Shocking!

This afternoon, I had the sort of date "old married" types have.  I picked up Phenom after he dropped his car off to get serviced and we went to lunch and stroll around a bit.

It is a beautiful, spring-time-in-the-south day.  I had the windows down, sunglasses on, music blaring, and all was well.  As Phenom sat in my car at the dealership, I turned to him and said "this is the sort of day where we should be allowed to smoke weed."  Good thing Phenom wasn't chewing gum because he would have swallowed it, as unexpected as my comment was.

But, it was true.  The sky was perfect, trees were blooming, it has FINALLY stopped raining.  The only thing that would have made it even better was a slight buzz.

I'm unfair and other people's brain farts

A) Problem Child Employee once screamed at me that I was unfair and inconsistent because I wouldn't let her take "make up" time off before she actually earned it.  It wasn't my rule, but that of the corporate overlords.  Plus, the "late" work obligation got cancelled and she would have had to taken leave time anyway.

However, this week I'm letting Newbie (haven't found a nickname for Problem Child's replacement yet) take a few hours of time off and then "earn it back" later.  I know, this proves that I'm unfair and inconsistent.  But, Newbie doesn't scream at me or throw tantrums or try to find every imaginable excuse to not do her job.  She comes early, leaves late, and doesn't give me lip.  I like her better, and she is rewarded accordingly.

B) I added another doctor to the list of those not worth my time.  The foot doctor.  I went along with the suggestion I wear athletic shoes all the time. I discovered that this is the limit of my vanity . . . ugly shoes.  Not that I was known for fashionable foot wear to begin with, but lace up shoes just offend my tender monkey sensibilities.  Today, he was mid lecture about how I should wear shoes ALL THE TIME.  I was telling him that it wasn't gonna happen.  My shoes come off as soon as I get home and he wasn't going to change that.  We'd previously discussed that my issues are arthritis related rather than injury related, and he switched mid-lecture and told me that I must wear shoes outdoors to "avoid this sort of puncture wound."

Um, what?

I told him that I wasn't here to be treated for a puncture wound and he just blinked at me.  After a couple of seconds he tried to cover with "I was just telling you should avoid them."  Right.  And, I'm done.

I think I'll go dig all my old shoes out now, too.

Rant, rant, rant, rant, rant . . .

My favorite line in the movie "Harvey" is something like " Mother always said there were two types of people in this world: those who are oh so kind and those who are oh so smart.  After 35 years, of being smart, I recommend pleasant."  

I'm trying, really, to be pleasant.  Although my current situation has me wanting to set the record straight with every fiber of my being.  

The other day, I was speaking to someone who has tangential power/knowledge of the work I do.  She was singing the praises of Problem Child, listing her positive attributes and I quietly said "no, she wasn't" and this person, who I've kept in the dark about the reality that was the nightmare of Problem Child, said "well, I'm sure she could say things about you."

OH DAMN I want to tell her EXACTLY why I would say that Problem child wasn't "wonderful" and "so very organized."  But, I'm also trying to tell myself to take the high ground.  That I survived the experience should be enough.  That it's petty at this point.  That I should be pleasant rather than right.

It is better to be pleasant than right?  Right? 

At least I know that the Old Woman would applaud me in my keeping quiet, thus far.  

Funerals and Fads

It is gearing up to be a food weekend.

First off, a friend made reservations for a seriously good tapas restaurant when I visit her next month.  The chef of this place (we've been before) is a James Beard nominee and worked at E.Bulli.

And, Saturday, I have a funeral to attend.  Southerners know how to throw a funeral.  I got the call earlier this week from the person coordinating the food.  Fortunately, the Old Woman supplied me with a copy of Being Dead is No Excuse.  My contributions will be a large, colorful salad with balsamic dressing/homemade croutons and a chocolate cake.  I'm going to make the chocolate zucchini cake that has been popular with my peeps lately.  The coordinator was pleased that it's a bundt because you can get lots of servings from a bundt. (Instead of walnuts, I put in a bag of mini choco chips. . . because chocolate.)

Tomorrow, The Phenom is going to take me to lunch.  A rare treat!  We'll swing by the wholesale grocery to pick up a disposable, lidded salad bowl and cake carrier.  I'm a little ashamed I don't have them handy . . . as any good southern cook should.  One need always be prepared to show up with a cake in the case of a death.  .

