The "Official Old Chix" are Scari, Lois, Patty, Chris, Terri, and me. We worked together for years and have managed to get together pretty regularly to eat, drink, and laugh...a lot. The laughing, not the drinking, okay well maybe the drinking too. What we really excel at is eating...which ends up being the cause for much hilarity about our ever expanding waistlines. We always blame the blubber on getting old but probably if we didn't eat quite so much...we might be a tiny bit tinier. But then what would we have to laugh about, except wrinkles, saggy boobage, gray hair, and husbands...better to eat.
We have two "Unofficial Old Chix" who are men...to be fair, they're kinda girly men, but appendagely speaking, they're men. Or so I've been told. Although now that I think of it, none of us "Officials" has personal knowledge of said appendages actually being present...at least not that anybody has confessed to.
Dr. Norman and Randy, who, in true Fuddian Fashion I always call "Wandy", are the "Unofficials".
Dr. Norman, was the first to come work with us. He had a wife and a son and in his former life was a bus driver. His wife was a little on the weird side. Somehow I got involved in trading books with her because we both liked to read. What I didn't know was that I was going to have to "discuss" said books. Weird Wife (hereafter referred to as WW) came to bring me a book or bring one back, I don't really remember, but she asked me about the book she had given me. I don't even remember what she asked, all I remember is her comment.
WW: "It made me feel all dark inside."
Me: Crickets...I have no response...I think I may have come up with "Oh".
I didn't know I was going to have to give a fucking book report when I agreed to this whole book exchange deal. I'm not looking for some hidden meaning in anything I read. I read purely for entertainment. Well sometimes I read if I want to learn about something, but that's kinda for entertainment too, since I'm doing it by choice, not because I have to. Anyway, the whole book exchange didn't really pan out.
Fortunately for us Old Chix, Dr. Norman wasn't nearly as weird as WW. He's still weird, but in a good way, not Twilight Zone weird.
Back in the day, we worked in the basement of an old government building. At one time it was an evacuation shelter and it had dorm rooms, showers, etc. Our little area had its own "break" room off to the side complete with a toilet in a closet. When you turned on the light, in the toilet closet,there was a huge exhaust fan that automatically started.
You could hear the exhaust fan back at our desks it was so loud, so imagine our surprise, mine and Scari's, when Dr. Norman went into the bathroom and we could hear him farting over the sound of the fan clear out in our office!!! Never in my life have I heard such a sound. And it lasted for-evvv-er...I'm pretty sure it was the longest fart in the history of mankind.
Scari & I looked at each other in bug eyed shock...
Me: "Do you think he knows we can hear him?"
Scari: "I don't think so."
Me: "You should tell him."
Scari: "I'm not gonna tell him, you tell him."
Me: "I can't tell him, you tell him." And so on, and so on...
Neither one of us had the guts to tell him that night. I don't know how we found out later that he just didn't care if we heard him or not. No big deal. And it wasn't, except to us.
Unlike men, who feel free to let loose whenever the urge hits them, most of us "women" have been trained from toddler age that it's not polite to fart in front of people. So instead of expelling a wee bit of methane infused rectal breath, we endure excruciating stomach cramps until we can finally get somewhere where nobody can hear or, God forbid, smell us farting.
But the incident did manage to confirm, without first hand knowledge of any appendage, that the good Dr. is a real man after all. No one but a man would be able to fart like that so unconcerned about anyone hearing him...I wish I could be more like that...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I wonder if Caitlyn Jenner farts like a man now or a woman???
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Saturday, December 5, 2015
The Cucumber Test
Someone sent me a cat video that showed cats being scared by cucumbers. When the cats were eating, they'd turn around and find a cucumber or two laying on the floor behind them. When they saw them, the cats would go straight up in the air...apparently scared out of their wits by a motionless cucumber. It was really funny and there were several different cats in the montage so it's not like it was just one cat who had a phobia about cucumbers being scared over and over. That would be kinda cruel to scare your cat over and over just for you own personal amusement...like putting tape on their feet to watch them walk around shaking each leg individually trying to get the tape off. Not that I've ever done anything like that...
So I was wondering if I could scare my cats, Wilson the Wonderful, Hudson the Horrible, and Lilli Mowbean just by putting a cucumber on the floor.
I set the stage...the kitchen floor...freshly swept of excess cat hair. The bait...stinky wet cat food...the kind they can't resist...all is ready.
Everybody has their back to me and each is intent on his/her plate of stinky fish parts. I surreptitiously walk past and place two cucumbers on the floor...and I wait...and I watch...and think "crap I should have had a camera ready"...too late.
As it turns out, I had plenty of time to get a camera because it took them fucking forever to eat the piddly little spoon of food I gave each of them. But who knew??
Finally after hours of waiting they turn around...one by one...Lilli was first...she didn't even look at the cucumber. Wilson was second...nada. I hope against hope that Horrible Hudson will reward my efforts as I wait an eternity for the little pig to finish his food...and Lilli's...and Wilson's. Finally he's done.
And it was all for naught. None of my cats even noticed the cucumbers laying on the floor. WTF???
How come my cats didn't get scared? They acted like it was a normal everyday occurrence to see cucumbers laying on the floor. I'm no Susie Homemaker but I really don't store cucumbers on the floor of the kitchen. I put them in the food rotting section of the refrigerator where they belong. You know that special little drawer where fresh fruits and vegetables turn liquid? Except for oranges and lemons. They turn into little orange and yellow rocks.
So my little experiment in cat frightening was a total failure. Maybe God was punishing me for intentionally trying to scare my cats. Maybe one of them has a weak heart or would have been severely injured trying to escape dangerous cucumber territory. Apparently I'll never know because MY cats don't seem to get scared like everybody else's stoopid cats.
So much for cat scaring experiments...guess I'll just have to see how long it takes the cucumbers to turn liquid...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. The Cool Cucumber Cats
Wilson the Wonderful
Lilli Mowbean
So I was wondering if I could scare my cats, Wilson the Wonderful, Hudson the Horrible, and Lilli Mowbean just by putting a cucumber on the floor.
I set the stage...the kitchen floor...freshly swept of excess cat hair. The bait...stinky wet cat food...the kind they can't resist...all is ready.
Everybody has their back to me and each is intent on his/her plate of stinky fish parts. I surreptitiously walk past and place two cucumbers on the floor...and I wait...and I watch...and think "crap I should have had a camera ready"...too late.
As it turns out, I had plenty of time to get a camera because it took them fucking forever to eat the piddly little spoon of food I gave each of them. But who knew??
Finally after hours of waiting they turn around...one by one...Lilli was first...she didn't even look at the cucumber. Wilson was second...nada. I hope against hope that Horrible Hudson will reward my efforts as I wait an eternity for the little pig to finish his food...and Lilli's...and Wilson's. Finally he's done.
And it was all for naught. None of my cats even noticed the cucumbers laying on the floor. WTF???
How come my cats didn't get scared? They acted like it was a normal everyday occurrence to see cucumbers laying on the floor. I'm no Susie Homemaker but I really don't store cucumbers on the floor of the kitchen. I put them in the food rotting section of the refrigerator where they belong. You know that special little drawer where fresh fruits and vegetables turn liquid? Except for oranges and lemons. They turn into little orange and yellow rocks.
So my little experiment in cat frightening was a total failure. Maybe God was punishing me for intentionally trying to scare my cats. Maybe one of them has a weak heart or would have been severely injured trying to escape dangerous cucumber territory. Apparently I'll never know because MY cats don't seem to get scared like everybody else's stoopid cats.
So much for cat scaring experiments...guess I'll just have to see how long it takes the cucumbers to turn liquid...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. The Cool Cucumber Cats
Wilson the Wonderful
Hudson the Horrible
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Simplify Whenever Possible
I've come to a point in my life where I want to simplify things...all things. I don't want to make ten trips to town when one will do, but I don't want to spend a lot of time planning. Therein lies the rub, or is it lays the rub? I can't remember and in an effort to simplify, I'm just going to go with whatever sounds right to me at the moment so I don't waste time looking shit up. Undoubtedly this will cause horrendous moans and groans from the Scari One, but so fucking what???
Although now that I think about it, it may be simpler to look shit up than spend hours of my life listening to the self appointed Grammar Queen lecture me on the proper usage of lay and lie. I may have to adjust my levels of simplifying...
