How does my week suck ass? Let me count the ways.

I have no toilet. Wait, I have a toilet, but it's sitting in the middle of my bathroom floor, leaving a dark, gaping hole to sewer hell. While I wondered where wads of toilet paper and used tampons went, I didn't really need to know.

Cold-blooded by nature, I have my air conditioner set at 76 (cold-blooded, cheap, whatever). My son gets home from work, turns the thermostat down to 72 degrees, goes to bed, then turns the heat up to 80 degrees in the morning. I believe hotflashes are actually caused by teenage boys.

I took back my rental car (and driver, ha), paid my deductible ($300) and picked up my car. It looks like...deep fried roadkill on a stick. Oh, it's not that bad, as long as you're Jolly Green Giant tall and don't look closely at the piece under the rear bumper hanging lower than everything else. After driving to the gas station on fumes today, I discovered what else isn't fixed: the push-button gas tank opening. Technology's great - except when IT DOESN'T WORK!

My subordinate has consistently been showing up for work late, leaving early, and taking longer lunches (which everyone knows is behaviour reserved for supervisors). I rationally and calmly sat him down to discuss his attendance after he arrived half an hour late this morning. Okay, I probably used sarcasm to make my point, but he flipped out on me, swearing and yelling about how much he hated his "motherfucking job". He's never said a word before now, preferring the strategy of keeping his anger and frustration bottled up so it could fester. I only wanted to talk about the situation, but ended up writing him up because he acted so inappropriately (and hurt my feelings. This is why I don't WANT people under me. Stop venting at me!)

Because of specifics in our contract, our employer is required to pay us the average wage for the corresponding job title in our Alabama region. Not only was my employee completely out of line, but I had to reward him with a $2/hour pay hike at the end of the day because his had changed. Oh, mine went up, too. BY FOUR CENTS!

Fava beans and a nice chianti

"Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments."

The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

No, I'm not starting a meth lab

You know sometimes you feel like bursting with incredible, life-changing news on the employment front, but because one of your favorite people reads your blog from your mutually shared corporate office, you hesitate to say anything? And you're not sure if your company monitors internet use, but you remember when they installed a ghost program on the computer of a co-worker who was later indicted by the F.B.I., so you think maybe it would be safer not to say anything, and hope that your secret smirk doesn't give you away?

Yeah, me too.

Tell me what you don't like about yourself...

Netflix should change its name to "does-this-couch-make-my-ass-look-huge" movie rental service.

Simple premise: watch a movie, mail it back, get another.

Not only do I get to watch the current season of my favorite lothario, scalpel-wielding Dr. Christian Troy of Nip/Tuck on tv, I get to watch all past seasons simply by walking* to the mailbox.

*Fine. By skipping to the mailbox. Happy?

A consummate bargain shopper, I'll buy anything on sale...turkey flavored protein shake, buy 1 get 1 free? Sign me up! I figured out that if I watch one DVD per week, I'll break even (although this logic is slightly flawed since I rarely rent movies, and it's not so much that I don't want to, it's that I forget to return them and can't afford the excessive late fees to get another).

On another flabby note: kudos to Madrid for making 18 the minimum Body Mass Index (BMI) for fashion week, which means a 6'0" model would have to weigh 135 lbs. to be in the show. Oversized heads on scrawny necks are so...yesterday.

Dial A for Accessory

I cleaned out the storage shed at work today and had two half-full containers of antifreeze (or two half-empty, depending on which metaphorical glass from which you drink) on my desk. Jessicunt, who intermittently breaks her silent treatment to me when she needs something, asked if she could take them.

I happen to know, from eavesdropping on her phone conversation last week, that a neighbor's pitbull attacked and killed their dog. Her dad went to confront the neighbor, who wasn't home, and fired his rifle at the beast as he was leaving. Apparently the gun had turkey pellets instead of bullets, which didn't kill the dog (because the ammo sprays out), so she needs the antifreeze to poison it.

Seriously...is it me? What the HELL is wrong with rednecks?!

Cheap man walking

I ran into a guy (almost literally - he was walking towards the post office as I was backing my car out) I dated after my divorce. He's another helicopter pilot, since apparently I have a weakness for the cocky and arrogant, which later only incites me into throwing hard boiled eggs at their heads. I knew he wasn't for me the day he decided to spend $500 upgrading his ancient piece o'crap computer circa 1990 rather than a tiny bit more to get a decent new system.

