If The Shoe Fits

We were watching In Her Shoes the other night, which is a total snoozefest, unless your favorite television channels are WE and Lifetime. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) In it, Toni Collette has this very honest friend who is sometimes a little too brutal for everyone's good. At one point, she makes a rather venomous man-hating comment, killing her friend's good mood. And that's when I heard this: "Trina, you are SO that chick. Ha ha!"

M'kay. First of all, I am NOT tall or broad-shouldered, and I do not sport a blonde poodle-do. (Incidentally, I think the actress is the one who put the lotion on its skin or it got the hose.) Secondly, I would never have made the comment she made. So I inquired as to why this individual compared us. "Well, you know, cuz that sounds like something you would say, since you don't like guys and all."

In the span of one sentence, did I just become a feminazi lesbian? Holy crap in a sombrero! Now this comment came from someone who should know me pretty well, since we have shared the same air fairly frequently over the last ten years. So it pretty much slew me that the character who I found kind of annoying, with the exception of one scene ("Hands down, the best bridal shower I've ever been to." Heh.), would be associated with me.

To begin with, I'm not a man-hater. Actually, I usually prefer the company of guys over chicks, due to my inability to speak waxing, shaving, or nails unless it involves a muscle car, the dog, or a roofing job. Most of the females I know have a tendency toward being vapid, gossipy and catty, and in the words of Austin Powers, that ain't my bag, baby. The attitude that this woman sported is not a view I favor. Not all guys are idiots, perverts, scumbags, or rapists. Just our clients. Plus, she was extremely bitter, and I don't think I am - I have no reason to be, since there is no tragic lost love or general screwing-over in my past, if you don't count the time my sister gave Bubble-Yum to everyone but me and told me I was a brat.

However, it is undeniable that I am cynical. Not all the time, though, and I don't constantly rain on other people's parades, unless they're ridiculous and their float is ugly. If someone else is excited about something or gushing about their true love, I don't make some wisecrack about how naive they are or how their new man is a closeted homosexual. And I did think both main characters were pretty lame, but I wouldn't have voiced that to them if they were sobbing in front of me. I'd have just thought it.

Where we are in common, though, is in the honesty department. If we have differing opinions, I don't offer an argument just for the sake of hearing myself speak. But if someone asks me what I think, I tell them. Otherwise, why do they ask? Do they really want to be placated? This is usually where I get in trouble. I say how I feel as nicely as possible, then the person proceeds to freak out if they don't like my answer, apparently being compelled to prove me wrong.

So, all of that to get to this question: When you ask for someone's opinion, do you want to hear the truth? Or would you prefer they tell you what you want to hear? Is it offensive to you if someone just puts it out there, or does it bother you more if you get the vibe they are just agreeing to please you? Does honesty = cynicism? Inquiring minds want to know.

And don't waste time watching In Her Shoes, unless you often analyze your own familial relationships and question where your life is headed while drunk, depressed, or eating ice cream. Or if you have meltdowns over a broken heel.
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Check Out The Black Wings

Never fear, fair readers. The meek and mild-mannered Trinamick has now returned. There will be no "HULK SMASH!" today. Or at least not yet. Oh sure, I'm saddened that this society still has such an ugly opinion of this beautiful thing we call murder, but I'm confident that one day we can all follow the example of the mob and be a little more open-minded. Until then, I think many of us can be grateful for the invention of Prozac.

As I sit here sawing through a nut-filled cinnamon roll with my letter opener, I would like to tell you about the wonder that is Dark Angel. I know some of you are already fans, but it had to be said. James Cameron had a hand in it, but I promise it isn't like the craptacular Titanic. And it's not that I'm just discovering this now, but it never quite hit me until yesterday. Oh sure, I had seen an ep here or there, and then I had gotten interested to the point that it frustrated me that I didn't know what was going on. But then, of course, it got cancelled, and I never got around to getting caught up on all the shows I missed.

But then yesterday rolled around, and the pissing-off happened. When I left work, I went home, locked my door, shut off my phone, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and put in the first Dark Angel DVD that I got from Netflix. And I suddenly remembered why I love Michael Weatherly so much. He's great in NCIS, but in DA? Wow. That'll take an average bad day away quick like a bunny, and it definitely took the edge off mine.

Everything is starting to make sense that I missed out on the first time. Why was Logan in a wheelchair? How did Max escape in the first place? Was the young Max played by a boy? I started getting my answers, which only led to more questions. And then I realized I had spent 4 hours sitting in front of the television and I still had no homework done. But at least I now know where I had seen the FBI guy (David?) from Numb3rs before.

But now I'm frustrated again about the idiots who cancel every show I really like. Firefly, Farscape, Airwolf (whaat?), Arrested Development, Touching Evil, Killer Instinct, Reunion, Keen Eddie, Family Guy (but for a reprieve), John Doe, Tru Calling... are you seeing a pattern? Most of the shows I liked met their demise on FOX. Blasted fools.

TRINA SMASH FOX!

I think I'm back among the living. At least, my body isn't contorted by rigor at the moment, so I'm making an assumption. I went home early from work on Friday, and I spent the entire weekend in bed. Missed the speech team dinner, missed the Southwest conference meet on Saturday, the works. I'm back at work today, feeling less crummy physically, but pissed off to a degree I can't even put into words. Not exactly good blogging company today. So, instead, I'm going to catch up on all your blogs today, and maybe by tomorrow I'll be in a more Zen-like state. Either that, or I'll be incarcerated. Stay tuned!

Wedded Bliss & Mommy Dearest

Do you remember my tale of the devil in a white dress, who later became known as Gimpy? Well, the drama continues. I just got a call from her mother, who is in a severe state of panic/anger. It seems her darling daughter just left her husband in Nevada, ran off to Iowa yesterday to meet some guy she's been writing to on the Internet, and by today moved in with him. Un-friggin-believable.

I guess she had called her mom last week, saying how depressed she was and how she just wanted to kill herself. And she had told her sister that she had entertained thoughts of killing her husband and then herself. Scary, huh? Well, it would be if it weren't for the fact that she is the biggest drama queen on the planet next to my ex-SIL, who I despise with all my forces and energies! (thanks, mr. schprock!) Every time she wants her own way, she threatens suicide. Sure, she was diagnosed with depression, but she uses it as a crutch for all her bad behavior. Gimme a break!