Lastly, I've been reading the Thug Kitchen Cookbook.  I spent many years being a vegetarian.  I actually enjoyed the creativity of the diet.  I even got smug about sneaking tofu in Phenom's food.  But, for health reasons, I've given up being a vegetarian.  This cookbook has rekindled my interest in vegetarian food.

So, I HAD to buy one of those super blender appliances to make veggie smoothies.  I have a large bag of kale/spinach and a pineapple in my fridge waiting for experimental smoothies.

One of the games the Old Woman and I liked to play was to list off all the wondrous improvements to our lives with the tweaking of just one little thing.  My skin would clear of acne, I would be elected the president of the student body, we'd win publisher's clearinghouse, etc.  I'm sure that a week of drinking kale/pineapple/frozen strawberry smoothies will make me the most radiant monkey, ever, with hair of pure silk.

Oh, and I bought a huge container of nutritional yeast and sprinkled it liberally on the pop corn tonight and told the Phenom it was "cheese sprinkles."  This is the problem with vegetarianism . . . it turns me into a lying monkey.

The very slow realization

Funny how friendships can end.  Sometimes, it's a big blow up with yelling and tears and lots of anger.  But, sometimes, it can be just one thing that makes you say "you know, I'm done."

I recently had a friendship end this way.  I'm sure we'll still be cordial to each other.  We'll be polite. Because that's what you do in a small town.

I'd made a comment that was intended to be funny.  I miss judged my audience and it wasn't funny.  The recipient's reaction wasn't completely unexpected, although one might say that perhaps a tad overblown.  But more than that, it made me realize that our friendship has been more about me walking on eggshells with them, and their response to my insensitive remark brought home that I'm tired of walking on eggshells for them.

Kinda a harsh realization, right?  Frankly, I'm thinking of it all more in terms of "you know, they've been pretty clear that they tolerate me because of proximity, but they'd never go out of their way for me . . . and I've gone out of my way for them plenty.  It's time to stop now."

More than anything, I'm a little embarrassed I was so slow on the up take.  Monkeys aren't real good at the nuances of human relationships, sometimes.  sigh.

The Prickly Patient

Remember the episode of Seinfeld when Elaine gets a note in her medical record that she's difficult and eventually no doctor will see her?  The Old Woman use to predict that such would happen to me, eventually.  And, I admit, my patience level is pretty low when dealing with medical personnel.

And, I promise, today, I really was working to restrain myself.  Really.

I had to see a new doctor at a new clinic today.  Never a pleasant prospect in my mind.  They started off annoying me and progressed to me muttering unpleasantries under my breath.

First, as you walk in, there is window and a staff person.  So, naturally, as a new patient, that's where I went.  This was wrong.  If I'd bothered to wander to the OTHER SIDE of the reception area, go around a corner, and look up, I would have seen signage instructing me to go to that window, not the one at the door.   Second, they had sent me all the usual forms to fill out and bring with me.  Cool, this should save time, right?

Third, they insisted on taking my picture for their records.  I've never had this done before, and you know I've seen more than my share of medical types this year.  They insisted it was a) routine and b) done by ALL THE DOCTORS.  humpf.

Then, the nurse proceeded to ask me all the questions on the forms they asked me to fill out prior to my coming in.  One of the things that will trigger me to annoyance really fast is wasting my time.  Don't ask me for the same information more than once.  Don't ask me questions when the written answers are in front of you.

They lost even more credibility when a rather round nurse lectured me on my bmi.  I did restrain myself from explaining to her that bmi has pretty much been dismissed as an indicator of over all health.

The thing that sent me from heavily sighed restraint to muttering unpleasantries was the fact their lab tech could not draw my blood.  I warned her that I was a difficult draw and indicated a spot that has been successful in the past.  She ignored me and went for a traditional spot, even though she had a very difficult finding the vein.  Then, she did that back and forth motion with the needle trying to find the vein that didn't want to be found . . . I hate that.  I'd rather be stuck again than have you play with a needle, tearing up my arm.  She decided to try to hit a tiny vein between my fourth finger and pinky finger knuckles.  I'll tell you this . . . if a lab tech ever tries this move on you, decline it.  It doesn't work and hurts.

She gave up after the knuckle failure and sent me over to the hospital.  They hunted, used a warmer, and finally was able to spear a vein.

As I tried to pay my co-pay, I found that the person working the check out window never has worked the check out window, didn't know how to accept a payment, and ended up calling another office and verbally giving them my card number for them to run the payment.

Frankly, I don't think I'm unjustified in my annoyance.  I may be the only sane one in the building.

