Personal
Monday, March 15, 2010
Twilight Zone
Today is my day off and I had to go out in to the public which is something I dread greatly. If you have read here for any length of time, you know that most of the time I go out, or even when you go out, for that matter, I have to deal with a bunch of assholes. It never fails that I will encounter rude, stupid, selfish, assholes and finding someone who speaks English in this town is like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
One of the reasons I have requested to have Mondays and Tuesdays off is because when I do have to go out in to public, most of the public is at work and that helps minimize my asshole quota for the weekend.
So, it was with great reluctance that I pulled myself out of bed this morning to get dressed and prepare myself for the onslaught of shitstupid pricks. I just hoped that I could get out there, get my stuff and be back within a short period of time to lessen the drama and heartache.
I hopped in my car and pulled out of my neighborhood only to find myself with a pretty clear road ahead. Nice. It wasn’t until about the middle of my travels that, naturally, some douche pulled out in front of me. Scoff, of course! However, it wasn’t too long before I had to make a turn and they went in the opposite direction so it wasn’t too bad.
After my turn, I continued on and was again about halfway down the road when yet again, another twit pulled out in front of me. I hate when people fucking do this especially when there is NO ONE behind me! You can’t wait 5 fucking seconds for a clear, free turn? But again, it wasn’t long before I had to make another turn so it wasn’t too bad.
I pulled up in to the parking lot of the grocery store and got out with a sigh and steeled myself to deal with arrogant fucks inside the store who get pissy with me for having the audacity to speak English. Here. In America. The nerve of me.
I did my shopping and for the most part, it was empty so I didn’t have to encounter too many rude snots shoving me to the side of the aisle. Got everything and proceeded to check out.
No line. In fact, a checker saw me looking for an open register and told me to come to his lane and got me started right away. And he spoke to me in English. In fact, he spoke English right from the start and did not ask me how I was doing in Spanish. WHAT!?! That was surprising, as well as refreshing.
Got done with that, loaded the car and headed off to Home Depot. Now...kids. I despise going to this Home Depot because I can never find any help, no one speaks English very well and it typically takes me an hour to do something that should take only 5 minutes. One time I actually was so pissed off I did call for the manager after waiting a half an hour for someone to show up to help me when they had been paged by another Home Depot employee. I was NOT looking forward to this.
I walked in the door and was immediately greeted by a lady who, AGAIN, spoke to me in English right off the bat and asked me if I needed any help finding anything.
HOLY SHIT! Really?! SERIOUSLY!?!?!
I informed her of what I needed and she thought for a minute thinking it was on aisle 10 but asked another employee just to make sure.
I almost fell over in a faint.
The product I needed was actually in aisle 9 and that was confirmed by the other employee she asked just to make sure. Still, she was only one aisle off and she made sure before I even started looking.
I went to aisle 9, found just what I needed and proceeded to check out. This particular Home Depot is pretty notorious for NOT having anyone around in a regular check out stand but pretty much makes everyone do self check out. For anyone who has read all 7 years of my site, you know how I feel about self check out. And, usually, I can find no one around to assist when self checkout hell begins. (The machine starts yelling at me that I’m doing it wrong and mayhem ensues and it’s all rather embarrassing, chaotic, annoying and mentally exhausting.)
However, when I walked up to self checkout hell and placed my items on the ground to get my money ready so that the machine would not start yelling at me to give it my money, NOW, damnit, you snail, you moron, give me your money!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, someone came over and scanned the items for me!
HOLY SHIT! ASSISTANCE? Assistance before the crap starts?
This gave me ample time to get my money and insert the cash in to the slot before I got my ass chewed out by a fucking machine. I did, apparently, take too long to pick up my items as I was trying to put my wallet back in my bag but again, it wasn’t too bad.
I then proceeded out the door and immediately some man asked if he could help me carry my stuff to my car.
HOLY SHIT! Kindness?!?!!? You sure you don’t want to just watch me struggle instead?! (One time, I actually had someone stop and stare at me and say, “I’m just wondering how you’re going to carry all of that! I can’t believe you’re going to carry that without any help. Don’t you have a husband or kid to help you?” as he stood there, NOT helping.)
I told the guy he could help carry one awkward box for me and when we got to my car, I thanked him very much. All he said was, “No, no, no problem!”
Woah!
I got in to my car and headed for home.
Not one single person pulled out in front of me and most people actually drove the speed limit.
I was done with my errands a half an hour earlier than I was hoping for.
I don’t know what they put in to the water today but I hope to God they keep doing it. In fact, I’m so pleased with it all that I’m actually going to take the opinion survey for Home Depot and let them know what a great improvement today was over every other time I’ve been there. Companies need to know when they do something right, too, ya know.
After that, I’m going to continue sitting here in a state of shock that people were actually helpful, considerate and kind today. I’m not quite sure how to handle that! I just know that I like it.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Continued
I was leaving a comment, replying to those of you who have written something but it got so long, I decided to just make it a new entry.
Boy I tell you, it’s amazing what a few words can do for a person. What I really wanted to do is just not going to happen and as I realize this, yes, I harbor some resentment. Resentment, anger and sorrow. Fucking assholes...what was their gottdamned problem?
But, after reading the comments, I’ve made a slight change in how I do things. It’s going to be hard for me but it’s a first step in many of the small steps I’ll have to take to accomplish what I wish to accomplish.
May sound silly to all of you but for me, it’s pretty big. See, I don’t like to owe money. I don’t like the feeling of knowing that someone can take something away from me if I don’t outright own it. And many times in this life I have not done the, “Pay yourself first” business when I’ve been paid but have paid everyone else, leaving me with little.
What has happened as a result is that when shit hits the fan, because I’ve paid everyone else and not myself, I’ve had nothing to fall back on. Granted, I’ve never been wealthy or anywhere near that playing field...hell, I haven’t even been in the stands as a spectator, and as I wrote, (actually, added to a list that I copied and pasted about what it is to be poor), there is no room for error when you don’t have money. There just isn’t. Everything is hard when you are poor. EVERYthing. And it’s downright exhausting.
Last night, I decided to count up all of my tips and the four checks I haven’t cashed yet as well as what I have in my bank account. It’s not a whole lot but it was enough for me to pay off my car, pay my insurance for the year and pay an extra amount on something else; something I’ve been working on to ensure that I’ll have a damn roof over my head always.
And I was very, very, very tempted to do it. Just plunk it all down and I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Just my measly little satellite bills each month. What a great way to live!
Except...what if something happens? Or, what if I saved that money and put it towards getting THE HELL OUT OF HERE!?!?!
I was actually unsure what I wanted to do but I held off for the time being while I tried to make up my mind. Like I said, I hate, hate, hate owing money.
Then I come here and see these comments and while they are all rather encouraging, (God how nice that is to hear), I think it was physics geek’s comment that did it. Something about “something came along out of the blue and I ran screaming out the door” hit the right nerve.
I will indeed run screaming out the door when I leave here and I will be so fucking happy when I do, (provided I do it on MY terms and on MY initiation), but the only way I’m going to get there is to have some money to do it.
This isn’t the best time to be looking for something else but I can save up a big, fat chunk of change in the meantime and what I have now is one hell of a good start.
So, while normally it’s better to pay off your bills ahead of time, I think, in this situation, it’s worth it to continue to make the payments I have been making, (still giving them more than the minimum each month to apply it to that principle), and save the rest.
Because if there is one thing I’ve learned in this life, when you are ok financially, you have so many more options than you do when you are not ok financially. And one of those options is to tell them where to shove it. Knowing that I’ll have the money to leave when I’m ready will make things easier at work, as well. I won’t be so worried about getting canned or let go. I won’t have to worry about being homeless or starving again like I have gone through before in my early 20s.
That is something I never, ever wish to go through again. Which, coincidentally did teach me that of course I can make it through anything..I made it out of that shit from sheer will and determination and would not throw in the towel and cry about it. It sucked total ass but I worked hard to get out of it. Some of you know the story but I’m just going to do a quick recap for those who don’t.
I was in college. I had my GI Bill, Pell Grant and a little bit of money saved up to get me through it. (Money I had saved from serving in the military.) I lived in an apartment with a roommate. I did not have a car. I did not have cable television. We shared a house phone that was just a house phone and had none of the extras. We ate cheaply. My money went to rent, electricity, bus fare, food and school supplies. I was full on college mode because I wanted to do well.
My roommate and I got along. Unfortunately, she had some issue with a boyfriend and was advised by her psychiatrist to move away from him, (he lived near us), and perhaps go back home with her parents because I guess the relationship wasn’t healthy. Well, she did just that. The problem is, she left me with two days’ notice...meaning, two days before rent and all the bills were due. I could come up with my half but I sure as hell couldn’t come up with her half. I just didn’t have the money to do it. I had planned everything out according to having a roommate. And two days’ notice is not enough time to find a solution.
I ended up homeless.
But I still went to school.
After school I would knock on every business door in downtown Seattle and ask for a job. Every fucking one of them whether I was qualified or not. Very few places would even let me fill out an application. They just weren’t hiring.
I also went to every damn apartment building I could to try to find a place to live that I could afford.
After a few hours of doing that every day, I would then try to get my homework done before getting a few hours of sleep and starting all over again the next day. For three weeks I did this. Finally, the pieces started to fall in to place. Yes, of course, a couple of people helped me along the way but that was because they saw how damn hard I was working at it. They knew I wasn’t just sitting in a corner whining about my situation, they knew I was busting my ass to resolve the situation.
A very, very kind apartment manager helped me out by giving me “half off” my first month’s rent because it was a “summer special”. There was no fucking summer special. He just paid the other half of the rent for me. And he didn’t make me pay last or deposit. He trusted me.
And that was all I fucking needed. A break. Someone to believe in me.
Let me tell you what kind of shits the adoptives were in this situation: When I told them of the roommate leaving with only two days’ notice and asked for $500 to cover the rent and the electric, they refused. According to them, the entire situation was my fault. I chose that roommate, it was my fault. I didn’t have money saved up, it was my fault. Nevermind that the money I had saved up went right in to school, tuition, books, bus fare, registration, labs, etc, I was “irresponsible” and they considered me a fuck up. I had just served three years in the military but I’m a fuck up. Nice. I told them I was about to be homeless. They didn’t care.
Some years later, the maternal unit told me that she had been feeling guilty about that all these years. I told her to forget about it because I realized that I could make it through anything. I made it through that, for crying out loud. Oh how she thanked me. What I wanted to tell her was that her guilt didn’t fucking do me any good and that I now knew I could not rely on them to have my back for anything. If your own family won’t support you, who would, I thought, at the time.
But she was absolved of her guilt because I told her to forget about it, I realized how strong I am. Goody gumdrops for her. Whatever makes her happy. But it’s not something I’ll ever forget.
Anyway, yes, I made it through that but you know what? That fear of repeating it stays with you. You are always afraid that someone, somewhere is going to fuck things up for you and you will end up there again. It’s not a nice way to live. It’s even worse knowing you can’t ever go home again. Not that I would want to but to even know that you could has to help a little bit.
So, as long as I’m here, I’m just going to save. I’ve been overpaying on my car payments for some time but I think I’m going to slow down on that, not make quadruple payments every month like I have been and just save it. I may still owe on my car but I’ll have a savings building up so that no matter what happens, I should be ok. And it will take away some of that fear, when I have enough to live for a good year without work, (that’s the goal), and have an idea of where I’m going next and what I’m going to do.
But just getting the financial part in my favor is a big step. And then? Then I’ll start finding my way around this life again.
I don’t know if I’ll ever have the money to open my own animal sanctuary. It takes a LOT of money to get them up and running and keep them going. And since they are non profit, you rely on the public and grants to help you along. Many have tried, many have failed. This is why I want to learn as much as I can about every little thing so that if I ever do get the opportunity, I can fix it my damn self and not have to rely on others to help me because, see, the lesson I’ve learned in this life is that while I can count on a few people here and there along the way, most people, as you all said, SUCK and you just can’t rely on them for anything.
But, that is my dream. A big piece of land, far away from assholes, where I am saving animals, making a difference and helping. I like animals more than I do people. I really don’t care who says that’s the wrong thing to say, it’s true. Animals don’t lie. They are very honest. All you need to know is how they operate. You could say the same thing for humans but humans are far too complex, phony and deceitful for me to ever figure out, in the general sense.
If I had an animal sanctuary, I think I would be a little lonely but I would also be too busy making a difference and be too happy with the beings I work with every day. And if I don’t like someone’s bullshit attitude? Guess what? BYE!
