Ok, here's the next installment of Friday's macabre debacle:
Let's see. I left off where the fat-ass fuzzy pig cop waddled off instead of investigating the ominous, freshly-dug, shallow grave behind my house. That reminds me. Remember when the cool people called them "the fuzz," or "pigs?" Maybe I should coin a term to put a new twist on an old expression. How about "hairy hogs?" "Pudgy/portly police?" "Obese officers?" "Corpulent cops?" I always adore alliteration, so I like these. Especially, the last one. We could call them CC-PoPo. Or just C-Po. Hey - that's the ticket! Pardon the pun.
Now. Back to the saga. After C-Po assured himself that I wasn't a fugitive, and then used me like his own personal Google to get the phone number for the church's pastor, he left. Apparently satisfied that all was peachy. Which probably made him head straight for Chik-Fil-A to get one of those peach milkshakes. You can't blame him. They're here for a limited time only. Which reminds me about my recent disaster with an exploding peach milkshake in my brand new car. But that's another post.
I was furious about the way C-Po handled (or didn't handle) the obvious crime. I'd asked him for his name and badge number, as well as his supervisor's number. He begrudgingly gave it to me, after telling me that his lieutenant was the one who told him he shouldn't waste his precious time. Because, obviously, if four suspicious men told an 81 year old man they were burying their beloved pet, they were buring their beloved pet. Never mind that the elderly, speech-impaired man didn't actually see said dog. It was delusional to think that they might have murded an actual person. And golly, it would take a back-hoe to dig up the loose pile of dirt that covered the alledged victim. Besides, I hadn't gotten the license plate of the perp's truck, so shit, what right did I have to want to be sure my backyard wasn't a makeshift mortuarium for murder victims? C-Po had bigger fish to fry. Which reminded him that he was late meeting his brothers-in-arms at Captain D's. After all, he needed to take advantage of the limited time, summer celebration, $4.99 Full Meal Deal. Who could blame him for wanting to take advantage of "The Sampler?" It has fried fish, fried chicken tenders, and fried shrimp, and includes slaw, hush puppies and a side of mashed potatoes or french fries, and an ice cold coke. After all, he had to keep his strength up after hiking a tenth of a mile through the rough terrain of a church field in 89 degree temperature.
It was all I could do not to yell, "Fuck you, mother fucker! I hope you get dispatched to a U-Haul full of hungry, angry dogs who've just been transported all the way from California by a couple evil bitches who operate a sham animal rescue organization (this really happened here not too long ago.) And that after you open the back of the truck, you trip and fall when you try to run from the vicious curs, and they cover you like a swarm of killer bees, with a few fire ants mixed in. And that all that's left of your big, fat ass is a scrawny skeleton. Which the dogs are divvying up to gnaw on before they dig a shallow hole to bury your pathetic bones in. So fitting.
But being the reasonable, sane person I am, I didn't do that. Instead, I grabbed my shovel, which was handy since I'd just planted my lilac bush with it. I indignantly, intrepidly marched across the field to the gruesome grave. And started digging. At first, nothing but dirt. And then, just like something out of a movie, I hit something. And like the movie, I threw the shovel aside and used my hands to gently push the dirt aside. After all, I couldn't be sure there wasn't a baby who was hanging on to life by a thread. Like that poor infant in Japan who'd been flushed down the toilet, but was safe and sound after being rescued by the hard-working, caring Kobans.
For some reason, I wasn't afraid of what I'd find. Which turned out to be a blue tarp, which enclosed an old bedsheet, which encased a dog. A pit-bull. He looked so peaceful. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't bloody or maimed. Or decayed. He hadn't been dead long. Instinctively, and without a shred of revulsion, I stroked his poor lifeless head. He was still warm. He looked like he was just sleeping. I sat down next to him, and spoke kind, comforting words. My heart was breaking, and tears were spilling from my eyes.
Around that time, the church's pastor appeared. Complete with suit and tie. He was very kind, and listened as I told him of the horror which had just happened. He asked me if I was all right, and encouraged me to go home and calm down. So I took his advice. I covered the sweet dog back up and walked home.
I spent at least two or three hours on the phone, trying to get someone to care about this poor dog. Turns out, no one does. No one except my friends. Finally, I passed out, exhausted, only to toss and turn all night. Because I couldn't get the poor, sweet dog out of my mind. And the fact that he was lying in the dark, and could be a midnight snack for a racoon or possom, and worms and maggots. Or the frustration of not being able to find anyone in authority to care.
