22 posts tagged “grr”
"Yes, I'm calling from Saucer TV Dot Com for MS. [MyFormalFirstName, which no one calls me] [My Last Name], is she available?"
"This is she."
"I'm calling about your recent application for Saucer TV?"
"Yes, I applied, is there a problem?"
"Yes, there is. We need to verify some of the information on your application..."
"I see. Will this take long? I'm in the process of picking up my son."
"Oh it will only take a few minutes..."
"Ok, go ahead".
"Now you live at..."
... during the next 20 minutes, she verified my address, phone number, employer, birthdate, social security number, what I ordered, credit card number (with expiration date), all in a normal voice in what sounded like a crowded room of phone reps. I repeatedly pointed out that this all sounds correct, like what I had put on the application, and could she just tell me what was wrong so I could correct *that*. I also inquired if it was standard practice to state absolutely all of these things out loud, rather than verifying the 2 or 3 issues; and she reassured me in a complete nonsequitir that the conversation was recorded. Oh, that's better. So not only do 3-4 of your compatriots now know enough information to rip me off but it's being recorded so more can access it. Sweet.
After 20 minutes and being put on hold twice, we discover that because I had cancelled my services with their same company in August of last year, and since August of last year was five, not six, months from right now, I could not use the coupon I was using and there were no promotions available to me.
I am shrieking mad because:
- This is something a simple query could've shown, without calling me,
- This is something that a reasonably sophisticated UI would've figured out from the application intake form,
- This is something that could have been addressed in a quick response email, "Excuse us but..."
- Her announcing all of my personal data in a 20 minute period on the phone just reeks of "Abuse my information here!"
- It ate up 25 (a little over) of my precious anytime minutes. For those at home, that's more than a day's allowance.
So no, I won't be getting their service. And since the Cable Company is another $20 more expensive than what I was attempting to sign up for, I won't be doing that, either. Instead, back to Netflix I go.
CC -- send your and McGuyver's DVD list for while I am in Savannah and I will ensure they've arrived for your viewing pleasure.
My watch has died, for real this time.
I received this watch nearly 15 years ago, as a 20th birthday present. My parent's logic was that every person needed a Good Watch, and so they got me one. A two-tone, blue-faced Seiko, which has traveled with me far and yon over the years and been beaten and battered along the way. It has been to the repair shop 3 times, not including batteries, and it has had its crystal replaced 3 times as well. Its death is heralded by the fact that repair costs more than just buying a new watch.
I therefore find myself in search of a new watch. A new Good Watch, that is, which means it's not a $20 watch from Target. I will probably use my birthday money for this, instead of plants; I can get plants later but going without a watch will drive me batty. They of course no longer make my watch, and I am having a hard time finding a very simple watch, because I do not want gold or bracelet style or chunks-o-shiny or 40 dials or anything like that. (There are
some seriously disgusting watches out there).
I *think* I like this one... votes?
Somewhere in the ethersphere, a technician just received a frantic phonecall from a frenzied festivity planning party person. (I heart alliteration). Said technician logged an issue, which transferred to some other geek who will fix it, and report it to a product manager, who will acquire 3 new pubic and 6 new head grey hairs. I speak of Evite being down, because I tried to go there and it said to me:
An error occurred while processing your request.
Reference #99.df1cb4a.1223349013.ba52e97
Which is unromantic and unwelcome. I wish to see who is attending a get together in two weeks. The bastard won't let me. And it doesn't have the decency to show a shiny error, it shows me this dumb reference number shit.
I identify, however, with the product manager, because of late I have discovered that being teased over and over for OCD does not a diagnosis make; but when your son's psychiatrist and your son's pediatrician suggest you are, and then you have the back up of your boyfriend etc. agreeing with it, well, it's the Yiddish proverb about the camel**. And so I started obsessing about *that*.
It crops up in weird ways. My house is fairly clean and neat but when worried I go into overdrive and seriously consider starting projects the logical part of me has to stop me from actually doing, like taking down all two thousand plus books and logging their ISBN numbers, or ripping out the moldings because I don't like them, or painting (these are all projects in plan). I have been known to chart my sons days in an Excel spreadsheet (medication, dose, food intake, sleep, mood, other notes), I have balanced and rebalanced my 401k in the space of one month (this economy does NOT help). I have started obsessing about money because it isn't enough to obsess about the C and my romantic life is no longer laden with ulcers so I can't obsess about that; so my little game of How Frugal Can I Be goes into weird roller coaster rides. I took the bus to Seattle but spent money on going out once there, I brought lunch but drove; Jim Jubak is redoing his portfolio so maybe I should, too... again. Honestly, I'd obsess about my weight but I don't know that I'd know the difference between that and Normal, as it is my understanding it is Normal for a woman to weigh herself 3 times in the morning and 3 times at night and pick over how well her jeans do or do not fit.