Now, I know some of you might say that I don’t need to know everything, I can hire people to know those things or recruit volunteers to know those things but at the same time that I realize what makes a good leader is one who listens to those who are in the trenches and takes all of their suggestions in to consideration, a good leader also has to have some idea about the topic at hand.
As an example: I don’t need to know how to build an airboat from scratch but it would be helpful if I knew the names of the parts, basically how they work, why there are there and simple fixes. It’s no less than when you own a car. You should know the basics so that you can do for yourself before taking it to a mechanic to get ripped off. You don’t have to know, completely, how to fix it but you should know the basics and have a general idea of what is going on when they say, “Your control arms and tie rods are broken.” The last thing you want to do is tilt your head to the side and say, “HUH?”
I want to know what the control arms and tie rods are, how they function and what they mean to the car. I can have someone else fix them, but I want to know why the hell they are fixing them and know that they actually need to be fixed.
Do you get what I’m saying?
Now, it’s going to be stressful for awhile because it’s not like I’m going to be able to pick up and leave tomorrow. This may take awhile. And it’s going to suck every damn day. And I may not be going straight to an animal sanctuary of my own right after that. The first step is to get what I can while I’m here and then plan the next step. Then the next one and the next one and the next one.
And yes, I’m going to be resentful for some time. I am not stupid, I know life isn’t easy and I know there are no guarantees, but I do know, that a little boost so many years ago would have made this far, far less exhausting, physically and mentally and I wouldn’t have to live in perpetual fear of amounting to nothing.
It’s sad, really because there is so much I want to do. But I know I’m in this, basically, on my own so I’m going to have to pick one that I can still do regardless of the fact that I’m older now. Age does indeed close many doors and eventually, I’ll accept that and move on.
Right now though, I just want to be pissed.
I’ll get over it...just let me be pissed for awhile.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
It's One Or The Other
Ok, kids...go easy on me here, I’m just trying to flesh out what it is that is bothering me these days. I have just woken up, (my day off), and usually that is when I think most clearly and I think it’s one of two things going on.
Either I’m going through a mid-life crisis or, in all sincerity, my job is reminding me of everything I have hated and worked against in my life. Or maybe it’s both. What I do know is that it’s really starting to eat at me...I guess it could be depression, I am really not sure.
For example, just before I woke up, I was dreaming about myself being much younger. And as silly as this sounds, I was wearing a pair of dark, burgundy jeans that I used to own. I loved these pants. (Stick with me here, kids.) In the dream I was wearing those pants, rolled up at the hem because as with most pants, they were too long. I had on a black sweater and a black leather jacket, just like I always used to wear. I don’t recall what the hell I was doing in the dream but I remember as I was waking up, I thought, “What the hell happened to those pants? Where did they go? When did I get rid of them? I don’t remember shit.”
Symbolism, kids, in case you didn’t catch on. I’m sure you did, you are all pretty damn intelligent but I’m saying it anyway because I’m just kind of understanding some of this as I’m writing this.
Anyway, I woke up feeling...bleh. Like something was missing. And then it all kind of hit me. What the hell happened? This is not the course I set out for myself. And this is not the person I thought I would become.
You know, I sit here, often, and think that all I want to do is save up as much money as possible so that I can go buy some land somewhere, far away from people and just be left the fuck alone. And you know what? As much as I want that, as much as imagining it makes me happy, it also makes me incredibly sad. That is not the person I once was. What I used to be was the type of person who could not wait to get out there, meet as many people as possible, see as many things as I could, go as far as I could, explore the ends of the earth. I was full of adventure, would try many things, especially with higher risks, and basically embraced the world.
Now? Now all I want to do is hide from the world because the world actually pisses me off. A lot. Whereas I use to think, “Man, I can’t wait to go here, here and here and meet all those people”, all I can think now is, “You couldn’t pay me enough to visit your country because you are all fucking idiots!” I guess the travelers from those countries haven’t been the greatest ambassadors.
Nonetheless, there’s a feeling of something dying. Like...maybe my hope? Maybe my sense of adventure? Maybe the zest for life I once had? I’m not sure what it is but again, each time I think how great it would be to get the fuck away from people and not have to deal with them on a daily basis, it makes me feel tremendous loss and I’m not sure really how I would react after about a month of living that way. Is that really what I want?
Basically, I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore and what I want. I’ve always known who I was and what I wanted. I have no idea how to handle not knowing.
There is also the possibility that what is causing this is where I work. My co-workers are either dumber than a box of wet Depends or they are abusive. Verbally abusive, that is. I really have low tolerance for abusive people and I really do not wish to spend my time around abusive people. I’ve done enough, more than my share, in this lifetime. The sperm donor was physically abusive to the point that he was thrown in jail and I was adopted out. Lots of scars there, kids. Physical and emotional. Lots of work getting past that. A LOT of work getting past that. (And no, it doesn’t just magically disappear when you become an adult, you still have to work through that shit.)
And frankly, the adoptive units weren’t much better.
My abusive co-workers remind me of both of them; both sets that is. They care only about themselves, they do not want to see you succeed, they do not care what their actions do to you, if they feel shitty, they want to ensure that you feel shitty, they manipulate, back stab, gossip and do everything in their power to get people fired. Even their own friends! They bring in “friends” and then turn around and start talking shit about them to get them fired. WTF?!?!!?!
The boss....everyone here is a “fucking idiot”. If you do anything, make a mistake, you are a “fucking idiot”. And that is everyone here. Not one person here is immune to it no matter how far their tongue is up the boss’ ass. I’ve heard, several times in the almost three years I’ve been here, him calling people “fucking idiots” when they call in on the radio with a problem.
There you are, driving the boat, something mechanical happens while you’re out. You call in on the radio for assistance. Immediately the boss wants to know what that “fucking idiot” has done this time. Or sometimes we get stuck. We turn wrong, or the boat just plain ass doesn’t fucking turn, the wind pushes us up in to the grass, something. We are now stuck and need assistance. Jesus, you should hear this guy when that happens.
“Doesn’t that fucking idiot know how to drive an airboat?”
This past week has been very windy. VERY windy. Docking is a bitch in the wind. Every. single. person. has needed help at the dock. Every last one of them. Even the ones who claim that they have driven airboats their entire lives, have needed help. And every last one of them has completely and totally fucked up their docking in the wind. But the boss only gets upset with some of the people.
I had a boat last week and was coming in and has just about docked it perfectly despite the wind when a gust came up and fucked that all up for me. The boss was on the dock loading boats as they came in because there was a long line of people waiting. The right, front corner of my boat got caught up on the dock. If I had just a few more inches, maybe only 5 inches, I would have cleared it but again, the wind gusted right at the most inopportune time and I didn’t complete the turn.
But do I get understanding?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
No, what I get is a deep scowl and disgust from the boss. See, I’m just a fucking idiot who cannot drive an airboat.
All of this reminds me of life growing up. There was no room for error. You had to be perfect. You may think I’m being facetious but I’m really not. You HAD to be perfect. And to ensure perfection, there was a gottdamned rule for every little thing you did. From the time I woke up in the morning to the time I went to bed at night, there was a rule. Every action had a rule. And it was stringent, there was no room for artistic license, you would do it this way, every single day, day in, day out or you would pay for it.
And I mean every. little. thing you can think of.
Because you had to be perfect, the house had to be perfect, you had to look perfect and the only way to achieve that perfection is to follow a set of rules stricter than the Chinese government. At times, friends would come over and feel extremely uncomfortable in my house because of these rules. They also realized that the place didn’t look lived in at all. It was too clean, too shiny and there was nothing welcoming about it. Every room looked like a show room. And you damn well better keep it that way, right down to the glare of the freshly waxed floors.
If you made a mistake? It was enormous. There were no small mistakes. Every thing was blown out of proportion. You obviously were not trying very hard, you were being lazy and you were acting stupid. For that you must pay.
And I think about that every time my boss calls us “fucking idiots” for simple mistakes. There is no room for error at work. We must be perfect.
So, you throw all of this together and I’m completely lost. I do not appreciate being treated this way, I don’t tolerate the abuse and I did not work this fucking hard just to come right back to this sort of environment. But how the fuck do I get out of this? Can I actually hold on long enough to save up that money to get the fuck out? How much more of this shit can I take? And just how many more times will people try to sabotage my efforts TO get out of here? (Yes, sabotage...you really have no idea.)
I don’t like feeling like I’m fighting for my very own existence every single day. I’ve already been homeless once, I’ve already literally starved before, I do not want to go through that again. I cannot just tell them to fuck off and leave out of here. To do that would be to fuck myself over.
There is no encouragement here. There was no encouragement growing up. I always remember this during Olympic season. I enjoy watching the games but sometimes I think I shouldn’t watch them because of what they stir up.
I often wonder, while watching, just how far I could have gotten in this life with a little support. I didn’t ask for much. I asked for very little. And even those requests were not fitting with the regime so the answer was always, “no”. There was so much I wanted to do, learn and take part of when I was younger. These things were fun for me but the skills I would have gained, the lessons I would have learned, the confidence I would have gained, the leadership skills I would have been taught, the life lessons that I would have developed....all were denied because, you see, there is no future in those things.
I wanted to act, sing, play piano, take more computer courses, (yes, even that long ago, they were there for kids), ski, do gymnastics, be on the swim team, track, tap...the list was endless. And while I understand those things take money, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was, “You are not allowed to have fun, therefore, no.” I got to do some of those things on a small scale but I thirsted for more and was always told, “no”.
What the fuck kind of parent tells their kid, “NO” when they are aching to learn things? I was a very, very bored child. I lost myself in books. That was encouraged, thankfully, and that’s pretty much how I spent my years as a kid. When I was home, I’d read a book. What else was there for me to do? I wasn’t allowed to fucking go anywhere or learn anything or gain a new skill. I wasn’t allowed to explore and discover new talents.
No, maybe I wouldn’t have ever been a professional skiier, or gymnast or ice skater. Maybe I would have never been a professional singer, only maybe being a back up. But why the fuck would you deny someone the opportunity?
Because a) “things like that never happen to people like us” in other words, don’t even bother trying or b) you are too stupid.
And here we have come, full circle. I have been begging to learn the ins and outs of the mechanics of the airboat. Just as I was taught in the military how to fix my own car, I should know how to fix a small, minor problem on a boat. But we can’t have that because “you would all fuck it up”. Only certain people are allowed to learn certain things at work and most of us are not allowed to learn shit.
I want to learn how to change the oil.
No.
I want to learn what this part is, that part is, how to fix these things when they go wrong; ie, how to change a starter.
No.
I want to learn how to find the fuse that gets blown at times on rides.
No.
I want to learn how to fix it should the rudder stick break on tour. (And this HAS happened to people.)
No.
I want to learn how to fix this, that and the other.
No.
And it brings me right back to how I felt as a kid and always being told, “No.”
Who in their right fucking mind keeps someone from learning something? Especially when that education would only benefit them AND the company or the family? Who the fuck does that?
I am not a fucking idiot. I am smart. I pick things up quickly when I am allowed to learn them. Sometimes how fast I pick things up pisses people off and makes them feel all threatened but that’s not my problem. But I continually get held down.
No. Fucking idiot. You don’t need to learn these things. You have nothing to gain by learning these things.
Stupid girl.
So, you put all of this together and I feel like I’ve done nothing with my life. I feel like I’ve advanced nowhere. I feel like I’ve wasted all of these years because I’m right back in the same damn environment I fought so damn hard to get out of. And it doesn’t matter what the hell I do, doesn’t matter how many times I prove myself, doesn’t matter how many times I prove them wrong, that I am stronger than they think, smarter than they think and more capable than they think and that not every little gottdamned last thing has to be run ONE. CERTAIN. WAY. ONLY!!!!!!!, I am not allowed to grow.
I’m stifled.
And I don’t know how to get out of this right now.....but even bigger, I don’t even know where the fuck I want to go next. I really am not sure who the fuck I am anymore, as I said, and I am sick and fucking tired of people trying to hold me down, to keep me from being what I can be.
I’m sick and tired of the lack of support.
I’m sick and tired of people and their snotty attitudes.
And all of this really bothers me because this is not who I once was but it’s not because I’ve grown. It’s because I’ve been held back for so long by so many that I have noticed my drive, my hope, my desires are pretty much flaming out.
And that really, really bothers me. So much so, that it’s affecting my health. My eating habits have changed drastically, for the worse, I can’t fucking sleep anymore. I’m tossing and turning all night long, waking up at all hours, can’t get to sleep at night no matter how fucking tired I am, wake up too early, can’t get back to sleep, I’m exhausted all the time...I don’t even have the energy to do simple tasks. Even going to the store is something big. I’m fucking mentally exhausted and now I have to go out there and deal with more assholes? How about I just don’t have any food at all. Except I have to take care of the cats.
