This may be my longest post ever, so go pee and grab a drink first.

Last week I spent a good portion of Friday and Saturday bitching about my own stupidity as opposed to my usual bitching about the stupidity of other people. I had a day and a half of vacation time still coming to me. With Christmas and Boxing day being Statutory Holidays (ones even my workplace actually observes) I could have taken the Friday and the Saturday and granted myself a little mini-vacation.

After a year of working 50 to 80 hours a week, who doesn't want a little mini-vacation?

I kept thinking about the lost opportunity and how it wouldn't work this week because New Years is only one day off and there's no day-after-New-Years day off. Then I had an epiphany. Once we hit New Years Day it's a new year. Which means I will have 2 weeks plus a day and a half vacation to take.

So I booked Thursday, Friday and Saturday off. Add in the day off for New Years (another stat holiday we actually get to have off) and the Sunday and that's 5, count em, 5 days in a row of not having to drag my ass out of the house in the morning.

Sometimes I amaze even myself with my brilliance.

Plus, I go back to work on Monday and then I have Tuesday afternoon booked off for a hysterosonogram.

This is the point where anyone squeamish about period talk should just stop reading and come back tomorrow. Also, I will mention my uterus and probably my vagina too. Especially my vagina - mostly because I like to see the discomfort the word vagina seems to inspire in other people.

Vagina, vagina, vagina!

A very long, long time ago - last spring - I decided it was time to evict Aunt Flo from her Granny suite, or at least get her to behave more like a respectful tenant.

The first step was going to see my family doctor. In Ontario, if you don't already have a family doctor you have to apply to become a patient. Thankfully I had already completed that process three years ago. I just never actually went to see him.

Making the appointment was a major pain in the ass. To call from my workplace is long distance and I worked the same hours as the receptionist and then some. Which meant I had to put extra minutes on my pay-as-you go cellphone. Yes that's right - I PAID MONEY TO SIT ON HOLD ENDLESSLY WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO ANSWER THE GODDAMNED PHONE!

Once I actually got to see the family doctor, he scheduled me to come back for a physical and some blood work - 3 weeks later. He was also supposed to refer me to a gynecologist. I soldiered my way through the blood work (easy peasy) and my physical (not so easy, but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do). I was assured that the Holy Grail was within reach and the gynecologist would call me any day with an appointment time.

One month later I still hadn't heard from the gynecologist and not only is Aunt Flo sticking around for two and three weeks at a time she's also popping in unexpectedly during play time.  So I call the doctors office.

Me: Um, I was supposed to be getting a referral to a gynecologist and I haven't heard anything yet.

Receptionist: These things take time.

Me: It's been over a month.

Receptionist: It takes time. When they have openings it's on a first come first serve basis.

Me: But it's been over a month and I should at least have an appointment by now.

Receptionist: Well what are you waiting to see the gynecologist for?

This is where instead of telling the nosy woman that it's between me and my doctor and none of her effing business, I started almost bawling, told her never mind and hung up. An hour later, my phone started to ring. By some miracle I still had minutes left.

Me: Hello?

Nurse Practitioner: Hi Vanessa, this is blah blah I'm calling from doctor blah blah's office.

Me: Okay?

NP: Vanessa it seems doctor blah blah forgot to fax the referral request to the gynecologist.

My Brain: May his prostrate be permanently inflamed as his penis endlessly dribbles pee. 

NP: Were you just seeing the gynecologist to have your Mirena removed - because I can do that for you.

Me: Well it was for more than that - I'm having never ending periods too.

NP: Let's try taking the Mirena out, it's almost time and it might help. I can give you a prescription for birth control to regulate your periods and I'll fax the referral as well.

So I made another appointment. Of course she can't actually give me a prescription for birth control because I'm over forty and I smoke. I knew that was too good to be true. She removed the Mirena - which was a whole hell of a lot easier than the installation of that bastard - and suggested sponges and condoms as birth control. She also referred me for an ultrasound, since the gynecologist would probably want one anyhow.

After I got dressed she came in with a handful of packets that at first I thought were condom packets. No such luck, it was a handful of single dose Advil packets. She left me with the advice that I might experience a little bit of spotting the next day. If you want an exact description of what followed for the next two weeks there are entire websites devoted to women who can't spell, describing their experience after Mirena in excruciating detail. I will leave it at saying "a little bit of spotting" was like calling Niagara Falls a trickle. The Canadian falls, not the US falls.

However, the long awaited gynecologist appointment was booked for the end of August. One week before the designated day, I received my ultrasound appointment - for the week after I was supposed to see the gynecologist. Which makes absolutely no fucking sense.