We made small talk while catching up for a few minutes, and I asked him if he was still living in the same place.

"No," he said, "We bought some...I bought some...property in the country."

Awwww, I love the pronoun game: we're very happy for you. You go, Jim.

Okay, Steph...

...the cats are packed up and ready to go, but I'M keeping Crackhead Kennedy.

Adventures in geography

Go on - name the state, and win...stuff.

[Fine print: by "stuff", I mean a cat. Or two.]

(Beyond the) Pale green Athena

Other people drive inanimate objects on the highways and byways. Cars. Trucks. Motorcycles. I am transported by a pronoun worthy pale-green goddess -- the first vehicle I ever bought myself, without the assistance of a cheap, bad-ass negotiating spouse.

I took her to the body shop and was told she needs a little work on her rear end (hey, it happens). $5000 and three weeks is the estimation, then she should be back to bouncing quarters and cracking walnuts.

My auto insurance will pay the car rental for thirty days, so I handed over my driver's license to the woman at the customer service desk, who asked if all the information was correct.

"Well, no..." I said, "that's my married name there, which I'm not. And the address was three moves ago."

"Not a problem...except that your driver's license expired in July. I can't rent this car to you."

Well, of course not (to quote an old Steve Martin act, it's all about the timing. Ti-MING).

She told me that Tim would drive me home to get my relevant paperwork (name change, divorce decree), then to the courthouse to get my license. Tim is retired from the Navy, saw combat in Vietnam, and grew up in this area so I got the full tour: the house he grew up in, the creek he fished in, and all the schools in the area. I'm going to suggest to my insurance company that they cover the rental and driver for the next three weeks.

No-fault

The judge asked, "What do you plead?"

I said, "Insanity, your honour. Who in their right mind would park in the passing lane?"
- Stephen Wright

Same location (near my old house) on the same road (84-E), with the same weather (crappy late afternoon rain storm) as last year when the Bronco flipped over the median. Welcome to my déjà vu.

Not much on my mind, other than hypocrites and puritanical sensibilities, as I cruised along, hoping I wouldn't be too late for my dentist appointment. I played with my sunglass a bit, unable to decide if the clouds looked better darker. Lighter. Darker. Lighter. I noticed the car in front of me stopping suddenly, and quickly pressed down my own brake pedal as hard as I could. The anti-lock brakes worked like a charm as I skipped along the wet pavement, stopping approximately one inch from the car in front of me. PHEW!

My relief, however, was short-lived, as I glanced in my rear-view mirror and noticed the truck behind me, a Ford Ranger, was not having such an easy, stop-on-a-dime time with her brakes. She collided into my back end, pushing me into the car in front of me. Then again, with a jolt of the car forward and back, as another truck hit HER from behind. Domino Dancing in a six-cylinder.

The officer on a Harley eventually arrived, and we drove under the canopy at the Shell gas station so he wouldn't get wet (think Eric Estrada...plus 80 pounds). No one was hurt, fortunately, so he took the reports, while we joked and laughed and talked about how crazy hydroplaning was. I told them next time I was in a four car pile-up, I wanted to be at the front, in a truck, because my car was the vehicle that sustained the most damage.

What struck me most was that there didn't seem to be any anger or flying accusations. I don't know how the police report will read or fingers will be pointed, or if it really matters, but the woman that hit me apologized profusely. Repeatedly.

I'm from a no-fault insurance state (Michigan) so it's relatively simple: my insurance pays my damage, yours pays for you. Here? I'm not exactly sure how it works, and it all seemed to be rather hush-hush when I talked to my insurance agent on the phone, "Oh, I can't legally tell you who will pay the deductible, or if it falls under the collision portion of the policy."

This was the first accident I've had in over twenty years, so now I feel like I'm in a fancy restraurant with lots of people, waiting to see who picks up the bill.

Raining cats and...broncos.

From July 8th of last year. I thought some foreshadowing might be nice before my next entry. Dammit.
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Last Wednesday, storm clouds started moving in while I was at work, so I decided to leave 15 minutes early to get home and let my dog in the house. She's sensitive (read "wuss") and thunder sends her to the closet to shiver. I'm not crazy about all that dog fur on my clothes, but I didn't want her stuck outside.

I turned east on I-84, hauling ass as I'm prone to do, when the sky fell open. I was listening to Sinead O'Connor's The Lion and The Cobra cd, an old favorite from '87. She may be a bit controversial, but damn that woman can sing! I always wail along with her, covering my complete vocal range from out-of-tune to downright painful. I turned the volume up, wayyyy up.

