I HATE COMCAST MORE THAN EVER

All of a sudden, I can understand Jihad.  And I have Comcast to thank for that.  They are evil incarnate.  Worse than the following:

• Charles Manson
• Ted Bundy
• Vlad the Impaler
• Jack the Ripper
• Nero
• Stalin
• Bin Ladin
• Hitler
• Mengele
• Chris Brown

I could list more, but these are my top ten...not counting Comcast.  Hmmm, who could they replace?  Nero, I guess. Just because he's been dead the longest.  No other reason.  Which is not to say that Chris would be the last one I'd delete.

Gotta go.  I'm waiting for a call from The Evil One.

My Personal Ten Plagues

It's been so long since I last blogged.  So much has happened.  That damn day job is eating into my computer time.  That, and the raging mildew colony that's invaded my home office.  Which I just realized, yesterday, is NOT my fault.  It all started when I got a brand spankin' new (very expensive) HVAC system.  Three years ago.  When I first reported the problem to the vendor, I was told that I was blocking the vents (thanks to former housekeeper who shoved shit in corners in an effort to assuage my hoarding tendencies.)  I could write pages and pages about this subject, but I won't.  Not now, at least.  Bottom line is that I think Dude oversold me on the HVAC system.  I just learned that if the unit's too big for the area being cooled, this kinda shit happens.  Got some Googling to do, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I've been had.  Which makes sense of the fact that I've called those guys out not once, but twice, to my rental property to repair the HVAC, and never received a bill.  Even though I've asked for it more than once.  And left messages for Dude to call me.  Hmmm...

Well, I've bleached the hell out of one mildew-ridden vent and the surrounding wall, carpet, baseboard, etc.  Got a fan blowing fumes out the window, so as not to asphyxiate The Daddler (my office is adjacent to his bedroom.)

More on that later.  But to keep your breath bated, I'll tell you that including the toxic fungi, I've been dealing with my own little version of the ten plagues of Egypt.  My version includes infestations of rats, squirrels, cicadas, spiders, flies (I don't know why,) snakes and roaches.  Truth be told, I've only seen one snake, so I won't declare that a plague yet.  Same with roaches - killed one the other night, but haven't seen one since.  Really, the rat thing was the worst, and I thought I had it conquered, but I've been seeing suspicious-looking, small, black, turd-shaped objects around the house again.  It makes me itch just thinking about it.  Which reminds me of the fact that I was convinced I had pubic lice, because my lady parts continued to itch even after I'd taken the prescription yeast infection pill I received from the ER doc when I got my thumb nearly bitten off by a neighbor's cur.  (He prescribed some big-gun antibiotic, and I had the presence of mind to ask for a Diflucan script, which I got refilled when the second round of itching started.)  Again, more about that later.  Including an embarrassing episode at Costco when a fellow shopper interrupted my vigorous labia-scratching to ask if I knew where the peanut butter was.  I cringe when I think about it.  Thank god for my face-blindness.

Oh, and just to be clear, you CAN catch pubic lice from public toilets. 

Ok, better run.  I need to go set some traps and put out some poison.  Load The Daddler's service revolver (forgot to mention the lawn-mower theft in my list of plagues.)  And teach my new dogs some old tricks.  Love those girls.  Gotta put some flea and tick stuff on them.  Because if we got infested with those, that would make TEN.  And we all know what happened to the Egyptians after that...

Wow!

I can't believe I haven't posted since October.  I've been kinda busy.

Made it through the holidays (although I still have a couple boxes of ornaments I need to take to the attic,) and hopefully, the worst of the long dark winter.

I started a new job a month ago, and the jury is out, but I think it'll be a good thing.  I'm working about 20 hours/week, the hours are flexible, and the money is decent.  They gave me what I asked for, which means I could've gotten more, but fortunately, it's not my bread and butter.  It IS nice to have the extra moolah coming in, but more than that, getting out of the house and feeling like a professional again.  The social aspect of working is good, but unfortunately, there've already been a few, ummm, difficulties.  As unpleasant as it was, I suppose it was good to get it out of the way.  After a week or so of walking on eggshells around a somewhat territorial, bossy, snappish, passive-aggressive co-worker, I finally stood up to her and explained that I knew what I was doing even if I didn't do it exactly the same way she thought I should.  I also told our boss about it and said that if she wanted to look for someone who would mesh better with said co-worker, I would completely understand.  I didn't intend this to be an ultimatum, but it probably served that purpose.  But it was also the truth, and after spending way too much time stressing out over it, I figured it would be better to cut my losses.

