I'm Actually Doing You All* A Really Big Favor

Long day which began with taking Daughter-Only to school careened through a staff meeting and a training session (bloodborne pathogens and sexually transmitted infections anyone?) bounced to grocery shopping and picking Hubby up from work early due to some miscommunication that's better left unelaborated** upon and then screeched into an eight-hour shift during which the only time I sat down I was behind the wheel and, finally, stumbled into me twisting my ankle on my way to my car at work because the flipping outside lights that are supposed to be on a timer are apparently on a different schedule on Wednesday nights than any of the rest of the week.

So...yeah, I could write a "real" post but it would just be an extended whining session and no one really needs more whining in their lives, right?

You're so very welcome.

*Does a number you can count on one hand with a few fingers left over really constitute an "all?" It's like the Steven Wright joke about how he got into an argument with someone over what he considered an "odd" number. Or maybe not.

**I'm pretty sure it's a word or at least an acceptable construction consisting of word-like parts.

The Worst Customer Service Job Ever

There are no guarantees in life. But if there were, who would be manning the customer service desk? Who would hear the complaints? And what complaints would there be?

"I like the color. It matches my eyes, but it's a little too tight in the hips."

"It's so much louder and more complicated than I expected it to be."

"There must've been a shipping delay. Mine came too late--I would've much preferred the Renaissance."

"Do you have something a little longer? I got this one as a gift and it's not quite right."

Brought To You By NaBloPoMo

Welcome to tonight's episode of "Random Crap That's Inside My Brain!"

I had a long conversation with Cranky* today. We still talk once or twice a week--always at her initiation. I always figured that once we weren't around each other 8 hours a day, I would be better at tolerating her but either she's gotten significantly worse or my tolerance level has dramatically decreased. It's a weird thing--I feel some kind of sympathetic obligation to her because she really has so few friends and she's been unable to find other work since the flower shop closed, but talking to her almost always makes me feel like someone is rubbing a cheese grater across my forehead.

*Formerly Cranky Boss Lady, but as she's no longer my boss and was never really much of a lady, her name has been shortened accordingly.

Halfway There...

...and that's pretty much all I got tonight.

Starting Even Earlier

As alarming as Fourth Niece's stories of the failed romantic relationships (of nine-year-olds) were, they pale in comparison to this gem from Baby Brother's Girlfriend's Then Four-Year-Old Daughter.

I picked her up on the way to Daughter-Only's (then) Boyfriend's house. Four-Year-Old had spoken with The Boyfriend by phone once or twice because Four-Year-Olds love the phone and at that point Daughter-Only and The Boyfriend spent a pathological amount of time on the phone and had to fill it with something.

I told her we were going to pick up the Boyfriend and Four-Year-Old said, "Is he the one with the hot voice?"

And I said, "Honey! You're FOUR!"

And she said, "What?! It's not MY fault he was born hot!"

Maybe It's Time For A New Hobby

Drove Fourth Niece home from the skating rink tonight. The car ride was educational--as only car rides with nine-year-olds can be.

She says, "Well there was a lot more drama than usual tonight."

"Oh?"

"I mean, yeah, you can't have skating without drama. There's always drama, but tonight, it was way worse than usual. About half the girls were crying."

"Why?"

"Well some of them got dumped and some of them got ran over*."

"Run over?"

"Yeah, like they fell and people skated over them? But I didn't get dumped or ran over tonight. Lots of boys like to dump girls at skating. I don't know why. I've only ever had one boyfriend..."

"And you dumped him?"

"No. He dumped me. At skating. Well actually he had his friend dump me at skating, but not tonight. It was a long time ago but I still love him. The boyfriend, not the friend who dumped me for him."

"So did you have a good time tonight?"

"Yep. Thanks for the ride."

*Same difference.

Consider The Source

When a not-terribly-bright person says something not-terribly-bright it's sad, but to be expected. For instance, during the first Gulf War I worked with a blond* chick who had earned her ditz reputation** so when she heard that we were bombing Baghdad and said, "I thought we were fighting Iraq," her confusion--while it made those around her roll their eyes--was not really surprising.

When, however, someone you've considered reasonably intelligent who has never given you cause to doubt that intelligence comes out with something duh-worthy, it can mess with your head a little.