So I called the ultrasound booking department - where I was told that my doctor's office knew weeks ago when the appointment was. Had they bothered to call me when they got the appointment, I could have made arrangements to go to Windsor and have the ultrasound done well in advance of actually seeing the gynecologist. So after bawling on the phone to the poor lady booking the ultrasounds about how they might as well just sew up my vagina since I couldn't use it anyhow, I had to agree to postpone the appointment with the gynecologist to mid-September.

On the day of that appointment I was just about ready to piss myself with excitement. Finally I was getting somewhere. Until my cellphone rang. The specialist had been up all night delivering babies and I would have to reschedule.

Two mother effing weeks later I spent the morning on pins and needles hoping I would actually get to go to this appointment. This time, I finally got to meet my new gynecologist. Surprisingly (insert sarcasm), she had not received the results of my blood-work or pap smear. Her prognosis?

Gyno: I think you have polyps. It explains all of your symptoms - even the ones from five years ago. I'm going to send you for a Hysterosonogram.

Except, she doesn't actually book you for the appointment. You have to book it yourself.

First you wait for your next period to start. Then you call the booking department on the first day. They count out 14 days from that day and try to book you an appointment on the Tuesday closest to that day. Because of course they only do the test on Tuesdays. Once you have that appointment, you call the gyno receptionist (who is awesome by the way) and she sees if the gyno is available at that time to attend. Which is when I said "so basically it's like trying to win a lottery?"

First month - no appointment available.

Second month - no appointment available

Third month - I get an appointment but the doctor isn't available.

In the meantime just to prove it's easier to win the lottery than book this test, I won $108 dollars on the Lotto Max.

Fourth month - Aunt Flo doesn't show when expected but she sends out a warning of her arrival. 14 days before Christmas. I'm disappointed because I know there's no way I'm going to get my appointment for Christmas Eve. For once, Aunt Flo decided to show some Christmas charity and delay her arrival for another week. I cross my fingers and call the booking department.

Booking Department: So let's see, 14 days brings you to the 31st. We aren't doing any of those on New Year's Eve. 

Me: I get that they are trying for mid-cycle. I get that they want me to be near ovulation, but come on! I'm 43 freaking years old. Who knows when I ovulate or even if I do?

Booking Department: That's true - I have an appointment the following week, do you want to try that?

Me: Sold!

I call the gyno office and the doctor was available that day.

I may not be able to win millions on the Lotto, but who cares. I won the goddamned Hysterosonogram Sweepstakes!

Crazy Cat Lady?

A couple of weeks before Christmas, I finally got around to getting Miss Kitty spayed. Our local Humane Society now offers low cost spay and neuter services. You call and leave a message and they call you back with an appointment for their next assembly line style spay day.

The cost savings is huge - $75 dollars for a spay as opposed to $300 at our regular vet. For an extra $50 bucks they will de-worm and vaccinate as well.

You bring your cat in for their 8 am opening and pick it up at the end of the day. Which is how I found myself booking a day off so I could wake up at the ass crack of dawn and drive for 45 minutes, instead of sleeping in like I normally do when I take a day off.

I made it there for a quarter to eight. There were two ladies waiting at the door already. One of them looked to be about 60 with no pet in sight and seemed grateful to see me. The other lady looked about 50 (maybe not so old, but I desperately want to believe she had to be older than I am) with a cat carrier at her feet and a tiny gray kitten peeking out of her coat.

I didn't take long for me to understand why the older lady looked so damn happy to see me. The lady with the kitten mashed into her cleavage was talking - a lot.

Cat Lady: I have three at home that I bottle fed blah, blah, blah.

Cat Lady: One of them was born with her head twisted to the side. I did some research and found out it could be caused by one of two things. A virus, an injury or an infection blah, blah, blah.

My Brain: That's three things.

Cat Lady: We named her Pearlie. My husband picked her name because she looks a little bit like a Siamese blah, blah, blah.

Cat Lady: We have another one that is a diluted tortoiseshell blah, blah, blah.

My Brain: What the hell is a diluted tortoiseshell?

Cat Lady: This one was born a week early, but you can't tell to look at him. 

My Brain: How the fuck do you know that?

Other people started to arrive. The older lady went to retrieve her cat from the car. The Cat Lady went through her spiel again.

Cat Lady: This one knows what a car ride is. "I guess I should put you in your carrier." He's snug as a bug in my coat. "You love your mommy don't you?"

My Brain: Her hair is neat, no skunk line of gray roots. Her clothes are clean and neat. She looks so normal until she opens her mouth.