I have no desire to even go do anything. Part of that is because I’m trying to save up my money but part of it is also, I just don’t have the energy to deal with people. As much as I want to be the tourist for a change, I don’t want to deal with tourists.
And frankly, I’ve pretty much alienated my friends not because of anything they have done or I have done...I just don’t have it in me anymore. I’m that fucking tired. And I really can’t take one more excuse or one more let down. And that is much too demanding on them. It’s not their fault but they are the ones who bear the brunt of it. It’s not fair to them so I don’t even bother.
How fucked up is that?
Fuck, man, I don’t even know what the hell I want to do anymore. I don’t even know who I am anymore.
I’m totally and completely lost.
[Edit] If you read this far, thanks for listening. I don’t expect anyone would have any answers. I don’t really expect much...I just needed to get that out.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Frustrating
Sometimes I feel stifled...even here on this blog. This was supposed to be an outlet for me, to write anything I wanted to write, to say whatever I wanted to say, to vent, tell a story, put my thoughts down, learn and grow from them…
I don’t always want to be the funny one. I don’t always want to point out the insanity of the general public. I don’t always want to speak to the peanut gallery. I don’t always want to talk politics. I don’t always want to have to point out why someone is an idiot or why their actions are stupid. I don’t always want to be a voice of reason.
I do not always say “everything there is to say”. I hear this a lot. “You’ve said everything and better than I could.” No, I seriously doubt that. I think some of you sell yourselves short.
Regardless, sometimes I want to talk about personal shit and I don’t feel like I can do that here. That is not a good feeling. I’m always going to alienate someone or some people because they only want a certain type of blog entry. I’m always going to have those who don’t understand anything and think that when you write about something that bothers you, not venting, writing, not ranting, WRITING, about something that is serious to you that is personal, they view it as whining or that you feel entitled to something or that you have it so good, what the hell are you crying about, why don’t you think about those in this world who don’t even have beds to sleep on!
I understand that you only get to see glimpses of my personality. You don’t get to see the whole thing but I also wish people would stop making generalizations about myself or other bloggers based solely on what they see in the blog. These are not all encompassing pieces. There is much more to us than what you see. And I would love nothing more than to feel free, really, truly free, to write some of those things down. To try to make sense of them. To try to figure out the path to take because of those things.
But I do not feel that freedom here no matter how many times someone says, “Write what you want to write about , we’ll still read!” because it’s not true. In the 7 years I’ve been doing this, I’ve heard that several times as well and you know what? “We’ll always read no matter what you write” is a fucking lie. I have a different crowd depending on what I’m writing about at the time.
If I write politics, I get a different crowd.
If I write animals, I get a different crowd.
If I write about stupid, every day people and situations, I get a different crowd.
If I write something a little personal, I get a different crowd.
It is RARE that one person will stick around for all of those subjects. And I hate to lose readers or gain new ones who expect a certain theme. If I didn’t care about readers, I would be writing in a personal diary that no one would see. Anybody who puts their words out there on the internets obviously cares about other people reading it. Those who say they don’t are liars.
But every time I think of writing something serious, all I can question is: Who am I going to offend today? Who is going to come here and say some nasty little thing without knowing the full story? Who is going to come on here and be a dick when I’m exposing some deep feelings? You may not know this, kids, but I’m actually very sensitive. I know I don’t come across that way on this blog because I’m passionate about morons, passionate in my disgust over them, that is, but some things, you can cut me pretty easily and deeply. I’ve had a fair share of pricks in this lifetime who have done just that, some times they were other bloggers, and I really don’t feel...safe, with those kinds of people out there.
I’m pretty private in real life. I don’t really like to share much with many in my real life. I would usually share with one or two people and that would be it. But sometimes, I just want to write about some of that personal shit because for the most part, I don’t know any of you. You are strangers to me. Sure, you come here and comment and we have a blog/reader/writer friendship that way but you wouldn’t know me if you saw me on the street and vice versa. That makes me feel safe. It’s much easier to talk to strangers.
At the same time, that anonymity gives some people license to act like assholes. Hiding behind a computer screen can make you open up, as I wish to do but it can also bring out the spitfire dick in some people.
And because this is off the cuff, it’s probably coming out wrong and someone, somewhere, is going to get all offended and say, “Well fuck you, too, Serenity. I don’t need to read your shit anymore.” And there’s not a fucking thing I can do about that.
At the same time some readers make me feel stifled, it’s those readers who make me come back here and keep this thing up. I just have to figure out which to care more about right now. I don’t like feeling censored. Yah, a strong word but at times it feels that way. ‘Only talk about this and this and that, nothing else or I’m not coming back!’
“You shouldn’t care about those types of people, Serenity.” Except that’s a large percentage of my readers, as I illustrated earlier.
I am more than just one who vents about stupidity but I don’t feel free to write about it.
That really sucks.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
My Job Is Making Me Stupid
Or maybe it’s this entire town, who knows. Here are some things I’ve heard at my job in the past...oh, about 3 months:
Whenever I point out that something can’t be that way because it would be illegal, I get told, “Oh, there’s a new law that just passed this year that allows that.” Apparently there are a lot of new laws out this year.
“Smoking pot is not bad for you. That’s a government conspiracy. You believe what the government wants you to believe. I smoke it every day, it’s not bad for you.”
“The guy who shot JFK, Lee Army Oswald...”
Scene: Co-worker studying for nationalization test brings questions to work to test our knowledge. (I’ve shared this before but I’m doing it again.)
She: “Who said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death’?”
Me: Patrick Henry.
Others: “Thomas Jefferson.” “Yah, it’s Thomas Jefferson.”
Me: No, it’s Patrick Henry.
Others: “No, it’s Thomas Jefferson.....Patrick Henry...please...scoff...hahahahahhahahaha...it’s Thomas Jefferson.” Look at each other all smug.
She: “Patrick Henry.”
Me: :::Stupid pricks:::
“It’s beer o’clock!!”
“It’s beer thirty!!”
“I’m gonna go smoke some pie!” (This is what they call pot.)
“Piss!” At random moments. No, it’s not in conjunction with anything...it’s just out of the blue, random moment, someone just yells, “Piss!”
“I don’t read, it’s boring.”
“You’re gay.” “No, you’re gay.” “No, you’re gay.” “No, you’re gay.” “You’re gay times infinity.” (I wish I was making that up.)
We have some roosters at the park where I work. When one of them is looking for them, they will say, loudly, “Where’s my cock?! Has anyone seen my cock?!”, because they are 4.
Showing me a newspaper article: “Read this headline.” I read it. It says, “Haitian Community Coming Together”. I look up, “Ok...what?” Them: “I’d call that perfect timing! BARHARHARHAR!” Don’t worry if you don’t get it....it was so stupid I didn’t get it for a couple of minutes. Until I remembered who I was talking to.
As with “Piss!”, periodically, for no reason, someone will yell out, “Bob Saget!” for no reason.
Mon: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
Tue: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
Wed: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
Thur: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
Fri: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
Sat: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
Sun: “I’m still hungover from last night.”
“It was all because of Bush.....” (Still.)
“You don’t burn calories just from moving around at home or work. You have to exercise to burn calories. Walking around all day at work doesn’t burn calories.”
“Fuck these tourists. Only 4 of them tipped me. I’m going to be late on rent again this month.” This comes from a guy who budgets in $400 a month for pot. He can’t pay his rent, but he can afford his $400 in pot every month.
Me: “There’s a plethora of issues here...”
They: “Serenity’s using big words again...she’s trying to make us all look stupid.”
Me: :::I don’t have to say anything and you all will still look stupid:::
I wish I could say that this was 5 minutes of conversation out of the day but this is pretty much all the conversation one gets throughout the entire day. When you top it off with tourists asking the dumbest questions on earth, (really, there is such a thing as a stupid question....example: Tourist is standing right next to the boats on the dock. They’ve seen people loading in to boats and unloading out of boats at this dock. They then ask, “Where do we go to get the boat.” I pretend they have stumped me and reply, “Hm. Uh....to be honest, I’m not sure.” Many of them have no idea that I’m making fun of them), I think my IQ has slipped about 100 points since I’ve been here.
I’ve not had an intelligent conversation in 2 1/2 years. No wonder I can’t think of anything to write these days.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Fantastic
Recently, I was whining about my wisdom tooth coming in. I had stated that for the past 6 or 7 years, about once a year or so I would feel something going on. I stated that in my 20s, my dentist took x-rays and told me I had no wisdom teeth in my bottom row and that the top row was still so far up that they would check them again in about 5 years.
Sigh.
It’s time. One of them is in. The one that has been causing annual pain for so long...it’s finally in and it’s causing more pain. And that means I’ll probably have to go to the dentist and get it taken out. Have I mentioned how much I hate going to the dentist? Have I mentioned how much I hate needles? Have I mentioned how much I hate pain? Have I mentioned that these three things make me act like a big baby?
And have I mentioned that I find this highly annoying to be happening to me at this stage of my life? According to the American Association of Oral and Maxillofacial Surgeons,
Wisdom teeth, also known as third molars, are the last teeth to erupt in your mouth. This generally occurs between the ages of 17 and 25, a time of life that has been called the “Age of Wisdom."
I’m well passed that number. Well passed. (The first one of youse to make a joke about wisdom and my youth, gets banned.) I’m not supposed to be worrying about things that happen to children, I’m supposed to be worried about keeping my teeth.
Most wisdom tooth extractions are performed in the oral and maxillofacial surgery office under local anesthesia, intravenous sedation or general anesthesia. Your oral and maxillofacial surgeon will discuss the anesthetic option that is right for you.
Following surgery, you may experience some swelling and mild discomfort, which are part of the normal healing process. Cold compresses may help decrease the swelling, and medication prescribed by your Oral and Maxillofacial Surgeon can help manage the discomfort. You may be instructed to modify your diet following surgery and later progress to more normal foods.
Oh goody, I can hardly wait. I’ll be stabbed with needles, get sick from anesthesia, (does anyone remember my broken ankle surgery back in 2004?), be in horrifying pain, (literal translation of “mild discomfort") and I get to starve. Well sign me up!
This was supposed to be performed when I was younger...when one can’t remember anything that happened in their early years.
Well, I guess I better get this done before St. Hope and Change takes over our health care system. The whole thing is going to be bad enough as it is.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I've Done My Duty
Now leave me alone!
Had jury duty today. Got there about 5 minutes late but that wasn’t a big deal, really. I was there in time before they started talking to us all about everything. After we were told that they wouldn’t be calling anyone for about a half an hour, I went outside to just enjoy being outside and not cooped up indoors.
Here’s the thing: The very first time I walked through security, all went well. I placed my bag on the conveyor belt, removed my jacket per their demands and walked through. No beeps, nothing. Excellent. Gathered my things and went up to report for duty.
When I came back from being outside the first time, the alarm went off when I walked through and they had an issue with something in my bag. Nothing had changed. Nothing had been added in to the bag, nothing had been added to my clothing but this time, I was stopped. Interesting. So I had to walk through over and over again. The alarm goes off with red lights based on what area of the body the detector detects something. Apparently this time it was my upper body. Finally I was wanded. The wand kept going off on the zipper on my shirt. So, even after they had me lift my pant legs and looked around my waist band, they declared it was my zipper on my shirt.
Then, they start getting snotty about my bag. I’m pushed back and told to make my bag go through again. What the fuck, man. So I put it through again. They yank my bag off the belt on the other side and start going through it talking about a laser. Laser? What fucking laser? And what the hell, this didn’t happen the first time I went through. They pulled out my Kindle and started man handling it, trying to figure out what it was. They wanted to know if it was a laser. I had to explain to them that it was an ereader, it is not a laser in any way, shape or form. They kept going on and on and ON about a laser. Then it hit me.....DER! I just recently bought this laser toy for my cats that attaches to my key chain. The keys were in my bag. So I showed them the laser and they confiscated it, put it in an envelope and gave me a number to claim it before I left.
That’s fine. I have no problem with that. Except why didn’t they detect that the first time I went through? See, this is how people sneak shit in and this is what bothers me about our security. People may mumble and grumble about having to remove belts and shoes but I’m more of the type to get irritated when they don’t see everything that comes through. You know what? Take your time and make sure you see everything. A room full of annoyed people is better than a room full of DEAD people!
Went back upstairs and noticed that the “Quiet Room” was now open so I headed straight there. I opened the door and oh how beautiful! I was the only one in there! I had the room all to myself! Hurray! I started reading and was all alone for a good 15 minutes before someone else walked in. I was so engrossed in my book that I didn’t notice him walk in. It wasn’t until the door clunked shut that I realized I was no longer alone and I jumped a good 4 inches out of my chair.