I'm worried that it takes me too long to finish house projects and fabric projects, I'm worried my dogs don't get enough attention, my son doesn't get enough attention, my weight isn't where it should be, my savings aren't where they should be, that my portfolio is too aggressive/not aggressive enough, that acne keeps returning, my nails are breaking, I don't see my friends often enough, there's a level 3 sex offender in the neighborhood directly to the north of the school, I don't run fast enough, my code is messy, I don't see GH often enough, I'm at work too long (or not enough), my nutrition sucks, and I haven't started on my holiday cards.
I have to go and clean something now. Maybe I'll vacuum the couch and check for loose change...
(PS if I were really worried about my finances, though, I'd totally can Alex. Garden help is the Last Great Luxury).
Being an ENTJ, a Field Marshal, means I am excellent at getting shit complete. I do it myself and I get other people to do it. Charge me with shit, shit gets done.
Except when said shit is out of my control. I have encountered a terrible lot of uncontrolled poo in the last 24 hours.
I went into surgery, semi-upbeat and cajoled out of my fear of GA by GH. I went in, I was jovial, I woke up, I was equally jovial, albeit with a sore throat from the inevitable intubation that happens during GA. I called the parents, the X, let everyone know how well I was doing. I had a note to call my doctor.
An hour later she was patiently explaining to me that my innards are so messed up with scar tissue and endometriosis that there is just no way she can get to my tubes to tie them. My options include going for a surgery where they stick coils in my fallopian tubes (um, no) or... ah... do without.
I really, really despise waste and inefficiency. I spent $100 in copay and a full day's time and I still have a horrible bruise about my bellybutton and weird pains in my shoulder thanks to the laparoscopy, and I have NOTHING to show for it. The single bright, shining star in this whole thing is that GH took such very good care of me before and after surgery.
To add insult to injury (bruised belly people!), before you go into surgery, you need to take out piercings. Like the ones I got in February. Which promptly closed up by the time I got home. So off to Slave To the Needle I go tomorrow, to see if they can tweak them open and/or repierce. Oh! The Joy! I am determined to make lemonade out of these lemons: if I cannot find a surgical grade plastic that can be extruded into placeholders, I will find an alternative solution; I am determined to make it such that people do not lose their piercing investment going into surgery.
The angst was abated by a lovely, relaxing drive up to Winthrop, WA today. I did not have to concentrate on anything but pretty scenery, I didn't have to drive or fret or code or listen to a doctor tell me my insides make spaghetti look neat and orderly. I got a hamburger. I got ice cream (mint chocolate chip!). I got to see several people other than GH and I get pulled over because ticket$ mean fund$ for $mall town$. Aside from the fiscal philandering, the drive was unmarred and I am reminded how lucky I am to live in a state like Washington.
Despite my messy insides and unmarshaled fields.
Pop quiz!
It's 10am the Saturday you are destined to have your single solitary individual instance of date-ness time with your GH for a 2 week period. It has already been 10 days since you've seen him. You have a sitter lined up (and have had for some time now). You have your outfit planned. You have the SC psyched. You shaved and procured exciting underwear.
Your sitter is a flake and TEXTS YOU: Oh, family emergency, can't make it. (I'd buy it except the last 4 times I asked her this sort of thing has happened. I wonder why she keeps accepting jobs; I wonder why I keep asking).
The text arrived as I was going out with the SC to do his back to school shopping; not wanting to sully the mood I texted "thanks" and forwarded to GH. I will have to make it up to him Wednesday. Thusly was the determined mindset that ventured forth into Fred Myer for Back To School Shopping.
In Harry Potter, there's this charming little scene where Harry finds himself in Diagon Alley, having just discovered his lot in life and being amazed at every turn. He's reading his school supplies list, which starts with, "All students will bring one number two pewter cauldron..."
I am firmly believing his back to school list was more enjoyable than the SC's.
Oh, wait. I forgot. As the SC is going into Kindergarten, and he is no longer really all that Small, he is now the C. (Later on he will be the YM). I digress...
Eighteen. Elmers (not Ross not Avery not sixteen other brands specified). Glue. Sticks.