Part way through the third repetition of this woman's entire history as a cat owner, a couple came up behind me. They checked on their kitten in normal pet owner style as opposed to weird cat lady style.

At 8 sharp, they finally came to unlock the doors and put an end to the longest 15 minutes of my life.

I sighed with relief and whispered "Thank you God!"

The man behind me said "Amen!"

Except it wasn't over. Now we were handed clipboards with the standard release forms that must be signed before your pet undergoes surgery. Then we had to wait in line to pay our fee and hand over our felines.

During this time new people arrived. Each one who wandered into The Cat Lady's sphere triggered another accounting of her history as a cat lady.

Cat Lady: This one was born a week early - not that you can tell to look at him.

My Brain: How could you possibly know that?

By this point I was wondering if she stalked her cats at night and marking the dates they had sex on a calender. The calender would have kitty pictures on it, and she would be wearing a cat sweater and everything in her home would be cat themed and covered in cat hair.

I'm pretty sure by the tenth time I heard all of this I started to glare at any new arrivals who approached the woman. She handed over her kitten and settled her ample backside on one of the few chairs. I finally handed over Miss Kitty, paid my fee and race walked for the door.

I wonder how long it took the staff to get rid of her?

Of course I'm driving around with an effing Christmas Tree in my trunk.

Something happens when you work a shit ton of hours in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

You end up scrambling to get all of your Christmas shopping done in one day, and that one day ends up being only three days before Christmas.

Today being Sunday and the only day of the week I don't work, I slept in this morning. Waking up at eleven doesn't make for an industrious day, but around the middle of the afternoon I finally got my ass in gear enough to get dressed and leave the house.

Because I really needed to finish my Christmas shopping that I had started on Friday. Friday the 20th in case you want to pat yourself on the back for getting that shit done sooner than me. After I finished shopping for the Asshats I headed for Wal-mart to buy some gifts for the dogs.

Yes I do buy presents for my dog, he likes presents too! 

I grabbed a new stuffed toy for Louie with a squeaker because he loves his squeakers. A Wubba and some Kong squeaky balls for Asshat #1's dog Jackson, who will actually fetch like a real dog. I started to get worried because I was spending more on Jackson and he isn't even my dog. Maybe Louie would get upset and start to think I loved Jackson more. Then I smacked myself in the forehead, because they are dogs and could care less how much money I spend on them.

Which is how I ended up buying a tree at 4:30 pm - only 3 effing days before Christmas.

PS I didn't really drive around with a tree in my trunk - I picked it up on my way home from Christmas shopping.

PPS I really hope Louie doesn't think I love Jackson more, He's my favorite even if he won't fetch.

PPPS I ended up giving Louie his gift early because he saw the Wal-mart bag and kept guarding it from Miss Kitty.

Assholes and Jack o Lanterns

At least once a month I can guarantee I'll regret every word that makes it out of my mouth just for the bitch factor. I know it's happening but I never manage to stop the flow of nastiness.

Today I got to watch that shit happen to someone else. Except he either didn't notice his inner asshole coming out to play, or he was hoping nobody else would notice the smell.

Remember the scooter? My co-supervisor says he's not going to keep the key in it any longer since it goes missing on him all the time. All the time being exactly once.

He also said that if I want to use it "I should ask for the key".

Really dude? I know you're Mennonite and all - but I'm not. I don't wear the dress, and I do shave my legs (when I feel like it). I'm not willing to act as if you are in any way superior to me, simply because you have a penis. I happen to have a vagina and I'm not afraid to say the word vagina just to chase you out of a room.

Don't hold your breath waiting for me to ask for that key, I'll be too busy trying to avoid the smell of asshole.

Since we're talking assholes....

Asshat #1 carved pumpkins with his girlfriend last night and now she knows that normal doesn't happen at my house.

Pumpkin number one is a vagina. I'm kind of impressed the kid knew what a labia was.

He actually blushed while he was stabilizing his pumpkin genitals with a finger in the pumpkin vagina.

After years of drawing sharpie marker dick pics on his brother's back it wasn't much surprise when the second one looked like this.

Makes me glad we don't get any trick-or-treators.

Why my feet are always wet.

I live in a small house. 1200 square feet or thereabouts. The largest room in the house is my bedroom - which has a queen sized bed, a king sized desk and a washer and dryer. The amount of floor space not consumed by furnishings is minimal.

I share this square footage with 2 adult sized males (size really doesn't count here - they make more mess than a couple of toddlers) two cats and the dogs.

When I brought MY dog home as a puppy Louie was a dream come true. Mellow and calm - he practically trained himself. In fact I'm convinced he must have trained himself because they (the Asshats) aren't housebroken yet and I've been trying for 20 years.

