh sexay" laptop with a 32-bit version of Vista. No wonder the SQL installer wouldn't let me put the 64-bit patch on.
Which now makes two computers I've owned which will spend their lives operating "geared down." FrakenSystem's last heart was a first-generation Athlon 64. I got it to run 64-bit Linux all to hell, for about two weeks, after it STONITH'd my XP install. Otherwise it was partying like it was 1999, right up until I pulled the plug yesterday.
And now I find out I'm gonna hafta live with 32-bit for the next few years?!? Well f-u-very-much, Dell. Sure, I won't see any performance difference. Sure, I'll be spared my cherished games puking and dying because they can't count past 32 (bits). Sure, my PC will work properly whenever I want it to...
But... But!!! It' won't be in 64-fweaking-bits!!! YeeearrrRRRGGG!!!
Why, thank you for this funny jacket! Isn't it interesting how the sleeves seem to be tied to the back? Well, yes, the fit is rather snug, and why exactly are you motioning to those muscled gentlemen with the butterfly net--
@$%#U*@#
NO CARRIER
After twelve years of faithful service, I've finally retired my long-suffering FrankenSystem. The original PC was spec'd and built for me by my brother in (I think) 1996, but those guts were three, hell maybe four, generations ago. All that's left now is the original case, whose rusty scars stand as testament to the corrosive power of cat pee. And yet, with suitable upgrades, it kept going, and going.
No more. I've transitioned to a high performance laptop (Dell XPS M1530) with all the fixin's. It lets me do software development, photo editing, and web surfing in the family area, whilst also allowing me to get my shooter fix whenever I feel the need. Hell it even has an Xbox 360 controller. How the hell ya like that?
At any rate, The Grammas will be happy to note The Pit has been cleaned. That horrid old desk is still there, but it's clean (and it's days are numbered). It's now a docking station so we can dock one of our (four!) laptops to play workout DVDs, or to let me use my flightsticks if I ever get back into sims.
So everyone raise a glass. The king is dead! Long live the (portable) king!
So I'm bored and (for once) I browse through the network's firewall logs*. Turns out today the firewall log is segmented into 5 messages. For those not familiar with network admin: Imagine a bug zapper over your back porch. On a given late afternoon, it pops once, maybe twice every five minutes. You never look at it when it does that. Suddenly one evening, it makes a continuous BZZZZAPPP!! noise for a solid 3 minutes straight.
Yeah. Someone's bouncing against the screen door. And, since I've got nothing particularly important to do tonight, after / translation: turning up the amps on the bug zapper, flinging this annoying insect into orbit** /, I decide to look it up.
Seems that 6.160.171.131 tracks back to DoD Network Information Center in Columbus, OH. Yes, dear friends, it would appear that our protectors at DHS have themselves a little zombie problem. I guess that's what happens when people surf the Naughty Bits of the internet on the government's dime.
Your tax dollars at work, and I have the log files to prove it.
Network admin is usually a damned boring job. When it's exciting, it's even worse. But every once in awhile, we get to glory in the mistakes of others. As I finally migrate from admin to code monkey, it's nice to see the signature of a particularly embarrassing zombie fluttering against the screen door as I leave.
Not that anyone will notice. Well, except for you guys. But you always knew we were an exclusive group, eh?
-----
* To those who are not network admins: As Olivia is fond of saying, in a reasonable imitation of a British senior non-com: Wait For It!!!...
** Blocking the IP outright, on any interface, for any purpose.
I learned (last night) that if Ellen times it just right, and hits it just so, she can get a tube of skin moisturizer about the length and shape of her forearm* to flush straight down the toilet, no muss, no fuss.
There was just so much funny there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ellen flushing one of Olivia's post-bedtime commando potties. Without looking, she put her hand down on the side of the counter, and poink!!!, up went this plastic tube of some sort. You know, the kind with a wide round front and a flat fishtail rear? Hopped in the air a good three feet off the counter, then barrel-rolled three, maybe four times. As a slow-motion look of horror hit Ellen's face, it did this perfect nose-down entry, straight down the throat of the toilet.
Now, our toilet barely manages to do the job it's built for, so I figured, as I turned toothbrush-in-mouth to actually look at what was going on, that we'd have some amusing sleeve-up reaching real soon. Then I saw Ellen doing her classic "surprised horror" act. Her eyes got about three times bigger than normal, then her arms shot out with clenched claws, then they came up to her cheeks as she rapidly hop-hop-hopped the way she does when things get completely out of control.
Me: "You have got to be kidding me."
Ellen: "No! No! That's not possible!"
"You did not just flush a whole tube of something down the toilet."
"It was moisturizer! Expensive special order moisturizer! It was almost new!"
"You flushed a whole tube of moisturizer. Down the toilet."
"It's!!!" *hop* *hop* *hop* "Awful!! It was really expensive!!!"
At this point friends, I couldn't hold it together any longer. I just barely managed not to snog toothpaste out of my nose, rinsed, and then positively collapsed. We're talking that huge, hooting, spasming laugh; the kind of laugh that makes your belly feel like it's cracking apart like paint on a balloon.
The next day, one of her Vet doctor friends explained, quite helpfully, that she probably could get it back.
"Thanks, no. I don't care how expensive it was, I don't need it back that badly."
----
* On reviewing the draft of this post, Ellen: "No. NO. NO. It was not as big as my forearm. It was as big as my hand!"
Me: *blink* *blink*
"It was! It was really small!"
"You flushed a tube of moisturizer as big as your hand down the toilet."
"Yes!"
"Yeah. That makes it much better."
"Oh just shut up."
So, one of the things I'm famously strange for is cleaning the house with thundering music coming from the hi-fi. Hey, there's a reason I've had a component hi-fi system for 25 years now... I like my tunes!
And sometimes, when Ellen's out and about, Olivia will come downstairs after bedtime. Just me and Little Girl. She knows the rules. Before bedtime, she gets to do what she wants. After, she's a guest, and she knows it.
So down she comes this time, because I've got River of Dreams bellowing out of speakers that are a foot taller than she is. She sits next to me on the couch while I code, because she doesn't get to make the rules after bedtime. And I let her, because I'm waiting. And because we're waiting, she eventually starts to squirm, and be a clown, and holler because it's too loud.
But I'm waiting for a reason. A soft, sentimental song, which I only much later learned was a lyric for a child, was on its way. With almost eerie timing, just when Olivia was done with the loud music, the characteristic chords struck soft felt hammers from the speakers.
"Olivia! Shhh! Your song is on. Your lullaby..."
And she stopped. Absolutely still. And listened, while I wept quietly like the huge softey Ellen regularly thumps me for.
Later, while I was actually rocking her to sleep, "Daddy. The man called me an angel. He told me to close my eyes because I'm an angel."
"Yes, that's right, because you are."
"I'm sleepy daddy. Will you call me an angel?"
And who could resist that?
Good night my angel / Time to close your eyes
There are many times when you work in an animal hospital (let alone a CATS ONLY hospital) where you simply cannot keep a straight face in front of a client.
A client perceives you as a total professional; hell we’ve had clients lift their shirts up at us asking if the lesion they have on THEM they got from the cat. They feel they can tell you secrets and you will NEVER say a word.
Well, they think you don’t say anything. What actually happens is you skip to the back room and let out a big sigh and start rattling off all the weird shit the client is doing to their cat. Half the time the staff looks at you like you’re nuts. Until they see it for themselves. We even HIDE from clients that we do not want to work with. We each have our own problem children.
Today, well today, let’s call ‘special’.
I had a client, an older lady (say, older than sixty, younger than, oh hell, hundred and twenty) with two cats she got in Greece. She obviously works for the State Department* and proceeds to tell me the ENTIRE history of these cats. All I wanted was the routine: is your cat, vomiting, has diarrhea, is coughing, sneezing, eating/drinking/peeing/pooping.. anything out of the ORDINARY!?! Most of the time you get, “why no, nothing is wrong, we’re just here for our yearly exam.” OR you get “MY CAT IS DYING!! WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING!?!” Meanwhile the cat is sitting on the table grooming itself. *I HAZ A FLAVOR*
I always ask about diet. To me it’s a super important subject… but in a Jacque Cousteau sort of way… “Izh hyour cat eating—“
“Do you know my cats like to eat lamb?” *sound of record needle being pulled out of its groove* … very short pause…
“Really? I’m sure that’s quite a treat!”
“NO, they LOVE lamb, you just don’t get it. They were Greek street cats, that’s all they ate before I took their poor souls in.”
I’m watching this woman act this scenario out in a very dramatic way in front of me. All I could think of was the movie ‘My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding’ and Windex.
“Ok, great! I’m sure they love you for it!” Does she give them mint sauce too?
Her, in that voice: “Don’t you love those lamby wambies my honey bunnies? Yes you do, yes you do!”
Then it happened. Something that has never happened before.
She Baa’d.
No really, she began to bleat like a sheep. No. Not the cat. The owner.
“BAAAA! BAAA!!! You LOVE the lammies! They so tasty! Don’t you love the lambs!? Oh god, I am in hell. Why did I end up with that woman?
And then, I don’t know, I guess the cat wasn’t responding. She actually changed the baa
Myeahh… myeahhh… myeahh… Tasty tasty lambies!!! MYEAHH!!!!!”
Please god, kill me now.
All I could do was look down at my papers and try not to crack up.
“Ok,” as professionally as I could say at the moment, “let me fill the doctor in on what’s going on and he’ll be right in.”
As I leave, she’s still sheep talking to her cats. In, like, various dialogue and stuff.
As I round the corner to the back treatment area, I have 4 other people staring at me wondering what the hell happened to me.
It’s at that point all you can do is hand the doctor the chart and hope he gets the same story.
Myeahh!!!
* How do I know this? Well, put it this way: when your hospital pumps out over 15 international pet health certificates per month, most going to the same place, or they TELL you what city the Embassy they worked for is in, you know they are State Department. Oh and we mark it on the charts too. Hi! My Name is Ellen. I Work Inside the Beltway!
It’s time to learn how to drive.