I want your hands on me - what I want, give me
You know I wanna please you - what I wanna do to you

I'm not overly observant when it comes to other vehicles and actually drove past my ex-husband one time stranded on the side of the road. He had hit a deer and I was the only other car (sorry about your luck). This particular rainy afternoon, however, I saw a Bronco-type vehicle driving on the opposite side of the highway. Everything was in such slow motion, it seemed as though the SUV was practicing for a fire emergency: it stopped, dropped and rolled. It flipped across the grassy median, finally landing on the driver's side a few feet away from me.

You don't waste no time, do you?
You know I'm looking through you

I slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder, jumping out to make sure no one was hurt. I peeked in the windows and saw two elderly women together on the driver's seat, as if somehow they had both been driving. By this time, two other men had pulled over and were attemptimg to get the passenger side door open (which was now located on top of the vehicle) - we couldn't get it to budge. Instead, we managed to get the rear hatch door open, to make sure the women were okay (sorry for the muddy size 8 footprints on the upholstery) and waited for an ambulance to arrive.

Why you wanna tease me - I want you to come and please me

They both seemed fine, physically, just shaken as we waited for the ambulance. The driver was at least sixty years old, her passenger mother far gone into Alzheimer territory. She never said a word, didn't seem to comprehend what anyone said or where she was. Her dark eyes kept searching mine for...something, while her tiny, frail hands reached out...scratching, some sort of physical attempt to get answers. I will never, as long as I live, forget those birdlike hands and intense eyes staring up at me.

Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me
Put'em on, put'em on, put'em on me

Methyl Ethyl Assholes

You know what really burns my bra? Hoighty toighty, whitey-tighty, butt-plug wearing writerly types with God complexes. I ran across a troll-blog this weekend, whose sole raison d'être (French for "excuse to be mean") is to point out, ridicule, and leave hurtful comments on blogs he doesn't like. Most people already know if they don't like reading housewives, commentary-writing dogs, cock-sharers or teenagers posting song lyrics without a third party pointing it out, so who the hell are you? I may be a simpleton* but if you don't like it, don't read it.

*One of these holier-than-thou types sneered, jeered, talked down to and basically called me stupid a few days ago, which wasn't the first time, and probably won't be the last, but it did sting my hypersensitive ego. I try to limit my insecurities, if at all possible, to ones that have validity, and just because I can't turn a phrase (or a trick, for that matter) as well as this professional writer, does not make me stupid or my thoughts less worthy. Puh-leeze.

Not to pull a Pee-Wee Herman and stroke myself in public, but I graduated magna cum laude with a B.S. in Chemistry and was named Chemistry student of the year in college, for heaven's sake (which is really funny and irrelevant to me, but it's the way my friend in Milwaukee always introduces me) and I know EVERY PROPERTY RENT IN MONOPOLY! Granted, it doesn't translate into a successful career, lots of money or even writing ability, but I have just as much right to be here. Fuck 'ya.

I prefer blogs belonging to genuine people. Cat lovers, grammar queens, teachers, computer geeks, jet-setters, photographers, parents, chefs, dancers, musicians, poets, and earth-bound writers. I'm limited in the types of people that cross my path in southern Alabama and would surely wither away from exposure to rednecks if it wasn't for the variety of people I read on the internet.

Say what you will about me, but don't be rude to people I care about. Mean people suck (often sloppily, with too much saliva so there's not enough friction and who needs that?).

Thought for a Sunday

Smart girls don't dance with sociopaths.

See? I can play well with others.

Our IT guy, AmesJay, left a few months ago, suddenly without notice, which I've heard had something to do with his wife catching him with some stripper in Montgomery. He fled the state, and we were fortunate that the woman who previously held his position was looking for a job.

EllyKay. This may be difficult to believe, but I have nothing negative to say about her. Well...she doesn't drink, but that's pretty minor - I can overlook it. She did have sex in our bathroom at work with a cheating-on-his-wife bottom feeder, but that was probably because she had taken too much demerol for her migraine. We get along, occasionally go to lunch together, and she feeds the feral cats when I'm not there.

Yesterday, she won lunch from a local radio station for answering these questions:

1) if the vice president dies, who's the president?
2) if you have a dozen three-cent stamps, how many do you have?

LUNCH! She won lunch!