Then Asshat #1 brought Jackson home.

It's blurry because he is NEVER STILL!

Jackson is a German Shepherd puppy. He's not a bad puppy - but he's definitely a puppy. At least once a week I come home to a disemboweled stuffie in my living room. Toys that Louie had been gently cherishing for months and even years become shreds of fabric, tumbleweeds of stuffing and stray squeakers. 

In other words - Jackson is the puppy I never gave birth too, because he is EXACTLY like my boys. Loveable but overwhelmingly in my face.

This is supposed to be the dog's water dish, but Jackson just tips it over or drags it around the house when we fill it.

So this is Jackson's water dish. Not such a bad deal for a dog - with three adult sized people in the house the water is fresh - at least when I'm home. (I'm convinced I'm the only person in the house who knows how the flusher works).

Except...

Have you ever watched a horse drink? They tend to stick their whole face in the water and then as they're walking away let the last mouthful just fall out of their mouths.

Must be the long neck.

Anyhow, Jackson likes to  let the last mouthful pour dribble out as he runs to the kitchen. Which in my house is only about 12 feet. So there is only 12' of floor for my socks to mop water from but my feet seem to find every last drop of toilet water. Toilet water that may or may not contain shit particles.

It's been over a month since I had dry socks.

Getting Lucky

On Friday I had a sudden craving for a Dr. Pepper, and not a diet Dr. Pepper either. I'll happily drink all of my other carbonated beverages sugar free and full of aspartame (who needs to remember shit anyhow) but not my Dr. Pepper.

Dr. Pepper must at all times be the full calorie version.

So I stuck my Loonie in the pop machine and made my selection. Except instead of getting one can of syrupy sweet, icy cold Dr. Pepper goodness - I got two.

I figured at this point I should quit buying lottery tickets for the rest of my life. That had to have used up my life time supply of good luck.

But then today, I had another craving for 6 cups of sugar in a 2 cup can of carbonated beverage. I dropped my Loonie in the pop machine and got two cans of Dr. Pepper for the price of one again.

Best BOGO ever, but now I know I've used up all my good luck.

Except then I found a Sharpie marker in the wash machine and I got lucky again - it was a black marker in a load of all black clothes.

I did not win the lottery.

Knee deep in dogs, assholes and carsick cats.

I was pretty damn satisfied with the number of living bodies in my house. One dog, two cats, myself and the two Asshats.

Then Asshat #1 goes and gets himself a puppy. A German Shepherd puppy to be exact.

Me: What the hell are you doing, I told you I don't want another dog in the house!

Asshat #1: Don't worry, I've got enough saved for a down payment on a house and I'll be moving out at the end of the month.

And one month later he did buy a house. He gets possession in November and I have plans for his bedroom. I also have plans for all the free time I will have once my laundry gets reduced by 60%.

Meanwhile though, I'm still knee deep in animals and assholes. First my dog went through this neurotic jealous phase where he glued himself to my leg. Try and get anything done with 60 pounds of dog afraid you don't love him anymore. I dare you.

Also fun is trying to navigate a very small house with two dogs playing and two Asshats being themselves. 

In the shuffling of dogs in and out of the house for washroom breaks Miss Kitty has decided she will be an indoor outdoor cat from now on.

This is fine (or will be as long as I get her spayed very soon) except she's developed a fondness for napping in my car.

Yes, I do leave my car window down and yes I've had a wet ass many times.

So last night when I was nearer my destination than I was to home and I saw her head pop up in the rearview mirror I kept going. All was well until I was almost home again. First she tried to climb into my lap. Since I'm sure that would be more of a distraction than say driving and texting, I shooed her into the back seat.

Miss Kitty: Mwack!

Asshat#2: She just puked.

Me: No she didn't, she just meowed.

Miss Kitty: Mwack!

Asshat#2: I'm telling you, she just puked in your back seat.

So yes, cats do get car sick but at least she didn't puke in my purse. Or shit all over like any cat I've taken to the vet ever.

When she attempted to jump in the car with me this morning when I was leaving for work I made the time to cart her majesty off to the house.

Do you ever wonder if a cat would drown itself drinking from a dripping tap?

I think it's possible they might.

An apology to Pink Floyd fans and some Sea Snakes.

Whenever I'm wandering around my house pretending I know how to keep a house I hear this in my head.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5diMImYIIA


Only instead of the original lyrics I put in things like:

How can I make pancakes if I can't find my beaters.

or

How can I sweep the floor if I can't find my dustpan.

or if I'm really frustrated

How can I keep my house clean if these kids won't move out.