Sound of a scratching record… the film rewinds
OK, let me start this again. It’s time to learn how to drive… a STANDARD.
Repeat the sound…
No wait… let’s start again. Learning how to drive a standard, on a 37 year old Italian sports car, is quite an experience. An Alfa.
Repeat the sound once again…
Alfa? Yep, an Alfa. As in, Alfa Romeo. A nice one at that. Not the little shit tumblers you see puttering down the road. As in, well, every other goddamned car on the highway. You see, there’s a reason we’re all called Alfisti. All those other sad, little puttering cars… but I’m getting off track.
“What do you mean I have to learn how to drive that car? I hate driving that car! I don’t fit in it. I’m too short!”
Then he says, “I need the Cruiser for Gimpy Grandma days. You’re working more Saturdays now, and that’s a perfect time for me to do a GG day. She can’t get in and out of the Spider, so YOU are going to learn how to drive THIS car. And LIKE it!”
“FINE!” So there we were. Ten years of being the glamorous, envied Sophia Loren passenger in the exotic Italian sports car down the drain. No more. I would have to tame this tiny white beastie, make it mine. But not easily.
YOUR FIRST LESSON, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT: leave Olivia with Gimpy Gramma (giving her a lesson in “be careful what you wish for,” that being, “I really want to spend more time with my granddaughter.”) Go downstairs, and have a seat. *Grumbling the entire way down the elevator and walking up to the White Car of Axel Grease Doom (I never got the grease smell out of those Christmas toys I hid in there last year.)*
Let’s roll back just for a moment. It’s 100 degrees, there’s NO wind, 70% humidity, and there is NO AIRCONDITIONING in this car! The inside of the car is all black. Vinyl even. With the sun shining merrily onto the seat cushions.
What do cars with black interiors that are sitting in the sun do? They become mini E-Z-bake ovens! Whee!
“OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!”
Him: “Yeah, it can be a little hot in the sun.”
Me: “I notice your seat had a towel over it!”
“Well, that’s where the sun was when I parked!”
*BLINK* … *BLINK*
“OK! Turn the car on!”
Did I tell you that this key is a TINY key? It’s like one of those silly keys you get for suitcase luggage. CHUH CHUH CHUH bluh..
“No, you didn’t turn it right. Try it again.”
*CHA* CHUH CHUH *WHOMP* CHUH bluh…
“Noo…here let me show you.” See how this is going so far? Damn tiny keys.
“Ok. This is what you do! You give it a ¼ inch of throttle--”
“Throttle?”
[Finally I get to do the lizard blink. – Scott]
“What the hell is a throttle? There are 3 freaking pedals here!”
“… it’s the far right one.”
Ok, far right one.
“You do this dance you see…”
This is where my eyes begin to glaze over, not out boredom, but out of fear. Fear that I am going to have to THINK about working the car and driving, not just merrily jumping in and hitting a key and going wherever I want.
The start is an adrenaline-humming blur. Do you know what happens if I break this goddamned thing? Neither do I! But this particular one was built nearly forty goddamned years ago! All those times I laughed at the term, “unobtanium?” Yeah, not so funny when you’re behind the wheel of an entire vehicle made of the stuff. With no idea how to make it move.
But suddenly there I was, at the end of the drive, traffic unthinkingly going back and forth in the hammerblow heat.
“…you ease the gas on and the clutch off at the same time…”
“Uh…there’s a car coming.”
*Sigh* “Ellen, it’s called ‘traffic’.”
“Yeah, but there’s a car coming. What do I do?”
“You put the car into gear and you drive off…?”
“Do I have to?”
“Yep.”
Shit.
“Can I wave this car by first? I’m scared. What if this car doesn’t work?”
“ELLEN!”
So I make my first left turn into a small side residential road and managed to get the car into second, then I hit my first obstacle. The construction sign guys!
NOOOO!!!!
“What do I dowhatdoIdoWHADOIDO?!?”
Yeah ok, I’ll be honest, I f’d up that gear real quick and smiled and did the hand thingy at the sign guys letting them know I am a noob. *GRAUNCH* *GRIND* *JUMP JUMP* “Hiiya! Howyadoin?”
My first stop sign. A car behind me HONKS for taking too long to put the car into first.
No biggie, I’m learning. I’m 17 all over again. Well, not 17. More like 21, when I got my license. SHUT UP! I know it’s lame! But there I was…learning to drive all over again.
Scott has me putter up and down and round and round the streets in the sweltering weather for about two laps. Say, fifteen minutes. I’m doing pretty good until he says the fated words…
“Let’s talk hills!”
**WHAT?!?**
“Hills are their own thing…” (My head starts to spin. Is it the heat or is it because this is really hard? Who the hell makes a car with no power steering? It’s like the wheel’s stuck in oatmeal or something.) “…and that’s how it works.”
He continued, “You ready to try going up a hill on a start!? Imagine a car 6 inches behind you, and this car will roll back…” *and there will be this tiny ting noise, and then this giant mushroom cloud that covers the city, and I’m sitting on the smoking ground with a steering wheel in my hand and all you can say is, ‘they just don’t make those parts anymore’* “…and you have to get it into gear first so you don’t roll into them.”
What?
And then I… well, I sorta snapped.
“GODAMMIT!!! I can barely drive this thing! No more advanced stuff! I just want to drive away from the stop sign! Ok? Just. The. Sign.”
Him: *Blink* *Blink* “Ok, we’ll practice some more.”
So around we went. Don’t forget this. Always remember that. Yadda yadda yadda. He became a kind of buzz on the edge of my consciousness. A cute, vaguely useful buzz, but a buzz nonetheless. “JESUS!!! The floor is *hot!*”
Him: “Yeah. The exhaust goes underneath your floorpan. There’s an asbestos heat shield—“
“Oh great, now I’m gonna get cancer!”
“No no… that’s only if you breathe the dust. At any rate, it could be worse. The Spider I learned on didn’t have the shield, got lost somewhere. I walked around with melted shoe heels for I don’t know—“
Ok… clutch in, gear up, brake on, off the gas. I need a third foot. Off the brake, slowly unspool the clutch, put the gas in, *WHUMP* *JERK* *ZUMMM* And away we go. Hey, this isn’t too bad! I think I can get this…
And this is the point where the heat, humidity, and my heel smoldering, well, they sorta got to me.
I messed up.
I had that whole, “clutch out, gear out, brake on, gas off” thing down pat. I even managed “gear in,” but then it slid back a bit. The three pedals all danced around each other. I placed both my feet to the floor and the damned engine roared to life for no reason I could think of. I let out the clutch and the whole thing lurched forward with this tire-squealing **BANG!!** The gear shift seemed to dial away out of reach, like some weird movie effect, and there I was holding this giant round thing that was just the most retarded handle I’ve ever seen. I reached out, across what must’ve been thirty feet. It was actually more like six inches. I grabbed hard.
And I pulled the stick shift knob clean off the shifter. *POINK!*
OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT!!
IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRY!!
*Both party’s eyes bulged with surprise and terror at the same time*
Ok…step back. Did I mention we are at a near standstill?
I think I “white knuckeled” that gear shift a bit too much.
This is where we both looked at each other. The car was slowly coasting down a simple residential street, me with flop sweat far worse than I’d ever had on stage before a performance. It ticked over gently, waiting for the ‘tard behind the wheel to get untangled and start to drive.
We both started to crack up.
“You didn’t put this thing on right!” Here I am looking at this very nicely handmade gear shift knob in my hands, and then looking at the actual gear shift lever (chrome molly steel… it has this notch on it as if it needs to have something pushed down on it) and then at Scott to see if I killed his ‘real girlfriend’.
Him, with cheerful, giggly enthusiasm: “HOLY SHIT! How the hell did you do that? I’ve been driving these cars for 20 years, and I never… and you pull the gear knob clean off!”
“You didn’t put it on right!”
But it went back on easy enough, and around we went again.
Third to fourth gear? Gold!
From a start? OmigodomigodomigodherecomesacarnonopleasejustgojustgoWHY IS THERE NO POWER STEERING?!?!
But it actually is fun. Maybe even a lot of fun. I’ll get used to it, eventually, and take it into work. At the end, even though I was still intimidated by it, and covered in sweat… well, it wasn’t my (dearly departed) Milano, but I was driving an Alfa again.
As we pulled into the parking lot, Him: “Ok, now, to shut it dow—“
No problem. Around the corner, pull into the parking… why’s it jumping arou-- *whump* *whump* *jerk* *gasp* *die*
The car went silent, except for the electric fuel pump whirring merrily away. Him, slowly: “You put in the clutch, pull it out of gear, turn it off, then put it back in gear so it doesn’t roll away.”
“I thought you just parked it. You know, put the gear shift into park?”
*BLINK* *BLINK*
Me: “STOP DOING THAT! I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO GETS TO DO THAT!”
*BLINK*
Him: “Ok. Next week then?”
“Yuppers. Next week.”
Was it worth driving nearly 45 minutes to each store? Sure why not. How many places do you know that can afford a full time store just for reptiles?
Not many snakes in large cages. Many in deli cups, which was a disturbing. To me they should have been in racks. At least they would have something around the size of a shoe box to live in.
They had wonderful terrariums, grape wood branches and basically all of the supplies you need. The staff is great too at both locations.
The only thing that bothered me was that both stores were a bit untidy. Not as clean as a reptile place could be, with the threat of salmonella and other fun stuff reptiles carry.
So I give this store a 3.5 out of 5. Check it out if you are in San Diego!
It's beginning to become clear to me that ColdFusion was actually a sleek power boat. It did everything a boat needed to do, and quite well, with a minimum of effort. Unfortunately I now need something that will ride on the water *and* trundle about on the land. Driving the boat up the landing had predictable results.
With C# and .net, Microsoft has provided me with a Transformer. It has buttons for every conceivable sort of medium, "water", "land", "air", even "underground" and "space travel." Yipee! Unfortunately, when I press the "water" button the thing it gives me has oars. They're pretty oars, and they even seem to have teams of robots to pull and push them, but it's definitely not what one would expect coming from a world of power boats.
With apologies to Neal Stephenson...