After my sleepless night, I went back to pursuing help. I started back with the Humane Society's animal cruelty investigation division. Their hours are 10 - 3. Prime time for pit bull fights. Went to voice mail. Left a message. Never heard back. I called the Mayor's Action Center. Same thing. Then my US Representative. At least there, I spoke to a real person. Who told me the animal rights specialist was in a staff meeting, but that she'd call me back soon. Which she never did.
At that point, I decided I'd go check on things. We'd had a bad storm early in the morning, so there was a pile of mud in place of the dirt. I saw the tarp and the sheet, but no dog. Turned out, the pastor had instructed the church secretary to call the city's animal pickup division. The roadkill clean-up people. Who'd already come and disposed of him.
Well, I think I've shared enough. I took pictures of the dog, but I'm not sure I should share them yet. They're not gruesome, though. He looks peaceful. I'll think on it.
I'm not sure if I should do anything more, but I'm just haunted by it. I can't make sense of it, and I'm not sure I can rest until I find closure.
For now, though, there's nothing I can do. Because it's not between 1:00 and 3:00 Monday through Friday. And next week is a holiday week. So it would be unreasonable for me to expect anyone in authority to deal with such unpleasantness so close to the celebration of our great country's independence.
So I'll close.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
More Craziness
Why does the weirdest stuff happen to me? I feel like I'm having a nightmare and I can't wake up. Because this is too surreal to have actually happened. Here goes...
Late yesterday afternoon, I was working in my yard. Oddly enough, digging holes to plant some things I've had way too long. Odd because the events that followed involved shovels. Somehow, the knockout rose bush I planted got broken off at the base, so I was replacing it with a lilac I got for a song at Lowe's. There's just a big field between my house and the church next door. There's not much activity at the church, aside from Sundays and Wednesday nights. Since the parking lot is usually empty, I tend to notice when there are cars there. Sometimes, there'll be two police cars parked side by side with passengers' sides together. I suppose so the cops canchew the fat and share doughnuts discuss ideas for how to better protect and serve the citizens of our fair city. Now and then, there'll be an SUV parked so the owner can let his dog run in the field. Or a couple high-school kids two practicing Lacrosse against the outside wall of the gym. All good.
Yesterday, though, I noticed a black pickup truck pull into the parking lot and head toward the gym. No big deal. Until they pulled onto the grass and parked behind the gym. I thought it was odd, but went on about my business. I wasn't too worried. Until I looked up to see two young men (sans shirts) carrying a shovel to the back corner of the field - directly behind my backyard. Strange.
So I decided to investigate. By sending The Daddler out to investigate. It might sound wrong that I sent my 81 year old father into the corner of a field to interrogate two shirtless men with shovels. But I wouldn't have thought to ask him if he hadn't spent his whole career as an MP in the Air Force, and then in civil service as a detective. I thought he'd jump at the chance to do a little investigation, for old times' sake. I told him he could just nonchalantly walk back there with Sally, say a friendly hello, and report back to me.
He just scowled and told me to do it myself. Normally, I would've, but something didn't feel right, and I figured I needed to avoid getting killed. If that happened, who would take care of The D? See, it was really quite selfless of me to send him into harm's way. So I decided to just go back to my gardening, and hope that's what those nice young men were doing, too. I'm sure they were planning to start a community garden (those are trendy now,) and they had the shovels to take soil samples so they'd know how to amend the soil before they started planting.
I got absorbed in what I was doing, and forgot about the strange goings-on. Then, lo and behold, here comes The Daddler back from the field. I hadn't even noticed that he'd gone. He calmly reported to me that the guys were there to bury a dog. I asked him if he'd seen the dog. No. I continued to give him the third degree, but all I got out of him was the dead dog theory. In the meantime, two other shirtless guys showed up. I suppose they'd parked on the other side of the church, because they walked into the field from behind the gym. So I didn't see their car. Finally, they all left.
So I cajoled The Man of the House into showing me where the alleged dog was allegedly buried. He calmy walked me to the back of the gym, and calmly pointed at the freshly dug shallow grave. Even though I figured the suspects' shovel was for something, I couldn't believe my eyes.
So I did what any sane person would do. I called the non-emergency police number. After a lengthy wait, some schmo finally came on the line. Told me to call my precinct. I asked him what the number was, and he seemed surprised that I didn't know. Do I need to say I was surprised he didn't know? I had given him my address, after all. So I asked him for the number of the East Precinct. The one on Mt. Moriah. That wasn't the right one. They said to call Appling Road. Actually, we're in the Tillman precinct. They didn't know that. I just happened to remember from the neighborhood watch meeting.