When I started writing this blog, I was all paranoid about using my "regular" Yahoo email account...because what if I said something that hurt somebody's feelings? I don't intentionally try to hurt feelings but sometimes the way I see things isn't the way other people see things...and lots of stuff I think is funny doesn't seem funny to the one it's happened to. (It really is funny though.)
The whole "secrecy" thing started with a fake Facebook page I started to use for work. So, I had to create an email account for that...on Gmail...I didn't have to use Gmail, but I figured it would be more "secret" than Yahoo. But then I told someone about it and ended up with Facebook "friends" who now knew that it was my account so I couldn't use it for work anymore. BUT, I still had the Gmail account.
So originally I used the Gmail account when I started the blog. At some point, and I don't remember when, it got switched to another "new" Yahoo email account. Then I had two Yahoo accounts and one Gmail account.
It wasn't really a problem at first because if I used Google Chrome, the blogger dashboard would pop up and I could just click on and start writing. But alas, Google wanted to "simplify" things for me. I had to create a "profile". Somehow, through operator error no doubt, I used the "secret" Yahoo email address instead of the original Gmail one. The level of confusion deepens with each email address used because I have to have "passwords" for each one...which means I have to "remember" said passwords.
Somehow I ended up with a second "Gmail" address linked to this blog. Maybe I thought it would be simpler to have and address with the title in the address, i.e, thestoopidist@gmail.com. Who knows???? I can't remember.
So now I have two Yahoo addresses and two Gmail addresses...and only one logs into this site...and this morning I couldn't remember which was which so I ended up wasting time resetting passwords.
Now when you reset passwords on Google and Apple, they won't let you use a password that you've used "recently". So I can't use old standby's that I've used in the past...ones that I can remember. Nooooo, now I have to make up new ones...ones that I know I'm never going to remember. I'm sure they're trying to keep everything "secure" and all that, but why can't I use whatever password that I want to use? And now they make you use at least one capital letter and one number or "character". I would call Google and Apple "Password Nazis" but then, someone would get all inflamed about me comparing them to Nazis...because now everybody is supposed to be so fucking politically correct.
Computers were supposed to make everything "simpler". When they first came out everything was going to be more efficient. And don't get me wrong, the Internet is a great thing if you need information on something. I mean, you can find out anything on the Internet. But except for a word processing program or spreadsheet, I don't really think they're that much more efficient.
Every program at work has to have its own "password"...which has to be reset every so often for "security" reasons. And you're told NEVER to write down your password in case someone sees it and uses it for nefarious purposes. Hell, you're not even supposed to trust the people you work with. They even make you sign a "Computer Policy"...acknowledging that you "know the rules".
But if every program has its own password and you're never supposed to write anything down, how do you ever remember ALL THE DIFFERENT FUCKING PASSWORDS?
Answer: YOU DON'T!
You know what you do? You simplify...you go back to the old pre-computer standby that we all know and love...which is why I now have Post It notes with all my email addresses and passwords taped all over where they're in plain view so I never have this problem again...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I violate the computer policy at work regularly...and so do my co-workers.
Although now that I think about it, it may be simpler to look shit up than spend hours of my life listening to the self appointed Grammar Queen lecture me on the proper usage of lay and lie. I may have to adjust my levels of simplifying...
When I started writing this blog, I was all paranoid about using my "regular" Yahoo email account...because what if I said something that hurt somebody's feelings? I don't intentionally try to hurt feelings but sometimes the way I see things isn't the way other people see things...and lots of stuff I think is funny doesn't seem funny to the one it's happened to. (It really is funny though.)
The whole "secrecy" thing started with a fake Facebook page I started to use for work. So, I had to create an email account for that...on Gmail...I didn't have to use Gmail, but I figured it would be more "secret" than Yahoo. But then I told someone about it and ended up with Facebook "friends" who now knew that it was my account so I couldn't use it for work anymore. BUT, I still had the Gmail account.
So originally I used the Gmail account when I started the blog. At some point, and I don't remember when, it got switched to another "new" Yahoo email account. Then I had two Yahoo accounts and one Gmail account.
It wasn't really a problem at first because if I used Google Chrome, the blogger dashboard would pop up and I could just click on and start writing. But alas, Google wanted to "simplify" things for me. I had to create a "profile". Somehow, through operator error no doubt, I used the "secret" Yahoo email address instead of the original Gmail one. The level of confusion deepens with each email address used because I have to have "passwords" for each one...which means I have to "remember" said passwords.
Somehow I ended up with a second "Gmail" address linked to this blog. Maybe I thought it would be simpler to have and address with the title in the address, i.e, thestoopidist@gmail.com. Who knows???? I can't remember.
So now I have two Yahoo addresses and two Gmail addresses...and only one logs into this site...and this morning I couldn't remember which was which so I ended up wasting time resetting passwords.
Now when you reset passwords on Google and Apple, they won't let you use a password that you've used "recently". So I can't use old standby's that I've used in the past...ones that I can remember. Nooooo, now I have to make up new ones...ones that I know I'm never going to remember. I'm sure they're trying to keep everything "secure" and all that, but why can't I use whatever password that I want to use? And now they make you use at least one capital letter and one number or "character". I would call Google and Apple "Password Nazis" but then, someone would get all inflamed about me comparing them to Nazis...because now everybody is supposed to be so fucking politically correct.
Computers were supposed to make everything "simpler". When they first came out everything was going to be more efficient. And don't get me wrong, the Internet is a great thing if you need information on something. I mean, you can find out anything on the Internet. But except for a word processing program or spreadsheet, I don't really think they're that much more efficient.
Every program at work has to have its own "password"...which has to be reset every so often for "security" reasons. And you're told NEVER to write down your password in case someone sees it and uses it for nefarious purposes. Hell, you're not even supposed to trust the people you work with. They even make you sign a "Computer Policy"...acknowledging that you "know the rules".
But if every program has its own password and you're never supposed to write anything down, how do you ever remember ALL THE DIFFERENT FUCKING PASSWORDS?
Answer: YOU DON'T!
You know what you do? You simplify...you go back to the old pre-computer standby that we all know and love...which is why I now have Post It notes with all my email addresses and passwords taped all over where they're in plain view so I never have this problem again...it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I violate the computer policy at work regularly...and so do my co-workers.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Caspers Hot Dogs...With The Bird
I went to my brother's house for dinner a week ago. The Brother, nicknamed "The Bird" when he was a wee little scamp, is now a gray haired middle aged old guy. I still call him "The Bird" sometimes. Mainly because he still calls me "The Toad" or "Toadly", a name lovingly graced upon me by my late father. Apparently I was pouting about something at one time and my dad said I was puffed up like a toad...and it stuck...even though I'm sure I don't puff up and pout anymore...or do I?
When my favorite SIL (Sister In Law), Michelle, called I figured it was a good day to go visit. They live about an hour to an hour and a half away, depending on traffic, and since the next day was a holiday I didn't have to get up early & go to work. Side note: In an effort to be truthful, whatever SIL I happen to be talking to at the moment is the "favorite" SIL...because I really love 'em all...equally... I mean it would be really shitty to have a real "favorite" wouldn't it? It would be kinda like having a "favorite" child...and everybody knows how strictly forbidden THAT is, don't we? Just thought I should be totally clear on this because heaven forbid...I certainly wouldn't want to ever be accused of FAVORITISM.
SIL 'Chelle: "Hey, haven't seen you for awhile and wanted to see if you want to come down for dinner"
Me: "Okay".
SIL'Chelle: "We're just having hot dogs". "Casper's hot dogs. Bird says they were your dad's favorite." "It's just going to be us & Gabriel (The Grandson of The Brother)." She said some other stuff too, fave SIL 'Chelle is a little chatty, but I don't really remember what it was. I don't remember Casper's being my dad's favorite either but apparently The Brother does. Funny how everybody remembers things differently.
Me: "Okay". I'm not quite as chatty as Fave SIL "Chelle.
I futz around until it's almost time to leave, jump in the shower, and hit the road.
I actually didn't hit any traffic and made it in record time.
Fave SIL 'Chelle was in the house when I got there along with a new black Chihuahua...and an old Chihuahua, Pigitha. They're actually not bad for Chihuahua's...they don't do that shaky thing that most of them do. I don't really know what that shaky thing is but bigger dogs and even small dogs that aren't Chihuahuas don't do it.