Sneaky

I've said it before, one secret to a happy domestic partnership is lying and manipulating when it comes to food.  I recognize that I have total power to steer the "choice" of what is for dinner.  And, when need be, I will rename a recipe or just flat out lie about what it is when I need to make sure it is eaten.

Like tonight.  We are having a middle-America, tex-mex-ish casserole.  Thing is, The Phenom is devotedly ANTI CASSEROLE.  He will preach to you the gospel of the anti-casserole-ites.

I've renamed the casserole a "pie" and who doesn't love pie?  Pie with your favorite ingredients in it . . . all those things we put in tacos.

Heh.  Score another one for the monkey.

Evil returns

Ya'll know I have "another husband", right?  He's actually a colleague of The Phenom and spends one night a week in our home because he lives somewhere else but has to work with Phenom two days a week and stays with us the night between.

This has been the arrangement for years and years and I've taken to referring to him as "my other husband."

Other Husband is very sincere and decent.  Which brings out the childish in me and Phenom.  Specifically, we like mild forms of torture.  Generally food related torture.

Add to tonight's torture that Other Husband celebrated a birthday recently.

I made one of my more difficult dinners.  I fired up the grill and made hoisin glazed pork tenderloins (with double the sauce because I LURVE it.)  I made an Asian slaw and rice.  But, the real treat was that Phenom insisted on getting a pint of Other Husband's favorite ice cream (butter pecan) and making him eat the entire pint.

Phenom finished his pint of ice cream by the time Other Husband was 1/4-1/3 the way through his.

By the end, Other husband was using the now empty ice cream container to prop up his head and moaning softly.

At this point, Phenom and I start trying to "implant" a nightmare in Other Husband's psyche.  A story of a mustachioed, machete welding pecan chasing Other Husband around their work place.  I told him that if he actually has this dream, he should text me in the middle of the night with "damn you" so I can smile and fall back asleep knowing our experiment worked.

I'm pretty sure the UN would have issues with our human rights violations, if we'd ever made declaring our home a sovereign official.

Nearing the next step

I'm being shoved out into the world tomorrow.  They have removed all but one tube.  I can eat a modified diet, but more than just liquids.  And, I've gone from sweet, easily drugged patient to the assertive monkey demanding appointments, and follow-up, and specific information about what to expect next. Apparently, I ask too much.

I've also gotten a chance to watch way too much TV.  I think I've actually worn myself out on Law and Order.  I did catch Rachel Ray's newest show "Three in the Bag."  She has one (very large) grocery bag and makes three meals from what fits in one bag.  The thing is, I think they told her that the show would be shown in Bulgaria and that the viewers would not understand English.  She speaks slowly, she repeats herself, she uses simple vocabulary, and WILD arm/hand gestures like she's supplementing the English the viewers can't understand with her own version of sign language.  Also, I'm pretty sure she could get a fourth meal prepared if the stopped lifting every ingredient over her head as she announces what it is . . . that extra time could really be used better.

But, the coffee shop makes yummy smoothies and if not for them, I'd not get anything to eat.



                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Mean

Today I was mean.  It was an experiment, but it had a human subject.  What's more, the human subject had no idea they were the subject of my experiment.

Some time ago, ESK and I realized that our other co-worker pretty much functions like either a dude, or a child in our office.  She is an adult.  And a college graduate.  But, when it comes to meal time, she is perfectly comfortable with letting us make food magically appear in front of her.  To her credit, she has been willing to eat pretty much anything we give her.

Earlier this week, I think because both ESK and I are rocking colds,  we realized that not only does she happily freeload meals, she doesn't contribute to the placing of the food on the table. . . or even on her own plate most days.  She literally will sit at the table and wait for us to hand her food.

Any attempt make her fend for herself . . . even to the point of deciding which sort of cheese to put on her sandwich . . . has met with bumbling and confusion until one of us takes over.

So, today, I decided to sit in my office beyond the 12 noon hour to see what she would do.  And, she did NOTHING.  She stayed in her office.  She didn't pop her head into my office to see if I were eating. . . she didn't inquire as to whether I was feeling well . . . NOTHING.  Later in the afternoon, I did hear her rustling the snack foods she keeps stashed in her office.

And, in other and possibly related news, Phenom informed me tonight that Santa will NOT be bringing me a pony.

Very Bad Monkey

Tonight, over the course of a few text messages, I went from being "Silly Monkey" to "That Super Bongo is a bad influence."