So this is the first week after my six week class marathon, and the payoffs are already showing up. Visual studio did something weird to one of my programs in a very obscure spot, a spot I'd already got working a few hours ago*. The old, quirky, broken way I did things would've kept me from finding that goof for hours, if not days or even weeks, long after I'd forgotten how it was all done in the first place. Even worse, bugs like that can stay hidden until a tester or even (gasp!) a user finds them in production. I built programs this way, and had bugs roar out at me this way, for most of ten years. My stuff worked, eventually, but it wasn't very much fun.
But my new, slick, right way spotted the problem immediately, and I was able to fix it right away. No muss, no fuss! That is teh RoXor!
Oh be quiet. It's all new to me!
----
* Technically, it set the ExecuteMode of the insert query of my dataset from scalar, which returns the ID key of the record just created, to non-query, which just returns 1 (which stands for "true" or, "that worked", I think), which promptly broke the clean-up code right next to it. But you knew that already, eh?
Well, this week at any rate. I learned design patterns are sometimes tricky, most likely always useful, and too complex to cover in a week. I also realized I'm the proud owner of a first print edition of the original Gang of Four book. I got to page 28 in 1996 (the mark was still there) when my head 'asploded and I put it down. I can now read it, and even understand most of the fiddly bits.
I learned test driven development is a far more automated (and therefore easier and more efficient) version of what I'd been doing all along. Which I suppose means I'm not quite the coding hick I always thought myself to be. Oh, and NUnit rox!
I also learned that by not learning any Javascript or Ajax development techniques, I'd been doing application layers the entire time. My Model may have had gluey fingerprints all over it, my View was most definitely cracked, and my Presentation may have wobbled dangerously and made scary noises, but they were there.
On the way up to NY I also learned that 10000 years from now, Mark will be unfrozen because it'll say on the outside of his cryo container, "KNOWS COBOL."
So my family came to visit and steal Olivia for a week. At this visit, my sister decided to bring 'ear cones' to clean out our ears with. Now, I'm skeptical of it. I look in cat ears all the time. I don't see profuse amounts of wax. Well, they are rather dirty, but not 'OH MY GOD!!! WTF GROWING IN THERE?!?' dirty.
Needless to say, it was an interesting experience having a cone stuck in your ear, lit with a huge flame spewing from the top and then 'smoking' to create a soothing vacuum. Note the word "soothing."
How did I feel? Good. My eardrums were warm, and today I feel pretty good. Would I do it again? Sure why not? Maybe next time it will suck my brain out.
So today is the first day of the rest of my (programmer) life. I just now created my very first "for real" web project. Sorta feels like those first moments of a real mission after you've gone through a new shooter's training scenario. You know where all the buttons are and what they do, but dammit someone's shooting and which one fired the grenade again?!?
But hey, everyone has to start somewhere. I'm starting here. It should be fun to see where it all leads.
That sound you're hearing is my head, ringing like a bell that's been given a bloody great whack with a fifteen pound sledge. We just covered "design by interface," which, from the comments, is quite familiar to at least some of you but was a concept I literally could not get my head around reading about it in books. I think I tried to teach myself Java and C# at least five times in ten years, and foundered every time on this concept. It would finally seem that, with the help of a harbor master, I have managed to steer clear of those rocks.
I now know what a nineteenth century shipwright must've felt the first time he ever saw a steamship under way.
So far, it's definitely worth the price. The instructor knows most of the people who created the language (C#) personally, and even made a few minor contributions himself. My lab partner is very smart but gets lost in different areas, and so far we're working together well. My aborted attempt to teach myself the language has stood me well... so far it's mostly a matter of remembering rather than learning. That will change, but hopefully I'll have much more confidence when it does.
I'm glad I have an hour to go soak my head.
I never intended to go to South America. I watch XUXA [shoo-sha, -- ed], and that Simpsons episode that caused such trouble. I even laughed! But do I want to meet any of those people? Even her? No! Do I plan to lay on the beaches of Rio? No. Do I want to see my husband in a speedo? Everyone with me... NO!
Which is all well and good. But then there is the lunch hour. Well, after you eat your (stinking, annoying, nowhere near enough, why-do-I-have-to-pay-attention-to-points-oh-yeah-that-swimsuit 5 point) lunch maybe 30 minutes. Quick now, this is a pop quiz...
What happens when you go into your regular salon for a quick bikini wax and your regular esthetictian* is out sick?
Today was a slow day at work. Like, "how many different ways can I talk my favorite assistant, Griffy, into stuffing himself into the dryer?" sort of day (short answer: 3). So, after the owner of the place showed up and got the vapors about OSHA violations and liability suits, I decided it was time for lunch. And, while I was at it, getting a bikini wax done.
Hey, it's called multi-tasking! What I did not expect was my normal salon girl to be absent. Instead, another young lady all the salon girls raved about was there. Hey a waxer is a waxer, right? (For once, when the men in the audience all chime up they're right when they shout) WRONG!
I asked for a routine bikini wax. What I got was something much... well... more...
Ok, thing is, it's so important to communicate with your waxer. Communication is the key. A key so important that it can literally mean life and death to the look of your kitty. And not the one that goes "meow."
I asked for a routine wax, which for me includes a nice area around which one can wear panties or a bathing suit around without embarrassing oneself at the pool or a dressing room. You know, the kind of wax that stops that "spiders crawling out of your panties" look.
The room is a pale shade of lavender. Ok, for you neandertal guys, think purple, but with white stuff mixed in.
New Age music is being piped in the surround sound speakers. Incense fills the air, and there is a small rock fountain babbling in the corner. This is the waxing room. This is the room in which you bear all of your shame, in the name of vanity.
The waxer spools out clean hospital paper across the table in front of you, lights some candles, even more incense, and instructs you to take everything off from the waist down.
To add to the ambiance of this humiliating procedure, you get a lavender scented eye pillow to cover your eyes and relax with while being tortured. I'm convinced that the pillow is there to shield your eyes from seeing the skin ripped off your body. You also get a towel across your chest to clutch (and scream into, if needed.)
Torquema--- rrrm, the esti, esta, estee... oh hell, the lady with the wax: "Hhhmmm...when was last time you wax?"
"Well... about 7 weeks ago, just like the last time." Then I suddenly remember she's not my regular girl. My regular girl is out of the country visiting family for the holidays. This is where I should've run out of the room. But no, laying there half-naked with my music, incense, and babbling brook, I wanted my bikini line done, dammit!
I heard a very professional "OK."
RRRIIIPPPPP!!!!
Holy shit! HOLY Shit!! Holyshitholyshitholyshit! HOLY SHIITIT!!!!
Times that by 20.
Next thing I remember, she's putting some cooling gel on and helping me up from the table.
"Your husband going to looooove this!" she cooed at me. "Men love this! My husband love it! You love it too! So nice! So clean!"
She reminded me of a commercial.
"Exercise even better! Much cleaner! Nice and soft!"
How about how it feels right now? How about how it looks?!? I have a baboon's ass on my crotch!
She hands me her card. "You see me in 6 week!!!" with a big smile on her face.
"You do these a lot don't you?"
"Oh yes! 90% clients want full bikini wax. You like it too! I promise!"
"What about men, do you get men?"
Her eyes immediately brightened up. "OH YES! Many many men! Everyone love it. Love it!"
Ok, everyone loves it. I get it.
I'm not so sure about me yet.
----
* Editor: "Ok, if the person who cuts your hair is your stylist, what is someone who does... well... that?"
The Gramma: "A sadist?"
Ellen: "An estha- esti- esthetician?"
The Gramma: "Sounds pretty sadistic to me."
Editor: "I'll take your word for it. Time for google."
So three weeks ago spam and viruses passing through the e-mail filter at work exploded, going from ~ 10,000 spam messages to ~ 200,000, per day, all at once. A week later I get a notice from our ISP that we've been reported as running an open relay. "Wha?!?" I said to myself. You see, a long time ago we really were running an open relay, and after many long hours and blown up e-mail configurations, I closed it. I've been damned careful about it ever since.
So I was flummoxed. I talked our ISP out of shutting us down, but was not at all sure what to do next. I regularly see various spamcop-like systems test our mail filter, and it always passes. A little more research revealed what was going on: because of the nature of our network, the filter accepts e-mail without checking to see if the address is valid. That's the job of the main mail server. If the main mail server thinks the address is bad, it sends a bounce message to the sender. It's supposed to do it. It's actually required to do it, by internet standards.
Which ended up being a loophole for spammers. It works like this: they send mail out to addresses on our network they know are bad, and fake the FROM address, which is the one they really want to reach. The mail server dutifully sends a bounce message to the person it thinks sent the message, and pow, some innocent person gets spammed and thinks it came from my network. Worse still, the filter has to process each one of these stupid messages, dragging performance down for the whole system.
By now whatever scumbag figured this out for our network had told all his friends, because our quite powerful filter was beginning to buckle under the load. Which is when I found this, a near-magical (and comparatively cheap) widget that lets the filter check if the address is good, and immediately reject the message if it's not.
When implemented, the filter went from a utilization of 4-7 (way overloaded) to a utilization of .86 (loafing along). I'm seeing thousands of messages being rejected because of this new widget. All of them representing scum-sucking spammer retards who were hijacking our stuff to send their messages.
Suck it, you bastards.
Hey, it's my blog, I talk about what I want :).
Shrrrrik
The smooth sound of metal skimming flesh.
Shhhrurk
Promises. After a long, hard week.
Shrrrrik
Looking at each other, across the ledge of the tub.
Shhhruk
Because she's sexy, in the water with a wine glass in her hand.
Shrrrrik
Because he's sexy, so concentrated, right before bed, with the razor, back and forth.
BONK BONK BONK... "MOMMAY!"
With a sideways glance at each other... barely noticeable in the shadows of flickering flame.
Shhrrrrruk... Shrrriick...
A razor, on legs, looking back and forth in the candle light.
BONK! BONK! BONK! "Mommay! Dadday! Can't find my binky!!!"