The Brother is in the backyard with The Grandson. He's younger than me and, me, he has grandchildren. The Husband and I have kids who've failed to reproduce. Sad but true...but we have cats instead!! We have to feed 'em & clean up their poop so it's kinda the same thing...on the plus side, we can leave them alone overnight. I really want grand kids...but back to The Brother.
After a hug The Brother starts giving me three flavors of shit about the town I live in. Seems there's some list of the most redneck towns and mine is high up on the list. This is also the town where The Brother grew up...just sayin'.
The whole time he's making fun of where I live I look around and notice he's standing between his doughboy pool with a torn liner and an old hot tub that he's converted to a planter box that's filled with dying tomato plants...then he points out the latest acquisition...a plastic toadstool table and chair set. As Arsenio would say..."it's one of those things that make you go hmmmm?". Since it was really hot outside we went inside, where he'd rigged up a fifty pound block of ice in a metal washtub sitting in front of a fan to cool the place off. Hmmmm...
(Okay, I just made that part up...the doughboy doesn't have a torn liner...and he has A/C...everything else it totally true.)
Time for dinner...
So in my pea brain, I just assumed we were going to BBQ hot dogs...which is how I like 'em. It's pretty much the only way I eat them anymore. Looking back, I don't know where I got that idea. But imagine my surprise when Fave SIL 'Chelle put a big ol' pot of water on the stove...to boil some dogs.
I know a lot of people are hot dog purists...steamed old fashioned dogs in a bun loaded with sauerkraut, relish, mustard and all the other stuff. I just don't happen to be one of them. My current favorite is Costco Beef Dinner Franks. I used to be a Hebrew National fan and I still like 'em but I like the Costco ones better. I like 'em grilled but not charred...and I like the bun a little toasted. A little mayo and a little thin line of mustard all along the dog...that's all.
I want mayo but if I don't have it I won't die but NO MIRACLE WHIP!!! Under no circumstance is Miracle Whip a substitute for mayonnaise. The Bird remembers Dad loving Casper's but I remember him loving Miracle Whip. Yuck...which just so happens to rhyme with...???...you know...the big "F" word...and, please note, I haven't felt the need to drop a single "F" bomb yet. Maybe I'm getting more mature after all.
Fortunately Fave SIL 'Chelle made some chili so I was able to put a spoonful of that on my dog. When I took the first bite I felt a slight crunch...kind of a pop. I don't know if Casper's uses some kind of sausage casing or if the skin is just different. It bothers me because I don't really know what that lining is made from. My dad used to say cat gut but I don't really think it's made from cats. I think it's some kind of other animal intestine which totally grosses me out.
I was hungry so I ate the whole thing. I'm not sure if it was because I was really, really hungry or because I didn't want to hurt Fave SIL 'Chelle's feelings. I mean, she's sooooo nice, it would be like kicking a puppy to hurt her feelings. Whatever the reason...I did it. Then I went into the bathroom and barfed it all up.
(Okay I made that up...I didn't go to the bathroom and barf...but I wanted to...I kept thinking I just ate intestines...like one of those Walking Dead zombies.)
After a feast of intestinal stuffed meat remnants and the new knowledge that I'm a redneck I headed for home...
When I finally got back and turned onto the main street in town I suddenly got a hankerin' to pull into 7-11 to get a Big Gulp and a giant bag of pork rinds...
I don't ever remember wanting pork rinds or a Big Gulp in my life, and I don't think I've ever used the word hankerin' either...I guess now that I've been informed I'm a redneck my life's gonna change...it's the stoopidist thing
When my favorite SIL (Sister In Law), Michelle, called I figured it was a good day to go visit. They live about an hour to an hour and a half away, depending on traffic, and since the next day was a holiday I didn't have to get up early & go to work. Side note: In an effort to be truthful, whatever SIL I happen to be talking to at the moment is the "favorite" SIL...because I really love 'em all...equally... I mean it would be really shitty to have a real "favorite" wouldn't it? It would be kinda like having a "favorite" child...and everybody knows how strictly forbidden THAT is, don't we? Just thought I should be totally clear on this because heaven forbid...I certainly wouldn't want to ever be accused of FAVORITISM.
SIL 'Chelle: "Hey, haven't seen you for awhile and wanted to see if you want to come down for dinner"
Me: "Okay".
SIL'Chelle: "We're just having hot dogs". "Casper's hot dogs. Bird says they were your dad's favorite." "It's just going to be us & Gabriel (The Grandson of The Brother)." She said some other stuff too, fave SIL 'Chelle is a little chatty, but I don't really remember what it was. I don't remember Casper's being my dad's favorite either but apparently The Brother does. Funny how everybody remembers things differently.
Me: "Okay". I'm not quite as chatty as Fave SIL "Chelle.
I futz around until it's almost time to leave, jump in the shower, and hit the road.
I actually didn't hit any traffic and made it in record time.
Fave SIL 'Chelle was in the house when I got there along with a new black Chihuahua...and an old Chihuahua, Pigitha. They're actually not bad for Chihuahua's...they don't do that shaky thing that most of them do. I don't really know what that shaky thing is but bigger dogs and even small dogs that aren't Chihuahuas don't do it.
The Brother is in the backyard with The Grandson. He's younger than me and, me, he has grandchildren. The Husband and I have kids who've failed to reproduce. Sad but true...but we have cats instead!! We have to feed 'em & clean up their poop so it's kinda the same thing...on the plus side, we can leave them alone overnight. I really want grand kids...but back to The Brother.
After a hug The Brother starts giving me three flavors of shit about the town I live in. Seems there's some list of the most redneck towns and mine is high up on the list. This is also the town where The Brother grew up...just sayin'.
The whole time he's making fun of where I live I look around and notice he's standing between his doughboy pool with a torn liner and an old hot tub that he's converted to a planter box that's filled with dying tomato plants...then he points out the latest acquisition...a plastic toadstool table and chair set. As Arsenio would say..."it's one of those things that make you go hmmmm?". Since it was really hot outside we went inside, where he'd rigged up a fifty pound block of ice in a metal washtub sitting in front of a fan to cool the place off. Hmmmm...
(Okay, I just made that part up...the doughboy doesn't have a torn liner...and he has A/C...everything else it totally true.)
Time for dinner...
So in my pea brain, I just assumed we were going to BBQ hot dogs...which is how I like 'em. It's pretty much the only way I eat them anymore. Looking back, I don't know where I got that idea. But imagine my surprise when Fave SIL 'Chelle put a big ol' pot of water on the stove...to boil some dogs.
I know a lot of people are hot dog purists...steamed old fashioned dogs in a bun loaded with sauerkraut, relish, mustard and all the other stuff. I just don't happen to be one of them. My current favorite is Costco Beef Dinner Franks. I used to be a Hebrew National fan and I still like 'em but I like the Costco ones better. I like 'em grilled but not charred...and I like the bun a little toasted. A little mayo and a little thin line of mustard all along the dog...that's all.
I want mayo but if I don't have it I won't die but NO MIRACLE WHIP!!! Under no circumstance is Miracle Whip a substitute for mayonnaise. The Bird remembers Dad loving Casper's but I remember him loving Miracle Whip. Yuck...which just so happens to rhyme with...???...you know...the big "F" word...and, please note, I haven't felt the need to drop a single "F" bomb yet. Maybe I'm getting more mature after all.
Fortunately Fave SIL 'Chelle made some chili so I was able to put a spoonful of that on my dog. When I took the first bite I felt a slight crunch...kind of a pop. I don't know if Casper's uses some kind of sausage casing or if the skin is just different. It bothers me because I don't really know what that lining is made from. My dad used to say cat gut but I don't really think it's made from cats. I think it's some kind of other animal intestine which totally grosses me out.
I was hungry so I ate the whole thing. I'm not sure if it was because I was really, really hungry or because I didn't want to hurt Fave SIL 'Chelle's feelings. I mean, she's sooooo nice, it would be like kicking a puppy to hurt her feelings. Whatever the reason...I did it. Then I went into the bathroom and barfed it all up.
(Okay I made that up...I didn't go to the bathroom and barf...but I wanted to...I kept thinking I just ate intestines...like one of those Walking Dead zombies.)
After a feast of intestinal stuffed meat remnants and the new knowledge that I'm a redneck I headed for home...