Recently a coworker--a man in his fifties who has lived in our rural county for most of his adult life--said to me, genuinely confused, "Wow, there's been a lot of dead deer alongside the road lately. What do you think happened to them? It's probably cars--I mean, it has to be cars, right?"

I just nodded but I couldn't help wondering what he thought it might be if it wasn't cars. Exhaustion? Aliens? The mental and emotional stress brought on by NaBloPoMo? A plague in which the deer are coincidentally dropping dead right next to the road?


*Just a coincidence, not a stereotype.
**This is the woman who said, sincerely, that she was voting for Bill Clinton because he had a "nice ass."

TGT"F"!*

About mid-October, I got another promotion at work--this time to housekeeping supervisor, an official full-time position with benefits including sick, vacation, and personal days and paid holidays and insurance. The trade-off is that I work 2:30 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. Monday through Thursday. On Sunday, I work 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. That means that Sunday is the new Monday. But you know what else it means?

Thursday is the new Friday--woo-hoo!

*Thank God Tomorrow's "Friday!"

Here and Gone Again

"It is unacceptable, all the stunned and anxious missing a person is asked to endure in life. It is not to be endured, not really."

~~Lorrie Moore

Hubby is working with a guy who recently bought six or seven properties around town--the best of which would be generously called dilapidated. They are planning to work together to repair these houses as rental units. There is one in particular Hubby sees great potential in and asked me to go with him to check it out as a possible rental for us once the renovations and repairs have been made.

Hubby has a significantly better imagination than I have and where I see only the daylight coming in from the outside in places where daylight should not come in and the daylight failing to come in in places where it should (windows covered with plywood), he sees nothing but possibilities. He can imagine the place freshly sealed, drywalled, painted while I can only imagine it collapsing down around our ears.

We were bickering about which of us was more realistic about exactly how much work (time, money, materials and so on) the place would require to be just livable, let alone comfortable, when I stepped out on to the raised deck outside the back door and my right leg promptly went through the rotted wood to about mid-thigh. My left ankle had twisted at a nasty angle with the sudden shift in weight and there was nothing nearby to grab on to for leverage so I was stuck there with one leg dangling until Hubby could pull me out of the deck.

In the thirty or forty seconds that I was stuck there lots of things were running through my head--at least one of them the obvious I-told-you-so potential of being moderately injured by a house I had just argued to Hubby was a deathtrap. But one of the things that went through my mind in those seconds was that something very similar had happened to my mother many years ago.

In 1985, when the family was packing up to leave our house in New Hampshire, my mother was carrying a box across the raised porch and her leg went through a weak spot. I wasn't there when it happened (having moved south ahead of my family partially in pursuit of Mr. High School) but I saw the resulting bruise--enormous and rainbow-colored--and could easily imagine where on the porch her leg had gone through. The weak spot had been there a while and we had been warned away from that end of the porch for the last six months we'd lived there.

So I was stuck there in the deck imagining my mother 24 years ago stuck in a similar fashion in a porch 400-some miles away and it occurred to me, not for the first time*, that the people who are gone from our lives come back to us in the oddest of ways.

*Here & here for example.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Eating The Dinosaur by Chuck Klosterman

I started this book last night and am more than halfway through it though I have, at least theoretically, found time to sleep, eat and work an 8-hour shift.

The book is not at all about dinosaurs but instead is a collection of essays about pop culture and what the culture says about us. Klosterman is a genius at pointing out connections you've never seen but that seem both brilliant and obvious once he's called them to your attention.

The truth is when I'm reading Klosterman, half (or more) of my brain is in the book no matter what I'm doing, which explains this lame blog post and lamer review which does nothing to explain the greatness of the book or Klosterman.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Addictive.

Some Secrets About PostSecret (Some More Secret Than Others)

1. I have been a fan for a long time (at least three years, based on this post). I check the website for updates most weeks and own all of the books.

2. I have sent in two separate secrets over the years, neither of which I've seen again (so far).

3. About a year ago, I made the gigantic mistake of telling Daughter-Only that I had sent these secrets. While I did not tell her what these secrets were, I did agree that if either of the secrets were ever to appear on either the site or in one of the books and she asked me about that specific secret, I would tell her the truth.