So, finally, a cop shows up. A big fat-ass. He left his engine running - I'm sure so the car would stay cool. I got the impression that 1) he didn't plan to stay long, and 2) he didn't care about the earth and toxic emissions or our city's dire financial straits, and 3) that he was a lazy fat-ass and was mad that he had to walk all the way across the field.
When we showed him the ominous pile of dirt, he started tromping around it. I told him I thought we should stay away from the crime scene so we didn't taint the evidence before the CSI got there. No response. I said, "You are going to call the crime scene investigators, aren't you?" No answer. He was thinking. About the fact that he was missing out on the coffee klatch.
When it became clear he wasn't going to do shit about things, I got upset. At that point, he waddled back to his squad car with the frosty windows. Asked me for ID. What? That's right. ID. I should've told him that he was in my driveway and had my name and address and phone number. And to fuck himself. But I didn't. I got my driver's license and gave it to him. He studied it carefully, and finally concluded that I was who I said I was. He called HQ to be sure I didn't have any outstanding warrants. He was disappointed that I wasn't a squatter who called myself a soveriegn citizen - that's the high profile crime these days. I'm sure he'd rather investigate a fifty-something year old woman with her elderly father in a nice safe neighborhood in east Memphis, than traipse around trying to find four, large, shirtless men with shovels, who were no doubt operating a pit-bull fighting ring. I think he had a little cynophobia, judging from the fear in his eyes when he saw Sally, our six month old, retriever mix puppy. So who can blame him for turning a blind eye?
Oh, forgot to mention that when I realized he was going to do abso-fuckin-lutely nothing about the grave, I asked him how he could be sure it wasn't a baby. I think the hole was too big for an adult person, unless they'd been dismembered. Or they could've been a little person (never say midget - they hate that.)
There's lots more to the story, but I don't have time to finish now. Check back later and I'll tell you how I took matters (and my shovel) into my own hands and found the poor victim of this gruesome crime. Who, by the way, is still rotting where I found him, thanks to the apathy, laziness and ineptness of that fat-ass excuse for a policeman.
Later...
Late yesterday afternoon, I was working in my yard. Oddly enough, digging holes to plant some things I've had way too long. Odd because the events that followed involved shovels. Somehow, the knockout rose bush I planted got broken off at the base, so I was replacing it with a lilac I got for a song at Lowe's. There's just a big field between my house and the church next door. There's not much activity at the church, aside from Sundays and Wednesday nights. Since the parking lot is usually empty, I tend to notice when there are cars there. Sometimes, there'll be two police cars parked side by side with passengers' sides together. I suppose so the cops can
Yesterday, though, I noticed a black pickup truck pull into the parking lot and head toward the gym. No big deal. Until they pulled onto the grass and parked behind the gym. I thought it was odd, but went on about my business. I wasn't too worried. Until I looked up to see two young men (sans shirts) carrying a shovel to the back corner of the field - directly behind my backyard. Strange.
So I decided to investigate. By sending The Daddler out to investigate. It might sound wrong that I sent my 81 year old father into the corner of a field to interrogate two shirtless men with shovels. But I wouldn't have thought to ask him if he hadn't spent his whole career as an MP in the Air Force, and then in civil service as a detective. I thought he'd jump at the chance to do a little investigation, for old times' sake. I told him he could just nonchalantly walk back there with Sally, say a friendly hello, and report back to me.
He just scowled and told me to do it myself. Normally, I would've, but something didn't feel right, and I figured I needed to avoid getting killed. If that happened, who would take care of The D? See, it was really quite selfless of me to send him into harm's way. So I decided to just go back to my gardening, and hope that's what those nice young men were doing, too. I'm sure they were planning to start a community garden (those are trendy now,) and they had the shovels to take soil samples so they'd know how to amend the soil before they started planting.
I got absorbed in what I was doing, and forgot about the strange goings-on. Then, lo and behold, here comes The Daddler back from the field. I hadn't even noticed that he'd gone. He calmly reported to me that the guys were there to bury a dog. I asked him if he'd seen the dog. No. I continued to give him the third degree, but all I got out of him was the dead dog theory. In the meantime, two other shirtless guys showed up. I suppose they'd parked on the other side of the church, because they walked into the field from behind the gym. So I didn't see their car. Finally, they all left.
So I cajoled The Man of the House into showing me where the alleged dog was allegedly buried. He calmy walked me to the back of the gym, and calmly pointed at the freshly dug shallow grave. Even though I figured the suspects' shovel was for something, I couldn't believe my eyes.
So I did what any sane person would do. I called the non-emergency police number. After a lengthy wait, some schmo finally came on the line. Told me to call my precinct. I asked him what the number was, and he seemed surprised that I didn't know. Do I need to say I was surprised he didn't know? I had given him my address, after all. So I asked him for the number of the East Precinct. The one on Mt. Moriah. That wasn't the right one. They said to call Appling Road. Actually, we're in the Tillman precinct. They didn't know that. I just happened to remember from the neighborhood watch meeting.