When I finally got back and turned onto the main street in town I suddenly got a hankerin' to pull into 7-11 to get a Big Gulp and a giant bag of pork rinds...
I don't ever remember wanting pork rinds or a Big Gulp in my life, and I don't think I've ever used the word hankerin' either...I guess now that I've been informed I'm a redneck my life's gonna change...it's the stoopidist thing
Friday, August 21, 2015
I Was Only Trying To Help
So before The Husband's mother passed away I tried to go to the old folks home early in the morning to see if she'd eat. At that point she'd stopped eating & drinking pretty much anything.
On a side note, I don't know why nobody says "died". Because that's really what happens isn't it? But nobody wants to say it. They want to sugar coat it to make it sound more appealing...we're so worried about how things sound that we even want "death" to sound good. Sometimes people just say someone "passed". I don't like this because it always makes me think they passed gas. Then I start to laugh which is always the most inappropriate thing you can do when someone is conveying that a loved one has just died. And if I manage to suppress the laugh I get that weird scrunched up face that people get when they're trying hard not to laugh. Kind of like the "ugly face" you get when you try not to cry... only for laughing.
Oh, another thing people say is "they crossed over the rainbow bridge". I don't hear this much anymore...probably since the rainbow has become a gay symbol and it could have an entirely different meaning.
But back to my original story... The first time I went, the little aide was sitting at Alyce's bedside trying to feed her. She got up and I sat down. The feast was three piles of mush. One pile of scrambled egg mush, one bowl of oatmeal mush, and another pile of mush that I had no idea what it was. It looked exactly like the stuff in the oatmeal bowl but it was on the plate beside the scrambled egg. It was also drizzled with some kind of red droplets of what I assumed to be some kind of jam in an attempt to make it look appealing. An attempt that failed miserably...just saying.
So I started in with the oatmeal. I'd take a spoonful and hold it up to Alyce's mouth and was instantly overjoyed because she acted like she wanted to eat it. She kind of sucked a little bit off the spoon. At least in my mind that's what she was doing. In hindsight she was probably trying to tell me to "take that fucking shit away from my mouth". Only I'm pretty sure, she would have left off the "fucking shit" part. Even I feel the need to sugar coat things... in my own way.
So after numerous attempts to get her to eat a minuscule bite, I started on the apple juice. One of the nurses told eldest daughter Kathi that it was easier to get Alyce to drink by putting your finger over the top of the straw while it was in the glass, put the straw in her mouth, and then take your finger off, thus allowing the liquid to drain out of the bottom. And it worked!!!! Woo hoo...she was drinking.
When eldest daughter Kathi got there I was so happy..."She's eating and drinking" I told her. (At this point it hadn't occurred to me that she may have been trying to tell me to take the fucking shit away.)
The next day, Brother John was there when I got there. He was sitting next to the bed with his iPad on his lap.
Me: "Did she eat anything?"
Brother John: "No."
Me: "Did she drink anything?"
Brother John: "No."
Me: "She drinks it if you put it in her mouth with a straw, like this"...
And I proceeded to show him how you could put the water in her mouth with the straw. And it worked...sort of. The first few straws full went well. I should've quit while I was ahead. Which is kinda the story of my life...
But did I quit? Fuck no...if one is good, two is better, right? So it stands to reason that if four is good, five is better.
That fifth straw was the clinker. Alyce started to cough a little so I put the straw back in the glass and wiped her mouth with the ever ready wash cloth. She kept coughing a little more. Not big coughs, but she couldn't really cough big because she was so frail. And because she was so frail, it's not like I could roll her over on her side more and thump her on the back. The whole reason she was being spoon fed in a semi reclining position was because she had so much pain in her back. So back thumping was out of the question. And because it hurt her so much to turn her over I couldn't even try turning her.
Brother John was standing behind me. Thank God...otherwise he would have seen the look of sheer panic on my face. All I could do was silently pray..."Please God, don't let me kill her...especially with Brother John standing behind me". In hindsight, just the fact that I killed her should have been horrific enough, but I was more worried about having Brother John watch his poor old bedridden mother choke to death after being "nursing home water boarded" by some well meaning schmoe...namely me.
Fortunately for me, and more importantly, Brother John, Alyce quit coughing and all was well...at least as well as it could be considering her circumstances.
Someday...maybe I'll learn to quit while I'm ahead. Probably not. In any case I think it's another fine example of my theory that "God watches over fools and children".
Lord knows I'm no child...it's the stoopidist thing.
On a side note, I don't know why nobody says "died". Because that's really what happens isn't it? But nobody wants to say it. They want to sugar coat it to make it sound more appealing...we're so worried about how things sound that we even want "death" to sound good. Sometimes people just say someone "passed". I don't like this because it always makes me think they passed gas. Then I start to laugh which is always the most inappropriate thing you can do when someone is conveying that a loved one has just died. And if I manage to suppress the laugh I get that weird scrunched up face that people get when they're trying hard not to laugh. Kind of like the "ugly face" you get when you try not to cry... only for laughing.
Oh, another thing people say is "they crossed over the rainbow bridge". I don't hear this much anymore...probably since the rainbow has become a gay symbol and it could have an entirely different meaning.
But back to my original story... The first time I went, the little aide was sitting at Alyce's bedside trying to feed her. She got up and I sat down. The feast was three piles of mush. One pile of scrambled egg mush, one bowl of oatmeal mush, and another pile of mush that I had no idea what it was. It looked exactly like the stuff in the oatmeal bowl but it was on the plate beside the scrambled egg. It was also drizzled with some kind of red droplets of what I assumed to be some kind of jam in an attempt to make it look appealing. An attempt that failed miserably...just saying.
So I started in with the oatmeal. I'd take a spoonful and hold it up to Alyce's mouth and was instantly overjoyed because she acted like she wanted to eat it. She kind of sucked a little bit off the spoon. At least in my mind that's what she was doing. In hindsight she was probably trying to tell me to "take that fucking shit away from my mouth". Only I'm pretty sure, she would have left off the "fucking shit" part. Even I feel the need to sugar coat things... in my own way.
So after numerous attempts to get her to eat a minuscule bite, I started on the apple juice. One of the nurses told eldest daughter Kathi that it was easier to get Alyce to drink by putting your finger over the top of the straw while it was in the glass, put the straw in her mouth, and then take your finger off, thus allowing the liquid to drain out of the bottom. And it worked!!!! Woo hoo...she was drinking.
When eldest daughter Kathi got there I was so happy..."She's eating and drinking" I told her. (At this point it hadn't occurred to me that she may have been trying to tell me to take the fucking shit away.)
The next day, Brother John was there when I got there. He was sitting next to the bed with his iPad on his lap.
Me: "Did she eat anything?"
Brother John: "No."
Me: "Did she drink anything?"
Brother John: "No."
Me: "She drinks it if you put it in her mouth with a straw, like this"...
And I proceeded to show him how you could put the water in her mouth with the straw. And it worked...sort of. The first few straws full went well. I should've quit while I was ahead. Which is kinda the story of my life...
But did I quit? Fuck no...if one is good, two is better, right? So it stands to reason that if four is good, five is better.
That fifth straw was the clinker. Alyce started to cough a little so I put the straw back in the glass and wiped her mouth with the ever ready wash cloth. She kept coughing a little more. Not big coughs, but she couldn't really cough big because she was so frail. And because she was so frail, it's not like I could roll her over on her side more and thump her on the back. The whole reason she was being spoon fed in a semi reclining position was because she had so much pain in her back. So back thumping was out of the question. And because it hurt her so much to turn her over I couldn't even try turning her.
Brother John was standing behind me. Thank God...otherwise he would have seen the look of sheer panic on my face. All I could do was silently pray..."Please God, don't let me kill her...especially with Brother John standing behind me". In hindsight, just the fact that I killed her should have been horrific enough, but I was more worried about having Brother John watch his poor old bedridden mother choke to death after being "nursing home water boarded" by some well meaning schmoe...namely me.
Fortunately for me, and more importantly, Brother John, Alyce quit coughing and all was well...at least as well as it could be considering her circumstances.
Someday...maybe I'll learn to quit while I'm ahead. Probably not. In any case I think it's another fine example of my theory that "God watches over fools and children".
Lord knows I'm no child...it's the stoopidist thing.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Saying Goodbye
The Husband's mom, Alyce, went into a care facility last year. She'd developed pneumonia last winter and ended up in Intensive Care at a local hospital. Nobody thought she'd make it until Christmas but she did...and then some. Slowly but steadily she kept getting better until finally she was released to a long term care facility.