Imagine how surprised I was when I Googled the lyrics and found out the real lyrics aren't "How can you have any pudding if you don't wipe your feet" like I always thought they were. Instead it's really  "How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat."

I'm going to apologize to all the Pink Floyd fans now for being an idiot.

How do you cook Sea Snakes?

I work with an older Chinese gentleman. He asked me the other day if I liked squash. I told him I did and then he said "I bring you one tomorrow" with his arms stretched out to indicate it was a long one. I assumed he meant zucchini.

And then he gave me these things that look like sea snakes or something.

I don't think those are going to fit in my fridge.

Put on your comfy PJ's and come hang out at the Weekend Moonshine Grid. You'll like it!

 

A whole bunch of jackasses and why we can't have nice toilet paper.

Asshat #1 finally went to Connecticut for work. My only complaint (other than he didn't visit the duty free on his way back and bring his mom some cheap booze) was that the promised three weeks turned out to only be two and a half.

At least there was a few days of overlap between Asshat #1 being in Connecticut and Asshat #2 being away camping with his dad.

Yes - it was heaven.
  

You know what happens when you take a hiatus from blogging? 

A whole bunch of jackasses start posting anonymous comments, that's what happens.

Take this beauty for instance.

Ready upon offs? Carry out your Casual eCourse infested
with tips, secrets, advantage methods upon tickets readily obtainable

That's right - infested with tips.

Another adeptness your roam balmy center cannot alien
is guileless or manmade disasters.

I'm not sure what this commenter was trying to say but "roam balmy center" sounds vaguely sexual.

It's not my first time to pay a visit this website, i am visiting this website dailly and get pleasant facts from here everyday.

Pleasant and facts are not the first two words that come to mind when I think about what I post here. Frivolous and asshattery come to mind though. 

And this is why we can't have nice toilet paper.

Or nice paper towels

Or nice window screens

Had I only known, her name would be Chaos instead of Miss Kitty.

I no longer get to pee alone either. If I'm lucky she waits on the floor until I'm finished so she can watch the toilet paper go down. If I'm not lucky she sits on the back of the toilet and tries to steal it from me while I'm trying to wipe my ass.

She also assists when I'm brushing my teeth.

It might look like she's just being cute, but really she's testing the water temperature for me.

PS If you're looking for the toilet paper at my house it's hiding in the cupboard.

PPS I'll be turning off Anonymous comments for a while even if Blogger does a fantastic job of catching them.

Bad data connections, Fleshlights, and please don't make me taste the rainbow.

Saturday, one of the ladies who I work with was asking me when Labour Day was. I know I should know this shit, but since I also know it's just going to be another work day for me - I don't.

So I tried to Google it from my phone. Only my Fleshlight search results kept coming up.

Did you know you can watch a video on You Tube to learn how to clean your Fleshlight?

No matter how many times I clicked the back button and tried to clear my history, the data connection was so slow that it wouldn't go away. Finally I just told her I would let her know and walked away.

I'd rather be thought of as a stupid Canadian than try to explain why I was Googling Fleshlights.

Skittles and the rainbow tastes like shit...

So then the end of the day finally came and the punch clocks went down. As I was counting inventory Skittles approached me. In case you missed it, Skittles has some serious bad breath. Knowing this and not wanting another opportunity to "taste the rainbow" I tried to keep my distance.

Apparently three feet wasn't enough distance because I didn't just taste that fucking rainbow, the rainbow slammed right through my pores and was shining out of my ass.

Me: WHOA! You need to step back.

Skittles: Sorry.

The poor guy shuffled back like I'd accused him of trying to grab my ass, holding up his hands in the classic "I mean no harm" gesture. Which really makes me wonder how often he gets this reaction from people? Because not only does the guy have some serious fucking halitosis, he's hard of hearing so he's always trying to step a little closer...

Me: I don't mean to be offensive, but your breath is something else!

Skittles: Sorry, sorry.

Me: I know, the punch clocks are down. Don't worry about it - I'll fix your punch on Monday.

Me: Have a good weekend!

I promptly forgot about the incident since I'm you know - old. Then I remembered around midnight and laughed so hard I almost pissed myself. I'm sort of shocked that I was so blunt, but then I remember the time I was little and asked my mom "why is that lady wearing an ugly hat" when the lady was sitting right beside me. So I guess it's more shocking that it took me so long to say something about it. 

It's really no surprise I've raised Asshats. The surprise would be if they weren't. Now I wonder if the guy went and bought some Scope this weekend so I can start working on his BO issues.

If I don't do Timmies, do they revoke my "I Am Canadian" card?