Suddenly the shot cuts, twice, eyes and eyes looking at each other, the light suddenly transforms into oh-so-economical compact florescent with a little bit of alarm as the doorknob across the hall turns, and a door opens.
The laugh track pauses, for effect...
"Daddy! Wha you doing?!?"
After what must've been the most pregnant pause in history, I was actually glad to say, and in all honesty, "daddy's just helping mommy shave her legs!" (no, really, I only heard the exclamation point in my head. I hope!)
"Daddy! I can' find my binky! I need help!"
Which is when the stage lights dropped off and the flourescents that knocked all the romance on its ass came up to full strength. What was a soap opera's near-climax suddenly became mom and dad getting ready for bed. With soap. And with a sideways glance, to be honest with more than a little bit of giggling...
"Okay, Olivia, daddy will help."
"Daddy! I think binky went that way!" Trott, trott, trott, back into her room.
Shhrrrrruk... Shrrriick...
The trick is not timing it. The trick is remembering it.
Because we'll be sure not to wake her up tomorrow night...
Shhrrrrrik... Shrrruck...
Now, the question you have to ask yourself is, "does she see what she's reaching for, or is she just feeling around?"
So, for the first time in five or six years, I'm going to try and teach myself a new computer language. Not just any computer language, but C# (pronounced "see-sharp"), Microsoft's answer to Java. Why not Java? Tried to teach myself that no fewer than three times in the past ten years, and have failed every time. I enjoy programming, but find it to sometimes be very hard. I just never did get Java.
Why not find training instead of books? What part of "non-profit" do you not understand? I've tried perhaps half a dozen times to get them to fund the 30-days and perhaps $8000 for formalized training, and they've hemmed and hawed their way out of it every time. Plus, if something's going to make me feel stupid I'd rather it be a book than a person. Eidetic memory and an ego the size of a small galaxy combines to limit the effectiveness of "classic" teaching on me. In other words, "it's a Scott thing, don't even try to understand."
So, while it's impossible to pry multi-thousand-dollar training out of this place, they're actually quite good about buying books. I'm now the proud owner of 2 C# books, one asp.net book, with a Visual Studio book on the way. The ultimate goal is to replace my creaking ColdFusion 4.5/Netscape Enterprise Server 3.0 app server with a gleaming chrome Win2k3/asp.net machine running the very latest in computer technologies.
Oh, that reminds me. The other advantage of 501c3 status is monstrous discounts on Microsoft products. We usually get 85-95% discounts on all their stuff. Which is why I'm also the proud recipient of a Visual Studio Pro (VSP) license. It costs God knows how much in the real world but set my workplace back about $200.
I'm on page 29 of the first book, Learning C# 2005, another "animal" book from O'Reilly. I just now spent an hour wrestling VSP back to its "default" configuration after I blew it up randomly clicking X's. The start of something great? Who knows.
I stand atop this bus proudly, howling in triumph and more than a little confusion. I'm hoping to learn to drive it, but could easily end up chasing my tail until I fall off.
Gotta tell you, feeling a little dizzy right now.
Specs for core multi-user database server, ca. April, 2000:
2 Pentium Xeon 550 mhz
63 GB disk space (RAID 5, 5x16 GB disks)
1 GB RAM
Estimated price: $25,000
Specs for cookie-cutter workstations, ca. September, 2006:
Dual-core pentium 2.8 Ghz
40 GB disk space (single disk)
1 GB RAM
Estimated price: $850
This comparison brought to you by my recent experimentation with VMware. I initially used the server because, well, it's a server dammit, it's supposed to be fast. It was only when I really thought about it that I realized the workstation I use for various tests was actually far more powerful
So now the old retired DB server is going to be turned into an SNMP monitor, and the workstation will become the VMware system until I can pry some $$$ out of upper management. Total cost so far: $0 (VMware server is a free product).
It's my website, I'll talk about what I want to talk about!
When your wife's fifteen years of vet tech experience give her the skills to re-wrap your Steed's handlebars on the first try like she'd done it all her life.
Hey, how was I to know it's just like wrapping a broken leg? I'd show you before and after pictures, but after a) 33 miles and 2 subesquent glasses of wine and b) your presumed, and quite reasonable, lack of interest in bicycling minutia, well, we sorta forgot. Suffice to say it looks orsm!
Happy anniversary to me!
Ellen, sitting on the floor this morning while I went over the alphabet with Olivia on the couch: "Oh wow! Dokken!"
Olivia: "Ayyy! Theyah it is daddy!"
Me: "What?"
Ellen: "It's the top ten videos of [UNDER CONTENTION]!"
Olivia: "Ayy daddy, ayy ritethere!"
Me: "Yes Olivia, that's an 'A'. Good job! 1980? Dokken wasn't 1980... 1980 was more like disco."
Ellen: "Ooh! Goonies! I had this on 45!"
Olivia: "Oooh! Horsie!" *sigh* "It'sSoCute!"
Me: "The Goonies were, like, 1985 or something."
Ellen: "Oh here's one for you, Kenny Loggins Highway to the Danger Zone"
Me: "Ok, your list is all wrong. I know that was 1986. Who are these guys?"
Ellen: "What?"
Me: "These guys claiming this was all in 1980."
Ellen: "No you moron, it's the top ten videos of the nineteen-eighties, not 1980. Gah! What, do you think I'm stupid?!? Of course this isn't just 1980!"
Olivia: "Yeah daddy!"
It's enought to make me almost want another kid, a boy, just to even the odds. Maybe I can adopt Nina's boyfriend or something. He even has his own bike!
So the saying goes. It has been quite a hectic 48 hours. Cancelled flights, being split into 2 airports, one getting to Vegas on time, one comming in 8 hours later.
Needless to say, we are here and making it to the conference!
This morning started off so well. I got up, walked the dog, got Starbucks, and was sitting down to start working away (no, really!) when I heard it. The dreaded, "Sweeeeeetie... come here and look at this." No good can come from that statement. It normally involves some sort of repair to our condo, some mess that I've left which now Must Be Cleaned, or something that's up with one of our menagerie. As you may well figure out, none of these qualify as a Very Good Thing.
So, being a dutiful husband, in I go. Amber's leaning over the bed (minds out of the gutters, pervs) looking at Garrison*, who is, oddly enough, just laying there. Those of you familiar with him will note that his "just laying somewhere" is not the normal state of affairs. So, as she's looking at him, he is pronounced to be Not Well**. Seeing as a diabetic kitty being Not Well is a Very Bad Thing, calls are immediately placed to Ellen and it's decided he must be seen immediately. Again, being dutiful and having the luxury of working out of my home office, I volunteer to drive him to the clinic. The only problem is that I have a conference call with my boss and his boss at the same time I'm supposed to be driving. Shouldn't be a problem, I think to myself.
So, off we go. I've got Garrison in his little kitty transport thingee, I've got all the notes I should need (not that I can refer to them when driving, but if the call runs long, I can continue to talk from the clinic), directions (damn HOV lanes), etc. Now, it should be known that Garrison isn't big on car rides. They annoy him. It should also be known that he's very vocal. Vocal to the point that people on the phone with us think we have a screaming child in the background (we don't). However, for now at least, he's being quiet. Then I dialed into the call. Every point I made, every time I agreed to something, everything I said was accompanied by a rather loud "mmmrrrroooowwww" in the background. Now, mind you, I did let my boss know what I was doing, but I don't think he expected that this was what I meant.
After siren kitty was dropped off, I ran on home, got settled in, and started to work. And then the phone rings.
"Ron?"
"Yes, Ellen?"
"I need Garrison's insulin."
"Huh?"
"His insulin. That stuff you have to inject into him twice a day?"
"Has that bird incident whacked you out?"
"WTF? Just bring me his damn insulin."
"okay."
So, back into the car I go and I drive the 30 or so miles to deliver his "extra special kitty formulated from the compassion of conservatives, the good sense of liberals, the wings of celestial beings, &c., which is why it costs so !@#$@!$%^ much" insulin. Then, I drive the whole way back home. Mind you, I've got reports and other things due for work and I've just spent roughly half my day driving this cat around town.
Diagnosis comes in - UTI, potential pancreatitus, probable other nastiness that I don't understand because I'm not a vet tech, that kinda thing. Give him certain drugs at certain times and he should be fine.
However, I get tapped to go pick him up so he won't have to spend too long in his kitty transport thingee. I drive over and Ellen starts explaining the kitty meds to me. It goes something like this:
"Now, he needs to get this at blah blah blah blah blah....."
"Ellen, I realize that this is what you do for a living, but you do realize that all I'm going to do is have Amber call you, don't you?"
"Yes, however, he gets blah blah blah blah blah..... opoid"
"wait. Morphine?
"No. An opoid."
"Morpine."
"No. And no, it won't get you stoned. Now listen. He get blah blah blah blah blah....."
After roughly 5 minutes of me politely nodding my head to stuff that I have zero chance of remembering, we pack things up. Garrison and the drugs (morphine) make it to the car and we start on our way home. He starts with his vocal-ness. I turn up the radio. And apparently, since this makes his annoying-ness go down, he decides to up the ante.
He pees in my car.
To be more accurate, he pees in my Company Car.
Mind you, I hate this car. It's a Ford Taurus, quite possibly the blandest designed piece of crap ever made. It's spent fully 10% of the time I've had it at the mechanic - and it still doesn't work right. However, I have to drive people around in this thing occasionally. And the cat has peed in it.
Welcome to the world of cat gratitude.
-----**PSA - anytime a cat has a marked change in behavior and appears sick, take them immediately to a vet. Apparently, cats are asymptomatic (show no signs of being sick until it's Very Bad), so when they act sick, they're already in trouble.
Cat gotta puke,
Bird gotta fly,
Drop a cordless phone in a fish tank,
And it f-ing dies.
Fortunately we'd both had enough wine by that point we thought it was funny. Well, I did anyway.
Where a black cat waited silently to plot out Santa's demise...
I swear you think no one loved this child! More pixes will be coming tomorrow!
A Ball Python!
Every morning I do "pet rounds." Pet rounds includes: feeding, changing boxes, brushing, handling etc...