About 2 minutes later, someone else came in. But, they were quiet and that was ok. One was busy with studies for school and the other was reading a book. It was very quiet in there. Nice.
And then they announced over the loud speaker that the “Quiet Room” was now open. DAMN! DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!!!!!!!!
More people started coming in to read. That’s fine. Everyone was quiet except that every time someone came in, the door would clunk close behind them. It got rather distracting. Just when everything started to settle down, some tool shed on the streets below started hollering some such shit, the same statement, over and over and over and over and over again. Dude, shut up! Can’t you see we are in the “Quiet Room”? Go take your love anger elsewhere.
Finally, he left, things were being all quiet again and then, bam. Announcement. Sigh. Eventually I just gave up being in the quiet room. I started talking to a fellow juror about the Kindle. Then we got on to the subject of politics and other things and, thankfully, we agreed on quite a bit. Not everything but quite a bit. Refreshing in this town!
Jurors were called, groups forming again and again but not me. We were released for lunch. I went downstairs to hang outside and continue talking to that fellow juror. Eventually we worked our way back inside and here we go again with the security.
THIS TIME, my bag was fine, however; I still was not. I told them, “Yah, last time I went through they said it was my zipper here on my shirt.” They did not care to hear me because this time the detector told them the problem was in my shoes. “Do you have metal in your shoes?” No, just like I didn’t the last two damn times I went through here. I had to take off my fricken shoes. Sigh. Every single time I went through the detector, it was a different outcome. Doesn’t give me a lot of faith in that detector or those people, frankly. And yes, they were the same people. I went through the same line each time.
Got back up to our waiting area and proceeded to wait and wait and wait some more. Again more groups were called and again, I was not. It was approaching 2pm. I asked my fellow juror, knowing damn good and well I was jinxing things, if it was possible not to be called at all and we just go home at 5. Sure as shit, the next batch of jurors, I was called. Naturally.
We get up to the court and file in. When we first got to jury duty, we had to fill out a questionnaire telling them a little bit about us. The judge went to each and every person, asking them questions based on their answers. I was juror #19, one of the last, (20 of us in all). Most of the people before me had never been called for jury duty. When it came to my turn, I informed the judge that this was my 4th time. “Wow! Four times!?”, he exclaimed. (The only one who had me beat was the lady next to me, Juror #20...she answered that she has had jury duty every two years since she first registered to vote. You win!) He then asked me a bit about those other three times and proceeded on to ask me other questions. Where did I live before Miami, that sort of thing. Then he got to my job. He said, “Now, (chuckle), this one is interesting and I circled it because I just had to get more information about it....it says here, you are an airboat captain and that you LIVE in the Everglades?”
I replied yes.
He wanted to know how far in to the Everglades I lived. I informed him of the general area. Not only did the judge gasp but so did some of my fellow jurors. “Wow, you really DO live way out there!” He wanted to know a bit about it all and I felt kind of embarrassed because every single person in that court was looking at me....it’s easier to just BE the tour guide than talk about it. Anyway, apparently it tickled him that I was an air boat captain.
We then proceeded with the routine questions, swearing in, understanding the law and our job and all that. Then he asked us if we knew any of the people there, any of the witnesses, all that. Then he asked if any of us may have a bias towards lawyers, police officers that sort of thing. Some people did from past experiences. They discussed all that. Then he asked if any of us had any bias towards the defendant. At first I thought he meant racist because the defendant was black so I said nothing. He then went on to explain, “You know, bias towards driving under the influence....” I raised my hand.
I told him that 10 years ago I had been in an accident and the other driver was driving under the influence, (drugs not alcohol but still under the influence), and that periodically I still get pissed about that as I continue to deal with the injuries and the pain. He asked me if I could be fair towards the defendant. I said I didn’t think so. I had to be honest. I have a big fucking problem with people drinking and driving or doing drugs and driving. It pisses me off! And despite the fact that our job is to listen only to the evidence and base our decision on that, I know for a FACT that I would be biased if, say, the guy fell during a field sobriety test. I might not be so keen on giving an excuse that he was nervous or something like that.
The judge said he appreciated my honesty and made a note on my paper. Well, after that, other hands shot up. Seems a number of my fellow jurors had issues with drunk drivers in the past and they, too, would more than likely be biased and not fair to the defendant. The judge asked us if we thought we could be fair and I told him, “For this type of case? I can’t say yes.”
The the prosecutor and defense attorney had their turns standing in front of us, asking us questions...on and on it went. It was 4:45pm when they had us go out in to the hallway while they made their decision.
We sat out there for a half an hour!
Finally, we all filed back in and the judge said, “I have some good news and some bad news...depending on how you see it.” NONE of us got picked! LOL! There were too many people like me who claimed they would probably not be fair, (I wasn’t using this as an excuse to get out of it, I was being totally honest), and some people were really stupid. They weren’t listening well, weren’t answering the attorneys questions in any way that made sense, would totally change their mind from one second to the next....none of it was good. So, there may have been only a few people who they would have taken but it didn’t leave them with enough so they decided to scrap the whole thing and try for a completely different pool.
It didn’t matter either way. IF I had been picked and could be fair, they were going to have the case done right away. They would pick the jury and begin. They told us we may not get out until 7 or 8pm. That’s fine with me. Give traffic some time to die down and the judge had ordered food for us all. Since none of us got picked, we all got to leave at about 5:20pm. As we were leaving, one juror asked, “What about dinner?” The judge laughed. He was actually a pretty cool judge, had a good sense of humor. Nicer than other judges I’ve worked with as a juror.
So, I’m done. And it will be at least 12 months before they can pick me again. Hurray! I’m free for a year. And I didn’t bother to fill out the compensation form. They give you $15. Whatever. Just keep it and leave me alone!
Monday, October 26, 2009
Again?!?!
Kids....dudes....seriously. What the hell. I have been picked, again, for Jury Duty. Sigh.
I’ve already done this three times now. I’ve served twice. One time was a few days, one time was two weeks. Two. Fricken. Weeks. Now I have to go and sit in a room with a bunch of people who also do not want to be there and sit. And sit and sit and sit and sit and sit. Then I’ll look out the windows. Then I’ll get up to get something to drink and look at the 5000 piece puzzle some jurors are putting together and see how much they have completed. Then I’ll sit some more. And crave a cigarette. And a drink. And hate. Because I really do not like dealing with many in society and here, I have no choice but to sit in the same damn room with them for hours. HOURS on end.
And I know I’ll be annoyed. I hope to GOD they do not have a fucking television in there because I swear to GOD I cannot take Spanish soap operas.
I’m bringing my Kindle. Hopefully I’ll be left alone but I’m sure someone or some will come up and ask me what it is. They’ll want to touch it. Because, I swear to you, people in this town just snap things out of your hand without asking permission, so they can look at it a little closer. And that’s going to cause serious problems. And I may end up in jail my damn self if anyone DARES touch my Kindle. Tempers will flare. Bad words will be thrown. Fists may fly.
I know all about how we are lucky that we have jury selection and they are a jury of our peers and the justice system and innocent until proven guilty and this is what it means to live in this country, yada, blah, blech. I KNOW! I’ve done it! THREE TIMES ALREADY! And not once out of those three times did I piss, bitch or moan.
This time though, I will because I cannot afford to be selected. “Oh well, Serenity, just let them know that it would be a hardship for you and you can get out of it.” HA! Amateurs! Do you know how hard that is to claim and prove and actually get what you want? It’s not that easy. I’ve seen many people try and many people fail.
And no, I’m not going to play the racist card or dick head card just to get out of it. For one thing, don’t you think the judge has seen and heard it all? I don’t need to end up in contempt of court. For another thing, I may not even get asked any questions. One time I did, that was the one for a few days. The other time, they went SOLELY on my appearance. I looked younger than I was, they didn’t realize how old I was and because the case had to do with a younger girl, they figured I would be great on the jury. So, we don’t always get to say anything at all. Sometimes, you just get picked.
I do not want to get picked this time. They pay $10 or $15 a day. That money goes right in to the fucking parking. And this time, my employer can only match my check amount not the actual amount of money I make. We work for tips. The bulk of our income comes from the tips. You cannot reimburse the difference on tips because you do not know how much the person was going to make in tips. You can only make up the difference in actual hourly wages.
The difference between $10/15 that I would get, (essentially $0 because, again, we are talking gas, tolls and parking to get there), and the amount I actually make at work in tips, is HUGE!
I have been debating whether I’ll also bring my laptop. I’m not sure yet. If I do, I guess I’ll live blog the event so you all can sit here, bored as shit, just like I’ll be. It’s only fair. We suffer on this blog together! Like a family!
Four damn times now. Aren’t there other people in this country who can be picked? See, this is another reason I’m against illegal aliens. Get your fucking ass here legally so they can pick YOUR ASS for Jury Duty and leave me the hell alone, assholes!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
We're Here To Sever
They say that shopping at Publix is “always a pleasure”. Isn’t that cute? I just got back from Publix and I’ll let you decide if this would be pleasurable to you. I went to a different one than I normally shop in because I had something else to do beforehand and right beside the building I needed to get to was another Publix. I drove over to the parking lot which was pretty full and had to park way away from the main door to the store. Luckily the weather has changed and it was actually pleasant this evening so the walk wasn’t too bad.
Before I got inside the store I was greeted by a veteran who was collecting money for some veterans organization. Of course I gave them money and thanked them for their service. As I was turning away, an old man came up behind me to give the veterans money and stated he, too, was a veteran. So nice to see. Really. Seems rare around these parts.
Inside I went, shopping cart in front of me and I proceeded to shop. At first, nothing of interest happened except that I found gallon water at 2 for $1 so I snatched up a whole cart load of those. (Can’t drink the water where I live. Long story. Don’t ask, I’m not going to go into it because it’s really not that entertaining.)
La, la, la, almost done. Came around one of the last aisles when I confronted a bitch. Now, I shop the way I drive my car. Meaning I stay to the right of the aisle so that others going the opposite way can pass me on the left. Just like on a highway/freeway. I was just coming to the end of the aisle and starting to turn my extremely heavy cart when this stupid bitch almost ran in to me. She was not watching where she was going and looked back around at the last second and exclaimed, “OH!”
I stood there waiting for her to pass. She tilted her head towards the right indicating that she wanted to go down that row and I should move my cart. Nevermind that she has the ENTIRE left side of the aisle to use, she wants me to move MY cart away from the right side of the aisle so that she can turn in to that aisle. Look, I do not go out of my way to start things. I try at least a little to be courteous...more than is required of me. However, my cart had 2 gigantic tubs of cat litter, 20 lbs of cat food, 8 gallons of water, 3 gallons of milk and misc. items. It was heavy. PLUS, I was already on the correct side of the fucking aisle.
This bitch had an empty cart and was trying to maneuver in to a 2 foot space to the right of me with her cart. Pushing her cart towards the left of me, as one would drive a vehicle, did not enter her brain, apparently. Or she’s one of those fucking snots who is used to people moving out of the way for her. Not today, honey. I informed her, “This cart is quite heavy, it might be easier for you to move your cart around to my left.”
That’s when she got snippy.
And that’s when I stopped being nice.
In reply she said, “Well, you’ve just been sitting there making faces!”
Oh. I see. One of those bitches. The face I was making was one that clearly stated, “You are one stupid ass selfish fucking bitch, aren’t you?” while I tried, for a second or two, to move the cart to the left so that I could turn back around to the right to get to the next aisle while she sat there, all demanding and lazy, waiting for me instead of being a decent and intelligent human being and driving her cart like the rest of the fucking world.
Once again, she said, “Well, you’ve just been sitting there making faces.”
I replied, sternly and in a low, menacing, ‘do NOT fuck with me today’ voice, “And I will continue to make faces as long as you continue to be stupid. Dumb hag.”
All she could say to that was, “Gasp!” And move her stupid fucking empty cart to the left. See how simple that was, twit?
So, on I went, finishing up my shopping. Eventually I made my way to the check out stands. Two guys walked up behind me and because they were only getting ice, I let them go in front of me. We all thought, all three of us, that the person who was in front of me was done with checkout. The two guys set their ice bags down on the belt in front of his stuff. A beat or two and then I said, “Um, I think that’s that guy’s stuff that has to still be rung in.”
The realization kind of hit us all at the same time because I swear to you, that stuff was not on that belt two seconds ago. The two guys were under the same impression: the belt had just been empty. Where the hell did all this come from? Actually, they asked that out loud.
Then they apologized to the guy who was standing at the end of the counter, ready to bag his own groceries. He saw that they only had ice and he, too, allowed them to jump ahead. They started chatting while the checker rung up the ice. As they left, they thanked the guy again for letting them jump ahead.