Alyce had her share of physical ailments but who doesn't when they're 87? Arthritis, broken hips, breathing problems...comes with aging, right? So does dementia. For the lucky ones it's mild, you forget where your keys are or can't remember why you walked into a room...for the unlucky ones it's worse...a lot worse.
Before she came down with pneumonia Alyce lived in her own home with the help of her daughter, Penni. The pneumonia left her so physically frail that Alyce needed professional care and her family had to make the decision to leave her in the care facility. It wasn't a bad place...it was nice...there was a recreation room, a dining room, physical therapy...and a big room for parties and family gatherings. It was clean, the staff was caring, but it wasn't her home...and even though they knew it was the right choice for their mom, it was tough on all of them.
When she first got there, Alyce was able to wheel herself around in a wheelchair, chatting with the other patients, mostly talking nonsense...at least that's what The Husband called it. But then, The Husband is pretty hard of hearing so it's entirely plausible that they were making perfect sense and he was only hearing every other word. In any event, it wasn't nonsense to them.
Since her dementia was progressing I don't think anybody really knew for sure if Alyce was aware of what was happening to her. Occasionally she would cry, but most of the time she was smiling. Anybody that spoke to her got a smile. She was just a sweet lady.
After awhile, the pain in her back got so bad that she couldn't wheel herself around anymore. The staff would help her into the wheelchair but she wasn't mobile and eventually even being put in the wheelchair became too painful and she became completely bedridden. As her pain got worse, medication got stronger and she spent more and more time sleeping. She barely ate or drank anything. God only knows why she kept hanging on. But she did.
Alyce was one of the few old folks in the home whose family visited daily. There were pictures of her kids and grand kids on the nightstand. The walls of her side of the room were decorated with bright butterflies flanked by warning signs of what the staff was and was not to do. The warning signs were designed, posted and updated frequently by eldest daughter, Kathi. Woe unto the slothful staff member who came under her scrutiny. The eldest daughter was fierce when it came to the care of her mom. Every mother should be so lucky.
When he came home from visiting his mom I'd ask The Husband how she was doing. "About the same" was the usual reply. But sometimes he'd say "She recognized me". He always seemed a little more cheery on those days. The Husband isn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve but you could tell that seeing his mom like this was hard.
Brother John, the youngest son, wears his heart on his sleeve. I think it bothered him most when his mom didn't recognize him. Your head knows it's the natural progression of the Dementia, but it still hurts your heart.
The last week Brother John wore dark glasses a lot when he visited his mom. He puts on dark glasses and thinks nobody knows he getting all teary eyed. Nobody's really fooled but nobody says anything about it.
Alyce took her last breath a few days ago...and she wasn't alone. I don't know why, but it bothered me to think she might be alone when she died.
Kathi and I talked about it later trying to make sense of the way her life ended. We wondered why God would let a woman like Alyce suffer so much. She & her husband raised five great kids, The Husband, Kathi, Brother John, Pam, and Penni. These are some of the most wonderful people I've ever known.
Kathi thought maybe she really left a long time ago. I kinda like this. It's comforting. Maybe the reason she didn't recognize anyone was because it wasn't really her anymore.
I thought maybe it wasn't even really about her. Maybe she was hanging on for someone else. Maybe someone in the family wasn't ready to let her go. Maybe it was so someone at the home might learn about kindness in caring for her. Maybe it was so someone could see how a family loves and takes care of each other. Who knows?
Maybe next time we see her we'll find out...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
Alyce had her share of physical ailments but who doesn't when they're 87? Arthritis, broken hips, breathing problems...comes with aging, right? So does dementia. For the lucky ones it's mild, you forget where your keys are or can't remember why you walked into a room...for the unlucky ones it's worse...a lot worse.
Before she came down with pneumonia Alyce lived in her own home with the help of her daughter, Penni. The pneumonia left her so physically frail that Alyce needed professional care and her family had to make the decision to leave her in the care facility. It wasn't a bad place...it was nice...there was a recreation room, a dining room, physical therapy...and a big room for parties and family gatherings. It was clean, the staff was caring, but it wasn't her home...and even though they knew it was the right choice for their mom, it was tough on all of them.
When she first got there, Alyce was able to wheel herself around in a wheelchair, chatting with the other patients, mostly talking nonsense...at least that's what The Husband called it. But then, The Husband is pretty hard of hearing so it's entirely plausible that they were making perfect sense and he was only hearing every other word. In any event, it wasn't nonsense to them.
Since her dementia was progressing I don't think anybody really knew for sure if Alyce was aware of what was happening to her. Occasionally she would cry, but most of the time she was smiling. Anybody that spoke to her got a smile. She was just a sweet lady.
After awhile, the pain in her back got so bad that she couldn't wheel herself around anymore. The staff would help her into the wheelchair but she wasn't mobile and eventually even being put in the wheelchair became too painful and she became completely bedridden. As her pain got worse, medication got stronger and she spent more and more time sleeping. She barely ate or drank anything. God only knows why she kept hanging on. But she did.
Alyce was one of the few old folks in the home whose family visited daily. There were pictures of her kids and grand kids on the nightstand. The walls of her side of the room were decorated with bright butterflies flanked by warning signs of what the staff was and was not to do. The warning signs were designed, posted and updated frequently by eldest daughter, Kathi. Woe unto the slothful staff member who came under her scrutiny. The eldest daughter was fierce when it came to the care of her mom. Every mother should be so lucky.
When he came home from visiting his mom I'd ask The Husband how she was doing. "About the same" was the usual reply. But sometimes he'd say "She recognized me". He always seemed a little more cheery on those days. The Husband isn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve but you could tell that seeing his mom like this was hard.
Brother John, the youngest son, wears his heart on his sleeve. I think it bothered him most when his mom didn't recognize him. Your head knows it's the natural progression of the Dementia, but it still hurts your heart.
The last week Brother John wore dark glasses a lot when he visited his mom. He puts on dark glasses and thinks nobody knows he getting all teary eyed. Nobody's really fooled but nobody says anything about it.
Alyce took her last breath a few days ago...and she wasn't alone. I don't know why, but it bothered me to think she might be alone when she died.
Kathi and I talked about it later trying to make sense of the way her life ended. We wondered why God would let a woman like Alyce suffer so much. She & her husband raised five great kids, The Husband, Kathi, Brother John, Pam, and Penni. These are some of the most wonderful people I've ever known.
Kathi thought maybe she really left a long time ago. I kinda like this. It's comforting. Maybe the reason she didn't recognize anyone was because it wasn't really her anymore.
I thought maybe it wasn't even really about her. Maybe she was hanging on for someone else. Maybe someone in the family wasn't ready to let her go. Maybe it was so someone at the home might learn about kindness in caring for her. Maybe it was so someone could see how a family loves and takes care of each other. Who knows?
Maybe next time we see her we'll find out...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Scari & The Sisty Uglers Sail the Seven Seas...
In an effort to be truthful, we're really only sailing one sea. But it sounds better to say Seven Seas than One Sea. One Sea just doesn't have the same sound of adventure to it. Scari & The Sisty Uglers Sail the One Sea...actually, it would have to be Scari & The Sisty Uglers Sail One Sea because if I leave the "the" in it makes it sound like there's only one sea available. Which, of course, is totally wrong. I don't know how many seas there are in the world but I know there's way more than one.
The instigator of this vacation was my SIL Di...who, after getting everyone to agree to go, has decided she can't go because her daughter, Jackie, is having a baby two weeks after we were supposed to return. Yes, I said AFTER we were supposed to be back home. So the trip that she planned so she could spend time with her brother, she's not going on. But her brother's still going...along with his wife. Neither of whom I've met.
Me: "Your brother's still going?"
Di: "Yeah, they're still going. But I know I wouldn't have a good time. I'd be worrying about Jackie the whole time."
Me: "I don't know your brother."
Di: "You'll get to know him. You'll be having dinner together every night. You'll like him."
Me...in my head: "WTF??? I'm not going to have dinner with your brother every night. I've never met the guy. What if he has no sense of humor? What if he's politically correct? How are he and his politically correct wife going to feel when the Old Chix start dropping "F" bombs at the dinner table, huh?"