This morning was different. Something was amiss. My hermit crabs were missing. Not dead, not deceased, not "ex-crabs", but flat missing. My new hermit crabs, in their expensive "hermitat". NO CRABS! S*%T!
So the search begins. Bookshelves were checked. Nothing. Shoes were checked. Nada. Then I hear Scott tapping up the walkway in his bike "stilettos." [Road bike shoes. They have cleats. You're not supposed to walk in them. Is it my fault walking in them is like walking in backward high heels? Chicks are weird. -Ed.]
Me:"Hi!" *scaring Scott at the door in the process* "Guess what happened?!?"
Scott, with the deep sigh of one long used to living in the "land of the misfit pets": "Who died?"
Me: "Err... no one. My hermit crabs are gone!"
Scott: *blink, blink* "Okay... have you checked the washroom?"
Eureeka! The washroom! No... damn! No crabs there.
Then I see Magrat sitting in front of the coat closet. "YeerRRAwOOww!! BrrYarrow!!!"
Me: "WOOHOO! Mags! The closet!" As I opened the door, I saw a seashell suddenly tuck down and wobble still. Like a quarter "wop-wop-wob-wob-wobwobing." You could almost hear this tiny voice peeping, "Crabs? No, no crabs here, just us seashells! Just us quiet, still, unassuming seashells... ah, crap, frikken cat!" One down, one to go.
Three hours later...
Scott: "Find your other crab yet?"
Me: "Nope. Magrat is not doing her job. She's being lazy, watching birds in the window again. I'll have to check late tonight when they're active and see if he comes out."
An hour later and I'm hanging my purse on the coat rack and happen to look down. Again, suddenly I'm confronted with what, on the beach, would be the ultimate in stealth craft, a simple empty seashell. But nature never equipped hermit crabs for tile floors. If they did, the little buggers would look like self-propelled beer cans or something. As it stands, I was once more looking at something desperately trying to become part of the scenery. "This is Not the Crab You Are Looking for," I swear I could see a tiny claw extending out of his shell, waving vaguely in the air, "You Can Go About Your Business. Move Along, Move Along."
Me: "HERMIE!"
The tank has gone from a minimum security dormitory to a maximum security prison. No unscreened air holes. No unmasked power cords (for lights, heaters, etc.) No ladders, and all spoons have been taken from the crabs to ensure they cannot dig their way out.
Anyone who thinks crabs are dumb has never owned one. I'm half tempted to put a combo lock on their door, but since they have nothing else to do, I'd not be at all surprised to find they'd figured the combination some day. Better to simply overpower the problem.
Now to find some bricks for the lid...
We made it to the beach! And the beach is a hit! Sand tickles ("teekoos!") and feels funny ("fee funny!"). Waves are amazing and beautiful ("byoo'ee'ful!").
Can you tell Olivia is having fun?
The hotel is cool. 3 pools, 1 with a bridge over it and an indoor one with a cove complete with waterfalls. There's even a basketball-sized leopard spotted tortise named Tonka who lives here. She just walks about the main lobby and hits up tourists for a pat on the head and some money.
At some point this evening, we're pretty sure someone got sucked under the waves and out to sea. The rescue crews are still out there looking. 3 boats, 1 jetski, 1 helicopter, 1 beach truck, 3 cop cars and a slew of people have been going back and forth on the beach for the past 3 hours. Hopefully they'll find whoever is missing. Of course this happens after the lifeguards leave.
We'll keep you posted on the beach fun. It's windy, but what do you expect with a hurricane out in the Atlantic?
Pixes will be posted tomorrow sometime.
*Ring Ring*... The phone rings at 9:30 P.M. No one calls us after 8. They all know better.
Mama [aka "momma smurf", aka Scott's mom, the recently retired critical care nurse]: "I just wanted to call you to tell you that I am leaving tonight" [ah jus wanned ta tell yoo thah ahm leavin tanaht] "to go to..." life is all a blur, I can't believe what this woman who watches CNN all day and was looking forward to lazy days bugging us for Olivia pictures is telling me... "help the refugees from Louisiana who've been placed in Texas. I cannot believe no one is helping and they need medical personel so I am going." ["so ah ahm goin'!" .. it works better when you can actually hear the accent.]
Me: "You're WHAT?"
Mama: "I just wanted to let you know so if you didn't see me comment on the website, you'd know where I was."
Me: "What about your cats? Do you have a cell phone?"
Mama: "The cats have the sitter and no I don't have a cell. I haven't figured how to turn it on yet." [laughing]
Me: "Well, ya gotta do what you want to do. Glad you're getting out to help."
Mama: "All right! I'll call you whenever I get back, I get picked up in a half hour." HALF HOUR!?! What, did she make this decision tonight?!?
Me: "OK! Good luck!" [click] "Scoooooooottt!"
Scott: "Who the hell was on the phone at 9:30?"
Me: "Your mom, you won't belive what she is doing..."
Good Luck Mama! We know you'll make a difference! Be careful!
Giving your fitness-loon wife, who has not worked out seriously in at least a six weeks, your heart rate monitor, and then listening to it bitch at her for not working hard enough throughout her ENTIRE 1 HOUR ROUTINE. Remembering all the while that the damned thing bitches YOU out for working too hard 15 minutes after you head out.
Youth really is wasted on the young, I tell ya.
Update: Ok, so maybe not the entire workout. Can hear "Betty" (Bitchin' Betty... Air Force wannabes like me will understand) griping her out for working too hard now. After I went upstairs and said "harder! Go faster!" Grr....
Tour de Herndon "all-carbon" bicycle: $1899
"Ballerina" titanium-spindled pedals: $250
"Wow, do chicks really feel like this in high heels?!?" biking shoes: $40
Watching your husband toodle around on his space-age bike in clothes people get arrested on COPS in: priceless
What happens when your wife's association decides to re-do their three-year-old website?
Rice-boys take note. Your "looks-like-it-came-from-a-salvage-yard" hood is no match for an entire bike made out of carbon fiber.
Burning chrome
Why yes, as a matter of fact, it is 2005 Ultegra, and thank you for asking!
Easily the most surreal part of the ride. My Cypress's handlebars were completely out of view. This thing is like steering a ram back and forth. A really light, really twitchy, really fast ram. Lord only knows what the pure racing versions are like.
Special thanks to VALVT, without whose support this project would literally be impossible.
So let's say, just hypothetically, that you really, really want to knock one of your co-workers on their ass as they blow by you in the hall. Not kill, not maim, just body-block them solid enough to bounce them on their butt at least twice.
Is that bad karma?
I'm just wondering...
Oh-and she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind...
"I want a snake. I want this snake."
Ellen promptly plonked her computer on my lap, wherein I was confronted with a very large picture of a very small snake. Something red and black and (by the text) non-poisonous. Can't remember what it was exactly, because...
"What the?!? You hate snakes!"
"But look at this one! He's so cute! He'd be just perfect for a tribal belly dance routine I've been thinking about!"
"You hate snakes! You scared everyone stupid at the aquarium because you backed into a snake exhibit and screamed like a chimp on helium. Remember the trash can incident?"
And this is where they cue the wavy lines...
The only real weakness of my bike was the tires it came with. They were, to be blunt, crap, getting punctures and blowing out just by driving past sharp gravel. While it's possible to patch inner tubes, it's simpler to just replace them and be done with it. Which I was doing for the third time that month.
Since it was the day before trash day, after I tossed the old tube I decided to be a really thoughtful husband-type and take the big wheeled trash can out to the curb. It was mostly empty anyway, since we hadn't put any of the regular garbage in it yet. So out the garage door it went, into the setting sun of a standard late-summer suburban afternoon.
"Trash taken out?" she asked as I walked upstairs.
"Yup. Want me to put the kitchen garbage in it?"
"Nah, I'll do that. It's your turn to wash Olivia." We take turns at our house, alternating between cooking duties and child-washing/bedding. So while Ellen gathered up the kitchen trash bag and a few boxes to be thrown out, I started to play "chase the baby", a well-known pre-bath ritual.
As I lifted the now completely "caught" baby for the trip upstairs, I looked out the window just as Ellen lifted the lid off the trash can outside. It was at that moment, and I swear only at that moment, that I remembered something.
The inner tube I'd thrown away bore an amusing and rather convincing resemblance to a snake. A really big snake too.
She spotted the thing in mid-toss. Suddenly the trash bag went from travelling in a nice, lazy arc to a hard underthrow, sailing impressively out into the street. Time seemed to suddenly slow down as boxes held in the other hand bounced off the car parked in the driveway three feet away. She must've jumped up and backward one, maybe two feet into the air, landing square on her butt, scrabbling in a reverse spider crawl that carried her all the way to the flower bed, a good ten feet from the curb. Miraculously, there was no scream, just a faint, desperate "shi-!! shi-!! shi-!!", barely audible through the open window.
At this point I was laughing so hard I had to put the baby down. But only for a moment, since I knew "in trouble" would be a minor description of what I was in after Ellen cautiously crept up commando-like to the trash can and peered inside. Time to wash the baby.
Luckily by the time she'd gathered everything up, dropped it in the can, and came back upstairs she'd calmed down quite a bit. It also helped to have a cute baby very close by. I mean, if you can keep from smiling when Olivia plays "splash splash!" with a huge grin on her face, you're just not human.
So the voice that came over my shoulder was more sardonic than enraged. "Had a flat tire yesterday?" she asked.
Without turning around, I said, "oh yeah, sure did. Changed it just before I came upstairs." Well, no cast-iron skillet to the head yet. "Heh... it's funny, you know, that inner tube actually sorta looked like a--"
Which was right about the time she shoved me into the tub. Olivia thought this was extremely neat, and clapped enthusiastically.
And that, my friends is how daddy learned to fold the inner tubes up and put them in a bag before throwing them away.
And this is where they cue the wavy lines again...
"But this is a little snake. Not scary at all."
"No snakes."
"Awww... c'mon... just a tiny one?"
"No snakes. Your mom would have a heart attack. My mom would have a stroke. You've been terrified of these things for as long as I've known you!"