Nothing to me.
How nice.
I started to put my stuff up on the belt. When I have multiple items like gallon water jugs or heavy items like cat litter, I wait until the checker is ringing up my stuff to put them on the belt. That way, I can, say, pull the cat food off of the bottom of the shopping cart, hand it to the checker, have her scan it and then I put it right back on the bottom of the cart. So, I was doing this with the water, milk and the cat litter.
I was handing her the cat litter but she pulled it towards her too soon. For those who do not have cats, the tubs of cat litter have a handle and those handles are metal that attach to the tub leaving a very small space between the hooks and the actual metal. Far too small for a hand, say, to fit comfortably. So, I was handing it to her, she pulled too soon and my hand got caught in that small area where the handle attaches to the tub. Before she completely severed it from my wrist, I yanked my hand back in pain. I actually said, “OWWW!” I said nothing further; made only a stony face and stared at her because if I had opened my mouth again, I would have cursed a blue streak and there were customers around me. It. Fucking. Hurt.
She looked shocked at first but then decided that I was being dramatic. She spoke to the bagger in Spanish, they both looked at me and while I don’t understand every word, I got the gist of it with the words I do know and the expression on their faces. As she continued to check my items, she would look up at me, sideways, with that skeptical look on her face.
Whatever. Let’s just get this over with because I’m ready to be home now.
As she was nearing the end, I went to get my wallet out to start counting my money. That’s when I noticed the blood. It wasn’t just a drop or two. There was lots of it. And it kept coming. I said, ‘Oh!’ and looked at the checker. She looked at me and then my hand and her eyes went wide.
For someone who didn’t speak two words of English before, suddenly she knew a phrase or two. She started practically throwing sani wipes at me. She must have tossed 6 or 7 at me in rapid fire succession. I put them on my hand, they turned from white to red and she threw more, saying, “No, no! Too much!” Meaning, too much blood. She then decided she needed to tell someone.
Oy! I do not like a scene. And I figured it wasn’t a big deal. I even told her so, “It’s ok. No big deal. It’s ok.” Nope. Off she went to go get someone. Fuck.
The lady in line behind me started digging in her purse for bandages. She said normally she always carries them but of course, they weren’t in there today. Still, it was nice of her.
Finally I see the checker coming back and I’m dreading if she brought anyone with her. Thankfully she only brought an alcohol wipe, (HA! Like I’m putting THAT on an open cut. Hell no!), and some bandages. She then stood there, looking at my hand, the blood and then at me. I could tell what she was thinking. “When is this lady going to start yelling at me? When is she going to request a manager? When is she going to sue Publix? Why is that hand still bleeding? Oh my God! Look at all of that blood! I need this job! Shit!” And, “Eeew! Did I get blood on me? Where are those sani wipes? I need to disinfect myself!” I don’t blame her. I would react the same way if a stranger started bleeding all over my counter tops.
I kept telling her, “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.” Over and over and over.
She finally finished my transaction while I put the bandages on after applying pressure to get the bleeding to stop and suddenly, she didn’t speak much English anymore.
Of course.
I headed out the door, a different door than the one I came in, noticed that the veteran had changed sides, we greeted each other warmly again, and lo and behold...my car was in the row of cars directly outside this door.
Now, one could look at the negative and say, “Damn, shopping at Publix doesn’t sound like much of a pleasure” but I like to focus on the positive. At least the hag bitch with the cart got attitude with me in English, I did get some pleasure from wiping that skeptical bitch look off the checker’s face when she realized, “HOLY shit! I DID actually hurt her! She wasn’t being dramatic! Fuck!” And in the end, my car was pretty much front door parking.
So, yah, I guess it was a pleasure after all.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Being Poor Makes You Stronger
It’s unbelievable to me how many people talk about how poor they are while they are listening to their iPods, diving in to their McD’s drive thru lunch, stepping out of their car and/or lighting their $8 scented candle. It’s unbelievable to me that in my life, I’ve had people ask to bum a smoke from me, telling me they can’t afford them as their cell phone rings again. It’s unbelievable to me that someone will ask me for money as they leave from work, on payday, check in their hand because they say that all of the check goes to bills and they have nothing left. It’s unbelievable to me that someone who doesn’t have to pay rent, sewage, garbage, water or electricity, who has a job, talks about how they don’t have enough money to eat, that they are barely scraping by this week and ask me for a hand out and sympathy knowing full well that the reason they don’t have money is because they don’t show up to work half the week. It’s unbelievable to me just how many people in this country do not understand what it is like to actually, truly, really be poor.
I’ve been poor. I’ve bored you with the story many times. I have been homeless, without a bed, with no food. I’ve been without a car, no phone, no cable, no cell phone, no internet, no washer/dryer, no video games, no take out, no drive thru, no money for the movies, no pop, no hair cuts, etc. I just love it when people try to lecture me about what it’s like to be poor and how I have no idea what it is like because America is such a rich country. They look foolish when they say that. I do know what it’s like. (And yet I still am against hand outs, welfare and national healthcare...go figure!)
I found a list from writer John Scalzi on Being Poor. I’m going to include the ones from his list that I know about, personally, have lived them, as well as add my own:
Being poor is knowing exactly how much everything costs.
Being poor is having to keep buying $800 cars because they’re what you can afford, and then having the cars break down on you, because there’s not an $800 car in America that’s worth a damn.
Being poor is feeling like you’re moving up in the world because you can actually afford an $800 piece of shit.
Being poor is hoping the toothache goes away.
Being poor is wondering if your well-off sibling is lying when he says he doesn’t mind when you ask for help.
Being poor is a heater in only one room of the house.
Being poor is thinking having more than one room in the house is a sign of your fortune changing.
Being poor is knowing you can’t leave $5 on the coffee table when your friends are around.
And when they do steal that money that was for your rent, you have to go and sell clothes and any CDs you’ve accumulated over the years but are so out of date, worn out and tattered that no store will buy them from you. Since the “friend” won’t admit to stealing, you have to go get another job to try to make up that rent money before it’s too late.
Being poor is feeling the glued soles tear off your supermarket shoes when you run around the playground.
Glued on soles also tear off when you’re stomping the pavement filling out applications and/or working.
Being poor is thinking $8 an hour is a really good deal.
I’ve actually thought this at one point in my life. Ok, a few times in my life.
Being poor is relying on people who don’t give a damn about you.
Number one lesson on being poor. This is the absolute first thing that you must learn. And you must not just learn about it, you must learn to accept it and deal with it. Because it IS.
Being poor is an overnight shift under florescent lights.
Being poor is stopping the car to take a lamp from a stranger’s trash.
Being poor is the police busting into the apartment right next to yours.
Being poor is not talking to that girl because she’ll probably just laugh at your clothes.
Or guy.
Being poor is hoping you’ll be invited for dinner.
Being poor is people thinking they know something about you by the way you talk.
Being poor is needing that 35-cent raise.
Being poor is six dollars short on the utility bill and no way to close the gap.
Being poor is crying when you drop the mac and cheese on the floor.
Being poor is knowing you work as hard as anyone, anywhere.
This is the one that gets me every time. I have worked my ever loving ass off my entire adult life. I’ve had three jobs at a time which meant that Mon, Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun I got only four hours of sleep. Tue and Wed seemed like vacations when I actually got to go home after an 8 hour work day. But I kept going. And I really get annoyed when those who don’t know what it’s like make the implication that poor people are that way because they are lazy. These are some of the most insensitive people I’ve ever known and these people have absolutely zero understanding of what life is like for many people. I am not lazy, have never been lazy and continue to work hard. Some people, no matter how hard they try, just can’t get ahead. And some of us served our country and went to college to get an education and something happened along the way to rip that out of our hands. Show some compassion instead of so much hatred. Not everything works as it should.
Being poor is people surprised to discover you’re not actually stupid.
Oh God, I could go on and on about this one.
Being poor is people surprised to discover you’re not actually lazy.
See above.
Being poor is never buying anything someone else hasn’t bought first.
Being poor is picking the 10 cent ramen instead of the 12 cent ramen because that’s two extra packages for every dollar.
To this day, I cannot stomach ramen noodles. I will never eat them again. I survived off of these things and I mean only these things, nothing else, nothing, not a bite of anything else, for an entire year. The mere sight of them now makes me feel nauseous. No lie. Also…
Being poor is knowing the big difference between ramen noodles and Cup O’ Noodles and knowing you can’t afford Cup O’ Noodles.
Being poor is getting tired of people wanting you to be grateful.
Being poor is knowing you’re being judged.
Constantly. Non stop.
Being poor is checking the coin return slot of every soda machine you go by.
Being poor is deciding that it’s all right to base a relationship on shelter.
Being poor is knowing you really shouldn’t spend that buck on a Lotto ticket.
Being poor is hoping the register lady will spot you the dime.
Being poor is a cough that doesn’t go away.
Being poor is making sure you don’t spill on the couch, just in case you have to give it back before the lease is up.
Being poor is a $200 paycheck advance from a company that takes $250 when the paycheck comes in.
Don’t do it. It may answer your problems right now, but it will cause massive problems later and it is very hard to get out of that cycle. DO. NOT. USE. Advanced pay day loans. Don’t do it.
Being poor is four years of night classes for an Associates of Art degree.
Being poor is a lumpy futon bed.
Being poor is knowing where the shelter is.
Being poor is people who have never been poor wondering why you choose to be so.
It’s not a choice. It is absolutely not a choice. “Well you chose blah blah blah and that is why you are poor.” No. You don’t know a damn thing of what you are talking about. Again, not everything works out in real life like it does on paper or in your ideal little world or daily planners.
Being poor is seeing how few options you have.
To an extent, this is true. It’s not that you don’t have the options, it’s that you can’t exercise those options when you want to. And it’s not a matter of not getting what you want, it’s a matter of struggling to exist and hope to GOD you have enough left over to save so that you can go for that option...someday....hopefully soon.
Or not.
Being poor is knowing things you never wanted to know and seeing things you never wanted to see.
Being poor is knowing that your life would have been so, so much different if you had $500 at the time you really, really needed it.
Being poor is being reminded, daily, that a matter of $500 is what drastically changed your life.
Being poor is knowing that those who could have helped you just didn’t want to.
Being poor is not having a family or friends to help you out because they either don’t have themselves or they think you don’t deserve it.
Being poor is not having the money to fight the insurance company who totally screwed you over; and they know they did simply because you were poor.
Being poor is feeling completely and utterly alone.
Being poor is putting yourself in potentially dangerous situations because you are so desperate for help.
Being poor is also scraping the inside of the toothpaste tube, shampoo bottle or lotion bottle trying to get every last bit out of it because you don’t have the money to get more.
Being poor is washing your clothes in the bathtub with generic shampoo because you can’t afford the luxury of the laundromat, are too embarrassed to haul your dirty laundry on the bus to get to the laundromat even if you could and don’t have enough money to get actual clothes washing detergent.
Being poor is knowing the difference in how socks feel when they’ve been tumble dried and how socks feel when they’ve been hung in up your bathroom to dry.
Being poor is stressing out about how you’re going to get to work when the bus fare goes up 10 cents.
Being poor is rolling up your long sleeved shirts to the elbows so no one will see that the cuffs are tearing off.
Being poor is having people call you “white trash” or “ghetto trash” even though you know you’re not trash.
Being poor is writing in for free samples and when they arrive in the mail, it feels like Christmas.
Being poor is not being able to participate in office pot lucks because you can’t afford to bring anything.
Being poor is being told you are too poor to receive government assistance and the humiliation that takes place when the “guy in the next room” won’t even come out to look at you.
Being poor is stealing toilet paper rolls from work.
Being poor is partaking in medical studies at the local university hospital that wreak havoc on your body because after one year there’s $100 in it for you.
Being poor is knowing just how expensive it is to be poor.
Being poor is literally not having any money when you say, “I don’t have any money.”
Being poor is listening to others talk about reusing tea bags because they are so poor and wishing you could afford tea.
Being poor is doing an intensive search inside your friend’s car for change, any change that can be found in hopes that you’ll find enough to put gas in her car to get you home.
Being poor is having to go to Planned Parenthood for all of your check ups and still not being able to donate any money when you’re done.
Being poor is eyeballing the left over breakfast on a room service tray and seriously contemplating eating it.
Being poor is losing out on so many jobs because you have no way to get there and that includes public transportation.
Being poor is having your landlord pay your rent for you one month out of total and complete pity for you because he knows how hard you are trying. You pay him back after going to a few charities but you never stop feeling embarrassed about it.