Me...to Di: "Oh." I'm so fucking brave I can't stand myself. Why can't I just say what I mean? Why am I such a wimp?
So it ends up being three Old Chix, Scari, Me, and Lois, who Scari likes to call Low Ass and I like to call Anal Spice...along with my favorite SIL, Kath. Kath & I are going to share a room...Scari & Lois are sharing another. The correct term is "cabin", I know, but a "cabin" seems like it should be sitting in a picturesque setting at the end of a mountain road surrounded by trees with a front porch and a chimney with smoke curling out of it.
This is us below, in all our travelocity, fabulousity glory from left to right, Kath, me, Scari, and Lois. Note how cleverly disguised we are in Groucho Glasses to protect our true identity. FYI, this is my first ever selfie. Only it wasn't really a selfie because I didn't take it...Kath did. So I guess technically it was my first participation in a selfie. Ain't we purty??? Please note that Lois, AKA/Low Ass, AKA/Anal Spice, managed to lose the eyebrow off her glasses immediately after putting them on. Geesh, I entrust her with a fabulous pair of identity concealing eyewear and she manages to ruin them in an instant.
We got together so Kath could meet Lois and to shop for carry on travel bags. None of us bought a carry on bag. No, we spent our time looking at clothes we didn't need...buying clothes we didn't need, and eating cheeseburgers & fries we really, really didn't need. Except Kath...she's a thin mint who I'd like to force feed cheeseburgers to fatten her up to "regular" size like the rest of us. Sort of makes me sound bitter that she doesn't have a weight problem, doesn't it? Okay, maybe I am...I still like her but I don't think it's fair that she doesn't have to worry about her pants cutting off her circulation or catching on fire from the friction of her thighs rubbing together like the rest of us.
We don't leave until October, but Kath lives to plan. (In her defense, she's really good at it.) As soon as we booked the cruise, she immediately got an app for her phone that translates English to Italian. We're going to France, Spain, and Greece too but I don't think she thought about those yet. If she did, she hasn't mentioned it. Maybe those will just be the countries where she "smiles and nods". The Italians are the ones who will no doubt be entertained by the forthcoming butchery of their native tongue.
We have another lunch meeting later this month to meet our travel agent and try to decide what excursions we want to go on. If it goes like our last get together involving non-purchases of travel on bags I'm guessin' it'll be a non-decision making excursion planning adventure.
On the plus side, I'm sure we'll eat some good ol' thigh friction inducing food to further enhance our physiques...all the while glaring enviously at the Kath's friction free thighs...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. I Googled "how many seas are there in the world". According to Wikipedia, there are 139. I have no idea if that's right or not but I knew it was way more than "One Sea".
P.S.S. When they met for the first time during the non-purchase of carry on bags, Lois AKA/Low Ass, AKA/Anal Spice, hated Kath because she had thin thighs.
P.P.S.S. Again, in the interest of truthfulness, I totally made up that line about Lois hating Kath. Lois has never met a stranger and likes EVERYONE she meets. She's really big on hugging too...which I hate but am forced, on occasion, to engage in so I don't seem like a big fucking asshole.
To be continued...
The instigator of this vacation was my SIL Di...who, after getting everyone to agree to go, has decided she can't go because her daughter, Jackie, is having a baby two weeks after we were supposed to return. Yes, I said AFTER we were supposed to be back home. So the trip that she planned so she could spend time with her brother, she's not going on. But her brother's still going...along with his wife. Neither of whom I've met.
Me: "Your brother's still going?"
Di: "Yeah, they're still going. But I know I wouldn't have a good time. I'd be worrying about Jackie the whole time."
Me: "I don't know your brother."
Di: "You'll get to know him. You'll be having dinner together every night. You'll like him."
Me...in my head: "WTF??? I'm not going to have dinner with your brother every night. I've never met the guy. What if he has no sense of humor? What if he's politically correct? How are he and his politically correct wife going to feel when the Old Chix start dropping "F" bombs at the dinner table, huh?"
Me...to Di: "Oh." I'm so fucking brave I can't stand myself. Why can't I just say what I mean? Why am I such a wimp?
So it ends up being three Old Chix, Scari, Me, and Lois, who Scari likes to call Low Ass and I like to call Anal Spice...along with my favorite SIL, Kath. Kath & I are going to share a room...Scari & Lois are sharing another. The correct term is "cabin", I know, but a "cabin" seems like it should be sitting in a picturesque setting at the end of a mountain road surrounded by trees with a front porch and a chimney with smoke curling out of it.
This is us below, in all our travelocity, fabulousity glory from left to right, Kath, me, Scari, and Lois. Note how cleverly disguised we are in Groucho Glasses to protect our true identity. FYI, this is my first ever selfie. Only it wasn't really a selfie because I didn't take it...Kath did. So I guess technically it was my first participation in a selfie. Ain't we purty??? Please note that Lois, AKA/Low Ass, AKA/Anal Spice, managed to lose the eyebrow off her glasses immediately after putting them on. Geesh, I entrust her with a fabulous pair of identity concealing eyewear and she manages to ruin them in an instant.
We got together so Kath could meet Lois and to shop for carry on travel bags. None of us bought a carry on bag. No, we spent our time looking at clothes we didn't need...buying clothes we didn't need, and eating cheeseburgers & fries we really, really didn't need. Except Kath...she's a thin mint who I'd like to force feed cheeseburgers to fatten her up to "regular" size like the rest of us. Sort of makes me sound bitter that she doesn't have a weight problem, doesn't it? Okay, maybe I am...I still like her but I don't think it's fair that she doesn't have to worry about her pants cutting off her circulation or catching on fire from the friction of her thighs rubbing together like the rest of us.
We don't leave until October, but Kath lives to plan. (In her defense, she's really good at it.) As soon as we booked the cruise, she immediately got an app for her phone that translates English to Italian. We're going to France, Spain, and Greece too but I don't think she thought about those yet. If she did, she hasn't mentioned it. Maybe those will just be the countries where she "smiles and nods". The Italians are the ones who will no doubt be entertained by the forthcoming butchery of their native tongue.
We have another lunch meeting later this month to meet our travel agent and try to decide what excursions we want to go on. If it goes like our last get together involving non-purchases of travel on bags I'm guessin' it'll be a non-decision making excursion planning adventure.
On the plus side, I'm sure we'll eat some good ol' thigh friction inducing food to further enhance our physiques...all the while glaring enviously at the Kath's friction free thighs...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. I Googled "how many seas are there in the world". According to Wikipedia, there are 139. I have no idea if that's right or not but I knew it was way more than "One Sea".
P.S.S. When they met for the first time during the non-purchase of carry on bags, Lois AKA/Low Ass, AKA/Anal Spice, hated Kath because she had thin thighs.
P.P.S.S. Again, in the interest of truthfulness, I totally made up that line about Lois hating Kath. Lois has never met a stranger and likes EVERYONE she meets. She's really big on hugging too...which I hate but am forced, on occasion, to engage in so I don't seem like a big fucking asshole.
To be continued...
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Maybe This Is Why Mom Said...Don't Talk To Strangers
Never talk to strangers. From the time you can walk, your mom pounds it into your head..."Don't talk to strangers". My mom did it all the time. Everybody's parents said the same thing..."Don't talk to strangers."
Did we listen? Of course not. If we never talked to strangers, we wouldn't have had any friends. The tether ball would have only swung one way. Everybody's a stranger until you talk to them. It's how we make friends.
I blame my mom for my stomach churning dread of meeting new people. It's not so bad if it's just one person. I can be in a room with a stranger and make casual conversation...most of the time. Unless they glare fiercely at me I try to be cordial. Plus, I don't have the balls to glare back. Also, I suffer from Bitchy Resting Face so I really don't seem very approachable to begin with. Maybe that's why they glare. But that's a whole 'nudder story.
So the other day I'm at work and I have to pee. I walk down the hall, fat, dumb, and happy and right before I get to the door, I see a woman walking toward me. She seems pleasant enough and I see a bruise on her cheekbone. So I ask.."Oh, what happened to your face?"
Before you cringe, there's a reason I asked. A couple of years ago, one of my horses conked me in the head and I had a giant bruise on my face. In a building of hundreds of people, nobody asked me what happened. In fact, they would look right at the bruise and then look away really fast. Like they didn't want to know what happened. Oddly enough, after it healed, my other horse conked me in exactly the same spot. Same thing happened at work. People intentionally avoided eye contact with me. This is in a building of social worker type people. The kind you would expect to ask. But they didn't.