*Pout* "You're no fun at all. Nobody would be scared of this little thing. Well," and here she got an evil grin, "maybe my mom would."
"No. Snakes."
*POUT!* "Fine." Dramatic pause. "What about a chameleon?"
She is frequently kind
And she’s suddenly cruel
She can do as she pleases
She’s nobody’s fool
But she can’t be convicted
She’s earned her degree
And the most she will do
Is throw shadows at you
But she’s always a woman to me
So, for a very early birthday present I got myself some "clipless" pedals for the bike. In spite of their name, clipless pedals actually involve a very strong clip... the pedal is usually very small, and the (extremely stiff) shoe has some sort of cleat just under the front of the foot. You snap one into the other, and now your foot is mechanically joined to the bike. The result is a very efficient and light system that transfers something like 99% of your leg's force to the rear wheels. Mine are Speedplay X1's, bought used off e-bay. I like them a lot.
But that's not the point of this story.
You see, now that I had these flash clipless pedals, I had a spare set of "toe-clips". For those who don't know, toe clip pedals have a plastic-and-cloth "basket" that fits around the front of the foot. The point is to make sure your foot stays in the optimum place, and you can pull up as well as push down while pedaling. Since Ellen's bike had simple platform pedals, deciding what to do with my old toe clips was pretty simple.
Me: "Ok, now, this'll be pretty different. It's not like when you hopped up and down like mad on your bike when you were 11. You have to be careful with these."
Ellen, very seriously: "Careful. Ok, gotcha."
Some careful adjustments were made around Ellen's not-really-appropriate running shoes (that's a "tomorrow" goal... proper redneck bicycle shoes*) to make sure things fit properly. Me: "Now, what I want you to do is put the kickstand up and pedal backward, one foot at a time. Practice putting your foot in and taking it out."
Ellen, after a minute of enthusiastic cranking: "But what do I do with the other foot?"
"Practice one at a time, just get used to how it feels."
So into the garage I went to put on my flash (and 40% off!) bicycle shoes, leaving Ellen just outside the open garage door on the driveway to practice. Just as I started to fit the first one on, I heard this long, shambling sound, like someone dropping a sack full of tennis balls. Ellen had gone down.
Me: "You ok?!?"
Ellen, sheepishly: "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You're sure? I can take them off if you want..."
"No, no, I'm fine, just a few scrapes."
"Ok... sure?!?"
"Yes goddammit... what am I, some sort of retard?!? Do you want to ride or don't you?!?" (Welcome to my world -- Scott)
"Well, ok then. Ready? Let's go..."
So off we went to pick up Olivia from daycare for a nice family ride. But Ellen's fall sort of made me, well, itch a little, mentally I mean. I knew she was fine, but I'd had the same adjustment period with those toe clips and hadn't fallen. I'd even made the transition to clipless, which everyone says puts you on your ass, and still hadn't fallen. Anyone who's watched me shamble across a level floor knows I have the co-ordination of a stoned walrus. Ellen's a trained dancer fergodsake. Which is when I thought of something, halfway down the trail.
Me: "Ellen... did you try to pedal backwards on both pedals?"
Ellen: "..."
Olivia, from her bombadier seat: "DOG-EE!! DOG-EE!! DOG-EE!!"
Ellen: "Yes, doggy baby! There's the doggy!"
Me, smelling blood: "Ellen?!?"
Ellen, just barely audible over the ratchet-click of the bikes: "maybe..."
And that, dear friends, is how Ellen got her sign.
-----
* Running shoes suck ass because they have such squishy soles. Squishy is good when you're running, but when you want to transfer maximum force, something with a narrow, stiff, flat sole is ideal. A trip to che-Target is therefore in order to get The Empress a cheap pair of classic tennis shoes, who's flat-soled design is gauranteed to provide many miles of toe-clip goodness.
Hooray! After three years of trying, we have finally received our first hate letter! You'd think after all these fart jokes and right wing lunacy we'd have legions of loons beating down our door. Not so! We were quite disappointed, quite disappointed indeed, at the utter lack of frothing hate mail. I mean, there was that incident last year, but they were too weird to really have any fun with. This, though, this is a different matter entirely...
Idea lifted from IMAO, but Nina gets a no-prize for helping us with the mad-lib.
Oh yeah, that's our innovation. Items in italics have been mad-libbed with the gracious help of Ellen's sister, mostly to improve comprehension. No, really!
dude what the monkey are you trying to say with all this stupid zombie door knob, and whats up with you talking all this jacket, you sound like some kind of pathetic fire eating midget/secretary with absolutly [sic] nothing butter [sic] to do with your time. you suck bro, i bet you are one seriously lame computer arent you, come on now fess up you sad security blanket, have you ever had a nice quality piece of bear.........didnt think so anyway swipe you and anyone who looks like you, and a free piece of advise [sic] pal, get your little panties out of a wade [sic], and quit writting [sic] stupid jack on the internet, later robber
j, 24, king of it allone last tip- try this man, read some hunter s thompson material, listen to some Sublime, rent the movies natural born killers and almost famous, and chill your clipboard out, that is if you can manage to pull yourself away from online porn for one whole night...........engineer
you can thank me at [an address, although it came from a different one, go figure].......................librarian
Of course, we simply could not let this go...
Thank you for your letter! We here at AMCGLTD enjoy feedback and appreciate your response!However, we are a bit confused... are we talking with "jdythmpsn" (Judy Thompson?) or "jsh_whthd" (Josh Whitehead?) We'll just assume it's you Josh (can we call you Josh? Good.), because writing mail like this using your mom's AOL account is just, well, lame. We'll copy both addresses just in case.
We must say Josh, we found your correspondence quite amusing. It's not often we get to hear from the ricer white-boy wigger crowd. We're so glad you could take time off patrolling your 'hood at the food court to write us! We're not quite sure what butter has to do with anything, but we'll trust you on that. We also find your creative use of commas as an all-purpose punctuation mark quite innovative, although I must say we can't really imitate it, it just must be a talent of yours,
As to the quality of our "bear" Josh, well, we can only speculate your fascination with it must definitely be a sign of interest. Sorry though, we'll have to pass. It's quite commonly understood in pop-psych circles that misdirected rage in males is often inversely proportional to the size of their penis, which to us strongly indicates that, not to put too fine a point on it, your envy of the male mosquito's endowment must be rather hard to bear at times.
And we must thank you for your tips Josh! We had no idea people with a reading comprehension at the 4th grade level could even *spell* Hunter S. Thompson, let alone read him. While we have it on good authority Sublime is, well, dead, we would rather like to dedicate the last verse of Santeria to you, our newest fan. Consider it a heartfelt expression of our truest, deepest feelings.
Yours sincerely,
The editors at AMCGLTD
The next question will be, of course... will he write back? I'm betting yes, but I'm not doing too well with online poker right now (fake money mom, fake money). Any takers?
It is an amazing day when an old friend from high school finds you from your blog!
"I'll give you a dollar if you taste this."
According to my husband, I am the devil.
"I'll give you twenty bucks if you'll climb into that dryer and let me turn it on."
I am a mean, manipulative person who will make people cry. I talk people into doing stupid things for a buck. I think up dangerous stunts and then offer people money to do them. Sarcasm tends to be my first and middle name.
"Here... smell this. I'll give you a fiver."
I like it.
"This cat? Oh this cat's a sweety. I'll give you ten bucks if you deal with the pain in the butt client though." If they'd read my notes, which clearly say extremely aggressive cat, use welding gloves when handling, they wouldn't need to ask!
Do I plan to change? Fuck no.
"Ms. Doe's estimate was $300, but we had to do $1200 worth of work just to keep the cat alive. I'll give you a dollar if you make the call."
No really, I do offer people money to do stupid stuff. The amazing thing is, after all this time and all these pranks, they still take it!
Wanna dollar?
------
Editor's note: No cats were threatened, injured or killed in the composition of this essay. Medical staff and co-workers? Well, that's a different story...
Make sure you are offered more than $20 bucks before you attempt to shove yourself into the work dryer for a spin.
All I got out of it was a 5 inch bruise on my leg and NO money!
Amber: "My car is gone!"
Me: *looks around outside* "Really? I thought you parked in 'guests.'"
Amber: "MY. F*&ING. CAR. IS. GONE!"
Eight o'clock, our house, 18 degrees outside. Amber had parked right in front of my driveway so she could see "~Disco, disco tank~", chat for a bit, and [of course --Scott] use the potty. In the time it takes to... ok, well, girls don't shake that, but you get the idea... Henry's Towing STOLE her car. Complete with purse, phone, dresses for her wedding, desperately flashing hazards (you could almost hear the tiny "help MEEEE!!!" voice), and her emergency break on. She wasn't even parked for 10 minutes. So we know Henry's Towing was stalking yet again.
Mind you that she was parked right in front of my driveway, where there's NO firezone parking and my front door is less than 10 feet away. You'd think the big, mean, super-macho Discovery-channel wannabe pussy of a driver would knock and warn her. NOPE. SWIPE!
"No problem", I told her calmly, "I know where the tow company is. It'll be $90. Follow me." We call them "tow Nazis" around here. Through some dipwad "slow development, because we don't want the wrong sort of people here" regulation, the county ensured our complex would have precisely (it's actually in the handbook, I'm not making this up) .7 too few car spaces per household. In a calmer mood, we long ago understood towing must be enforced, otherwise "someone" ends up parking a metallic pink 1996 Ford escort with expired Carolina tags in a guest space for six weeks (again, not making this up).
Then you have the busy-bodies. You know, the "Desperate Housewives" crowd who live with their mother and literally have nothing better to do than whine about their neighbor's open garage (hello? figured it out yet? still not making it up). Doesn't matter if you're checking the mail. Doesn't matter if you're getting your groceries out. You turn the key off, see the shutters across the street move, and you know the clock is running. It's only a few, maybe ten, minutes until the Jaws theme starts playing quietly in the background, and tiny Hondas and Kias start desperately trying to escape the asphalt pool of our parking lot.