4. So far--as I mentioned above--neither of these secrets has resurfaced but that hasn't stopped Daughter-Only from honing in on the most disturbing secrets to appear each week--and, of course, in the recently released book--and asking me if they're my secret(s).

5. At first, I was terrified that she would find and guess my secret but at this point, her finding out a "secret" truth about me would be better than her temporarily thinking these insane things about her mother.

Whose Idea Was This Again?

'Cuz I'd like to kick their asses a little.

The Nose Is Running, The Brain Is Not

Who had Day Six in the how-long-before-she-posts-a-cop-out-post poll?

Hot For Teacher

One night, a couple years ago now, Hubby was interested in a little, shall we say, "vigorous cuddling." On this particular night (as on so many particular nights), I was exhausted. But in the spirit of marital generosity, I said, "Okay, I guess we can, but on one condition--you're going to have to do like 89% of the work."

Ever the negotiator, Hubby countered, "Well that depends on what your 21% is going to consist of."

"For starters, I'm going to be tutoring you in math."

What's Next? A Thank You Card From FOX News For My Many Years of Faithful Viewership?

I know things have not been looking great for the Republicans, but I had no idea they were desperate enough to resort to random, nonsensical SPAM messages such as the one I found in my inbox this evening:


"Dear [Masked Mom],
On behalf of the leadership of the Republican National Committee, I want to thank you for helping our Party earn historic victories in Virginia and New Jersey yesterday.

Your steadfast commitment to our conservative Republican principles and your generous support of the RNC's 2009 campaign programs enabled us to provide all our GOP candidates with the resources they needed to run strong right through Election Day.

Electing Republican governors in Virginia and New Jersey is just the beginning. With the continuing commitment of RNC Sustaining Members like you, I am confident we can elect more GOP governors, make real gains in the U.S. House and Senate, stop the Democrats' radical leftist agenda and cut President Obama's term in half in 2010.
Thank you again for everything you did for our Party and our cause during Campaign 2009.

Sincerely,
Michael Steele, Chairman,
Republican National Committee"

I can only assume that the meanings of "steadfast commitment" and "generous support" have changed dramatically to include "doing nothing" and "actively rooting against."

At least the Republicans sprung for a better copywriter than that widow of the Nigerian businessman who keeps hounding me with misspelled and gramatically incorrect e-mails about the millions of dollars she'd like to split with me. Perhaps I'll put her in touch with Mr. Steele and show those Republicans just how generous my support can be.

Six Degrees of Influation

You know flu season is bad when conversation at work consists almost entirely of how close the flu virus (seasonal or H1N1) has gotten to each of us.

Client: My boss has a grandson who has H1N1.
Me: My oldest son's girlfriend's roommate has it.
Client: Well, it's way closer to me than to you!

Ok, ok, you win.

It's Like The Geek Olympics

So it's the original National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo)-- the chance to achieve fame (uh, not so far), fortune (not that either) and fabulous prizes (but not for me--at least not yet) but most importantly, the geeky sense of accomplishment that comes from posting every single day for a month (good thing it's the most important part 'cuz I've had that in geeky spades for the past 3 years).*

*My sense of accomplishment was only minimally diminished the year before last when I was gypped out of the ability to post the final day by the failure of not one but several communications companies to provide me with the ability to communicate via the Internet. But I'm not bitter because the only thing worse than being a geek is being a bitter geek.

Escalating Acts of Randomness*

If random (and moderately disturbing) texting ever becomes an Olympic event, rest assured, you don't have a shot at the gold. Bronze, maybe. Silver, if you're lucky. But the gold surely belongs to Daughter-Only and I.


Here's a recent text conversation between Daughter-Only and I in its shockingly pointless and odd entirety. It began normally enough--with D-O asking if I was getting a break from work (presumably so I could give her a ride home)--and then swerved completely out of control almost immediately. Daughter-Only got the last word because I was forced by the cruelties of timing to actually pay attention to my job while I was at work.


D-O: Break?


MM: In Bolivar [a town about 15 miles from home].


D-O: Why?


MM: Meeting.


D-O: Until when?


MM: 9--I'm not getting a break. Working til 10:30.


D-O: I know you work until 10:30 you silly little poopsicle.


MM: Sweet.


D-O: Yep. Diaper rash.


MM: Ostrich ass feathers.


D-O: Blue chicken wing pillow fights.