Her mom immediately tried to talk her out of it, begging her to at least come home before she did anything rash. Frankly, I think she's a little past that at this point, but whatever. She's been emailing this guy for over a year. Personally, I would have found it wildly entertaining if she had traveled to see him, and it would have turned out to be an 65 yo Asian woman. Instead, she is convinced she has found true love.

Her mother, being the wonderful person she is, called Bridezilla's husband to see how he was doing. This was supposed to be their anniversary weekend, and they had been planning a vacation. When she asked how he was, he says, "Oh, I'm good. I've got a roommate lined up, so I can stay in the house. And I'm still going to go on our anniversary trip. I'm taking my nephew, and we're going to have some fun." Come again? Your wife left you two days ago, and you're good? And you're moving a buddy into the house? In the words of Jeff Kay, whattadouche.

And that's what's so sad about the situation. He's been a loser since before she married him, and we all tried to tell her. But she was all atwitter, and she married the schmuck anyway. He's been a jerk for the last three years, and he quit his job the day before the wedding, was bad with money and they ended up living with his parents almost the entire time. So I get where she would be unhappy about the situation. But because of the stunt she's pulled, she comes away looking like the bad guy, while he gets to play the injured party.

And the worst part of all of this? I had to wear that stupid dress and endure that wedding for nothing!
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Three cheers for my mother, who for a limited time only, is in the running for the bestest Mommy in the world. First, she has never beaten me with a wire hanger. That's a plus. And since she never gets sick herself, she has no patience for those around her being ill. While not winning her any Miss Sympathy points, it does make her very efficient. She wants everyone healed up quickly, so she doesn't have to listen to them whining, especially her milquetoast daughter. So when I went to her house at lunch, she let me sleep through the noon hour. I woke up to, "You've got fifteen minutes to get to work. Your glasses are on the top of the freezer. There's a bowl of chicken noodle soup in the microwave. Here's your meds. Now get up and feel better." Let's hear it: awwww. I mean, sure I still feel like crap, but isn't it nice that she's sick of me being sick?

Rolling Down the Mucus Highway

Thanks to the Wonky-Eyed Beast, who felt the need to cough her special ed germs all over creation, I'm now sick. Think fever, chills, headache, sore throat, coughing, and hacking up things you can't chew. You know that medicine commercial where the two disgusting looking germs have taken up lodging in the man's lungs? Yeah, well, I think they've moved in and are having a party in my bronchial tubes.

The upshot of this is that now I get to be all dramatic and act like I'm half dead all day while playing on eBay at work. No, wait, that's the Flesh Mattress in the other room. I'm the one who gets to continue working while feeling like crap, downing Comtrex and Alka-Seltzer Cold like it's the last beer on the table at an AA meeting. And after work, I get to go to Grandma Moses' house to fix her computer, and then I homeschool my nephew tonight. Oh, and since the idiots at Medicare won't pay for an 81 yo man to stay in the hospital until he's well, I get to go wrap my grandpa's legs tonight so he can try out his Archie Bunker impression on someone other than my mother.

Grandma Moses felt bad for me, though, so she made me some Friendship Tea (instant tea, Tang, cinnamon, and pure old person love) and brought me a little cup warmer to keep it hot all day. Now if we could just sneak in some Crown Royal, and this day might be a keeper after all.

Fool Me Once, Shame On Me

Note to all my faithful readers: I am an idiot. Not just the run-of-the-mill halfwit, I'm an utter moron, cross-eyed and drooling here. You see, I got an offer the other day from a website I frequent. It was for a 14-day trial sample of White Overnight, which is some fancy-schmancy teeth whitening system. The deal was that you only paid for the shipping, but you were automatically enrolled in their program. After 14 days, they would autoship a full order if you hadn't cancelled your enrollment. The system was a sponsor of a trustworthy website, and it seemed pretty reliable.

Being the fool that I am, I decided to try it. But after I ordered, the trial sample never arrived. The 14 days was nearly up, and I hadn't even gotten to try it yet. I emailed to cancel my enrollment. Then I checked my credit card to see if the shipping had been charged to me. It had. And so had a full order to the tune of $106.90! I immediately emailed the company, asking why I had been charged only two days after my original order. They informed me that the first autoshipment comes within the 14 days, and there is no refund.

Excuse the frick outta me, but what is the purpose of offering a sample if you're going to send out the full order from the beginning? Now before you think I'm an absolute retard, let me assure you that I read the terms of service before I ever ordered. I read it twice, in fact. I saw nothing in it that seemed out of place, mainly because that version of the terms of service said nothing about their scheme. And I work for an attorney - we see cases of people getting scammed constantly!

When I called and e-mailed to complain, I was told that it was stated plainly in their terms of service, and they sent me a copy of it. Only the one they sent me is completely different than the one I read. I instantly went to their website to find the original, and now it is nowhere to be found. What a crock! Of course, I hadn't been smart enough to print off a copy of the TOS the first time around. Put me on the short bus and send me off to clueless school!

I have never received either shipment and the 14 days are past. They claim they still have another 3 days before the time is up, which is absolute bull. I informed them that since they did not fulfill their part of their own TOS, I am not obligated to pay them. They have since then gotten smart-mouthed in their emails, just repeating that there will be no refund. Let me tell ya, folks, that's not the way to meet Happy Katrina.

I had been civil on the phone, but now I was ticked off. So I put on my mad fingers, and I fired back an email informing them that I would be referring this to my attorney and the Better Business Bureau. I will also be disputing the charge with my credit card. They were duly unimpressed, but they've got a surprise coming. I have free legal services at my disposal, and I'm not afraid to use it. I'll keep you posted.

So, anyone out there want to admit a similar dumb attack, and make me feel a teensy bit better? Anyone? Bueller?