I've never really hopped on the Tim Horton's bandwagon. First, because for years Timmies did not take debit, and I don't do cash.

Yes, I'm that lady who whips out her debit card for a one dollar pack of gum.

Mostly it was just the sheer aggravation factor of not being able to get through that one stoplight on my way to work for all the assholes trying to get their morning caffeine fix.

Seriously people - can you not just go buy yourself a damn coffee maker?

Then it happened.

My new friend and I were driving by Timmies and he said "I could really go for an ice cap." Silly me, I turned around and we had Ice Caps.

On the phone three days later...

Me: Sluuuurp.

Him: That's not nice.

Me: You're the one who got me started.

Him: You can't have Ice Caps without me.

Me: It's your fault, I never did Timmies before.

Him: Really? You've been in Canada how long?

That would be my entire life - all 42 years of it.

Me: I never got into the Timmies thing before.

Do they revoke your "I Am Canadian" card when you admit you don't do Timmies or Hockey? I'm asking for a friend...

Miss Kitty has become a brat and the Asshat has a point.

It finally became necessary to get a squirt bottle for Miss Kitty. No matter how cute she is, she's not allowed to climb my screens or walk around on my kitchen table.

Asshat #2 wants to use it for when she's annoying. Like when you are trying to walk around and she's going all feral hunter/vampire on your ankles.

Me: You're only supposed to squirt her when she's being bad.

Asshat #2: Or when she's annoying.

Me: So I can squirt you when you annoy me?

Asshat #2: Mom, if we went around squirting each other whenever we were annoyed, we would never be dry.

He's got a point there.

I hope Karma was wearing a blindfold

Asshat #1 has a new girlfriend. Up until last night I've only got to meet her sandals by the door, but last night I finally got to see her person.

Karma, please look the other way. 

My first impression of my son's girlfriend was holy fucking cleavage. She's about 5 foot nothing and the only thing keeping her from falling over frontwards is the big ass behind.

My son likes them curvy.

My second impression was most annoying voice ever. Which made me start worrying that I was one of those moms. You know the ones who think no girl will ever be good enough for their son?  But then I remembered that mostly I just worry that no girl should have to put up with his crap.

So later after he had taken her home, he decided to find out what my impression of her was.

Asshat #1: Did you see her tits?

I hope Karma was wearing a blindfold, because I just about pissed myself laughing.

It probably won't be the last time I have to admit I'm an asshole.  

Working with your kids might not be the best thing...

Asshat #2 has been working with his mom this summer. That would be me.  I'm not accustomed to seeing either of my progeny 24/7 but #2 has been with me for some very long days these past weeks. Still I guess it isn't enough, because he texts me at lunch break and supper break. Then he hangs around while we're closing out for the day. I've learned there is such a thing as too much time with your kids.

He hasn't been disappearing when we get home either.

But the beer has been disappearing...

Neither Asshat will own up to it, but my beer has been disappearing instead. Is there anything more frustrating than thinking you've got a nice cold one in the fridge, going to grab it and finding it gone?

I can't hear you, could you speak up?

I went three years without seeing a doctor but all of a sudden it seems like I can't stay away from them.

So it was no big surprise to wake up with an ear ache, and really no big deal either since I was already seeing the Nurse Practitioner today.

I met with her and we talked about various things and I asked if Depo Provera was still a no-no for bone thinning or if I could use it. She said there was no reason why I couldn't, but is going to send me for a bone density test.

On top of the trans-vaginal ultrasound I'm still not looking forward to.

Which added to the long awaited gynecologist appointment makes three to look forward to.

Plus my ear is blocked and will need to be flushed in two weeks. Or sooner, since I didn't believe her and jammed a Q-tip in there and made it really blocked. I can't hear a thing out of my left ear now.

It's my phone ear too dammit.

I'm a fill on the right side girl in a fill on the left side world.

After weeks of working from dark to dark, all of a sudden we've hit a lull. Starting at 7am is a pleasant change to starting at 6 (except for the three people one bathroom stuff) and getting done at 5 is nothing to complain about.

Except I do.

Complain that is.

But today ended at 3 and you would think even I wouldn't be able to find something to bitch about right?

You would be right, if I hadn't needed gas.

It seems I'm a fill on the right side girl in a fill on the left side world. And then when a bay finally opened up on the right side of my vehicle what happens? Some little douche canoe pulls in directly from the street.

Fucker. 

So I wait and watch one passive-agressive woman wash every single window on her mini van.

Bitch - do you not see the car wash across the road?

Then I waited and waited while another one walked into the store to pay. I think she was buying herself some junk food too. Just saying.