MM: Are just the wings or the entire chickens blue? Is it a naturally occurring blue or a sign of injury, disease or other bodily distress?


D-O: The wings are. And they were born that way, after of course, the Great Explosion of Nayithe, in which a number of cats vomited on William's coat.


MM: Ah, but the question remains who put the bomp in the bomp-de-bomp-de-bomp? PS--Whoever it was failed to put the bomp in the T9.


D-O: Well the little ditty of Vienna thinks you're so vain time after time.


MM: Uh--of COURSE I'm vain--this song is about me. And then some.


D-O: Nope. Wrong again. It's about the Pilgrims swimming in tidal pools of iguana saliva.


MM: Sweet salmonella--you win. But worry not--the hounds of heinieville will rise to howl again--and maybe even hump your leg.


D-O: Wicked wheat waffles!! How could the dolphin orphanages host such a curtain of packing peanuts? It's slutterly ridiculous.


MM: Depends entirely upon what is packed among those peanuts. Was it Schrodinger's cat? Cuz if you apply the Dupendorfer principle the answer is bad venison.


D-O: No, no. Schrodinger's brother was in those peanuts!! Incoming news: an obese walrus from Tenessee just had a severe heart attack on the walls of a Turkish ballet studio. Bring immediate help! (And two lollipops.)


MM: What flavor? Lollipops I mean. Everyone knows walruses are root beer flavored. Except the really old ones--they taste like avacados.

D-O: Not nearly as bad as the douche canoe flavor of an Indian Vortex Lion. Oh, what's that? You don't know what a douche canoe tastes like? That's insane. Who hasn't tasted a makeshift boat filled entirely, and only with vaginal cleansers?! You are sooo deprived.


MM: True story.


D-O: Not as true as the skies are blue.

MM: It is too truer than the skies are blue. But not quite as true as the blue chicken wings were blue.

D-O: Goat killing should be provided by the 97th amendment.

MM: I thought that was the plan. Unfortunately both goats and their potential killlers will succumb to a rogue hiccup virus long before that amendment's passed.


D-O: Terrible how one tiny sheep-wannabe can be mentally damaged to the point of no-return by a single rusty-orange fingernail.


MM: That's a whole other bale of fish fur.


D-O: Shedding bananas, SmudgyFace! What a brilliant observation. It's as delicate as looking into a tin foil mirror with only seconds left on the clock of doom.

*Randomness beat out randmosity here largely because the suffix "-osity" was ruined for me by the episode of Growing Pains where Carol got the job writing for the school paper and in her eagerness to show off her superior intelligence fills her assignments with unnecessarily long and complicated words. The paper's advisor calls her in and tells her, "This story stinks." She says, "I don't understand." And he says something like let me put it in words you will understand: "It's replete with stinkyosity."

C'mon, October, Seriously?

Dear October,


My blog buddy Erika over at Dry, Ink had a few stern words for you last week about your behavior in Louisiana--specifically about your failure to show your face and put an end to temperatures in the nineties. I'm not sure what you're doing with yourself in Louisiana this week, but I'm not at all amused by what you've done around here.


Your job in our little corner of the world is to gently usher the leaves off the trees as you gradually lower the temperatures, preferably with strikingly blue skies to highlight the gorgeous colors of the leaves. Instead, we've had rain and cold and clouds and this morning, we had this:




I mean WTF and a half, October! Two inches of wet, heavy snow?! Widespread power outages due to the leaf/snow combination breaking limbs and taking out power lines across the region?!


I wasn't really sure what to do with you, October. Should you be grounded? Or fired? Have your paycheck docked? Fifty lashes with a downed power line? Then it hit me, I'm going to do something even worse...

I'm telling Erika on you.

Biopsy Performed By That Dude From The Frat House Down The Street

Son-Three was home from college a weekend or so ago and showed me a small growth on his neck--something he believed was a skin tag but that I was pretty sure was a mole in the larval stages. In any case, it didn't meet the criteria for anything to be overly concerned about--just something to keep an eye on.

He texted me the other day: "Can I rip off a skin tag?"

I texted back: "A. No. B. It might be a mole. C. No."

The return message? "Let's say I already did and I'm sure it's not a mole."

Let's say I'm glad I was 100 miles away when that determination was made.