Favorite 12 year-old (F12O):  We got Phenom beer for christmas
Me: Hurray! Beer!
F12O: Yeah, it's a birra grande
Me: Have you tried it?
F12O: Not that I recall
Me: You should tell your dad you need to have some for quality control
F12O: Ironically, he came in right as I got that text
Me: So?
F12O: He didn't give a direct answer
Me: That's frustrating
F12O: Heh Heh that means I don't have anything stopping me.  He didn't say no.

That one is gonna be a handful, real soon.

Bah!

Honestly, I don't think it could be possible for me to be in more a foul mood.

Points for trying?

When my alarm went off this morning, I pretended I didn't hear it.  Then, I trudged to the bathroom and back to the bedroom, to grab shoes and socks.  I got my socks on.  Then, Stinky (who has taken to sharing the pillow with me) got up and stood up on my shoulder and rubbed her head on my head and I fell over and went back to sleep.  A bit later, when Phenom got up he asked "aren't going for your walk?"

I stuck a foot in the air and said "I tried.  I got my socks on but then Stinky held me down."  

Then there was some muttering about how blaming the cat wouldn't stand up in a court of law.  

I did try.  My shoes were still on the bed too.

Testing Me

I am a non-violent, peace-loving monkey.  But lately, I've been harboring fantasies of harm befalling another member of the animal kingdom.

It looks like this:

A critter that looks like this thing lives next door to me.  AND. IT. BARKS. ALL. THE. DAMN. TIME.

Not the barks of a lonely, sad, neglected dog.  Because I would understand that.  Not the barks of a creature whose owners are total dicks.  Because that's true.  Not the traumatized because the first month it lived in that house, every morning at 6 am, when its owners would let it out to pee, they'd forget to turn off their damn house alarm and everyone in the neighborhood woke up with bleeding ears and now the dog associates peeing with bleeding from the ears.  Because I'd be willing to pay for doggie prozac for it.

This dog does the angry, I want you to die, bark growl . . . every single time we open our door, walk to the mail box, walk to our cars, sit in our yard . . .and it has gotten old.

Even Chester totally ignores this thing.  In fact, Chester rarely even wanders over to that side of the yard anymore.

I wonder if I could create a hole in the fence . . . perhaps encourage it to run away?  Maybe they make some sonic device that I could blast that could silence the dog but humans wouldn't hear?  Squirt gun with pickle juice in it?  Dog-nap it and drop it off in the country?  One of those Hannibal Lecter masks?

I own it.

Earlier this week, I was "outted" at a regional managers meeting as an "office tormentor."  I tried to deny it.  I tried to minimize it.  I claimed that the evil side kicks actually enjoy my plots.  It's charming, I said.  It's amusing and keeps morale up, I said.

I pointed out that the evil side kicks actually inflict their own brand of tormenting on me.  ME!  I, too, am a victim of office torments.

Truth?  Yeah.  I have fun at their expense.  Never anything truly destructive.  And, they do laugh.  Perhaps more at the moron they can't believe they work for . . . but it's laughing.

So, I am the chief office tormentor.  And, gosh darn it, people like me!

All by myself

All my co-workers are out of the office this week.  (Well, except for interns and part time folks.)  But, that means there are stretches of time when I am left unsupervised.  Hee Hee

I did "mess" with one co-worker's office already.  I re-covered her couch.  It's now HOT PINK instead of dirty off white.  I used an inexpensive set of sheets and we spent about an hour yesterday morning sewing the sheets to make a cover for the couch.  Usually, I do something along the lines of covering everything on her desk with tin foil or preserving her stapler in jello.

A fellow monkey friend has just talked me down from my creative uses for toilet paper ideas.  Instead, the other co-worker's office is going to become the scene of a mass balloon execution.  I hope this afternoon's intern can blow up balloons.  OOOOh, I'll make "crime scene tape" out of toilet paper! 

This will teach them to leave me alone again.  You'd hope.

WINNER!

I've put forth, in an earlier post I'm not going to take the time to actually look for, my theory that if I can't find you on the interwebs, you must be in jail.  (Even the recently departed still have a digital footprint.)  My chief example of this theory was the person I dated in college. 

More or less, we dated for about three years.  Relationships at that age are so fluid and undefined.   And, he often had "other girlfriends" at the same time I considered myself in a relationship with him.  And, he did a lot of drugs.  I didn't do drugs.  Apparently, doing drugs often leads to interesting relationships with other humans who do drugs.  I was at a stage in my life when I was still figuring out how values translated into specific actions/rules in my own life.  Let's just say . . . boy! am I glad to not be there anymore!