Eyes of Lust and Bloody Treats

You know that creepy feeling you get like someone's watching you? You know that skin crawling sensation you have when you look up and someone IS watching you? And not only are they watching you, but they are also standing too close and not hiding the fact that they are giving you the eye? And after you look directly at them, catching them in the act, they continue to mentally undress you with their eyes?

Yeah, well, that just happened to me. And it was a chick. Excuse me while I go boil off my skin.
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Today I was introduced to a blood orange. It looks the same on the outside, but the inside is a reddish-black color and very sour. I'm not sure what the orange is crossed with, but I have a feeling it was a human heart. It's surprisingly tasty, and looks like you may be gnawing on raw, rotting flesh. Not that raw, rotting flesh is particularly tasty - I really couldn't say. But it really takes the edge off a thirst for blood. It's a shame someone didn't hand these out on Valentine's Day.

Holding My Breath In the Arctic

-18 degrees here, but the good news is that it's -29 windchill. But wait, the best is yet to come! According to the radio, a few minutes outside with exposed flesh could lead to frostbite. Lovely. The silver lining is that at least I'll finally catch those dogs peeing on my trees. They'll be stuck to my lawn by a big yellow icicle.

It's so cold here (how cold is it?) that my car actually froze to the street in front of the office. I had to rock it back & forth to finally get it to move. We are supposed to take the kids out of town tomorrow, which means enduring frigid temps and early morning both at the same time. Plus, a friend's funeral is tomorrow, and afterwards there is a housewarming party for another friend of mine. I don't know how I'm going to fit it all in. Maybe I can talk them into having the funeral at the open house and letting the speech kids give the eulogy. It'd be a win-win, really.

Oh, and I walked into New Girl's office earlier, only to encounter the most hideous, maggot-gagging stench on the planet. Something must have crawled up her butt and died, or at least that's the only explanation I can come up with. This reekage makes a taco fart feel like a warm tropical breeze. It was like a sulphur/baby vomit/burned carcass cloud hanging in the air. I think I have whip lash from the swift, severe yank of my head to the side when the odor assaulted my nostrils. I forgot what I even needed from that office - I just turned tail and ran. It's a good thing no one was injured in the process, because I'd have left them behind. I wonder if she would be offended if I stuck an air freshener on the back of her chair?
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This is just depressing. I really hate the Olsen Twins.

Hanging at St. Elsewhere

So much for the snow day. The snow is still coming down, and the roads are slicker than snot on a brass doorknob, but I'm at work. I've shoveled three times in front of my house, and twice in front of the office. Now I'm done. I don't care if we have to burrow to get to the car to go home, I've given up. I hate winter.

Old Man River is still in the hospital, and though he's gotten over his tizzy at his granddaughter forcing him to go, I'm still reminded daily that he could be at home if it weren't for me. I tell him he's right - he could be at home, lying on the floor with his leg split open from infection and swelling, running a fever, unable to make it to the bathroom, running out of oxygen, wishing his granddaughter had made him go to the doctor. That shuts him up pretty well.

Yesterday, the therapist (not the rapist) came to do treatments on his leg. They put some heated weight deal on his leg and the therapist told him it had to stay on for 20 minutes and he couldn't move. He promised to return shortly and remove it. In the meantime, the nurse came in and gave him his Lasix pill (to remove the fluid from his leg). She told him she would return in about 20 minutes and take him to the bathroom. And then they both promptly forgot about him. About 45 minutes later, someone came in to pick up his lunch tray, only to discover that not only had they forgotten to bring him lunch in the first place, he was now trapped in his bed having to pee like a racehorse. He told the nurse that he was convinced it was a conspiracy hatched between the two of them to see if his leg really hurt as bad as he claimed. I think I'd have just peed the bed, and let them worry about it from there.

Every time I go to visit, I see another client or friend in the hospital. One of the speech coaches was out there, because her grandmother had suddenly gotten sick. Within two days, she had died (Monday) and they're not really sure yet what killed her. One client was sharing a room with my grandpa, and they did surgery on him without being certain what they were looking for. Isn't this just instilling confidence in our medical establishment? It was so busy a couple of days ago that they were running out of beds. A colleague of mine was out there visiting her dying father (he passed away yesterday after 2 mos. in the hospital with cancer) and her daughter was brought in with a 104 temp and severe dehydration. They didn't have any place to put her, so they were trying to get her IV in while she was sitting in the waiting room, and she knew half the people sitting in the waiting room, asking her what was wrong!

That's the problem with living in a small town. You know almost everybody. Plus, we've been in and out of the hospital so much over the last weeks that I know all the docs and nurses by name, and now it seems I know all the patients here as well. My cousins from out of town just laugh when we walk down the hall, and everyone calls me by name. Then we go out to eat, and the waitress or hostess calls me by name. Same everywhere we go - it's like a sandbilly Cheers.

I'm thinking about wearing disguises from now on. After all, it worked so well for Dana Carvey, so why not me?
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This is not funny at all. Stop laughing.

On a related note, if well-endowed girls work at Hooters, where do one-legged girls work?





(Scroll down to find out).







IHOP.

Somebody Kill Cupid

Ahh, the sappy day of love has come and gone. Valentine's Day has collected its casualties and retreated for another year. And what a day it was! We had people bringing candy and nuts to our office all day long from the local banks. And it's a good thing I had some sort of sustenance, because I had no time to eat before heading off to waitress.

It's hard to believe that one night can be so filled with disaster. When I walked in the door at 5:30, it was like a crash scene. Waitresses were scurrying in every direction, cooks were muttering expletives under their breaths, and none of the evening prep work had been done. The counters were filthy, trash was overflowing, dirty dishes were everywhere - it was full on panic mode.

Normally, when I walk into a situation like that, I smile and roll my eyes. I know that it's just a bunch of amateur waitresses and new cooks who don't work well under pressure. I will start cleaning things up, making sure my tables are set up properly, and then work on finishing prep. But last night was a little different.

As soon as I walked in, Slut Waitress starts asking me about my tables and if they've ordered yet. It seems they had seated 4 tables in my section before I was even there, and nobody had waited on them! Greeaattt. I had to immediately start rushing too, and that's not the way I like to start a night. I stepped into the main dining area and nearly had a heart attack. Almost every table was full at 5:30, and we're not in Florida!