Sooo, I guess they want me to stay, because it's been peachy keen ever since.  A little saccharine, even.  There's still the passive-aggressive shit just under the surface, but I'm being careful and I think she knows not to push me too far.  I hate that this kind of stuff inevitably happens, because I really don't have a hidden agenda and I'm not trying to prove anything, so I don't know why these bookkeeper types feel so threatened by me.  It's not the first time this has happened.  I wonder if I'm just too nice, and therefore, they think they can bully me.  After 20 years of therapy, I think I'm finally learning to set boundaries, but it's still incredibly anxiety-provoking for me.  Maybe the worst is over and I'll settle in, do good work, and be happy there.

At times like this, I always remember the immortal words of Rodney King:  Can we all get along?

Take 17 seconds and watch this - It always brings me to tears...

Rodney King

Something Beautiful

This is so random, but I just have a minute, and I'm excited about this!  I just ordered it from Etsy.  It's kinda pricey for me, but I'm sure it'll be worth every penny, because it's just so incredibly lovely.

Wish I could write more, but it's been crazy and I have to go.  Out in the rain.  To buy milk for The Daddler, plus stuff to make beef stew.  It's a perfect crock pot day.

Over and out...

The Cold Blooded Killer Among Us

Sally.  She's a bad seed.  Full of blood-lust.  She shredded a poor squirrel Saturday.  I was lounging on the sofa when Lucy and The Daddler came strolling in from their daily walk.  Lucy ran to me and commenced her lascivious licking.  The D said, "He just eat a baby squirrel."  I recoiled in horror at the thought of squirrel-carcass-laden saliva being lavishly slathered on my forearm and face.

It took a full 10 minutes of cross-examination, complete with a game of Charades, to determine that it was Sally, not Lucy, who'd brutally murdered a cute little squirrel with his life stretching out before him.  I asked The Witness if he'd interred the remains of the victim.  He said, "Naw.  I told you, he eat 'im!"  I found it hard to believe that the dog had devoured ALL of the squirrel, and I had flashbacks to the explosive diarrhea episode from a few weeks before, so I grabbed two blue plastic newspooper bags (I coined that term) and high-tailed it to the back yard.  I explained to The D how to put his hand in the bag and grab the body and turn the bag inside out.  He said, in the rudest tone possible, "I know how to do it."  Keep in mind, he's only picked up dog poop ONCE.  And that was after he saw a story on the local news that it was illegal to let your dog shit around town.  And the only reason I know that is because I happened to see him stroll up the driveway after a walk with the Queen of Turds, Lucy, holding the shiny blue package of poop.  That was cool.  Until I encountered said sac swarming with flies at the end of the driveway.  I guess he didn't want to stink up the garbage can. 

Back to the back yard.  Turns out, Sadistic, Satanic Sally hadn't eaten the entire squirrel.  Because after she did her usual Tigger imitation upon seeing us, she grabbed the remainder of the rodent and started sprinting around the yard.  I let out a blood-curdling scream.  I even scared myself.  And I kept screaming.  Something about seeing the bloody entrails of a cute baby animal being slung around playfully, like a Frisbee, in the jaws of a member of my family, triggered a visceral, guttural reaction in me.  When I finally caught up with the killer, who was loving every minute of the chase, I snatched her by her harness (it was reminiscent of how I'd stopped her from severing Lucy's aorta not two weeks earlier,) and she dropped her quarry.  I was queasy.  The Daddler took over.  I don't know what he did with the squirrel.  All I know is that garbage pickup was two days later and the weather was cooler.  And I didn't see the blue body bag.

Sometimes Justice Prevails

Kinda.

I just got my latest ComCrap bill.  My credit balance is down to $416.73.  I'm not finished with them yet, but I've had bigger fish to fry.  In the form of Lowe's and AT&T.

By the way.  If you're ever in the market for a major appliance, go to Sears.  If you value your sanity, that is.  I needed a refrigerator for one of my rental houses.  I called Lowe's to see how long it would take to get a fridge delivered, and after pressing 8 for appliances (had to listen to 1 through 7 first, of course,) someone answered.  When I said I wanted to check the delivery wait for a refrigerator, I was told to hold for the appliance department.  Why the FUCK did I have to suffer through the phone tree?