So, finally, a cop shows up. A big fat-ass. He left his engine running - I'm sure so the car would stay cool. I got the impression that 1) he didn't plan to stay long, and 2) he didn't care about the earth and toxic emissions or our city's dire financial straits, and 3) that he was a lazy fat-ass and was mad that he had to walk all the way across the field.
When we showed him the ominous pile of dirt, he started tromping around it. I told him I thought we should stay away from the crime scene so we didn't taint the evidence before the CSI got there. No response. I said, "You are going to call the crime scene investigators, aren't you?" No answer. He was thinking. About the fact that he was missing out on the coffee klatch.
When it became clear he wasn't going to do shit about things, I got upset. At that point, he waddled back to his squad car with the frosty windows. Asked me for ID. What? That's right. ID. I should've told him that he was in my driveway and had my name and address and phone number. And to fuck himself. But I didn't. I got my driver's license and gave it to him. He studied it carefully, and finally concluded that I was who I said I was. He called HQ to be sure I didn't have any outstanding warrants. He was disappointed that I wasn't a squatter who called myself a soveriegn citizen - that's the high profile crime these days. I'm sure he'd rather investigate a fifty-something year old woman with her elderly father in a nice safe neighborhood in east Memphis, than traipse around trying to find four, large, shirtless men with shovels, who were no doubt operating a pit-bull fighting ring. I think he had a little cynophobia, judging from the fear in his eyes when he saw Sally, our six month old, retriever mix puppy. So who can blame him for turning a blind eye?
Oh, forgot to mention that when I realized he was going to do abso-fuckin-lutely nothing about the grave, I asked him how he could be sure it wasn't a baby. I think the hole was too big for an adult person, unless they'd been dismembered. Or they could've been a little person (never say midget - they hate that.)
There's lots more to the story, but I don't have time to finish now. Check back later and I'll tell you how I took matters (and my shovel) into my own hands and found the poor victim of this gruesome crime. Who, by the way, is still rotting where I found him, thanks to the apathy, laziness and ineptness of that fat-ass excuse for a policeman.
Later...
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The Comcrap Saga Continues
I finally have their attention. Yesterday, I got a call from someone named Angie in the corporate escalation team. She actually has a brain and a heart. Unlike most of the other Scarecrows and Tin Men I've been dealing with.
She and her supervisor are working on my account, and she seemed sincere about that. Said it looks really strange and is clearly wrong, and that they're going back to inception. I'm still skeptical, but she gave me her direct dial number. I used it this morning and it actually worked. Without a trace of the fucking phone tree. I called to tell her that my incoming email hasn't worked in three days. The outgoing, since June 13th. Yesterday when I mentioned that problem, she told me she'd have a tech guy (who is "Great!), give me a call today. I left a voice mail since she works from 11 to 7. Weird thing. When I was winding up my lengthy message, I blurted out, "Love ya," same as I say to my best friends. Caught myself, too late, and so tried to back-pedal, which resulted in a very weird message, with lots of cringing.
"Oops, I didn't mean that... Thought I was talking to one of my friends... Not that you couldn't be my friend... I don't love you... But I do like you.. Or at least I will if you can fix my problem. Still, you seem like a nice person... Over time, I may grow to love you, but I don't want to rush things." (Ok, I made that last thing up, but most of the rest is true.)... I said I wasn't good and awake yet, that my message was weird, that she should ignore it, and have a great day... Cringe, cringe, cringe.
I guess it's understandable, though, since she's thrown me a lifeline. That, or I'm getting Stockholm Syndrom. The same thing, really.
Whatever it is, I'm actually feeling hopeful. And I'm planning to get hardwood floors to replace my urine stained, alizarin crimson acrylic paint stained, shredded in the corners carpet. Because I'm certain I'm gonna get a big fat check to compensate me for my time and severe emotional pain and suffering. And because I'm going to extort them with the SEC and FCC complaints. Don't worry, though. I'll do it in a subtle way. I know they have a huge in-house counsel department, but what judge would rule against me? In fact, I could slap them with a countersuit, and with any luck, the judge would hate them, too. Just like the SEC attorney I talked to. Besides, I'm sure they have plenty to keep their lawyers busy, including the class action lawsuits I read about.
Stay tuned for the next episode...