In the next 4 1/2 hrs, we served over 350 people, most of whom had to endure a 45 minute wait. Only 5 waitresses, one cocktail waitress, and no busser. Normally, that wouldn't seem so bad to me. But the dishwasher didn't show up either, so the boss was freaking and calling in everyone he could. When she finally showed, he lit into her in front of everyone, screaming and cursing. Then one of her kids called, and he happened to answer the phone. He asked if it was an emergency and when they said no, he shouted into the phone, "Then don't f#*%ing call here ever again!" We had people in the booths right outside our kitchen, and they heard his tirade. Great for business, huh?

It didn't end there. When he discovered our linen napkins lying in the first smoking booth where the waitresses had been folding them, he grabbed them all up and flung them into the kitchen on the floor, screaming, "Those f#*%ing napkins better never be in that f#*%ing booth again!" Way to go, slick. Now all the napkins are dirty again. We ran out shortly after that, and had to spend the night washing three batches just to keep up with the crowd, all because of his stupid tantrum.

Things just got worse from there. Because no prep work had been done, we were running out of condiments and garnishes all night. Then the one dishwasher slid on a rug, ran into one of the waitresses, and he dropped the tray of glasses he was carrying, shattering them throughout the kitchen and waitress station. Slut Waitress couldn't keep up with her section, so I had to keep picking up her tables in addition to my own, and I was getting quadruple-sat constantly as it was. I was more worked up than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The boss got in one waitress's face and yelled that he better not see her go back to the kitchen empty-handed again. Never mind that his niece (SW) hadn't bussed a single table of her own all night. And best of all, all the vacuums but one were broken, so guess who got to vacuum almost the entire place herself? Yeah, the sucker who would rather get the work done and go home than stand around waiting for someone else to pick up the slack.

I had one couple who I'm pretty sure will be divorcees shortly. They started out the evening with smiles on their faces and playing with their happy little baby. But by the time they were finished with their salads, the cheerfulness was gone. I don't know what happened, but the next time I walked out to the table, the woman had been crying, the guy's face was red, and both of them were doing that pissed-off gesturing people do when they're trying not to make a scene in public. Talk about awkward for your waitress! I asked how the meal was. Hey, maybe they get really angry about tough rolls! They assured me it was fine, and so I handed them their check early and retreated. It proved to be a wise decision. Within minutes, they both got up with their food uneaten and left. By that time, even the guy had teared up - the only one still smiling was the baby. It was probably just gas. If I'd have been thinking, I'd have left one of my boss's business cards with the bill. They're gonna need a good lawyer.

And then there was the coffee griper. Every time I served someone coffee all night, I thought of Stringman and his evil ways. So when I had a man and woman ask for decaf, I nearly laughed. But I brought them out their decaf, and went on my way. A little while later, they asked my boss for a refill. He returned, poured it in their cup, only to have them thank him gratefully and say that their waitress had not brought them decaf the last time. Now here's the kicker: I had brewed the coffee myself, so I KNEW it was decaf. But when the boss went back to the kitchen, there was barely any left, so he poured it half full of regular and served it to them! Who's the idiot now?

Oh, and about the tux shirts? Yeah, Slut Waitress threw a fit at the last minute and refused to wear them. They just decided to wear red or pink shirts at the last minute and never bothered to clue me in. Thankfully, I had worn a white shirt and got by with it, because I don't own any pink or red shirts. I just laughed when the boss's wife suggested we all wear matching sweaters. I thanked her for the one she handed me, and then hung it by my coat. I nearly die of heatstroke in our normal shirts - I most certainly am not going to be dripping sweat into people's cheesecake, thankyouverymuch! So no pictures of bloody penguin suits for you, darn it - I was so hoping to share.

All in all, I'm unsure how to rate the evening. Sure, I made $120 in tips in 4 1/2 hrs - with my clothes on. I did get to talk to some interesting people and see some regulars I haven't talked to in awhile. And I guess it's good exercise - pretty much the only exercise I get. But I also had to put up with idiots and a jackass boss, which just stresses me out. And my feet felt like they'd been run through a meat grinder, and I have a serious knot in my right shoulder. Is it really worth it? I could have been sitting on my couch, eating Chex Mix and watching House. It's a toss-up. Maybe I could put up with it all if we had one of these at work:

No matter how much I gripe about waitressing, though, here's a little secret I have. I don't count the tip off a table. Sure, I'll look at a credit card slip occasionally or I mentally estimate if it's scattered all over the table. But I have found that it can be discouraging when you're working hard and really busy, and then someone leaves you a crappy tip. I think it affects my attitude toward the next table, which then affects the tip and so on. So I usually just stick the tip in my pocket without looking at it, and I assume it was a good one. It helps me to stay positive and pass on the cheerfulness to my customers. I can't say for sure that it always works, but I really think I have noticed an improvement in my tips. Either that, or people just aren't as picky about their service anymore.
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Just so you know, I will be signing all of my male readers up for this. You can thank me later. -------------------------

You can tell calving season is upon us. It started snowing last night, and it hasn't let up since. They are predicting up to a foot of snow by morning, and down to 20 below windchill. Isn't that special? My boss just got back from walking to the bank, and he fell down twice before getting back. Ordinarily, I would laugh and point if I saw someone do that, but he's 76. He could really hurt himself. I think with the roads this slick, there's only one reasonable thing I can do: go borrow my mom's truck and spin cookies in the grocery store parking lot. Cross your fingers for a snow day for me tomorrow!

When I Was Her Age...

Four years old. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a perpetually happy spirit. To an outside viewer of my weekend buddy, she may appear to be a little girl who is given everything her heart desires. The tiara on her head and the Barbie chair she plants herself in doesn't give the impression of a hard-knock life. The reality is that this child has already lived a life in her four years that most of us hope never to have to suffer through.