Being poor is splurging and buying Kool-Aid. As time goes on and the level of juice lowers, you keep refilling the Kool-Aid pitcher with water, over and over again until the color finally fades leaving you with only slightly tinged drinking water.
Being poor is thinking that maybe strippers aren’t so dumb afterall.
Being poor is accepting a hand out from a homeless man begging for change. (Yes, this actually happened.)
Being poor is taking the fast food job up the street because it offers 25 cents more per hour and you don’t have to sit 4 hours on a bus to get to and from there. Besides, you might get some free food.
Being poor is not having enough money in your bank account to do a minimum withdrawal from the ATM.
Being poor is getting new clothes from the “exchange table” in the laundry room of your apartment building.
Being poor is using blankets for window coverings.
Being poor is meeting people elsewhere because you don’t want them to know where you actually live.
Being poor is becoming friends with the bus driver so that on the days you just don’t have the money, at least you can get to work. How you get home is another story.
Being poor is trying to pay for food at the store with a big bag of change and the grocer won’t accept the money.
Being poor is asking a stranger on the street what time it is and the lady looks at you with wide eyed fear and she grabs her handbag closer to her and her husband whisks her away from you.
Being poor is having a gang member lock their door when they see you cross the street in front of their car.
Being poor is realizing you’ll never be able to afford to finish your college education no matter how badly you want to finish.
Being poor is having the heat so low in your apartment in the winter that the zippers on your boots break.
Being poor is counting out your change and realizing that if you buy a pop from the pop machine just once this week, you will not have enough money to get the bus home on Friday.
Being poor is swallowing your pride and letting others know you are poor because you have lost 30 pounds in one month from starvation and you need food.
Being poor is doing things you never thought you would do just so that you can get ahead.
Being poor is only telling one person about those things you’ve done because the rest of the world has told you that you should be ashamed of your current situation.
Being poor is understanding that most people will never fully grasp what it means to be poor.
And finally…
Being poor is knowing how hard it is to stop being poor.
Being poor is not having any margin for error. The problem is that life only rarely lets people get through it without error.
Actually, this is “and finally...”
Being poor doesn’t mean you give up hope. Being poor just means it takes you a little longer to get there. But if and when you do get there, it will be very, very tasty to teach those who shoved you to the side when you were down, how to treat a human being.
Being poor is learning that you can survive almost anything.
Being poor is learning compassion and forgiveness even for those who put you down for being poor, saying you are/were lazy and/or stupid, for one day, they may need your help.
Being poor is knowing that you may be poor financially, but inside you are far wealthier than most of those around you.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Interesting To Me Anyway
In the two plus years I’ve been working out in the Everglades, I’ve seen only a small number of animals. Sure, there are tons of fish, turtles and birds and of course the alligators but it’s rare to see many mammals.
I’ve seen two white tail deer.
I’ve seen a handful of otters.
A raccoon.
And just today, for the first time ever, I saw a fox. A big, bushy tailed fox bolting across the grass and up in to the brush on the other side of the road.
I’m pretty disgusted at what this city has done to the Everglades. Now much of it is considered National Park and cannot be touched by the bulldozer anymore but that does not stop these assholes from building right up to that line, that border, with their fucking ugly ass cookie cutter duplexes and townhomes. It doesn’t stop them from wanting to build a got damn baseball stadium just inches away from the Glades themselves.
This means MORE traffic, more pollution, more people coming out to the Everglades and trashing it. I wish I could get my camera to work so I could download some photos I took a year ago just up the road. I took these photos because I could not believe the piles of litter sitting right there, at the water’s edge, right there, in the Everglades, right there, where wildlife are trying to live....it was so repulsive, I didn’t know what else to do but photograph it.
I think I need to go out and start picking it all up but it could take months, there’s so much damn litter.
I don’t understand how people can say they love the outdoors, they love nature, they come out to fish, hunt and look at things and then destroy it.
It’s sad that I’ve been out here for over two years and today was the first time I’ve ever seen a fox out here.
P.S. Dear Florida:
Stop dumping your unwanted pets out here! NOK IT OFF! If you no longer want your cat, dog, snake, iguana, bird, take it to the Humane Society and surrender it. Stop fucking abandoning them out in the Everglades! Your dog and cat can no way in HELL make it out here you fuckwits! They will die, usually before you’ve made it down the fucking road. Your snakes? Your pythons? You stupid cows, your abandoned pythons are destroying the wildlife out here. Iguanas...are NOT NATIVE TO SOUTH FLORIDA! Stop dropping them off out here! They are destroying the fauna!
The Everglades makes life better for you and you are destroying it because you are too fucking inept to know what’s good for you.
And another thing, what you are doing is illegal. And you bet your sorry pathetic asses that if I ever catch you doing it, I’m reporting you and you will be in a shit load of trouble. You are committing a crime in a national park. And then you get to deal with the Animal Cops after the government’s done with you.
How stupid and selfish people are. Don’t ever get a pet again. Just stay in the city in your concrete jungle, smog up your neighborhood and leave us and the wildlife alone. Idiots.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
How I Really Feel
You know how when you write out a rant and someone comes along and says, “Hyuck! Why don’t you tell us how you really feel! chortle, chortle, chortle.”
Fine, bitches. Here’s something I wrote in my private journal that has never been seen by eyes other than mine, before today. It’s about a job I had two years ago, at a cruise line. I worked in Dispute Resolution. What that means is that people write in and piss, bitch and moan that their lives have been blessed that they can even take a cruise when there are kids in this world who don’t even have beds. See, if you dare run out of raspberries, well! You are going to hear about that! And it will be talked about non stop for the next several months because that is just uncalled for and what the hell kind of business are you running anyway? And God forbid the picture in the brochure shows different colors of the stateroom than the actual stateroom. (To which you get to enjoy explaining the fucking intricacies of photography and lightning and why certain colors look different in photographs...oh God, nevermind. It was bad enough the first time around.)
Anyhoo, as I stated, here is an entry from February 18, 2007 from my private journal, about this job and my nosy assed boss. You asked me to tell you how I really feel...be careful what you ask for.
Enjoy:
1:33 pm -
My boss is a lying sack of shit. I lost respect for her when I found out she lied to me and others when we all applied for an open position there. She had the fucking nerve to say that the reason we didn’t get the job was because in the letters we wrote, “We” as in “we” the company. So she hired from outside. She simply did not have the time to teach us how to write.
Except ALL THEIR FUCKING LETTERS include “we” as in “we” the company. Bullshit bitch! THEN, because I’m not “allowed” to write letters because I’m far, FAR too stupid to write a fucking letter, I can only do piddly ass shit. Well, some of the work I do requires some type of letter. So, I copied and pasted from the archive of letters that I was told to use, (the same fucking letters that everyone ELSE copies and pastes from so why it takes these assholes so fucking long to do anything is beyond me...except I know why...they fuck around and do not put in an honest day’s work...seriously, they chit chat all fucking day and hmmm and haww and sigh and re-write...give me a fucking break...just about every fucking topic has been covered by one bitchy, whiny guest or another...cut and fucking paste, douchebags!) and just changed a few words; description of the item...the original letter said “bottle of wine” I changed it to “assortment of flowers” as that was the gift. Now, I did NOT write these letters. I merely cut and pasted and changed the names. Again, as I was instructed to do.
And the fucking bitch boss tore it apart, correcting this and that and the other thing and said, “I know you are trying but...” blah blah blah. Problem? SHE IS THE FUCKING BITCH WHO WROTE THE ORIGINAL LETTER! She just sat there and corrected her own damn letter saying this was wrong and that was wrong and this needs to go like this and all kinds of shit and did this because she thought I had written it. SHE FUCKING WROTE IT but forgot! Stupid fucking bitch!!!!!! LIAR BITCH! But I said nothing. I love it when people think I’m stupid. The information and evidence I gather when people think I’m stupid. They are such idiots. Fucking bitch tore apart her own fucking letter.
And while I’m at it, if that fucking bitch who stole our job does not stop fucking touching my desk, my chair, ME, my food, and doesn’t stop fucking nagging me every damn time I get something to eat, I’m going to fucking lose it.
I hate this fucking place. Bunch of phony assed mother fuckers. I’m keener and smarter than that...oh, get this:
The other day bitch lying boss sat me down and wanted to ask me a “very personal” question: “Why do you dress the way you do? If you want to be successful, you have to dress the part.”
Ok, number one, I dress the way I do because I HATE the fucking attention I get from people I could not give a SHIT about telling me, “Like, Oh my GOD! You look so good!” Yes, bitch, I fucking know I look good. But that requires me to fucking have to THANK them for being shallow pieces of shit! I’m not here as your fucking eye candy and if you can’t see me for my skills, you want to JUDGE A BOOK by its cover, then you do not DESERVE to have me work for you.
Number two, lying BITCH BOSS, if you WANT me to dress up, THEN FUCKING PAY ME MORE! I’m not going out to buy fucking bullshit uncomfortable clothes so that you can all gawk and feel good about yousrelves, “Look how we’ve changed her and opened her up!!!!!!! We are such great people!!!!”, and offer me some fucking sort of advancement SIMPLY because I changed my outfit, IF YOU PAY ME THE SHIT FUCKING WAGES THAT YOU PAY ME NOW! I have BARELY any fucking money left and you want me to spend it on fucking expensive ass outfits so YOU are happy? I don’t fucking dress for you! BITCH! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!!!! I look perfectly fine. MAYBE if they turned the mother fucking A/C down I could take off my jacket that I “wear every day” and you could see that I wear nice shirts. And I NEVER wear jeans. I hardly EVER wear tennis shoes. I wear slacks, nice tops and black shoes. But these assholes want me to wear business suits, skirts and that kind of shit, blouses and frills...FUCK YOU. JUST FUCK YOU! You think I can afford that fucking shit off of the shit wages you pay me a fucking hour?
You start paying me three times that much a fucking hour and I will fucking dress nicer. You get what you pay for. You don’t want to pay me, I will continue to dress comfortably and you can suck a fucking rotten one you skank ass lying bitch!
I say, “I HATE the attention” and she jumps right on that, like she’s fucking Sherlock Douchebag Holmes, “A-HA!” she gloats. “I KNEW there was some deeper thing going on...”
Bitch, it ain’t “deeper” shit. It’s called I DON’T HAVE THE FUCKING MONEY AND I SURE AS HELL AM NOT GOING TO SPEND WHAT MONEY I HAVE TO PLEASE YOUR BITCH ASS EYEBALLS!
I will dress up for people I really like. I do not CARE to receive attention from a bunch of mouth breathers who work in a call center. And she is one to talk. Bitch wears jeans and turtle neck sweaters every fucking day. You want to talk about what? Right. Piss the fuck off.
“You’re such a pretty girl...”
Oh for GOD’S SAKE! You just want a doll you can dress. Go fucking buy one then. LEAVE ME ALONE! BITCH ASS LIAR!
Sigh. Why don’t people just mind their own fucking business? I do not go to work to make friends. This fucking job is NOT my career. Guess what bitch liar, when I DO land the job that IS my career, I will THEN give a flying fuck how I dress. Until then? I’m just passing time. So fuck you. SHUT. THE FUCK. UP! Mind your own!
And there you have it, kids. What you’ve been asking for...me to tell you how I really feel. Who knows, I may include some more of these in the future.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
The Wisdom, It Takes Time
It’s that time again kids, when my wisdom tooth decides to push a little more. Long time readers know what I’m talking about. Newbies, here’s the run down:
I have no wisdom teeth in the bottom row of my mouth. Never have. The top row, the two wisdom teeth have been, all this time, really far up in the gums. I had a dentist at one time, while in my late 20s, tell me to come back in 5 years for another x-ray of the wisdom teeth, that’s how far up they were. In the past 5-6 years, every year or every other year, right about this time of year or so, my wisdom teeth decide to take a peek outside to see what things are like.
Look, I’m no spring chicken. I’m far too old to be dealing with teeth cutting. This is ridiculous. God, no wonder babies cry when they are getting their teeth. This shit hurts! I can barely open my mouth to talk.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough to be pulled. STILL!
At the rate this thing is going, I’ll be getting my fricken wisdom teeth pulled when I’m 80. I’ll probably follow it up with a horrible case of the chicken pox, since I never had that experience when I was younger, either.
Speaking of teeth, some of the worst nightmares I have are about losing my teeth. There I’ll be, sitting on the bus going somewhere. I’ll sneeze or I’ll be talking and as these things happen, my teeth start falling out, one by one. When all the teeth have fallen out then my tongue falls out, then my gums until I wake up in a panic, grabbing at my mouth to make sure I still have everything.