She and her supervisor are working on my account, and she seemed sincere about that. Said it looks really strange and is clearly wrong, and that they're going back to inception. I'm still skeptical, but she gave me her direct dial number. I used it this morning and it actually worked. Without a trace of the fucking phone tree. I called to tell her that my incoming email hasn't worked in three days. The outgoing, since June 13th. Yesterday when I mentioned that problem, she told me she'd have a tech guy (who is "Great!), give me a call today. I left a voice mail since she works from 11 to 7. Weird thing. When I was winding up my lengthy message, I blurted out, "Love ya," same as I say to my best friends. Caught myself, too late, and so tried to back-pedal, which resulted in a very weird message, with lots of cringing.
"Oops, I didn't mean that... Thought I was talking to one of my friends... Not that you couldn't be my friend... I don't love you... But I do like you.. Or at least I will if you can fix my problem. Still, you seem like a nice person... Over time, I may grow to love you, but I don't want to rush things." (Ok, I made that last thing up, but most of the rest is true.)... I said I wasn't good and awake yet, that my message was weird, that she should ignore it, and have a great day... Cringe, cringe, cringe.
I guess it's understandable, though, since she's thrown me a lifeline. That, or I'm getting Stockholm Syndrom. The same thing, really.
Whatever it is, I'm actually feeling hopeful. And I'm planning to get hardwood floors to replace my urine stained, alizarin crimson acrylic paint stained, shredded in the corners carpet. Because I'm certain I'm gonna get a big fat check to compensate me for my time and severe emotional pain and suffering. And because I'm going to extort them with the SEC and FCC complaints. Don't worry, though. I'll do it in a subtle way. I know they have a huge in-house counsel department, but what judge would rule against me? In fact, I could slap them with a countersuit, and with any luck, the judge would hate them, too. Just like the SEC attorney I talked to. Besides, I'm sure they have plenty to keep their lawyers busy, including the class action lawsuits I read about.
Stay tuned for the next episode...
Monday, June 24, 2013
Confession is good for the soul...
...so here goes:
Forgive me, people. It's been six days since my last confessional blog post. Lots has happened since Tuesday. I've committed some venial sins. I've had violent, murderous thoughts toward several parties. I'm hoping that the fact that they deserve to die a slow, torturous death will ameliorate the seriousness of my transgressions - I'd hate to have comitted mortal sins. In case you don't already know, the difference between venial and mortal sins is as follows (per Wikipedia):
A venial sin does not concern a "grave matter," is not comitted with full knowledge, or is not comitted with both deliberate and complete consent.
Therefore, if it doesn't fit into all three categories, it's not venial. It's mortal. Which ain't good. I think it involves a lake of fire, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, and other unpleasantness. Apparently, my good karma doesn't amount to a hill of beans since I've continued to be afflicted by so many unbearable tribulations. The karma credits are a result of the fact that I pick up rusty nails in the street on my runs - as many as 12 after it rains - and take them home to dispose of safely? I hope the fact that I haven't gotten a flat tire lately is not the only reward I'll get for that selfless act.
About my sins, I won't provide the details here, because that could be used by extremist, religious fanatics to support the argument that I had full knowledge of my actions. On the other hand, I've used the defense of "not guilty by reason of insanity" successfully in the past, so maybe it'll work again. I have plenty of friends who will attest to my inability to make rational decisions when I shift into a quixotic state. By the way, in case you didn't know, quixotic rhymes with Twixotic. You say the X in the usual English way, not an H like when you say Don Quixote. But I digress.
Back to my legal defense. I also have some licensed professionals who would take the stand to defend me, I'm sure. (See comments above re rusty nails, and you'll understand the severity of my "challenges.") OCD is a bitch. Crazy-making. It's what causes me to have such extreme, compulsive tendancies toward the evil princes of darkness who constantly attack me. Specifically, Comcast, health insurance companies, and too many others to name.
Well, I'm thinking that unless I act on my evil impulses, I don't need to worry. On the other hand, I seem to remember hearing something to the effect that if we think it in our heart, it's the same as doing it. I think it's attributed to JC. That is, Jimmy Carter.
Wow. Crazy, huh? Not like me at all. Gotta run. Literally. It's time to retrieve some rusty nails from the mean streets of Memphis..
Forgive me, people. It's been six days since my last confessional blog post. Lots has happened since Tuesday. I've committed some venial sins. I've had violent, murderous thoughts toward several parties. I'm hoping that the fact that they deserve to die a slow, torturous death will ameliorate the seriousness of my transgressions - I'd hate to have comitted mortal sins. In case you don't already know, the difference between venial and mortal sins is as follows (per Wikipedia):
A venial sin does not concern a "grave matter," is not comitted with full knowledge, or is not comitted with both deliberate and complete consent.