Being the naive first time home-owners we were, and therefore not well versed in the bloodsport that is parking enforcement around here, we'd long since had both cars towed, for typically asinine reasons- they failed to read my window with my parking tag and STILL refused to let me have my car before I paid the $90 fee, or our beautiful antique happened to not have the perfect sticker placement (hello, it's a convertible... there's no back F*&ING window here!)
So we drive all the way down to the end of the scary, dark, cold dirt road, to be confronted by...
Nothing. It was too cold for crickets to cheep. Not even serial killers would wander this road. We did see a dead cat, but the ground was frozen and we couldn't bury the poor thing [trust me, they probably tried --Scott]. It was one of those sitcom moments...
In the pitch dark, Amber, teeth chattering: "I-I-I-I th-th-thought my-my car w-w-w-would be here!"
Ellen: "S-s-s-so did I-I-I... those f-f-f-f*&ers!!! th-th-they moved on purpose!!! I-I-I'll go get the d-d-dead c-c-cat and w-w-we'll throw th-th-that thing through the--"
Amber: "No! Let's call the number first!"
Well, they were no longer there. So back to my house to get the number. Call, get addie and on our way, 10 miles in the other direction from the house.
We get there, just, just as her car is being backed up into the lot, hazards flashing sadly, e-brake balefully moaning its last. Amber goes to the window.
Amber: "Thats my car."
Lady at the barred window (yes, because people have tried to kill them before apparently): "$90 please."
Amber, motioning me to stop twirling the dead cat*: "I can't give you the money cause my F*&ing purse is in the car!!!!!"
The gate "whranks" open on its motor 4 inches. Amber gives a significant look at the lady. It buzzes open another 10, just enough (ha! see! Boobs aren't all they're cracked up to be are they?!?) to let her squeeze in for her purse and phone.
Amber pays her fee, very carefully going over the "we are not responsible for your car's damage or missing goods list" -which we question. The "Pinky-to-cage-lady's-Brain" driver, who had walked into the trailer's back door while Amber was talking, would not even come to the window to talk to two short, defenseless women (who had recently put down their deceased frozen feline missle... PUSSY!!!).
Meanwhile I'm looking around the lot. *BEWARE OF DOG!*, the sign says.
Me and my big mouth: "HEY!!! Close your gate! Your f*&ing fake ass dog is going to get out!" *big, charming grin* (I wanted to, you know, bark and drag my ass on the ground, but Amber was turning a really neat shade of blue at this point and was giving me the 'let's get out of here before that cat defrosts' hand motion.)
Amber and I leave in seperate cars.
Now here at AMCGLTD, we know that tow companies need to make money and they are doing their job. But when you DON'T see the tow company for nearly 6 months and one COLD night they just show up and snatch a car like a soccer mom going after the next big Christmas toy, it just goes to show you they were stalking.
And we don't appreciate stalkers, do we Mr. Icy-Popscicle-Kitty... no we don't, no we don't.
-----
* Ok ok ok, we didn't actually take the poor thing all the way to the tow company. But trust me, if our curses come true, that lady's trailer is going to smell like the inside of a six-day-old litterbox for eternity. Cat ghosts got power. We actually gave the poor critter a stone burial, carefully marking the spot for spring so we may dig up his bones and complete the curse by throwing them at the window.
Ok, we won't actually throw them. Because that would be, you know, illegal and stuff. Damned lawyers.
Another actual conversation:
Ellen, passing by as I watch an uber-cool documentary about a modern artillery competition*: "Ok, tell me again why they're shooting 105mm howitzers at station wagons?"
Scott: "..."
Ellen: "Because they can isn't an answer!"
Scott: "!!!"
Well, maybe I'll catch Olivia soon enough she'll understand.
No, I'm not holding my breath either.
-----
* A documentary about the Camp Grayling Black Powder Artillery contest (note: google cached because for whatever reason the original is unavailable). I love Tivo suggestions!
Actual phone conversation heard just now:
"Hey. Is Amber there? ... Well where is she?!? ... oh ... well, tell her to call me back ... I wanted to ask her what color I think I look good in ... Ok? Thanks..."
The best part is, she still doesn't get it. I have a feeling most women reading this still don't.
Oh. My. God.
Guest author Nina Hichak (aka- my sister) takes us on her journey of what life is like being in a real band trying to make it in the real world. For most people out there, you think one day a music company finds you out of the blue and suddenly you are famous. What you never get to hear is what the band goes through to get discovered.
We played at the University of New Hampshire last night, to all seven people who were in attendance (most of whom were on the radio station committee who put on the show). I still had a great time, and of course we still played as if the place was packed. It was the first snow fall of the year, and it came as no surprise that we found ourselves going to New Hampshire. The drive up wasn't so bad, but then again, we were stuck in traffic for awhile, so there wasn't much of a chance for the roads to really accumulate any snow. The roads got progressively worse as the night went on though, and by the time we left campus, there was a good inch of sludge for us to trek home through.
But let's not jump ahead of ourselves.
We were late getting to the show for a number of reasons,which created a bit of tension amongst everyone in the band. I had actually been a little disappointed that the car ride was only going to last around an hour, because we always find some way to make the trip entertaining, but we somehow made it last close to three. It was shitty outside, we had a ton of equipment in the back, four lives in the van...we weren't going to speed. So, Guy told us stories from when he was in Garrison, and gave us a bunch of tips on "how to survive on tour." Of course nothing that will come in handy for me, but if any guys out there want some advice on peeing in water bottles, come see me.
Music was limited (Jordan's van has no CD player, only a radio, and a tape deck, which works when it wants to). One of the only stations that came in, we managed to catch right around reggae hour. Jordan loved it. The rest of us were more concerned about huddling under blankets trying to keep warm. (The van also has no heat...or limited amounts of heat).
I was glad that Guy was able to come in the van with us, considering it's the last time we'll really be traveling anywhere far with him. Sadly enough, the last time he'll be playing with us is on Wednesday. No one wants to face the truth, but by recognizing it, I'm preparing myself for what's to come. It certainly won't be the same without him behind the kit, but it's something that will take time getting used to. As we try out new drummers, everyone just needs to keep telling themselves that no one is going to be as good as Guy. That's just something we have to realize. It's not right for us to compare anyone's playing skills to Guy's. We're going to want to, but it wouldn't be fair to put someone on a pedestal like that. It will take some time...That's all I'm saying.
So, the show went well. The two acts who were on before us both consisted of acoustic guitars, bass players, and a vocalist. I stayed to watch a couple of their songs, but was more concerned with what the handful of audience members were going to think once we took the stage. Here we are, with our two keyboards, a mini moog, a laptop (for samples), a drum set, a guitarist, a bass player, two vocalists...How the hell did we get ourselves onto this bill?
Regardless of the situation, it was great to be out of the rehearsal space and back on stage. Brendan and Ed always take on the responsibility of entertaining the crowd as much as possible during our set, and last night was no exception. There happenned to be a push cart lying around for equipment, and they chose to make use of it during our set. I'm sure there are pictures floating around somewhere. I recognized a couple of people who came out at Ralph's as well, so it was nice that they made the trip up from Boston. The people who were there seemed to enjoy us, but then again, it's sort of hard to judge in situations like this. I always wonder what they must think though once they see us up there. "Well, everyone in the band looks about middle-aged, except for that chick playing on the keys. She's gotta be like, 15." Of course I highly doubt it's that bad, but it could be.
We were the last band to play, so we just loaded all of our equipment back into the van, and made the trek home to Boston. We were going around 20 mph for the majority of the ride (or at least it felt as if we were) trying to survive the wintry mix that placed itself upon the New England area. It sucked. I noticed there was a draft that was coming through the windows, and tried to prevent it from coming in with the use of some towels. Frank decided to come in the van with us, so Guy and I didn't have much room to sprawl ourselves out and go to sleep, but it was nice having an extra person only because the warmth of everyone's bodies seemed to keep us all relatively warm. I managed to pass out for awhile, waking up every time the light was turned on to glance at directions, or the window was rolled down to pay a toll. But hey, I got some sleep in.
By the time we loaded everything back into the space, it was somewhere around 430 AM. Needless to say, everyone was exhausted. Jordan's van managed to get stuck in the snow as we were trying to turn, but with Brendan pushing it from behind, it got going again. Not many of the roads were plowed, but then again, who was expecting this to happen?
I woke up around 8 today, God only knows why. But it worked out nicely since I had gotten free tickets from Atlantic Records for the Planes Mistaken for Stars / Alexisonfire / Hot Water Music / Moments in Grace show at the Middle East. It was a pretty decent show. I had tickets for Helmet tonight as well, but didn't think I could handle being at a show for the majority of the day. After all, I do have to get school work done. Tomorrow Guy and I are going to check out Hot Snakes, which should also be a good show. We'll see. For now, I need to get back to sleep.
This drum originally said "Garrison fucking rocks" but since we had to use this kit to actually play a show with, we had to change the message. Here's what we came up with (I think it describes the Campaign perfectly):
Listen to some tracks here.
Ron, one of our victims fuse holders blog-sitters during our summer vacation, had a rather... intense... home invasion experience. Which sounds pretty ominous, until you realize the invader was small, brown, and furry. Can seven "riding the short-bus" cats defeat a creature with a brain the size of a thimble? Can two college educated, otherwise reasonably well adjusted* people stop them in time? Will Ron ever get to play Halo 2? Read on to find out.
----
* Well, aside from the compulsion to paint everything blue and silver. But we don't talk about that in public. Much.
The Great Mouse Chronicles, part the fourth
(Defective cats)
Well, it’s winter. And that means it’s cold outside. Which also means that, if you’re an outside animal, you want to be warm. And, well, mice are outside animals.
So, Amber and I are happily sitting on the couch. She’s watching TV and I’m reading my official Halo2 ™ manual. Life was good – and then Amber sort of jump/squealed. She doesn’t do this too often, just when something scares her. Then, she grabs my arm – dislodging the official Halo2 ™ manual – which is what actually got my attention. I look down the hall. Uma, our resident obese kitty, looks down the hall. Bogey, our other resident obese kitty looks down the hall. Yoda, our inert kitty, ignores everything. We all see it – another little brown mouse with big black eyes, stealthily attempting to move down the hall. Unbeknownst to it, many a predator is watching…
This little scene continues for about 30 seconds or so. Then, Bogey slips off the edge of the couch (and by slips, I mean this orangeish-tan mass of fat kitty thumps onto the floor) and trots down the hall, belly swinging from side to side. Amber is rather quick to follow – something about being squeamish when mice become food. The mouse darts into the bedroom, where there are 4 cats just hanging out.