One dentist I had made me fill out a form and on the form near the bottom was the question: “What does losing teeth mean to you?” I wrote, “Terror!” The dentist laughed. I wasn’t joking.
It all started when I was a little kid. We used to visit the grandparents every so often on summer vacation. Well, one particular visit, I went into their bathroom and saw something interesting on the sink. Curios, I picked it up. It was pink and it held something inside. I was about 6 or 7 years old at the time and didn’t know much about the world yet. I was just getting over the shock that we would eventually have to leave our parents one day and live on our own! WHAT? So, you can imagine the horror when I opened up the little pink plastic container to find my grandmother’s dentures floating inside.
Ever since then, I’ve had nightmares about losing my teeth and having to wear dentures.
Even if that became reality, my wisdom teeth will probably still be trying to grow.
Someone please send me something to numb my mouth!
Sunday, August 02, 2009
My Day
Growing up we didn’t have a lot of traditions. Coming from a blood line filled with traditions, this was a difficult thing to accept about my adopted family even if I couldn’t voice the reasons. Nonetheless, we did have a scant few traditions, if you can call them that, and some of those came on our birthdays. Each year on our birthday, our mother would ask us what we wanted for our birthday dinner. She would then go out and get exactly what we wanted and spend all day preparing the meal.
Every single year I requested the exact same thing. I wanted a pork roast with mustard glaze, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and a German chocolate cake for dessert. And every single year I got just that. Now, my mother did not use a lot of spices or onions, garlic, things of that nature. Her cooking was very simplistic. This is one of the reasons that I have found an excuse to put onions and garlic in to almost every dish I make. I would put onions and garlic in my cereal if it would taste good. Regardless of this shortcoming, this woman made the best mustard glaze I have ever tasted in my entire life anywhere, ever. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
I’ve always thought I would recreate that glaze but never got around to doing it. This year, however, I decided I was going to have my pork roast with the mustard glaze. I have spent all day online looking for a recipe and most of them I know she didn’t use because I know she didn’t use certain ingredients. They just did not exist in our house. Most people would say, “Why don’t you call her?” but that is not an option. So, I’m going to do the best I can with one recipe I’ve found and hope it’s close. She loved Betty Crocker so I think the one I found online from that company will be as close as I’m going to get.
Most birthdays consisted of lounging around the entire day as the birthday person did not have to do anything. I would be upstairs in my room, waiting, impatiently, for my birthday dinner and then the opening of the presents. The day lasted forever. Gah! I couldn’t stand it!
However, two birthdays stand out in my mind. One was when I was a very little kid and decided to have a birthday party. I invited all of my friends. I also invited a few of my brothers’ friends so they would have someone to play with that day. As you can see, I was a thoughtful child. So this particular year, the house was filled with little kids. Now, let me tell you something. I really do not get along with my mother figure. Never really have. There is a lot for me to dislike. But I will tell you, this woman knows how to keep kids entertained and she was creative, coming up with cool and fun things.
For example, this particular year, the invitations were sent out on Wizard of Oz invitations. On the front of the card was Dorothy, Toto, the rest of the cast all walking down the yellow brick road. Inside the card read, “Follow the yellow brick road to:” and then one would put in their information about the party. After the invitations were sent out, my mother got to work. She bought a large amount of yellow construction paper and proceeded to make something out of it.
On the day of my birthday, (I believe it was birthday number 6), she went outside with her yellow construction paper. We had a decent front yard with a sidewalk down the middle. The sidewalk was probably 30 feet long before it ended at steps to the street. This lady laid down the large, yellow construction paper she had purchased on to that sidewalk from the steps right to the front door. And when you looked down at it, you could see where she had drawn bricks so that it looked like a yellow brick road.
Is that not the fucking coolest thing?
The other birthday that stands out to me was my 11th, I believe. Again I was to have a birthday party. This time it was going to be a slumber party. We were going to have cake, ice cream, play a few games, open presents and then we were all going to go and watch the new movie, “Superman”.
Unfortunately, the day of my birthday, I woke up sick. I was so sick, I didn’t even really want to be out of bed. My mother was beginning to get worried about the party and was preparing to make phone calls to cancel. I distinctly remember her telling me to go back to my room, to my bed while she did this. As I got to the top of the stairs, I puked all over the top two steps and the landing. I apologized profusely to her but she said not to worry about it, she would clean it up but that this was a sure sign that the party needed to be canceled.
Thing is? After I vomited my guts out all over the stairs? I felt good. I felt really good. I was ready to party the instant I was done spewing. Seriously. On this day, she decided not to be her typical self and actually listened to me. She compromised with me. She stated that we would indeed have the party after all but it would not be a slumber party. Every other aspect of it would go through. She then cleaned up and went to call all the mothers of the girls I had invited.
And that’s just what happened. They all came over, we played games, we ate cake and ice cream, (the cake: again, this woman can be quite creative. This cake was a round, green Kermit the Frog face and she fashioned two arms and two legs out of colored cardboard--everyone loved it), opened presents, (I got a red tape recorder from someone so my dad stated that everyone should be recorded singing and saying, “Happy Birthday” to me on the tape), and we went to watch the Superman movie in the theater.
The rest of my birthdays I don’t really remember all that well and many of them have been completely uneventful but, every time this year, on this day, I think back to that little tradition of having whatever we want for dinner and the birthday parties I do remember. And at the center of it all, the woman who had made my life a living hell but who had her moments of outstanding glory.
Sigh. If only she could have acted like that all the time, not just on my birthday.
As I continue on in this life, while I do remember all the drama and angst, I try to focus on the good she did and how she could make me feel extremely special, like she did in those two memories. It’s probably the best birthday gift I can give to myself.
I wonder if she’s thinking of me today.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Who Knew?
When I was younger, I read all the time. I read books that many people didn’t read until later in life. (I know that sounds so fucking snotty but it’s not meant that way. All it means is that I read a LOT and would be given suggestions by the school librarian as well as my mother and the city librarian.) I couldn’t wait to get home to read. I was on the summer program of the local library and always surpassed the list. When we would travel, my mother would hand me a book that she brought with her to keep me calm; something that she knew I would like. (I’ll never forget when I was 14, on a plane, being annoyed as hell by the sounds of some people’s voices as they were talking....like, really, really annoyed--so annoyed I couldn’t hide the fact--which we have all discovered why now from a post I wrote not too long ago, and she whipped out a copy of, “Where The Red Fern Grows” from her purse. Instantly I was in another world and did not hear those annoying voices anymore. I read that book throughout the entire vacation.)
She was a teacher, my mother figure, and she always encouraged us to read. It was one of the things she got right. She made reading a pleasurable activity. You could never go wrong if you were reading. A book was never taken away as punishment, (that was reserved for t.v. and phone and stereo). If you wanted to go get a book, there was no excuse as to why you couldn’t, (like the excuses given if you wanted to go to the movies or hang out with friends.) Reading was the one thing I could do and have peace not only from her but also by transporting myself out of my shitty little world and into another.
So, as I said, I read. A lot. A lot, a lot. No, I mean, A. LOT!
Then? I became an adult. And suddenly, things like germs became a major issue for me. I never did like germs but suddenly it was a bigger problem. I guess I started to see just how nasty some people could be, now that I was out in the real world and not ensconced under a rock anymore. The public library was now out. As most young people do, I struggled, financially, through college and my first working years so wasn’t always able to afford books. I would always manage to find a way to get the latest Stephen King book but that was about it. Of course I had the books I had to buy for my American Literature course in college but that was all paid off with my GI Bill and Pell Grant. It didn’t mean I could afford to go out and buy anything extra.
In time, I joined a book club for the sole purpose of getting 11 books for a penny. Brilliant! Problem solved! I would only have to buy 4 more in the next x amount of years. That was something I could actually afford to do. And as soon as those years were up, I got out of the book club because the shipping costs made the book so much more expensive than if I just went to the store.
Eventually it got to the point that I was only buying about 5-10 books a year. This is a significant difference in the amount of reading I did when I was younger. Although I read fast and could have easily sailed through about 3 books a week, I learned, in time, that I was always disappointed when a book ended. I wanted it to last longer. So I taught myself to slow down my reading when I was doing it for pleasure. I would then read about a book a week. Fifty two books a year is not bad for a 9, 10, 11, 12 year old on up. And again, I’m not talking about Beezus books or any other type of YA book, I’m talking about, “Catcher in the Rye” and George Orwell books, Anna Keranina, Silas Marner, (why didn’t anyone like that? I loved Silas Marner!), Catch-22, etc.
Anyway, as I said, once adulthood came around, reading dropped off. I went about my life of trying to make something of myself and meeting all sorts of people and it would floor me, absolutely floor me when people said things like, “I don’t like to read.” WHA?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!? Someone get me a chair, I’m about to faint.
OR, I would come across those fake ass types who said they read a book and would try to use it in their “debate” with me. Idiots. I read that fucking thing when I was 10 years old, I KNOW that book. And it became evident that these types of pricks were either regurgitating Cliff’s Notes or whatever their friends told them about it; the books their friends hadn’t read either! Do you know how many times I’ve been called a bitch and have had people get royally pissed off at me because they could not fight me in a battle about a book? Almost as many times as the number of books I’ve read. People really don’t like it when you call their shit. Fuck ‘em.
As time went on, the years passed, I was reading fewer and fewer books. In fact, in the past two years, I think I’ve read 4 books total. That is appalling.
Then, I heard about the Kindle. I was reading sarahk’s website and she mentioned it. I went to look at it. I thought about it. I looked at it again. Lather, rinse, repeat 10, 20, oh hell, 78 times. I really didn’t think I was going to like this thing. I thought it might be ok but how could you replace the feel of a book? The smell? Oh the glorious smell of a book! How can that be replaced? The sound of the spine cracking when you first open the book. God how I love that sound. Flipping the pages, over and over and over again to relish all the glorious length of the book. What might be inside? Look at all of those words....the places we will go! The anticipation! There just could not be a way to replace that!
Well, it doesn’t replace the feel and the smell and the flipping of the pages. There is no crack when you open it, (better fricken not be!) But, it does do something better than the regular books do. It heightens the anticipation.
See, I’ve had this for about a month now and I have 83 books already. That is not a typo. I said 83. Some were on sale, some were free, some were from indie authors, some were full price but, there are 83 wonderful new lands to explore, new people to meet and new situations to get in to. And it took about 60 seconds a book to arrive from the time I thought about getting it to the time I got it.
I have found myself immersed in to the world of books again. I’ve been reading like I did when I was younger. I have realized that I have severely missed reading all these years. I think perhaps some of those years would have been a lot calmer had I not basically given up on reading. Some people need drugs, some need alcohol....I, apparently, needed books. I now have them again. And I have been much happier.
Perhaps this sounds weird but it’s actually boosting up my self confidence again. I’m back to the old me who didn’t give two hornet’s asses what anyone thought of me. I stand up to people more and do not tolerate rudeness as I was. (I have never completely lost that part of me but even with all you have read here over the past 5-6 years it’s nothing like I used to be.) I have found once again that it’s really easy to figure out who is worthy of my affections and who isn’t. I just can’t be around someone who is an idiot and it’s really easy to spot them again. Idiots don’t like to read. And it’s extremely apparent in the way they act and speak. It’s easy to spot who is lazy. It’s easy to spot those with little to no self esteem. It’s easy to spot problem people.
No, I’m not reading self help books. What I’m trying to say, (badly), is that the creative part of my brain is opening up again and that part of the brain is what helps me make the right choices and keeps me away from bad things. When that part of my brain is alert and well used, I see things FAR more clearly than I typically do. YES, it can be easy to spot an idiot from a mile away but I’m not talking about “those” idiots. I’m talking about the idiots who aren’t always easy to see. Does anyone know what the hell I mean here? There are two kinds of idiots. The obvious and the not so obvious.
Whatever.
The point of all of this is, it’s like Spring in my mind again. I was told that I would love my Kindle. I was skeptical. As if I would name an inanimate object, c’mon sarahk....but she was right. I do love it because of what it has brought back to me. It has brought back peace and awareness and creativity....a part of my life that was sitting in the dark for far too long.
And, I’m not sure, but this blog may be taking a new direction soon. I will still probably write my opinions about some things but I am finding that I no longer need this for the reasons I started it. To get attention. (Isn’t that why anyone blogs?) I wanted to share my opinion, I wanted someone to fucking listen to me, damnit, everyone like to interrupt me and this was the place that wouldn’t happen, I wanted to hear from others what they thought and hey, maybe meet a few people along the way. In a nutshell: attention.