You see, K's mother is a drug addict. To be more accurate, she is a crack whore. Her oldest child was given up for adoption because she was too drunk to care for him. He committed suicide last summer at the age of 15. She is divorced from the father of her next two boys, and they were taken away from her and given to the dad. Then comes K. Deadbeat Mom was in rehab during part of the pregnancy and jail the remainder, so at least the baby was born without drugs or booze in her system.

Over the last four years, Deadbeat Mom has changed men like most people change underwear. She rarely lives in one place for long, because she spends all her money on drugs and nothing is left for rent. She bounces from friend to friend, sleeping on their couches and dragging her little girl along. At times, she crashes with some guy she meets or a dealer along the way.

Also in this scenario are K's grandparents. On one side is the maternal grandfather and a stepgrandmother who are scared to death for her safety and wait for an eventual phone call to say Deadbeat Mom is dead. On the other side is the maternal grandmother and her cross-dressing husband who think the situation has been blown way out of proportion and that Deadbeat Mom is a fine parent. Money is given from one side in the hopes it will go toward K's care, and the other side plies her with booze to keep her happy.

As time has passed, every few months Deadbeat Mom gets herself in trouble with the law. She calls Grandpa, pleads for bail money, and tells them where they can find K. After the time Stepgrandma finds K without clean clothes, with filthy matted hair and a contact high from the pot smoke blown in her face by the "babysitter", Grandpa decides he's had enough and refuses to give her money. Deadbeat Mom flies into a rage, sends her latest boyfriend to pick up K, and Social Services makes the grandparents give up the little girl.

For some reason, Deadbeat Mom gets out of the charges every time. Could it be that the county attorney has some reason for being lenient? Questions are raised as to whether he is a fellow user, but nothing can be proven. And why does HHS not take that kid away from her? Now that she is out of jail and mad at her father, she refuses to let them see K. They hear nothing from her for months, and are then notified that she is once again in the hoosegow. Grandpa goes to see her and she won't tell where K is. They finally find out from another daughter that some "friend" kept the little girl, so the daughter offers to pick her up and bring her to the grandparents.

Imagine Grandpa & Grandma's confusion when K is shocked to see them. You see, Deadbeat Mom had told her that they were dead, and she wouldn't ever see them again! Ready to slip some warfarin in her meth yet? I am. They call the court and are appointed as foster parents. Anyhoo, as soon as Deadbeat Mom finds out they have K, she gets her friends to bail her out, and she comes to demand K be given back. Grandma calls the social worker, who informs her that she must give K to her mother, or she will be charged with kidnapping. Deadbeat Mom takes K, and once again, they don't see her for months. The only contact they have with her is when another daughter offers to babysit K and then brings her to see them.

Now we are up to two weeks ago. Deadbeat Mom got thrown in jail for possession of meth, and intent to distribute. If convicted, she faces two years in jail, which would be the best for everyone. She has given permission for one of her many babysitters to keep K, and this one actually keeps her clean and fed, but is a chain smoker and works all the time, leaving K with her boyfriend. She keeps talking about getting temporary custody of K, but then does nothing about it.

This last week, she sent K to be with her grandparents. She stayed with us until Sunday, when the babysitter was supposed to pick her up. Instead, she calls to say she is working and will send her boyfriend. He never shows, and calls 8 hours later to say he can't make it. Can't they just keep her for him? The grandparents are now thinking about fighting for temporary custody themselves, but they are afraid if they make waves, she will have K sent to stay with someone they don't know, and they may never see her again.

Throughout this all, K has remained happy and pretty well-behaved. But you can tell the effect it has had on her. She is afraid to be left in daycare, because she thinks no one will pick her up. When she's mad at the dog, she'll say things like, "Do you want me to punch you in the mouth?" or "Just try that again and I'll kick your a$$ right here!" so we know what has been said to her. She is definitely a people pleaser, and she's always fearful that she's done something wrong. The only time she starts to relax is after several days with her grandparents, but then she gets ripped away from them again.

So here's to Minnie Mouse K. May her life go better from here on out.



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The countdown to V-Day server oppression begins. In less than 3 hours, there will be a fake smile and dead eyes accompanying my red tux shirt and black bow tie. I just can't wait to spend 5 hours serving 400 people or so, each of whom wants you at their table when they snap their fingers, but wants you gone ASAP so they can play kissy-face over the table. In the meantime, I can sit at my desk and watch all the panicked guys rush in and out of the flower shop across the street, praying that they aren't too late to shell out exorbitant amounts of cash in a vain attempt to get some tonight. Save that money and tip your waitress!

Who Needs the Hilton?

I woke up Saturday morning at 4:00 a.m. to hurricane-like winds and snow blowing everywhere. The roads looked completely snow-packed, and my front step was slicker than a used car salesman. But I went ahead and started getting ready to go to the speech meet. I was almost competely ready at 4:30 when the coach called. She decided she didn't want to chance taking the vans in that wind, especially if the highway was slick as well.

I was bummed, because the $60 I would make for judging was supposed to pay for the rest of my trip to Kearney. I called my sister about 5:30 to see if they were still planning on traveling. They decided they wanted to try it, since it was a much-needed escape from insanity. We made it out of town about 7:30, and we hadn't gone more than five miles out of town and the roads were clear. The weather was great the entire way there and home! We could have gone to the meet, dang it!

Everything turned out for the best, because I ended up having more time to shop. I wasted money on blue LED valve caps, but I couldn't find a replacement bulb for my ground effects. Every time I walked into a part store, the guy would get that smirk like he thought I was some idiot female he could take for all I was worth. Then I would rattle off the parts I needed, serial numbers, and details galore, leaving him scratching his head and wondering how he failed to sell me a new set of tires. Sorry, bucko. The only thing getting tricked today is that speed buggy parked in the handicapped space.*

And my best purchase was my new Kyocera SoHo, which my nephew is now insanely jealous of. My old phone was a piece of crap, so maybe I'll actually have decent service. The store in our town gave me this line about how I couldn't get a new phone unless I got a different number, higher priced plan, yada, yada. So when I talked to this lady in Kearney, she just laughed at their idiocy. She got me a better plan at a cheaper rate and the phone only cost me $30. Of course, the lady behind me in the store reeked like she had just taken a manure bath, but it was a small price to pay for my supposed bargain. Now to see if I can download some ringtones. Hallelujah or Happy Crickets is just not gonna do it for me.