In the end I had to back into a bay so I could fill my car while bitch number two was still looking for her favorite candy bar.

Because really, I've got stuff to do and a lawn chair waiting for my ass.

Saying Goodbye to The Swinger.

Holy shit, I made it home before The Beer Store closed - on a Monday - and what a Monday it was.

The Swinger was due back from a two week vacation today, except he's not ever coming back. He found another job while he was away.

He won't be missed, even though I've got mixed emotions at the parting. On the one hand I'll never have to deal with his bigotry, hear his Tickle-Me-Elmo laugh, or disinfect surfaces he's touched ever again. On the other hand, I've lost one of my best sources of blog fodder. 

My co-supervisor had the pleasure of cleaning out The Swinger's locker. I think they should have just encased it in concrete since there is no effin way anybody is ever going to want to store their lunch in THAT locker.

There are some things you cannot decontaminate enough to ever be near food which would be everything ever touched by The Swinger.

On the topic of disinfecting surfaces, it seems Mr. Skittles is under the impression he can rinse his mouth at the water fountain and then spit his swish water back in. That's just taking the whole "taste the rainbow" shit way too far.

I'm also going into my fourth week smoke free with only one tiny slip up. Or not so much a slip up as I just needed to confirm that cigarettes do indeed taste like shit. 

If you had ever met the asshats, you would understand how miraculous this is.

Tired is the new normal and finding out I snore.

I'm starting my third week as a "recovering" smoker. There are moments where I still desperately want one. Just not a moment desperate enough to drive to the store for.

Which means it's a really good thing I can't remember where I stashed the "extra" pack I had on hand on my last day as a smoker. By the time I've checked a couple of places in the house and not found those smokes, the urge has either passed or by then I'm just too tired to keep looking.

I've also learned something about myself these past three weeks. With nothing else to do on breaks I've started just putting back the seat in my car and resting my eyes.

Apparently I snore, or at least I do when I'm on my back. It's a good thing. Waking myself up snoring works almost as well as an alarm clock to get me back to work on time. 


Tired has become the new normal in my life. Having only one day off to get stuff done and try to relax a bit sucks, so finding out that my hot water tank wasn't heating water on a Sunday morning did not make my day. Having to call my ex-husband to come and look at it didn't really do my pride any good either, but at least after living with me for 10 years he wasn't shocked by my lack of housekeeping skills.

My mother tried to teach me to cut the tags out of my bras.

A couple of months ago, I went bra shopping. As a moral booster, a bucket of ice cream would have gone further. Especially when I took in the back view and wondered if I needed a set of cups for back there too.

Things were starting to get desperate though. My favorite bra was so old and stretched out that if I lifted my arms too high it was going to hit me in the chin. So I went again.

I even managed to find four I liked. Really only two, I just bought 3 the same.

My mother tried to teach me to cut the tags out of my bras and panties, but I just don't do it. I'm going to have to start.

It's a good thing I don't shop often since I've been walking around all week with the anti-theft tags in my bras.

Oh, and if you follow me on twitter? I'm on day 4 of not smoking.

Yes The Swinger still lives - but it's been a close one.

Skittles and further proof I can be an asshole.

During a conversation I was mentioning that I needed to pace myself when alcohol is involved otherwise I can be an asshole. My 18 year old said "you always are an asshole, you just let it out when you've been drinking"

I couldn't even get mad because it sounded suspiciously true.

***

When The Skittle Man was interviewed, I kept wondering at the odd odor I was smelling. By odd, I mean stinky. For some reason I looked down at the floor and realized he was wearing socks and sandals. He was also wiggling his toes and wafting foot odor towards me.

All of his references indicated he was a reliable steady worker. Since closed toe shoes are mandatory at work, he was hired.

The Skittle Man hadn't worked for some time, so his first day - and it was a long one - left him dripping sweat. I thought for sure he wouldn't show up for a second day, but he did. My co-supervisor complained that he hadn't showered yet on the third day.

At the end of the week, he was asking me some questions. His breath was awful, but then we aren't allowed water on the pack house floor for food safety so bad breath can be expected. I increased my personal space bubble by at least a foot.

And then it happened.

I opened my mouth to say something and tasted his breath - from two feet away!

On Monday, I related the experience to my co-supervisor. He laughed, but I really don't think he believed me. Towards the end of the day, I saw Skittle Man corner him and start talking. Then I saw my co-supervisor say something - and make the eew face.

I asked him what happened.

Him: I tasted it.

Yesterday I saw my co-supervisor get cornered again.  Skittles! Taste the rainbow! popped into my head and hasn't left yet.

So yeah I'm usually an asshole.