Now? I think I’ll get back to some of the way I used to write. Instead of just saying what happened, tell a story about what happened. I have had the trauma of sitting near someone when they read a blog entry or two of mine. I don’t like that kind of horror. I fidget and wonder if they’re having a good time reading. What are they thinking? Why did they laugh right there? What did they read that made them laugh? Why didn’t they laugh more? Are they really READING or are they skimming? UGH! (If you have a blog, don’t do this to yourself.) Anyway, the people who have done that as well as people who have read when I’m not around have told me what their favorite entries are.
Turns out, the entries the people like the most are when I’m telling a story. Telling the story, not just typing what happened, actually telling a story. Granted these were actual events that happened but it was the way I was putting it out there, the actual story telling that they enjoyed so much. (I can think of a handful of them off the top of my head.) Some of them have liked them so much they passed them around to their office mates.
Blogging or writing a journal, the main rule is: Write what you know. The few instances I did write what I knew, the post was a big hit. So that is what I want to go back to: writing what I know. And what I know are my personal experiences and what I know is how to tell a story. I don’t know why I’ve been too chicken shit to do it more often because when I do that, it’s well liked.
This does mean, of course, that entries will probably be farther and fewer between. As exciting as my life may sound, I just don’t have too many conflicts or confrontations happen to me that I can turn in to a story. Most of the stuff that happens to me is the same as what happens to everyone else: shitty crying kid at Target and the oblivious bitch mother who doesn’t care about anyone around her having to endure all that screaming, assholes in traffic, assholes at work, assholes at the store, assholes in the airport....it’s easy to share that. Very easy. It takes no effort at all to bang out a couple of paragraphs about all the pricks we encounter every day.
What does take work, effort and creativity, is turning an incident in to a good story. Kid screaming in the middle of Target is not a story. Going through the hassle of getting a towing sign up on your property so the twits who keep parking in your driveway finally get theirs....that’s a story. And that’s what I want to do again.
So, my readership may change again.
And I don’t know if I’ll talk about politics much on this blog anymore. Two reasons: this country has already fucked itself for the next four years and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about that so what is the point in bitching about it to the choir? And, to be honest, since I got my Kindle, I have turned my t.v. on once.
I don’t have the slightest idea what is going on the world today. And I really don’t give a shit, either.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
It Can't Be Said Enough
It was hotter than hell today. No, really, we checked. We beat out hell by a landslide.
I’ve said this before but I’m saying it again: God bless the inventor of air conditioning. And also, God bless the inventor of the bed. These are two “luxury” items I would never want to find myself without, ever.
That’s it. I’m spent.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Randomness
** Earlier today, my cat sneezed in my eye. IN my eyeball.
You just haven’t lived until something like that has happened to you.
** Observation I’ve made over time: Why on earth do girls do this? They’ll say something defending larger sizes but then totally bash that defense with their own words that follow. Example:
“A size 14 is not large and even though I’m not that big, I don’t think it sets a good example for younger girls to say it is.”
Um, if you truly believed this, you wouldn’t need to point out that YOU are not a size 14. I see this all the time. “OMG, I can’t believe people think 160 pounds is fat. I mean I only weigh 115 but still.”
Why don’t they just admit that what they are saying is this: “I don’t think it’s fat but I also don’t want you to think I’m a size 14, 160 pound lard ass! So stop telling young girls it’s fat even though I secretly think it is.”
Let me guess, some of your best friends are fat!
This random list may or may not be added to as the day wears on.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
W?T?F??
Ok. So, in preparation for getting a Kindle, (note: I had ordered one previously but thought it was coming via UPS not USPS so gave them the shipping address to where I live which the post office does not deliver to so it got sent back. I’m now looking at the Kindle DX), I started downloading some of the free books online and came upon a list called, “Banned Books”.
Kids, you can not believe the shock I am going through reading this list. The Call of the Wild? BANNED? For what? Silas Marner? Wha...? We had to read that book in high school, why the fuck is it banned? Huck Finn? Tom Sawyer? Who are these people that ban these books? And what in God’s name is wrong with them?
Stunned. Absolutely stunned at the stupidity of certain people who think they can decide what is and is not best for everyone else on the planet. Get a fucking life, assholes.
In other WTF news, it has been storming all afternoon and evening and for the past few hours, every so often, I’ve been hearing this sort of chirping noise. It sounded almost electrical. Naturally, my imagination ran wild. See, I have some issue with some outlets on one side of the place. I only have four things plugged in on that one side, (clock, t.v., dvr, router), and the whole side will shut off making me have to hit the reset button on the outlet in the bathroom. This happens about once a week and I’ve asked around to all the geniuses around here and have been told not to worry about it. I envision my house going up in flames.
So, I hear this electrical chirping sound and with the lightning and all that going on outside, like I said, my imagination has been going in to overdrive. I’ve been sitting here on the bed looking up all kinds of shit on the internet today and periodically the sound starts but by the time I get off the bed and go to where I think the source is coming from, it stops. Aggravating as all hell, let me tell you. Images of the place exploding or going in flames or lightning jamming through an appliance are swirling around my mind while I try to figure out what the hell this noise is. Is it some sort of warning? Should I turn everything off? Am I going to get electrocuted? Am I going to be homeless this evening? What IS it?
Finally, hours later, I have discovered that the noise is not electric chirping. It’s insect chirping. Some little shit ball insect has snuck in to my house and is sitting by my laundry hamper making chirping noises. Every time I moved, it would stop. Bastard. All that angst. For nothing!
Anyway, does anyone out there have an ebook reader? I’ve been looking at all the different types and it looks like the Kindle is the best. Mainly because the price of their books are way cheaper than books you can get from, say, Sony. That means that even though I’d spend about $50 more on the Kindle initially, it would so pay the difference in books over the, say, Sony. But I’m still curious if anyone has one and what their thoughts are on these things.
It’s going to be a little bit before I get the Kindle. But I’ve been wanting one for some time and like I said, I did actually order one but it got sent back due to my misreading. And now the DX is out and I like that it’s bigger and even though it’s more expensive, I want it. But, I’m also afraid to spend that kind of money when any other reader is just as good or better or, above all, the thing is going to break on me within a month. (Been reading some of the reviews.)
Anyone? Bueller? Something oo oo economics?
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
On Being Neighborly
I’ve been emailing my friend Kristine about the trip and future plans to move and she reminded me of a little story I didn’t share. As I told Kristine, I know the difference between those who are being neighborly and those who are only looking for any information about you that they can get in order to lure you in and back stab you later. Yes, there are plenty of people out there like that. I work and have worked with quite a few of them.
When I say, “I hate people”, I’m talking about the assclowns that hate themselves and try to bring you down to their level of hatred. This city is FILLED with those types of people. Sometimes one needs to get the hell away to be reminded that there are some fantastically wonderful people in this world that you wouldn’t mind sitting down and having a beer with. So, I’m going to share with you the story I just told her in an email:
When I got back from seeing the sites in the day, I had to go to the front desk for soap. While I was waiting, two older gentlemen were checking in. I waited patiently. They were asked for their address and then phone number. After the first one gave out his phone number, he turned to me and said, “You didn’t write that down did you?”
I told him that I certainly had written it down and would soon be calling.
His friend then gave his information and after he gave out his phone number to the front desk I said to the first gentlman, “And if you don’t answer, I’ll just call him to find out where you are.”
I then went upstairs to write an entry and then went to the bar right behind the hotel for a drink to get away from the screaming kids in the pool. Lo and behold, who was there? The two older gentlemen and their wives.
“Oh great”, said the first older gentleman. Which I knew was a joke. So I joked back with him. This is how we were sitting:
Mr. Fake Attitude was sitting on the far right end. Next to him was 2nd gentleman’s wife, then 2nd gentleman and then 1st gentleman’s wife. Then me.
They were all talking to the bartender mostly but then the wife of the 1st gentleman started talking to me. Periodically the 1st gentleman would say things like, “Don’t get familiar with HER!” Things like that. He then bought everyone another round, including me. Without telling me. The bartender told me. I, of course, thanked the 1st gentleman. He told me not to get used to it. He also asked what kind of an airboat captain could I be if I’m sitting there drinking a beer.
That is the kind of banter I love.
We continued to sit at the bar and talk and I talked a lot to the wife of the 1st gentleman. I told her where I was from, what I did for a living, why I was in St. Augustine, that sort of thing. At one point I told her I used to bartend in Seattle. She then started trying to get the bartender’s attention, (the manager), and when she did told him that I have tended bar before. She was trying to get me a job right there. Her arms were flailing as she was trying to get the bartender’s attention and telling him this and I was grabbing for her arms to put them down and after she told the bartender/manager this, I said, “Mother! C’mon!” She said she doesn’t get to do that with her kids so she decided to do it to me.
More talking ensued. Eventually they got a booth to have dinner. I was invited by wife of the 1st gentleman. 1st gentleman said, “OH GOD, don’t invite her! We’ll never get rid of her!”
I said that was incentive enough to eat with them but passed on the offer. I thanked her for it and told her I did appreciate the gesture but that I had to get to a ghost tour soon and was still full from lunch. But thank you anyway.
They went and sat down and I finished my drink. I then got up to leave and as I passed them bid them adieu and wished them all a great vacation. They wished me a safe trip home and it was nice to meet me.
So, you see, I don’t actually hate everyone.
I know that on this site it may appear that I’m always ticked off and hate the whole world but please remember that this is where I come to vent. VENT. This does not mean this is how I am at all times in real life. I don’t need to vent about cool people. I need to vent about the plethora of clownshoes available in the world and discuss exactly why I hate those clownshoes. Because if I don’t do it here, I’ll say it to their face and some things you just really don’t need to be saying out loud. Until you no longer work there or are no longer their neighbors.
I am a friendly person and I DO enjoy the hell out of SOME people’s company; when they are genuine. I like genuine people. It’s those other ones that I don’t like and since they make all the noise, they usually get the attention. I suppose I should start sharing more stories like the one above.
Don’t be expecting a lot of those types of stories until I move, though. Although, I do have one BIG story I’m going to tell later but the story isn’t over yet. And I think most of you will be shocked by something I’m going to say in that story. Oooh, now I’ve got you hanging on the edge of your seats. Muahhahahahahhahaa!
I hate when people do that to me but it will be worth it. It’s a great story but I can’t tell it until it’s finished. Patience.
In the meantime, bask in the revelation that I’m not a raving bitch. Just on the blog.
Exhaustion
One thing I forgot to mention in the post titled, “My Spine!” was about the trolleys. I wrote that title for the simple fact that while the trolleys do take you around much faster than walking, they have no shocks to speak of. None. At all. Whatsoever. So you get bounced and banged around like a fricken rag doll. Hence why I titled the thing, “My Spine!” Seriously, it was bad. Sometimes, the thing bounced around so much, squeaking and banging that you couldn’t hear the tour guide talking. I thought it was going to snap my neck and paralyze me for how much jostling we took.
Anyway, am back home. Of course the first thing I had to do was clean litter boxes. Hurray, you’re home now feed us and clean up our mess. Yah. Good to be back. The kitties didn’t destroy the house up like I thought they would. I’m shocked. The only evidence that they had themselves a good time was the couch cushion was turned on its side but other than that, walls are still standing, carpet is not shredded, drapes are not torn down. I’m impressed at how much they controlled themselves. Of course, in a month’s time, I may find that one random beer bottle cap underneath the stove proving that they did throw themselves a party while I was gone but for now, I’ll consider them good little felions.
The litter though....jeeezus. How much do they have to poop in 2 days? My GOD!
They didn’t seem to miss me too much. As soon as they got food in their gullets, (and are you fricken kidding me? The punks ate 3.5 pounds of food in less than two days? PIGS!), they were content and happy again. “Ok, thanks lady, you may go.”
I still have 5 more days of vacation time left so I’m still feeling pretty good. I’m sure the day I have to go back to work I’m going to hate but that will just give me more incentive to save up every last penny to leave the hell out of here as soon as possible. Being away from that place has been nice. Getting out of Miami and going some place where people are sane and HUH? What’s this? Speak English? And are courteous? Woah! Definitely needed.
I think I can pull this off for another year or two and then, hopefully, I’ll have what I need and get away from the insanity. The monkeys. The screeching, poo flinging monkeys.
It will be nice. I’ll have to come back and read my own blog entries about this from time to time to remind myself. Hell, I may have to do that when I get home from work next Tuesday.
God I hate these people.
Whatever, don’t even think about them for 5 days.
I’m fricken exhausted from all the driving so I’m going to have a barley pop and get some rest.
Oh and no, I did not take photos. Remember that my camera died? I was going to get a new one but then a certain white punk feline spilled milk on to my laptop keyboard and I had to shell out a couple hundred bucks for that fix? Yah, so, no camera. No photos. I’m sure you can find everything I talked about online though.