I cleaned out Freddy's of the Elmer's glue sticks, hopefully other parents had their shit together and got theirs. I procured crayons (3 boxes of 24), paper (2 reams of 20pound), notebooks (1 subject), pencils (2 packs), markers (1 pack skinny, one pack thick), scissors (Friskars only!), headphones, wipes, kleenex, purell, pencil grips, folios, a backpack, 3 outfits, and a new socket wrench and hex set for mommy.
You see, mommy changed her oil Saturday morning, before she discovered she would not be getting come-to-Mommy time; and managed to break her 1/4-3/8 adjustor for her socket wrench set while using a 10mm Allen attachment. It seems that whomever read the torque requirements for her transmission pan bolt (yes, having changed the oil in the engine I figured I'd just change out the trans filter) must have confused his Newton-Metres with Foot-Pounds (or more likely vice-versa): the damned thing is practically FUSED. This was vexing. Breaking tools is Not Nice, and so I went to replace said tools.
Then I gave myself a decent interval of relaxation with the C, watching movies and ordering a pizza, on Saturday evening. This morning at 8:30 I got under that @#$(%#$* car and for the life of me could not get the Q#$(%*#$%( pan bolt out.
Fine. There's more than one way to split an infinitive.
I proceeded to unscrew each of the 10mm bolts along the pan perimiter, putting a big pan under it to catch the gallon or so of ATF I was expecting, and took the whole damned thing off. Yes, I got trans fluid up to my elbows and in my new socket wrench: tools are made to be USED, and girls are made to get dirty!
Having removed the pan everything worked great: Cleaned it all up, replaced the gasket, cleaned off the magnets, replaced the filter, tightened it all up (not confusing my foot pounds and newton metres, thank you very much). Put synthetic in so I don't have to worry about it for a good long time and I was done!
Except for the shelf paper, you see.
A few weeks back I was at Target and they had a special on shelf paper that looks like white granite, which I rather liked, at least more than my current crayola-beige shelf paper. So I bought a few rolls and there they rested on my kitchen counter until today.
When I reorganized (again) all of my cabinets while replacing the shelf paper.
This is what happens when DD is denied her date night. But now I am paying for it, my back hurts fiercely and while it provided me the opportunity to bemoan aging with my Dad, who turns 68 tomorrow but had his party today (yay parties), I wish I hadn't been so frustrated.
Did I mention I'm going to color code the garage shelving when my parents get their stuff out of it? Green for the garden shelves, purple for automotive, blue for household, red for sporting and play...
There is an old adage that you never, ever craft something for a boyfriend because he will quickly become your ex boyfriend. The logic is thus: you will make him that sweater vest or argyle socks set or golf club cozy that you think is just perfect. You will spend hours fussing with it, unstitching and restitching because you want him to Have The Very Best. He will proclaim his love of it, naturally, when he unwraps it.
And you will never, ever, see him use it. It will remain, probably in its original tissue-paper wrapping, in a disused section of his closet. He will have forty-two excellent excuses to not use it (why, the clubs were wet and it's wool! he wouldn't want to felt it up!). Eventually, though, he will run out of those excellent excuses and the cold hard truth will come to pass: he didn't like it, doesn't like it, and therefore he didn't/doesn't like you, and the relationship implodes.
I may be oversimplifying, but you get the gist.
You can, in fact, knit/craft/sew something for your husband, your children, your parents, your best friend, your best friends' husband, the random dude down at the bus stop; you will not care if, for example, that quilt you made for your parents stays so neatly folded at the end of their couch that you wonder if it's ever been UNfolded. You don't care because they are Sure Things, they cannot leave you (or at least, not easily, or via voicemail) and you know that your relationship is stronger than a woven tea cosy.
Knit/craft/sew something for your unmarried male person, however, and you take Your Relationship To New Lows. I always thought it was because of the "Presentation/Disuse" method, but I am quickly finding out (in my attempt to ensure the "Presentation/Disuse" method does not come to pass) that there is one surefire additional way to PhuQ it Up.
You involve him in the process from the beginning.
That's right, you make EVERY DECISION HIS. Get his input on colors, schema, fabrics, metrics, dimensions, application, measurements, medium, use case, and SWOT analysis. Ask him the same question repeatedly, just phrased slightly differently each time; provide copious links to samples that have nothing to do with the actual project. Attempt to render craft topics into man-friendly-speak and watch him try to defer to your Higher Judgement. Thwart said deferral by asking him more questions. Repeat. Redundantly, even.