Surprisingly, an "associate" answered within a minute or two.  The operative syllable being "ass."  Dude was channeling Barry White.  I told him I needed a fridge, and asked him if they had any good deals on a dented floor model.  He said, and I quote, "Come see me and I'll show you something good."  I said, "How much is it?"  He said, "It retails for $2,800, but I can give it to you for $1,400."

I told him that was out of my budget, but I asked him how long it would take to deliver an in-stock model.  He said three to five days.  I asked if that was three to five business days or three to five real life, powdered-milk and peanut butter days.  He told me to come see him and he'd see what he could do.

So somewhere in the primitive portion of my brain, there sprung a vision of Sears.  Which was especially appealing since there's still a Non-Mall Store about 3 miles from my house.  So adorably anachronistic.  Which makes me think of Gimbels.  Horn and Hardart Automat.

The Sears Christmas Wish Book.  Quick Curl Barbies.  The picture in the 1972 fall catalog's men's underwear section with an unfortunately (or not - depending on how you see it) well-endowed male model's member descending below the level of decency. 

Wow.  I digress.  Bottom line, though, is that there's a real refrigerator residing in the rental right now.  Hallelujah.

The Rumble

 Yesterday was traumatic.  It started out calmly enough.  Mid-morning, while I was upstairs getting ready to go out and run errands, I heard The Daddler come in the back door and scream for me.  A few minutes earlier, I'd heard Lucy and Sally growling and barking at each other in the back yard.  It sounded more serious than their usual sisterly knock-down-drag-outs, so I looked out the upstairs window to check, and I saw The D standing by the fence, so I didn't worry.  Normal behavior for snack time.

 

This time, though, it escalated.  And the way Daddy was hollering, I knew something was terribly wrong.  Other than the awful shingles episodes when he first came to live with me, and the time he thought I was asleep when he was ready to go to his doctor's appointment (I wasn't,) I've never heard such panic or distress in his voice.  So I sprinted out the door, fully expecting to see one or both of the dogs with their aorta(s) ripped to shreds.  Fortunately, it wasn't that bad.  They were one mangled, muddy mass snarling and barking and rolling around at the bottom of the hill.  The Daddler had tried to break up the fight by spraying them with water from the hose.  Needless today, that didn't help.

 

I ran barefoot down the hill and grabbed Sally (who weighs 50 lbs.) by her harness and pulled her off Lucy.  I was surprised when Lucy (35 lbs.) jumped right back in.  I was standing there, covered in mud and blood and slobber, trying to get The Daddler to help me.  Bless his heart - he must've been pretty upset because he had a hard time figuring out how to help.  But I was shouting out one different command after another.  Finally, I got him to take Lucy, and I locked Sally into the back part of the yard.  I took Lucy inside and told D to watch Sally.  I knew right away that my Little Lulu was in bad shape.  She had lots of bite wounds on her neck and ears and she had a severe limp.  And she looked like she was in shock.  Those sweet, sad brown eyes.

 

So I grabbed a towel and snatched her up in it.  Got my purse and keys and ordered The D to get in the car with us.  We drove straight to the vet's office (just two miles away, thank God.)  When we burst in the door, the receptionist jumped into action, announcing an emergency, and requesting a doctor.  I swear, I think I could hear that theme music from ER playing in the background.  They ushered us into the first exam room, and then I burst into tears.

 

I could describe every little detail which followed, but instead, I'll just sum it up quickly. 

 

We returned to the vet with Sally a little later - she hadn't come out unscathed.  Four hours, $300, and a week's supply of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories later, we were home with two sad, bruised, penitant puppies.  At least they were clean, though.  Lucy was still bleeding, so I wrapped a piece of cotton from a torn sheet around her neck as a bandage.  We had a little snuggle time on the sofa, while The Daddler looked on.

I headed upstairs, took a long, hot bath to wash the grime and slime away.  Then I started a new book.  Wild by Cheryl Strayed.  In the first chapter, she writes about losing her mother.  I don't know if it was the emotional trauma from taking care of my damaged dogs, or the fact that this is the time of year my mom started dying, or just the book, but I cried harder and longer than I have since before Mother died.  I wish I could say it was cathartic, but the truth is that I'm having a difficult day.  I'm feeling really down.  Missing my mom so much.

 

I guess it's normal for something like the dog debacle to trigger these feelings.  Because for a moment, I thought I'd lost someone I loved.  I do love my dogs.  Especially my sweet little Lucy.  I'm not so crazy about Sally right now, but I suppose it's natural for a mother to feel the most love for her child who's most in need of it.  Which is why I know that I was always Mother's favorite.