So I asked..."Oh, what happened to your face?"
Stranger: "It's a birthmark."
Me...cringing inside: "Oh, I thought you got conked." Really...what else was I gonna say?
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Thank God I didn't pee my pants. Because of course I started laughing, which is what I do when I get nervous, and then I can't stop because I know I shouldn't be laughing and it makes me more nervous because I can't stop laughing. It's a vicious cycle.
So as it turns out, mom was right..."Don't talk to strangers"...it's the stoopidist thing.
Did we listen? Of course not. If we never talked to strangers, we wouldn't have had any friends. The tether ball would have only swung one way. Everybody's a stranger until you talk to them. It's how we make friends.
I blame my mom for my stomach churning dread of meeting new people. It's not so bad if it's just one person. I can be in a room with a stranger and make casual conversation...most of the time. Unless they glare fiercely at me I try to be cordial. Plus, I don't have the balls to glare back. Also, I suffer from Bitchy Resting Face so I really don't seem very approachable to begin with. Maybe that's why they glare. But that's a whole 'nudder story.
So the other day I'm at work and I have to pee. I walk down the hall, fat, dumb, and happy and right before I get to the door, I see a woman walking toward me. She seems pleasant enough and I see a bruise on her cheekbone. So I ask.."Oh, what happened to your face?"
Before you cringe, there's a reason I asked. A couple of years ago, one of my horses conked me in the head and I had a giant bruise on my face. In a building of hundreds of people, nobody asked me what happened. In fact, they would look right at the bruise and then look away really fast. Like they didn't want to know what happened. Oddly enough, after it healed, my other horse conked me in exactly the same spot. Same thing happened at work. People intentionally avoided eye contact with me. This is in a building of social worker type people. The kind you would expect to ask. But they didn't.
So I asked..."Oh, what happened to your face?"
Stranger: "It's a birthmark."
Me...cringing inside: "Oh, I thought you got conked." Really...what else was I gonna say?
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Thank God I didn't pee my pants. Because of course I started laughing, which is what I do when I get nervous, and then I can't stop because I know I shouldn't be laughing and it makes me more nervous because I can't stop laughing. It's a vicious cycle.
So as it turns out, mom was right..."Don't talk to strangers"...it's the stoopidist thing.
Friday, April 17, 2015
The Turd In The Toilet
We've been summoned by Curly...the blond giant haired former correctional officer.
Curly: "Follow me" she says in that stern former correctional officer voice that leaves us no option.
We dutifully get in line behind her as she heads to the bathroom...four ducks in a row led by Curly, who, I notice bounces when she walks. The Princess, Di, and me.
The bathroom's first four stalls are vacant and Curly pushes the door on the big handicapped stall at the end of the room to make sure nobody's in there either.
Curly: "How does this happen?" proffering her arm in the "Universal Be My Guest Gesture" directing our attention to the third stall.
Curly: "How does this happen? And why is there no paper?"
Immediately sensing the need for photographic evidence I rush back to the office and grab my phone. They're still pondering the poop when I get back a few seconds later.
The Princess: "Maybe the paper got sucked down but the rest didn't."
Di just shakes her head.
We head back to our office talking poop.
The Princess: "Maybe it was a clean poop that didn't need paper."
Me: "But how would you know that unless you used paper?"
The Princess: No words but with the "Oh Yeah" look on her face as she laughs.
Me: "If there'd been paper, wouldn't there have been little floater pieces of paper that didn't go down?"
Curly: "Why would you just leave it?"
The Princess: "You always look to make sure everything goes down. I mean if I ever pooped at work...which I don't."
The Princess and I are die hard prim and proper Sneak-a-Poopers who resort to pooping in the public bathroom under only the most dire of circumstances. Curly, on the other hand, doesn't care and will fart out loud and giggle about it in the bathroom...she'll even giggle when other people fart in the bathroom. Much to the shame of the Sneak-a-Pooper in the neighboring stall who is stuck hiding in a claustrophobic cubicle until Curly leaves the bathroom and she can be assured of her Sneak-a-Pooper anonymity.
Di, who is so nice and sweet, went back to her desk. I don't know what shocked her more, the turd in the toilet or our hysterical reaction to it. In fact she's soooo nice she probably doesn't ever poop in real life at home, let alone in a public restroom.
We spent the rest of the day off and on discussing the turd in the toilet. Why? Because nobody would flush it. It sat in there for hours. Everybody who went in the bathroom studiously avoided the stall. I think everybody was afraid if they tried to do the right thing and flush it away, the toilet might overflow and then everyone would think they were the one who put it there in the first place. Which is what everyone WOULD think. I know that's why I didn't flush it.
Being low paid government employees, we try to find humor in our mundane jobs. Sometimes it's at the expense of others...sometimes it's at our own expense. And sometimes it's just the turd in the toilet...it's the stoopidist thing.
Curly: "Follow me" she says in that stern former correctional officer voice that leaves us no option.
We dutifully get in line behind her as she heads to the bathroom...four ducks in a row led by Curly, who, I notice bounces when she walks. The Princess, Di, and me.
The bathroom's first four stalls are vacant and Curly pushes the door on the big handicapped stall at the end of the room to make sure nobody's in there either.
Curly: "How does this happen?" proffering her arm in the "Universal Be My Guest Gesture" directing our attention to the third stall.
Curly: "How does this happen? And why is there no paper?"
Immediately sensing the need for photographic evidence I rush back to the office and grab my phone. They're still pondering the poop when I get back a few seconds later.
The Princess: "Maybe the paper got sucked down but the rest didn't."
Di just shakes her head.
We head back to our office talking poop.
The Princess: "Maybe it was a clean poop that didn't need paper."
Me: "But how would you know that unless you used paper?"
The Princess: No words but with the "Oh Yeah" look on her face as she laughs.
Me: "If there'd been paper, wouldn't there have been little floater pieces of paper that didn't go down?"
Curly: "Why would you just leave it?"
The Princess: "You always look to make sure everything goes down. I mean if I ever pooped at work...which I don't."
The Princess and I are die hard prim and proper Sneak-a-Poopers who resort to pooping in the public bathroom under only the most dire of circumstances. Curly, on the other hand, doesn't care and will fart out loud and giggle about it in the bathroom...she'll even giggle when other people fart in the bathroom. Much to the shame of the Sneak-a-Pooper in the neighboring stall who is stuck hiding in a claustrophobic cubicle until Curly leaves the bathroom and she can be assured of her Sneak-a-Pooper anonymity.
Di, who is so nice and sweet, went back to her desk. I don't know what shocked her more, the turd in the toilet or our hysterical reaction to it. In fact she's soooo nice she probably doesn't ever poop in real life at home, let alone in a public restroom.
We spent the rest of the day off and on discussing the turd in the toilet. Why? Because nobody would flush it. It sat in there for hours. Everybody who went in the bathroom studiously avoided the stall. I think everybody was afraid if they tried to do the right thing and flush it away, the toilet might overflow and then everyone would think they were the one who put it there in the first place. Which is what everyone WOULD think. I know that's why I didn't flush it.
Being low paid government employees, we try to find humor in our mundane jobs. Sometimes it's at the expense of others...sometimes it's at our own expense. And sometimes it's just the turd in the toilet...it's the stoopidist thing.
Here's Wilson!!!
 |
| Wilson |
The Husband, who tries to tell people he hates all these stinking animals, is completely smitten. He thinks it's cute when Wilson tries to drink out of a glass. The thing is this is really weird for him. The Husband I mean, not Wilson. Water's water to Wilson. Doesn't matter if it's in a glass on the counter or in his bowl on the floor. It's for drinking. No big deal to him. The Husband though, is another matter.
We went to Maui once on a vacation years ago. Two of The Husband's sisters lived there and one of them moved in with the other one so we could stay at her house and have the place to ourselves. She left her dog there to keep us company. A really sweet & big old lug of a dog.
So one night we're watching TV and eating bowls of ice cream and the dog is sitting there right in front of me staring at my bowl of ice cream. Being the big sap for sad brown eyes that I am, I let the dog lick the last of my ice cream out of the bowl. The following conversation ensued....
The Husband: "Don't let him lick that bowl."