Then wonder why he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Worry that he doesn't like YOU, and start obsessing about that.
So very, very healthy indeed.
...or, Why DD Loses Her Shit When Plans Don't Fruit The Way They Should
Fruit as in fruition, which is not the f-tion word I feel right now. How about frustration?
Today's angst is brought to you by X, who announced last week that today he would be taking the SC to Wild Waves. I commented on how that would be great, he could have another day of school off and go have fun. X agreed and told me all about who all was going. From this I sumrised he would be retrieving the SC from my home at a Monday-IS-a-Workday-For-Some-Of-Us-Still appropriate time. To get a hang on the exact time, I called him this morning at 8. No answer. 8:30. No answer.
At 9:45 (NB: I usually am at work by 9:30) I get the call that yeah, he'll be at my house in an hour and a half or so. Sorry about not answering, his phone was dead.
!?!?!!!!!
(*&(*%&^%$^&%$()*())*)&*$#$#@)__)]
So the SC went to school for an hour this morning and hopefully will get retrieved by his father at 11. Now, originally I had lunch plans at 11:30 which would have made it harder to take the SC to school and be at work for any decent period of time before I left for those, but those ended up needing rescheduling as well. My new hire is supposed to arrive today, I printed out his login/password information 3 times to the network printer down the hall before I discovered it's busted, and so I've printed it out a fourth to a printer I know works; I'm still wondering about the original 3 from a security standpoint.
This last week has been chock full of things not going to spec. I went to Home Depot with a list, and cheerfully forgot the most important thing on it. I vacuumed at 7pm on Friday and by 3pm Saturday it looked like it had snowed inside my home (Kumster is in full coat blowing stage, for the 3rd time this year; apparently she's an overachiever). My modem (from that wonderful wireless cable company) is apparently SO PICKY that it has to be upright at the eastmost point of my home and parallel to the bow of Orion, or something, in order to get an adequate speed.
I've scrapped 2 projects (garden and chickens) in hopes that that will give me more time to get the others done (storage area/potting bench/bathroom remodel) but things are moving sloooooooooowly -- I want to take hammer to nail NOW, not in a couple more days. I'm obsessing about what happens when the 'rents move their stuff out of my place and exactly how I'm going to reconfigure my bedroom and craft room, and how I can make useable space out of the basement.
And yes, I'm on decaf.
Despite my rampant narcissism (hi, I have a blog all about nothing but ME!), I am outrageously insecure. Like don't even go there. You'd be shocked and appaled, because I am on a regular basis.
Four weeks ago I was on a flight with three very cool chicks on our way to Vegas. As the plane taxi'd away from the hangar, I started white knuckling. Cyn, who sat next to me, stroked my arm and kept reassuring me it would be ok. She was therein introduced to my little rosary of fear, and I think it surprised her. But she didn't revel in it, no, she was a true friend. She only said, "it's good to know you're human".
Oh, I am so human. I am actually dissatisfied at times with my humanity -- not all the time -- just when it fails me. And by "fails me" I mean when it's not the glorious illustrius stuff of legend.
As a general rule I avoid having my picture taken, or I do things to deliberately mess it up. I don't smile, I stick my tongue out, I make obscene gestures. This has nothing to do with the picture taker so much that I really don't like having my picture taken, and here's why: there are maybe four pictures of me, on this entire bloody planet, that I think aren't hideous. I have a host of them on this site and on facebook and I can point out to you the disgusting feature in each of them: the size of my face, my arms, the constellation of my acne, my width as compared to my companions (even if the companion in the picture is a Clydesdale), etc. Thanks to facebook (et. al.) and friends with digital cameras I'm having to face up to this (no pun intended) more often than I'd like.
I just don't photograph well. I *never* have. My junior high and high school yearbooks attest to this. I've discarded and burned most of the photos of my collegiate days because of this. Hell, 90% of my wedding photos are NOT OF ME because of this. (That photographer was a jerk, though, because I have 3 dear friends who feel like I do and he hunted them. I called him out: in my dress, at the wedding). I do not like having my picture taken.
I also do not like attention to my appearance. When someone at work tells me "you look good" the first thing that goes through my head is "that just accentuates all the times I look like crap -- that would be every other time". At GJ today I was at a loss to give direction and put myself in the capable and well-trained hands of two lovely ladies (they did very well, I still look like me). I don't like "have you lost weight" because it reminds me that I need to, I don't like "did you straighten your hair" because it reminds me that mine is a pile of unruly weird waves, I don't like any of these things because even though I bring the 'tude I don't really have it on the inside.