This was a surprisingly relaxing weekend. Normally, when I go out of town, I end up more stressed by the end of the weekend than when I left. But this time, everything went smoothly. The friends I stayed with have an enormous house. It is just the two of them, but the house has 5 bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge game room, a bar/pool room, etc. It's unbelievable that they found such a cool house in such a dorky town. If they don't watch out, they may have an unexpected tenant. They wouldn't even know I was there!

The game room has a ping-pong table, air hockey table, basketball game, and a 60-in. HDTV with Direct TV. When I walked into that room, I'm pretty sure I heard a heavenly choir singing. I was in a serious state of euphoria, and I spent all weekend playing games and hollering at the television. Sure, my muscles now feel like I swam the English channel while being stoned by onlookers, but it was worth it.

We ended up with a huge crowd of us there. People came and went all day Saturday and Sunday, but all told there was about 15-20 of us. My friends had their granddaughter there, who I will have to post about later. Most of their grandkids are spoiled, bratty children who always give me an overwhelming urge to start handing out sippy cups of Vodka. But this one is a sweetheart, and she is completely in love with my nephew. He now knows what it would be like not to be an only child, and I'm pretty sure he's enjoying his single life.

And I can now recommend to new things: the movie Red Eye and the Crunchwrap Supreme. Red Eye was suspenseful, exciting, and action-packed. The Crunchwrap Supreme was tasty, crunchy, and easy to eat while driving 75 in a Pontiac Sunfire.

That's it for today. Sorry it wasn't more exciting, but every time I swerved to hit a deer on the way home, they somehow managed to escape. Just like the pedestrians in the city.

*I would never really park in a handicapped space without a proper permit. That would be very, very wrong.

Empty Thoughts

If someone could reach through the Internet and slap me silly, that would be greeeaattt. The phone rang today, and I was too slow on the draw. Somehow, I got suckered into working at the steakhouse on Valentine's Day. My brain was screaming "find an excuse! You can't miss Gilmore Girls!", but my mouth wasn't working fast enough. Sure it'll be good money, but I have to wear a tux shirt and a bow tie. A bow tie, people! It's just sick and wrong. But my addiction to television didn't seem like a valid reason to say "Take your job and shove it." Man, I need TiVo.

Part of the reason they want me to work is because Slut Waitress might be gone. She's been having side pains, and she went to some OB/GYN that wants her to have surgery. I guess they went in to check if there was something in there that doesn't look cute in a onesie. Turns out that she has cysts in and around her ovaries & uterus that need to be removed. She felt compelled to go into graphic detail the last time I worked, and nothing in her explanation made me feel any better about raspberry jello. Her biggest concern, according to her, is that she may not be able to have children. Now then, if you'll recall a little comparison I did awhile back, you might remember she has already chalked up two abortions. Why would she care about having kids now?
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Tomorrow, we are headed to the North Platte Blue & Gold Tournament. This is my least favorite place for our kids to compete. They always have two or three things scheduled the same day (this year it's district wrestling), so they confine the speechies to one small area of the high school in their lame Performance Arts Center (to anyone else, it's an auditorium). THEN the fascists won't let anyone eat in there, so the kids have to trek over to their Commons Area if they want food. But wait! They don't accept checks, so if that doesn't work for you, you can use their ATM. And to top it off, they don't serve Mountain Dew! What kind of world is that?

But I'm leaving from there for a relaxing weekend with friends. I'm shutting my cell phone off, and all emergencies can be transferred to my answering service, Wheedoant Givah Krapp. It's snowing like crazy right now, but hopefully by then the roads will be clear. If not, maybe I'll need to invest in an upgrade for my vehicle in case of an accident:

Tragedy for the Getaway Sticks

There is a bit of drama going on around these parts. My grandfather has lived in an income-regulated apartment complex since 1999. He has subsequently been pissed off about the situation since 1999. He hates living in town, and he is especially disgruntled about being forced to share a building with 15 old ladies who watch his every move. Sure, Grandpa. That's why it takes you ten minutes to bend over and pick up your newspaper, because you hate the ogling.

Anyhow, ever since he moved in, there has been an issue with his fire alarm. It is wired in to the entire system, and for some unknown reason, it blasts away at the most inopportune times. He has complained numerous times about it, and a handyman has been there at least five times to "fix" it. Naturally, it never does the trick, and he is left grumbling about the "blasted fire alarm that sounds off every time you're trying to take a leak." Of course, every time he says that, I have a Tommy Boy moment: "My thing got stuck in my zipper and I got piss all over my pants." I'm sorry, Grandpa. You're right, it's not funny.

So, as luck would have it, the other night the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night. Grandpa jumped out of bed, scared half to death, and in the dark, tripped over his oxygen hose. He fell out into the living room somehow, and hit his leg on something (the bookshelf maybe?) Needless to say, he was one pissed off puppy. It took him awhile to get up and moving, but when he did, boy howdy!

He managed to climb up on a chair, broke the lock on the fire alarm, and then proceeded to rip it out of the wiring. Then he made a call to the manager of his building, who he is less than fond of anyway. She came over to look at it, and then had the nerve to say, "You can't just take that apart. It's there for your safety, and it will mess up the whole system if it's left like that!" I believe that's when he put on his mad face and replied, "Well, lady, it looks like I already took it apart. And it's gonna stay that way until somebody gets their keister down here, fixes it, and then guarantees me that this won't happen again! And as for it being for my safety, I think that aspect's already been compromised, wouldn't you say?" Then he showed her his leg.

UPDATE: After I took these pictures under the pretense of having evidence in case there was an issue over the fire alarm, I took these straight to his doctor. He has refused to go to the doc since last week, and I swear his leg just kept getting worse. There was a horrible knot and they were really feverish and swollen almost double. The doc took one look at it and asked where he was. When she was told he was at home, she said, "Yeah, well now he's going to be in the hospital." He didn't want to go, but I ordered him into the vehicle, saying I didn't care if I had to drag him out the door (he weighs about 265). I spent from 5:30 to almost 11:00 out there last night while they ran tests. He got put in the hospital, likely for at least a couple of days. They are doing x-rays today (Friday) to see if it is broken, and they are going to be draining fluid off it as well.