Therefore, if it doesn't fit into all three categories, it's not venial. It's mortal. Which ain't good. I think it involves a lake of fire, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, and other unpleasantness. Apparently, my good karma doesn't amount to a hill of beans since I've continued to be afflicted by so many unbearable tribulations. The karma credits are a result of the fact that I pick up rusty nails in the street on my runs - as many as 12 after it rains - and take them home to dispose of safely? I hope the fact that I haven't gotten a flat tire lately is not the only reward I'll get for that selfless act.
About my sins, I won't provide the details here, because that could be used by extremist, religious fanatics to support the argument that I had full knowledge of my actions. On the other hand, I've used the defense of "not guilty by reason of insanity" successfully in the past, so maybe it'll work again. I have plenty of friends who will attest to my inability to make rational decisions when I shift into a quixotic state. By the way, in case you didn't know, quixotic rhymes with Twixotic. You say the X in the usual English way, not an H like when you say Don Quixote. But I digress.
Back to my legal defense. I also have some licensed professionals who would take the stand to defend me, I'm sure. (See comments above re rusty nails, and you'll understand the severity of my "challenges.") OCD is a bitch. Crazy-making. It's what causes me to have such extreme, compulsive tendancies toward the evil princes of darkness who constantly attack me. Specifically, Comcast, health insurance companies, and too many others to name.
Well, I'm thinking that unless I act on my evil impulses, I don't need to worry. On the other hand, I seem to remember hearing something to the effect that if we think it in our heart, it's the same as doing it. I think it's attributed to JC. That is, Jimmy Carter.
Wow. Crazy, huh? Not like me at all. Gotta run. Literally. It's time to retrieve some rusty nails from the mean streets of Memphis..
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Rites of Passage
I took Sally to get spayed this morning. She could be in surgery at this very moment. I am surprised at how nervous I am. I've had that surgery, and I know first hand how awful it is. They asked me if I wanted pain medicine for her. What kind of monster wouldn't give their puppy relief after being sliced open. I guess someone who didn't want to spend the extra $12. The same kinda person who rushes their offsprings' potty training (and thus inflicting severe emotional damage) because they don't want to buy diapers. Once on the local news, I saw a story about the boyfriend of some pathetic excuse for a mother who beat the baby to death because she pooped in her pants.
This stuff stirs up violent, Death Wishesque, vengeful thoughts in me. I think every idiot who leaves their child/dog in the car in the summer oughta have to sit locked in a car in full sun in July until they die. The monsters who use pit bulls to fight to the death for their entertainment should be thrown to some of those hungry dogs they tie to stakes and neglect in their yard.
I could go on and on, but I'm shaking. So I should stop. Because I still haven't resolved my problems with Comcrap. Or wrangling with my new insurance which doesn't have prescription coverage, which means it'll cost me three times the insurance premium to buy my drugs. Then there's the mammo thing. Between dealing with insurance company, the preferred provider company, and the clueless providers themselves, I'm on the verge of using an apple corer to remove the suspicious lump myself. I spent three crazy-making hours on the phone yesterday - two of which were spent listening to crappy pseudo-jazz hold music. I'm not crazy about jazz to start with. Maybe that's good though. It would probably be unbearable if I did. I guess the only thing worse would be porn movie music. Not that I know about that first-hand. I've just heard it's really bad. No wonder you never see skin flick soundtracks for sale. Wow, I just had a scary thought. What if they played porn music while you were on hold? I shudder to think.
As usual, I have so many unpleasant things to do, that I'm overwhelmed. Which is why I sit here blogging instead of doing them. This, after I made myself stop doing crossword puzzles for way too long. It's all I can do not to tuck into my new David Sedaris book. I love him. He makes my life seem somewhat normal.
Ok. It's time to face the music. More hold music. At least it's not the porn kind.
Over and out...
This stuff stirs up violent, Death Wishesque, vengeful thoughts in me. I think every idiot who leaves their child/dog in the car in the summer oughta have to sit locked in a car in full sun in July until they die. The monsters who use pit bulls to fight to the death for their entertainment should be thrown to some of those hungry dogs they tie to stakes and neglect in their yard.
I could go on and on, but I'm shaking. So I should stop. Because I still haven't resolved my problems with Comcrap. Or wrangling with my new insurance which doesn't have prescription coverage, which means it'll cost me three times the insurance premium to buy my drugs. Then there's the mammo thing. Between dealing with insurance company, the preferred provider company, and the clueless providers themselves, I'm on the verge of using an apple corer to remove the suspicious lump myself. I spent three crazy-making hours on the phone yesterday - two of which were spent listening to crappy pseudo-jazz hold music. I'm not crazy about jazz to start with. Maybe that's good though. It would probably be unbearable if I did. I guess the only thing worse would be porn movie music. Not that I know about that first-hand. I've just heard it's really bad. No wonder you never see skin flick soundtracks for sale. Wow, I just had a scary thought. What if they played porn music while you were on hold? I shudder to think.