Me: "What difference does it make? It's gonna be washed with hot soapy water."
The Husband (In the most disgusted voice imaginable...): "Well if it doesn't matter, why don't I just shit in the bowl?"
Me: Unable to respond due to onset of hysterical laughter.
The Husband: "Well, what difference does it make? You said it didn't matter."
Me: Hysterical laughter ensues...
The Husband: Beginning to catch the hysterical laughter bug..."Well you said it didn't matter."
So it's not like I don't have reason to be a little surprised that he wouldn't mind Wilson drinking out of a glass. (We actually laughed about the bowl licking/shitting thing all night when it happened.)
We've become those old people who dote on their pets. I blame this on our children for failing to reproduce and give us grandchildren.
It's the stoopidist thing...
P.S. The Adventures Of Wilson...to be continued.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
The Digital Path Experience (A Less Than Pleasurable Excursion…)
Friday, February 13, 2015
When I switched to Digital Path from Hughes Net a few months
ago I was ecstatic. Finally I could
stream video! This probably doesn’t seem
like a big deal for some people but with the previous company, if I was able to
have enough speed to download at all, watching anything anytime other than the
wee hours of morning would cause me to violate some law of Broadband use
resulting in pretty much complete loss of internet access.
Sadly I found this out the hard way. Being old and technologically challenged, I
had no idea that streaming episodes of Sons of Anarchy would infringe on my
ability to check out eBay. Who
knew??? I called Hughes Tech Support and
was rewarded with this delightful bit of info.
Thus began my search for a new ISP. (Internet Service Provider for
oldsters like me who may be dumbfounded by techno-geek lingo.).
Living in a remote area with limited choices, i.e., no
cable, DSL, or cell service, my options are few and far between. Pickings are slim in this neck of the woods. When Digital Path brought service to our area
my neighbors were first to sign up. I
waited to see how they liked it before I took the plunge.
It seemed too good to be true…less money, faster speeds, and
no “limited usage”…how could I not? So I
did…and life was good. Until this week.
There was a storm last week that I hope was the cause of the
outages that have been occurring. Last
weekend, was the first outage. I called
Neighbor Linda, who knows all, to see if her service was working and it wasn’t. Neighbor Linda called to report the outage
and by Monday all was good again.
Thursday night…down again.
The Husband, who acts like it’s my fault, wanted me to call Neighbor
Linda, who knows all, to see if hers was down too. Instead of bothering her, I did the usual
rebooting, unplugging, powering down, up, down up, restarting. This is the kind of shit they have you do
every time I’ve called for technical assistance with the previous companies and
I wanted to be prepared. All for
naught. I gave up and figured it would
be working by morning.
Wrongo bongo.
I
waited until 7:30 to call Neighbor Linda, who knows all, and I was actually
relieved to hear that hers was down too.
Strength in numbers. That
probably meant that everyone in our area was out. Neighbor Linda, who knows all, said she was
going to call Digital Path mumbling something it being hard. Since we were about to end the call I have to
admit I stopped paying attention. I
blame my short attention span on old age and menopause. I blame everything these days on old age and
menopause, unless I can blame The Husband.
I mean, who wouldn’t? Point
being, I probably should have stayed tuned in to the conversation a little bit longer.
Having been given the phone number by Neighbor Linda, who
knows all, I took the plunge and called Digital Path…For Residential Service,
press #1, for Business Service, press #2, yadda yadda…I pressed the number for
Technical Support at approximately 8:20 a.m. PST.
I got a recorded female voice who informed me that I was
caller “Number 13”, asking me to stay on the line and thanking me for my
patience. Okay, I get it, businesses
need to have auto attendants, and at least she didn’t sound totally disgusted
like the gal on the car GPS who gets annoyed when I go the wrong way and says “Re-cal-cu-la-ting”
making sure to enunciate every syllable.
She really does sound completely disgusted…and I don’t know why but I
take it personally.
Almost immediately The Voice tells me I’m “Number 12”. Great, I think…this should go pretty quickly.
Wrongo bongo yet again….
It seemed like I was “Number 11” forever. Long enough that, like my mother whom I’ve
apparently become, I start worrying about shit that MIGHT happen. I’m supposed to meet my SIL and Scari at 1:00
for lunch. What if I’m still on
hold? If I hang up, I’ll have to start
all over again.
The whole time I’m thinking about all this I’ve been holding
the cordless phone to my ear. Since I
hate it when people you talk to on the phone “put you on speaker”, I’ve never
used the “speaker” feature. Finally
after all these years I have an actual need for the “speaker” feature. Thank goodness the phone had a picture of a
speaker that was obvious even to someone like me. I have to force myself to be brave and push
it because I don’t know if you can go from “speaker” to “non-speaker” without
affecting the call. It works!
I have to go to the bathroom. Should I leave it on “speaker”? What if they answer while I’m on the
toilet? Should I risk it? Should I take it off “speaker” so they don’t
hear what I’m doing on the off chance they answer while I’m on the toilet? This is the kind of shit I worry about. I don’t know why.
Thankfully I make it through bathroom duty without
incident. Face gets washed, hair combed,
jammies off, clothes on. Still on hold.
I have the History Channel on and there’s a two hour
documentary about Caligula. Caligula, as
it turns out, was not a very nice guy.
The show is winding down and by 9:46 I’m “Number 3”! Okay, so it can’t be much longer can it?
I notice that the “speaker” on the phone keeps fading in and
out. What if the battery on the cordless
phone goes dead? Can I put it in the
cradle while it’s still on? I don’t know
and I’m afraid if I try, I’ll disconnect the call. My plan is if the phone dies I’ll run to the
bedroom and pick up the un-cordless phone.
But I don’t know if this plan will work.
You never know about this shit until it happens. So I wait, silently praying the phone doesn’t
die.
From 9:55 to 10:26 I’m “Number 2”. Yes, I’m poop. How immature is that? Every time someone says “Number 2” I
automatically think poop.
Some
immaturities I will never outgrow. “Number
1” you’re a winner, “Number 2” you’re poop.
I never automatically think pee when someone says “Number 1”. Why is that?
I am pleased to admit that as I've matured, so has my thinking and
titling of bathroom duties. If it
happens to come up in conversation and I have the opportunity to embarrass
someone, specifically The Princess, the conversation goes something like this.
The Princess: “I have
to run to the bathroom”.
Me: “Do you have to
go Big Potty”?
The Princess: “No”.
Which could be a lie because even if she did, she wouldn’t
want to admit it in front of a group of people.
I can’t blame her. I wouldn't admit
it either. So I've matured from “Number
2” to “Big Potty”. Yes, I've made giant
strides on the maturity highway.
Finally at 10:26 I hear a voice…
Voice: “Thank you for
calling Digital Path, how can I help you?”
Me: “My Internet isn’t
working.”
After getting my account info and all out of the way we
continue.
Voice: “Okay, there
should be a little black box about the size of a cell phone with a green or
blue light on it.”
Me: “Yeah, it has a
green light.”
Voice: “There’s two
cords that go in and I want you to disconnect the one that says POE for five
seconds”.
Me: “Okay” as I crawl
under the desk with the phone to my ear, lest we get disconnected.
I try to disconnect the cord but can't quite get it because
the box keeps slipping away. I finally
manage to get it unplugged. After
waiting the required five seconds, I try to plug it back in but I can't push
the cord in because the box keeps slipping away. I set the cordless phone down so I can use both hands and when I do,
I accidentally hit the disconnect button.
I can't fucking believe it.
Two fucking hours I’ve managed to keep from accidentally disconnecting
that fucking phone and now at the critical juncture of the call I manage to
fuck it up. Needless to say, the air was
turned a very, very, deep cerulean.
I climb out from under the desk and sit in the chair staring
at the phone. Surely, they'll call back,
won't they? Why does this shit happen to
me? So there I sit feeling sorry for
myself staring dumbly at the phone when a miracle occurs. The phone
rings…
Me: “Please tell me
you’re Digital Path calling me back” I say instead of the usual “hello”.
Voice: “Domino’s
Pizza”.
We both laugh. His
name is Gary. Gary is my hero.
Gary has managed to diffuse my rage, not only at myself for
stoopidly disconnecting the phone when I needed it most, but at his company for
making me wait on hold for two fucking hours!
With just a little bit of courtesy and a sense of humor, Gary has made
life good again…it’s the stoopidist thing.
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