As has been our general modus operandi, we decide to try and catch the little bugger and set it free. Now, driving the sense of urgency on this is the fact that our best man and his bride our on their way here from Cleveland and should be arriving any moment. After arming ourselves with a large plastic cup and a wet dishtowel (no, I don’t know why it was wet), we proceed to stalk the mouse. It’s trapped under some dressing table-like piece of furniture. The basic problem here is that this furniture has space between it and the ground, so we can’t wedge it against the wall and catch it that way – we have to scare it and try to trap it while it’s on the run. Like the true hunters we are, we employ our combined 10 years of college and decide to put one of us on the first route out, the other on the second. We spook the mouse one way and it runs and tries to get out until it sees the other of us. Then it runs back. And we spook it the other way, it sees one of us, and it runs back. After about 5 minutes of this, it decides to run up the back of the nightstand or whatever it is, and across the top of the table. Now, normally, this’d be a good sign. The top is flat, exposed, and there isn’t anything in the way to grab the little bastard. However, this isn’t normal. This is our house. So, there are my glasses, a ring holder thingee (also glass), and many, many other things in the way. We chase the mouse and it just goes back to the floor behind the nightstand (I’m just calling it that from here on out). So, after about three more attempts at this scenario, I get the bright idea (6 of the years of college are paying off…) to clear the top of the nightstand. Murphy being the ass that he is, this means the mouse never ever went to the top again. Go figure.
So, we attempt to corner it again. What we actually do is chase it out into the main room. It bounces (multiple times) off the mirrored closet doors (yes, the closet doors are mirrored. Yes, that can make for fun during certain moments. No, this is not one of the moments. Perv.). Finally, Stinky, a not quite obese cat, notices the mouse – a fun, furry, moving cat toy. And she gives chase. So, the scene is now Amber yelling at Stinky to stop chasing her natural food, Stinky happily ignoring her while chasing the mouse, a mouse running for its dear life, and me chasing the cat. Kippers, the orange tabby with socks, decides to get into the chase as well. This should bode well for being able to corner the bastard, but please remember, our cats are broken. They chase the mouse under the bed. Amber dives to the ground, cup in hand, on the other side of the bed. The mouse comes flying out, hits her hand, and gets serious air. Of course, this gets the massive squeal coupled with the “ohmygodohmygod” sound, followed by hyperventilation and laughter.
At this point, I’m plain amused. This is starting to get fun and has all the precursors of another mouse trapped in the shoe incident.
So, after chasing the bastard out from other pieces of furniture, it gets cornered back under the nightstand again. Amber is lying on the floor, looking under the nightstand trying to spot it. We spook it and out it comes. Right at her face. From my viewpoint, it looks like it runs smack-dab into her face and turns right. Again, very amusing. Amusing to the point where I stop trying to catch it and start cheering it on (note to self: Cheer the mouse on inside your head. This is something to think about, not to say…). All of us (two cats and two intelligent people. Well, we thought we were intelligent, at least.) start the chase again.
Then the mouse sprints for the bathroom – a great thing because there aren’t that many places to hide there. We all rush in, just in time to see the tail disappear into a small hole between the side of our tub and the drywall.
So, in spite of 10 years of college, 4 cats efforts, and several chase scenes worthy of any bloopers reel, it got away. Into the wall. Where it will likely re-emerge at a later time and the whole scene will start all over again.
Kinda like Groundhog Day, don’t ya think?
Ya know, now that I have read this, one of my coworkers mentioned this peculiar "smell" comming from his housemates room.
Scary!
The Weapon:
Note the distinctive scallops in the blade, designed to ensure it doesn't drag when cutting meat.
The Results:
Note the clean quality of the cut. Just before I thwacked him with the above illustrated Franken-hand, my husband-thing said "damned right. Paid good money for that. Told you honing made a difference!"
(Sorry for the pix quality... Scott said it really didn't need to be that focused)
I spent 2 hours in the ER this morning. 6 A.M to 8 A.M to be exact. I have 2 sets of stiches. One set inside, one set outside.
Everyone at the ER was shocked to see a bright cheerful person come bounding in at 6 in the morning saying, in a sing-song voice, "Hi!!! I cut my finger real bad. I think I need stitches." *note blood running down the arm, soaking my dishcloth and gauze-covered finger.* [Scott: "you were cheerful? With your finger half cut off? Do you save cheerful up in a tank somewhere and just let it out for strangers?!?" ... Silly husband, happiness is for other people, I'm not going to waste it on you...]
Lidocaine hurts... it hurts bad. Especially when the doctor jams it into your wound. "Ya know (aaaAAAGGGGG!!!) You can add a bit of sodium bicarb to take (JESUS F-ING CHRIST!!!) the sting out."
ME: *big grin while trying not to pass out...*
"Lemme guess, you're a vet tech."
No shit Sherlock. I was wearing my scrubs.
"Most of my girls on the floor are former vet techs, they're all smart-asses, but the best nurses I've worked with. They don't let you get away with anything."(sly grin from the doctor) *stitch stitch stitch. flinch flinch flinch*
Nurse, in a characteristic head side-to-side move: "Girl, you almost cut your finger off, really."
NOOOOOOOOO!!!!! I thought it was a minor flesh wound. You know, like that black knight in Grail. Hell, I even spurted blood. How's that for fidelity?
Within 10 minutes* my finger was back together and I went walking out the door, ready to get Scott, O and head to work.
Tonight typing just sucks. But those pain meds... woo hoo! Those pain meds... almost makes it worth it.
Almost
--------
* For the whole procedure, mind you. The lead up, though, is an hour of waiting with people looking at you in a puzzled way while you're doing a punctured V8 imitation and making the janitors twitch
"Could you go get some cat food for the cats and some chicken nuggets for Olivia?"
From such innocent beginnings is the first link in a chain of Unintended Consequences formed. Sometimes you leave quickly and arrive only to find lint in your pockets. Sometimes you find old receipts. Sometimes, well, sometimes you find a whole lot more.
Ok, so this weekend was in-law weekend. Our "Queen Mother" (a.k.a. Ellen's mom) visited us, what, maybe once a year for the first seven years we were together, but add a grandchild (no, no, you see, you have it wrong, she's not our child, she's my grandchild) and you can almost set the calendar by the monthly visits. 16 months, 16 visits. And counting.
Now, I'll say up front that I get along pretty well with my in-laws. They certainly go the extra mile, as demonstrated by their helping my wife rip out the "think-of-it-as-really-weird-cat-litter" carpet (excuse me... "carpet") in our bottom-floor room. I put "carpet" in quotes because after two years of neurotic incontinent cats what was on the first floor was not a covering but was instead experimental proof that cat urine can in fact dissolve artificial fiber if "treated" often enough.
But, however grateful we are to our in-laws, it does not mean they create a stress-free environment. Which is why, even though we were happy to have a first floor room that was no longer actively attempting to peel the paint off the walls of the entire house, we were still just as happy to be doing the "Beverly Hillbillies" impersonation on our driveway. "Y'all come back now, ya hear?" Only, you know, whispered, in case they turn around.
So, it was time to relax. Being a guy, and therefore a rather simple creature, I decided the very best way to relax was to, well, have a little, rrm... "fun". Now, after nearly ten years of living with this particular member of the opposite species sex, I knew the best way to have "fun" was not to just hop down the stairs naked with a tragically placed towel... "look honey! I can lift weights!" is not a real impressive entrance when the reaction is a near epileptic siezure of laughter. No, instead one must be surprising, well-timed (after Olivia is down for a nap), and well-equipped.
Which was where the pockets came in. Guy shorts are great... since we don't really care what the hell we look like in them (we like lumpy), they can be far more utilitarian than their female "must curve here, must flatten here, must shape there" variety. In other words, without much effort I was able to stash an entire kit's worth of... "aides"... in my pockets. Including the one that didn't need a pocket, ya know.
Of course, as with all carefully-contrived male plans for intimacy, this one foundered on the rocks of female reality. "I'm so glad they helped us, but I'm so glad they're gone. My head feels like it's going to unscrew from my neck." Ok, note to the guys: allergy season + a visit from the 'rents = zero action. Zero. So there I sat on the couch, pockets stuffed full of carefully garnered "assistants", and no reason to use them. Must be what it feels like to get stood up at the prom.
In truth, though, it wasn't that much of a loss. The Giants had just scored against the Cowboys, and I was secretly jonesing for a way to get back at Ron, whose dedication to "America's Team" makes bin Laden's dedication to Islam look like a mere flirtation. Sure, it would be en-absentia, but he laughed at Our Redskins after their fourth turnover, in front of Us, and that Just Will not Do. Ok, only football fans will understand the whole "mojo-by-proxy" thing, but the point is being turned down at this juncture was both understandable and acceptable. Forgettable, even. Which is where it all sort of went, well, wrong.
"Could you go get some cat food for the cats and some chicken nuggets for Olivia?"
Two hours later. Not even being all husbandly by putting up the flag mount on the side of the garage was enough to make a difference in my chances (to unmarried people: having a spouse do something for their significant other without prompting is actually considered a valid form a foreplay. Trust me, this frightens us as much as it does you.) But hey, dealing with a hundred-odd square feet of petrified-cat-piss-cum-carpeting has gotta be worth something. "No problem." I said, and meant it. Check keys, check pockets, hop in the car and off we go.
It was only as I stood in the checkout lane that I realized something... one of the "assistants" I had carefully sequestered in my pockets was a very close analog, in both weight and shape, to my wallet. Which was sitting on the kitchen counter at home. With all my money and credit cards. I'd come all that way and spent all that time only to find my pockets stuffed full of misdemeanor sexual harassment objects. Something told me pullin