Anyway, we had the break up that many relationships that are based on not much and individuals with wholly different outlooks on life and the future usually experience. (That was charitable of me, wasn't it?)

Fast forward several years and plunk the interwebs into our lives.  I, every once in a while, look for folks I use to know on the web.  Early monkeyhood friends.  School friends.  Even past relationships.  For the most part, I'm able to have fairly cordial relationships with folks I've not seen or heard from over the years.  Although, the relationship with this dude was such that I didn't really think I wanted to ever be his friend again. 

I am facebook friends with a couple of his immediate family.  I liked them.  I did find it interesting that not once has his family EVER mentioned this guy to me.  Additionally, he's never appeared in any of the family gathering photos.  Including the big ol' family reunion for the Grandmother's 90th birthday. 

You know I assumed he was in prison.

A week or so ago, his younger sister posted pictures of her family's "delayed" christmas gathering.  She noted that ALL of her brothers were in attendance (although two of the grandchildren were absent.)  And, lo!  There are pictures.  Including one of the college beau. 

He looks bad.  Like really bad.  Like either he's got a serious drug habit or just got out of prison.  (I considered that he could be ill, but dismissed it because his family is pretty regular about posting about the health concerns of other family.) 

So, in the best, most mature way possible . . . I WON!!! 

Commie

I suspect my neighbors think we're commies.  Largely, because we don't ever decorate for holidays.  No plastic inflatable cupids in the yard on Valentine's day.  No wreaths on the door at Christmas.  No flags draped over everything for the patriotic holidays.

Heck, this year a combination of low flying bats and the insanely noisy neighbors (children in pool + constant yelling at said children from adults) found us watching the town fireworks from the comfort of our couch, through the open back door.

I just don't see the point in putting the same decorations year after year, only to be pointed and laughed at when they then remain up for an inappropriately long time after the holiday.

And, I'd rather be thought of as a commie than outed as an escaped monkey.

Not So Deep or Dark Secret

The other day, in the office, ESK and Baby (the name we've assigned to one of the interns) and I were talking about upcoming events, and making note of when deliveries are expected to the office.  I mentioned that I have a personal item being delivered to the office.  And, somehow, we ended up talking about the days when I had something of an Ebay habit.

ESK and Baby were aghast as I described how the bidding on Ebay was too much like gambling for me to resist and how I tended towards vindictive bidding when someone got into a bidding war with me.  And, how finally,  had to close out my paypal account and just walk away, cold turkey.

Thing I found amusing was that ESK was surprised by this.  I mean, really, after 5 years this would surprise her?

But, since our conversation, all I can think about, today, is just checking out Ebay.  Just see what there is . . .

Backstory

Today, between checking facebook a million times for a big announcement, I realized that ya'll might need a follow up/prequel to the story yesterday.

First of all, one of the plaster crotches is currently in a trash bag in the trunk of my car.

Several years ago, we had neighbors who, at one time, had been very wealthy.  They actually had a butler.  As they aged, and their children became impatient for their inheritance, there was a slow decline in their socio-economic status.  Eventually, the old man was left and needed to be placed in nursing care.  The house had been mortgaged a couple of times by the children, and there was little hope of selling it.  At one point, the children went in, laid claim to the valuables, and left one holy mess behind.  The realtor responsible for the house told them that they had to hire cleaners before she would show the house.

So, they hired a crew of people to haul everything in the house out, and dump it on the front lawn.  Suddenly, we were living next door to a landfill.  People were coming by, to loot, day and night.  Let me tell you, for a monkey with a finely tuned sense of paranoia, it wasn't fun.

Then, on a Friday afternoon, as I was pulling into my driveway, I saw a foot sticking out of a large pile.  My first thought was that some poor looter had fallen in and couldn't get out.  After weighing my options, I was compelled to be the good citizen and wander over to offer assistance.  That's when I found that the foot was actually part of a large, male, prosthetic leg.

Later, that evening, while at a party, I retold this story and several of the people present decided that they must have the leg.  They hopped in a car and drove over and LUCK! the leg was still there.  Now, when this group gathers, the leg is present and appropriately decorated.  The keeper of the leg and I discussed getting more body parts.  But, he wanted to troll ebay for them.  I felt that they should be found items.

Which is why I now have a crotch in the back of my car.  The Leg now has hips.