Guess who's the least favorite granddaughter today?

Lowered Expectaaaaations

So much for my grand ideas. I finally contacted the owner of the AT&T building I was interested in, and he won't sell it. Apparently, I'm not the only one who has asked him about it, and he's said no to them as well. It's disappointing, but he did promise me that if he changed his mind, he would call me. And since he's a client, at least I can periodically check with him, a.k.a. nag him to death. I guess my only consolation is that he's older than I realized. Not that I'm wishing for him to kick the bucket, but should it happen, I bet his wife wouldn't want to worry about all the extra properties he has. I'm just sayin'...

I guess it's probably for the best anyway. Now I have more time to pay off the debt I already have...or rack up more. *sigh* I keep waiting for my ship to come in, but I'm beginning to think it's in dry dock. Meanwhile, he's using the building for storage. Storage! It's a travesty, I tell ya. And my landlord won't sell the house I'm living in either, because apparently all old people just like to hoard property. If it weren't for Subway's chocolate chip cookies, I might not make it until this afternoon.

And then my day got even worse. I took this eye test, and I am more convinced than ever that I am going blind. Just for the record, the See Clearly method doesn't work worth a crap.

The Criminals Among Us

I was driving down the street yesterday, running errands for the office, when I saw a guy passed out on the corner. He was sprawled out next to the stop sign, but one hand was up in the air holding a cigarette. I nearly wrecked my car while watching him. I was highly entertained by the fact that it was right along the route taken home by most of our middle school students. They would stare as they got closer to him, giggle and point, and then make a wide arc around him as they passed.

As I went by, a cop met me heading in that direction. I thought maybe one of the local businesses had called the fuzz to come remove him. Instead, the cop drives right past him after stopping at the stop sign two feet from him. Do we just let drunks snooze wherever now? Now keep in mind this is a town of 2800 people. It's not exactly run of the mill to have winos anywhere but in a couple of alleys behind bars. The only homeless person in town finally left town because the women in town claimed to be afraid of him. *rolling eyes* So why don't the cops bust him or send him home?

I think I've found the reason. They had more serious criminals to worry about:

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Always be nice to your server.

The Man in the Fabric Mask

Congratulations to our speech minions, who got third place out of...more than 3 schools. (I can't remember how many were there - 10? 12? 150?) There was some tough competition, and they worked really hard. Plus, they were only 3 points from getting Runner-Up, so that gives them something to strive for at the next meet - finding one more judge to bribe.

The day was pretty well uneventful, except for the fact that I saw the fattest judge ever. He was about 6'6" and had to have weighed over 500 lbs. I was sitting at a table in the coaches' lounge, and he tried to walk between that table and the one behind it. On the way by me, his hip shoved my chair so far into the table, it nearly ruptured my spleen. Oh excuse me, so sorry my body got in the way of that towering hunk of flesh you call a leg. He looked like Jabba the Hut, only cleaner and without the bug eyes. Holy pig in clothes, Batman!

I had to judge novice all day, which is not entirely unlike getting a root canal while being hung upside down over a blazing fire of asbestos logs. Most of the kids read word from word from a script, with an occasional wild-eyed glance my way as their hands shake and their voices are barely above a whisper. But I had one kid who stood out from the rest. Not for knowing his speech - he didn't. But he had the best vocal expression I've ever heard in a novice boy. Not to mention he was a foreign exchange student who I can only assume was from Spain, judging by the 'th' sound that crept into his fast-paced speech.

The part that was weird was that he sounded exactly like Antonio Banderas. Trust me, I know the Antonio Banderas voice, in a completely unstalkerlike manner. I had to look at him as much as possible, or I couldn't keep a straight face. Every time I looked down at the ballot, I envisioned Zorro and nearly went into a giggle fit. It didn't help that each time he would look up from his script at me, he did this little one eyebrow raised, head tilt thing like he thought he was Don Juan. I had just watched The Legend of Zorro this weekend (which was entertaining, BTW), and this kid was dressed in black, talking about the importance of perseverance & true grit in the common man. I tried to keep the inscrutable mask going on, but I was dying of laughter inside.
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While I was gone this weekend, my blasted horse jumped the fence into our big pasture, trying to get to the neighbor's horses. One of these times, she's going to get cut up something fierce, and I really have no desire to fund a Porsche for the local vet. Since she's already clearing a five wire fence like it's nothing, I think we're going to have to switch to electric fence. Just what I want to do with my evening. After all, it's only been snowing since yesterday morning, and everything's slicker than snot on a brass doorknob. I can't wait to lose feeling in my digits while being crowded into a corner by a jealous jackass and a crowbait horse.
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Some products have more than one use.

He's a Lively One

It's colder than a witch's teat in a brass bra today. What's the deal? 30 degree weather in February? This is just sickening. I had my windows down in my car yesterday, so this drastic change is simply unacceptable. I think I'm going to have to administer a little Tonya Harding action on Al Roker. Now that he's lost the equivalent of a Backstreet Boy, I think I can take him.

Somehow, I got suckered into waitressing tonight. It should be fairly uneventful, but maybe someone will choke on a beer-battered fry so I can write about it Monday. I have to be at the school by 5:45 Saturday morning, so here's hoping for a short night. This chica needs her beauty sleep and if I have to drive, I suppose they'll frown on me trusting the van to autopilot. That's what cruise is for, right?

Hold on a sec. I'll finish this later.

Ok, I'm still alive. A large, angry, drunk Indian man just staggered into our office, reeking of peppermint schnapps, Lysol, and Muscatel. Hey, I've been at this job awhile, I know my mind-altering alcohols. His face was bright red and swollen, like he had clown makeup on...or had been stung repeatedly by bees. His nose, due to the alcoholism, was bulbous and looked like a cauliflower. I think I'm in love.