I suspect I'm not the only one, either.
I'd share with you the photographs that begat this little rant, but I'm too insecure.
...said Weather Person just sent an invite to friend her on Facebook.
I cannot help but acknowledge that this is weird.
I feel stupid for not letting something go that has been festering for the better part of 20 years.
Kale is the redheaded, bastard stepchild of the modern garden. People claim to eat it but very few do, and I've discovered that I rather like it. Plus, it has all sorts of health benefits: nature's broom, and all that.
However, my kale recipes are of limited application: saute some garlic, onions, olive oil in a wide saucepan, add kale, and cook as collard greens. Oh, you can mix it up and use some of that Costco sausage -- the chicken spicy stuff, it's too salty on its own for my taste -- but that's about the only thing, minus "traditional salad", that I know that kale works with and/or in.
Off to Google I go.
You see, Ms. Lisa will be harvesting, and purportedly selling, kale. And I will be one of her bigger consumers: while I fully intend to ramp up a small veggie garden, it isn't going to be ready until next year, and will not include kale (onions, tomatoes, carrots, leeks, garlic, chives, corn, bell pepper, zucchini, eggplant, and pumpkin are on the list). Ms Lisa will continue to be my kale dealer, and more likely my occasional kohlrabi dealer (dealress?).
I digress (as a habit!)....
Most of the kale recipes I've found online are mastery of masking kale: enough feta cheese, for example, to start your own Greek restaurant. I'd rather appreciate the strong, almost mustardy flavor if I can. Hey, it puts hair on your chest. Since I have a Lucy this is no real problem for me :) But my quest continues, and if you have ideas, do let me know.
Which segues not at all subtly to my next posit: as much as I think web 2.0 does for the introvert and the populace as a whole, I think this era of facile connectivity has rendered some awkward social circumstances. To wit: one of the people I didn't really altogether like that much in high school has "friended" me on Facebook.
I went to Jr. High and High school with this gal. She was a bit snotty, and I remember one or two particularly acidic barbs, but on the scale of what I was dished out those five years -- and yes, the dish continued to the bitter end -- it was maybe a ph of 5. She is now officially a coworker, in a different department, and was all "lets do lunch" when we ran into each other in the hallway. I.... was at a loss.
I have zero warm feelings for this person and my high school memory factor has all of the warmth of a holiday fruit basket with a preprinted card: what incentive, short of "can't we all get along?", was there for me to say yes and "friend" this person. This person is not a "friend". Why oh why did I do it?
Things are rarely as simple as you envision them. I believe I envisioned adding her, and then ignoring her, "punching the clock" so to speak. But then a certain amount of schadenfreude entered and I started perving on her profile. The friend of hers from high school that became a local Weather celebrity (she was actually nicer), the guy who had fantastic camera talent and was permanently nice (and wouldn't remember me with an annual and detailed notes), six or seven others I didn't even realize I graduated with but apparently did. Web 2.0 has allowed me to know what happend to whom in a list of people I would have, and could have (were I my parents generation) gladly forgotten. Like Humpty Dumpty, I cannot go home and put the shell back; I see the limited profiles of people I hated (yes, I know that's a strong word: wake up every morning for 2 years crying and you will know what it means, too) and people I was at best benign toward, and wonder what happend to them and are they the same and do they remember how mean they were? Probably not.
I have my share of moxie -- and my bitch streak, which I suppose I should thank them for -- and so it surprises even me that I just stood there and made pleasant commentary, and that I clicked the "accept" to the friend request. I don't have any illusions that I will have any further responsibility -- lunch has failed to manifest itself in the subsequent period, for which I am grateful -- but I wonder if I'm somehow letting down the little girl who cried.
I do not mean to diss Web 2.0 -- it's just an eventuality I was unprepared for. Case in point: I never used to "text" -- up until about 2 years ago I firmly believed "text" was solely a noun and would've argued against adding it, like Nero Wolfe arguing "contact". But "text" I do, now, and it has made some things in my life much simpler. I have an entire blog in which to spout my neuroses and offer them up for commentary, and if that isn't an invitation from Web 2.0 to come in for coffee then I don't know what is. I send "evites", I facebook, I blog, I scour other blogs and webzines and forums for content (be it recipes, howto, or again that sweet schadenfreude); I suspect were I to look for a job outside of BTCo I would fully use the different social networks established online. I'm just saying the yin to this particular yang is a bit more awkward than I would have ever thought.