As usual, I have so many unpleasant things to do, that I'm overwhelmed. Which is why I sit here blogging instead of doing them. This, after I made myself stop doing crossword puzzles for way too long. It's all I can do not to tuck into my new David Sedaris book. I love him. He makes my life seem somewhat normal.
Ok. It's time to face the music. More hold music. At least it's not the porn kind.
Over and out...
Friday, June 14, 2013
The Eagle has Landed
The Eagle being The Daddler. He just got home from a week with two of his brothers and their wives. They go to Gatlinburg every fall, and he and Mother used to go, too. The D hasn't been since Mother died almost three years ago. I don't think they went the year or two before that since Mother's health was so bad. So it had been a long time. He was really happy and excited when they invited him.
I started thinking that this is the first time I've been home alone since The D and I became roomies. Wow. What freedom! Especially since Kiddo is in NYC doing his big internship. I could transform this multi-generational abode into a swingin' bachelorette pad for four days and nights.
I wish I could say that it was like Grand Central Station here. That I had a stream of friends coming over and hanging out at all hours. Sleepovers with all my besties, complete with constant chick flicks, trash-talkin' and junk food. That I had every spare minute crammed full of "me time." I hate that phrase, by the way. It sounds so hokey. But I can't think of anything better to describe what I had in mind.
Instead, it turned out to be pretty lonely, and very quiet. I did random things around the house and yard, read and did crossword puzzles, sat on the patio in my swimsuit, took occasional dips in my new kiddie pool (Sally loved it.) The only company I had was one friend who stayed a couple hours. Other than that, it was me and the dogs. I was surprised to find myself missing The D on the second day. I didn't miss fixing his meals, though.
Back to the dogs. They were experiencing severe separation anxiety. They went nuts when he got home today. I swear, I could hook them behind a plow and they'd outdo any mules around. They're incredibly strong. I had them on their leashes, waiting in the front yard for The D's big arrival. It was a sweet reunion. For me, too. In fact, I was surprised when The Daddler made a bee-line for me and gave me a big hug. Pleasantly, of course. Maybe he missed me, too.
He brought me a few gifts. Namely, some fried apple pies from some place called The Apple Barn. A loaded baked potato soup mix. And a tiny bottle of maple syrup. Since I don't eat any of those things, and he loves them, it's the equivalent of a husband buying his wife a power saw for her birthday. Or sexy lingerie.
Speaking of gifts, I've decided to skip the Father's Day gifts. Instead, I'm gonna fix a nice lunch. Little sis will come, and nothing could make him happier.
Well, I'm gonna wrap up this post and go spend a little quality time napping on the sofa with Fox News blaring on the TV. Now, that'll feel like home...
I started thinking that this is the first time I've been home alone since The D and I became roomies. Wow. What freedom! Especially since Kiddo is in NYC doing his big internship. I could transform this multi-generational abode into a swingin' bachelorette pad for four days and nights.
I wish I could say that it was like Grand Central Station here. That I had a stream of friends coming over and hanging out at all hours. Sleepovers with all my besties, complete with constant chick flicks, trash-talkin' and junk food. That I had every spare minute crammed full of "me time." I hate that phrase, by the way. It sounds so hokey. But I can't think of anything better to describe what I had in mind.
Instead, it turned out to be pretty lonely, and very quiet. I did random things around the house and yard, read and did crossword puzzles, sat on the patio in my swimsuit, took occasional dips in my new kiddie pool (Sally loved it.) The only company I had was one friend who stayed a couple hours. Other than that, it was me and the dogs. I was surprised to find myself missing The D on the second day. I didn't miss fixing his meals, though.
Back to the dogs. They were experiencing severe separation anxiety. They went nuts when he got home today. I swear, I could hook them behind a plow and they'd outdo any mules around. They're incredibly strong. I had them on their leashes, waiting in the front yard for The D's big arrival. It was a sweet reunion. For me, too. In fact, I was surprised when The Daddler made a bee-line for me and gave me a big hug. Pleasantly, of course. Maybe he missed me, too.
He brought me a few gifts. Namely, some fried apple pies from some place called The Apple Barn. A loaded baked potato soup mix. And a tiny bottle of maple syrup. Since I don't eat any of those things, and he loves them, it's the equivalent of a husband buying his wife a power saw for her birthday. Or sexy lingerie.