I asked what I could do for him, which in hindsight seems like a hazardous question. His request may not have been in my job description. He leaned over the front of my desk, ranting about something, but all I could hear was, "OIUFuhgetatoina dokdlakfw hospibal jabbarteidoo!" The spelling isn't set in stone, but I'm pretty sure it's close. I wasn't exactly certain as to the expected response, but I was saved from answering. My boss came out of his office, not looking too pleased. He grabbed him by the collar in a manner that would have almost implied he was putting his arm around his shoulders. "Let's go, Tom," he said firmly and without hesitation escorted him out the door. He knows him? Great. The guy staggered again, nearly falling on the Boss Man, all the while muttering something else unintelligible. Then he patted Boss Man on the shoulder and headed down the street, just another satisfied client. I love my job.

Have a great weekend, people. I'll be out making money so I can buy this.

Stream of Consciousness

New Girl apparently has a new roommate. This time it's a girl, so I don't know if she's become a women's softball coach, or if it's just a platonic thing. And dear god, I hope I never find out. This chick looks to be about 19 or 20, and though she seems relatively normal on the outside, she voluntarily chose to befriend New Girl. That has to be a sign of some form of dain bramage.

Since New Girl purchased a new vehicle last week (as though there wasn't already enough proof she's overpaid), she and this roommate have been sharing it. So now, instead of just being on her cell phone all day long talking with her friends (is it possible she has more than one?), this girl comes to visit her - and stays for an hour! Then she comes back fifteen minutes early to pick her up at lunch and stays. Along comes the afternoon, and wait! Here she is again for another 45 minutes! What is the friggin' deal? Instead of having one idiot roaming the halls talking on a cell phone and violating our toilet seat, there's two of them! They are loud and obnoxious, giggling and being completely retarded at high volume.

As usual, the bosses are too nice (read chicken) to object. They just smile nervously and tend to avoid going in that office. If they do, they are drawn into some dumb conversation because these fools have no sense of what you should not discuss with your boss (or your friend's boss that you don't know, for crying out loud!). I don't know whether to be embarrassed for them or just nauseated and pissed off. In any other job, she'd have been canned so fast her head would spin, if it doesn't already. But around here, we just open up a daycare and it's business as usual.

I need some Tylenol. Or a gun. If that postal lady had to work with people like New Girl, I can totally understand why she went all Charles Bronson. Sometimes, you just have to lay down the law.
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Do you remember my tale of the crazy client who hired a hitman? Apparently, he didn't learn his lesson. This week, he called my boss and asked if he could hire a hitman to kill his daughter who he hates. At a corporation meeting last week, they got into a heated argument and she picked something up off the table. He thought she was going to throw it at him, which is entirely possible knowing her, so he picked up his wife's cane and began chasing her around the room with it. That man is nuttier than a pecan pie.
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Here is my new purchase for the week. It makes me smile every time I look at it. It is being hidden in my desk a) so other people I work with won't use it, and b) so our cleaning lady can't leave it filthy like she does all the other cups. It nearly makes me gag when I look at the "clean" cups and they have rings of stains inside and out, or there is still a lipstick print on them. Like I want to share germs with New Girl? Don't think so! I'm sick of washing one every time when someone else is getting paid to do so. Even still, about once a month, I clorox them all out because I am pathetically anal-rententive, and knowing they are lurking in the cupboard all dirty gives me the ole twitchy eye. But no more, people! Me and my coffee cup are breaking free!
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And this is why some dogs bite their owners:

3-Pack

There I was, happily loping through the fields, minding my own business. Suddenly, there was a noise, and my world as I knew it ended. I woke up not far from where I was originally, but something just doesn't seem right. I have this fuzzy memory of lying in the back of a truck, and boy, does my ear hurt! Now it seems like everywhere I go, someone's watching me. You guessed it, folks. I've been tagged by the evil LL. Vengeance will be repaid upon him, you can bet.

Running the risk of oversharing, here are:

Three Things You Probably Don't Know About Me

1. I have a serious aversion to corduroy. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns. When I was little, my mother made me wear this pair of hideous brown corduroy pants with a giraffe on the back pocket. That pretty kills your street cred right there. When she wasn't ruining my rep, she was humiliating me in a purple and white pin-striped shirt with a bow tie, and purple corduroy knickerbockers - those hideous to-the-knee creations that should only be seen on leprechauns. I was always afraid to run on the playground, for fear I might set on fire. To this day, I shiver when I hear the whish-whish sound of approaching vertical lined fabric.

2. I once had a stalker for about a year or so. Lots of prank calls, creepy feeling like someone was watching me, strange car following me at night, the works. I wasn't scared, but it did piss me off something fierce. Our cops are useless, so there was no use in complaining. They couldn't find their butts in the dark with both hands and a flashlight. I finally figured out who it most likely was, and the next time I got a late night call, I answered, "Yes, [his name], what do you want?" When there was no answer, I said, "Doesn't caller ID just suck?!" (I didn't really have caller ID). The person hung up, and I never got another call. Mystery solved. Either that, or they are just biding their time before hiding in my closet and hacking me to death with Libby Borden's axe they bought off eBay.

3. I have a fascination with treehouses. When I was little, we had a huge grove (not enough to be a forest) of cedar trees behind our house. We built about 10 different treehouses as high up as we could get - thin planks to join treehouses together, ropes to swing across, etc - quite the poor man's Swiss Family Robinson. They were horrifying unsafe, and it was the coolest place I ever played. My mother didn't know about half of them, or she would have had a heart attack. They have since rotted and fallen down, partly due to years and partly because of the crappy materials we built them with. I don't know how we kept from plunging to our deaths. If this underground house thing doesn't work out, maybe I'll build me a treehouse.

I'm not tagging anyone else. They deserve to roam free.
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Check this out. Pay careful attention to the last sentence. Do I need to be concerned about New Girl?
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I found out today that not only did my uncle make the 12-inch think steel door for that building, but he also reinforced the entire outsid with sheet metal. He is doubtful that there would be much problem with leaks. Either way, if this underground house thing ever gets off the ground, I'll post some pictures of the place and keep you updated. Until then, feel free to contribute to the Katrina Wants To Live Like A Hobbit Fund.