Speaking of gifts, I've decided to skip the Father's Day gifts. Instead, I'm gonna fix a nice lunch. Little sis will come, and nothing could make him happier.
Well, I'm gonna wrap up this post and go spend a little quality time napping on the sofa with Fox News blaring on the TV. Now, that'll feel like home...
Monday, June 10, 2013
Hell hath no fury...
...like me. When it comes to Comcrap.
After four weeks of fucking with those idiots, I still haven't resolved the problem (namely, the two-plus years of double billing.) Sooo, this morning, I talked with a friend who's a partner at their audit firm (since clearly they are the Enron of the 2000-teens - what do you call this decade?) After that, I talked to an attorney in the SEC's fraud department. By the way, she hates Comcast, too. Funny, huh? She told me how to file a complaint there, and said I should also file one with the FCC. The forms are hot off the press.
Then, I called Comcast's legal compliance department. Of course, I had to leave a message - they can't be bothered with answering the phone. Maybe instead of calling the Routine Requests and Information Line, I should've tried the Imminent Loss of Life or Body Injury line. Which might have been appropriate considering the extremely violent thoughts I've been having.
So, between Deloitte and Touche (the auditors), the SEC and FCC, and extortion, I should get some results soon. Actually, extortion isn't the right term, unless you consider threats to hire the shadiest attorney I can find to sue the defendant for a bazillion dollars in both criminal and civil courts. And to make the talk show circuit, appear on national news and Court TV (Nancy Grace is a close, personal friend of mine,) unless I'm well compensated for financial, emotional, and physical (my cortisol levels are surging,) damages. Of course, I'll be subtle about how I express my willingness to cut a deal, given that they have what I'm sure is a huge in-house counsel department, and they'd slap a counter-suit on me as quickly as you can say "Bob's your uncle." On the other hand, it would be a pain in the ass for them to have to deal with the SEC and FCC. And their auditors.
Wow. Do I sound like a lunatic? If so, it's all Comcast's fault.
Now, for something positive. The Daddler left for Gatlinburg at 5:45 this morning. He's going with two brothers and their wives. This is the very first time I will have been home alone since we became roommates. Kiddo is in NYC for his internship, so I am footloose and fancy free. I'm closing the kitchen - it's peanut butter sammiches for me for the next five days. I can walk around nekkid, play the stereo as loud as I want, and have wild parties if I want. The possibilites are endless.
On that note, I shouldn't be wasting time on this silly blog. Adventure awaits me. And hopefully, justice...
After four weeks of fucking with those idiots, I still haven't resolved the problem (namely, the two-plus years of double billing.) Sooo, this morning, I talked with a friend who's a partner at their audit firm (since clearly they are the Enron of the 2000-teens - what do you call this decade?) After that, I talked to an attorney in the SEC's fraud department. By the way, she hates Comcast, too. Funny, huh? She told me how to file a complaint there, and said I should also file one with the FCC. The forms are hot off the press.
Then, I called Comcast's legal compliance department. Of course, I had to leave a message - they can't be bothered with answering the phone. Maybe instead of calling the Routine Requests and Information Line, I should've tried the Imminent Loss of Life or Body Injury line. Which might have been appropriate considering the extremely violent thoughts I've been having.
So, between Deloitte and Touche (the auditors), the SEC and FCC, and extortion, I should get some results soon. Actually, extortion isn't the right term, unless you consider threats to hire the shadiest attorney I can find to sue the defendant for a bazillion dollars in both criminal and civil courts. And to make the talk show circuit, appear on national news and Court TV (Nancy Grace is a close, personal friend of mine,) unless I'm well compensated for financial, emotional, and physical (my cortisol levels are surging,) damages. Of course, I'll be subtle about how I express my willingness to cut a deal, given that they have what I'm sure is a huge in-house counsel department, and they'd slap a counter-suit on me as quickly as you can say "Bob's your uncle." On the other hand, it would be a pain in the ass for them to have to deal with the SEC and FCC. And their auditors.
Wow. Do I sound like a lunatic? If so, it's all Comcast's fault.
Now, for something positive. The Daddler left for Gatlinburg at 5:45 this morning. He's going with two brothers and their wives. This is the very first time I will have been home alone since we became roommates. Kiddo is in NYC for his internship, so I am footloose and fancy free. I'm closing the kitchen - it's peanut butter sammiches for me for the next five days. I can walk around nekkid, play the stereo as loud as I want, and have wild parties if I want. The possibilites are endless.
On that note, I shouldn't be wasting time on this silly blog. Adventure awaits me. And hopefully, justice...
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