But even assholes laugh at googly eyes.

It Isn't Always About Penises

Sometimes, it's about googly eyes.

Other times, it's about dicks

We finally got our new line in this week. The guy who's doing the set up is a real piece of work.

Today, he wants to do some training. Right before break of course. So fine, I can always catch a smoke later right?

Then he proceeds to stand around shooting the shit like it's a Sunday and we're passing time over some beers.

Him wasting my time made my answer to the next problem real easy. He wanted to schedule four hours of training on this new line for down time.

Seriously?

Over the last two weeks I worked 150 of the possible 336 hours. My answer was pretty blunt.

Nope, I'm not doing it. I'm not coming in on a Sunday. I'm not coming in for training at 10pm on a weekday either.

It ain't happening.

Bunkhouse woes and morning wood.

There's no getting around it. Bunkhouse life can be hard on our offshore workers. Picture anywhere from 40 to 60 men or women living in one house. We have a men's bunkhouse and a women's.

The kitchen must be shared, and with that many people all wanting something different, there's never enough room for everybody. I've heard of some men or women having to wait until midnight for a turn at one of the stoves.

Jamaican's and Mexicans do not normally eat out of a box. There's no such thing as throwing a frozen pizza in the oven and calling it good enough.

Sleeping arrangements are rows of bunkbeds. As one woman described it you roll one way and see a naked lady, roll the other way and see another one. It's one of the reasons most offshore workers will work while ill. There's no peace to be found at the bunkhouse.

Showers are banks of stalls with a curtain to offer some modesty. With only 14 of them for 60 women, I would imagine most showers are kept brief no matter how plentiful the hot water is. 

I was talking to a couple of the ladies towards the end of the day. As someone who requires a significant amount of alone time, I can't imagine living cheek to jowl with another 59 women. I mentioned my sympathy for the situation. One of the women recalled a time where she had mentioned the bunkhouse issue to a higher up.

Worker: Sometimes women need some privacy. Like when they have their monthly troubles and feel uncomfortable dealing with that with so many people around.

Higher up: Well just imagine the men when they are having their morning troubles.

This is how I wound up with a mental image of 60 men staggering around half awake tenting their boxers. No faces or anything. More like a herd of those male underwear mannequins.

Kind of like the scene from Toy Story with the claw and the little space guys milling around. Only instead of space guys it's legless and headless torsos with morning wood.

I almost pissed myself laughing.

You would think a Gynecologist would have bigger worries than feet.

Believe it or not - I was home from work before 6 tonight. Which is really cool since I did not go in until 1. Sure it's only 5 hours, but I think I got enough last week to make up for it.

So the reason I didn't go in until after lunch is because today was finally the day for the hoo-ha check up. The one I have to have before I get to see a gynecologist who will I hope evict Aunt Flo for good. Apparently annual check ups are beneath the baby catchers these days.

Also, doctors don't do your physical anymore. Instead you get a nurse practitioner. Which is kind of cool, because she was way more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. Plus it was mostly less awkward than my last physical.

To distract myself a bit, I told her of my last gynecologist. The one who "installed" my Mirena.

I went to him because after 5 years of living the celibate life I had finally met The Polish guy and was getting somethin something. In one of those cruel tricks life likes to play pre-menopause was setting in and I was having my period for 45 days straight. So my doctor referred me to "Superman"

I'm calling him that because his entire office was filled with Superman collectibles.

Superman: Well your goose is cooked.

I was not nearly as amused as Superman thought I should be at that statement.

Me: What are you trying to say.

Superman: blah blah blah menopause blah blah blah.

Me: So, can you do something about it?

Superman: You really aren't a candidate for a hysterectomy (at which point my inner 2 year old wanted to roll on the floor and scream I want one, and I want it now!) We could try an ablation.

Me: What's the recovery time?

Superman: No time at all, you'll be back to work in two days.

Me: Who cares about work. How long before sex can resume?

Dead silence.

Seriously, just because you look at vaginas all day don't assume the rest of the world has lost interest in sex.

So after much discussion - bullshit - he talked I listened, the Mirena was decided on.

Superman: I would like to examine you first though. Make sure you leave your socks on. I've got a thing about feet.

A large part of Superman's patients belong to a religious community that does not believe in shaving their legs. Or bathing daily. Superman spends his days looking at their vaginas.

Superman, I think you've got bigger things to worry about than feet.

Monday kicked my ass again, and I should wear my glasses when texting.

That bitch Monday won again. We were done packing at 6:30 - so everyone should have been out of the door at 7. Except the garbage hopper fell off of the lift truck into the dumpster. By the time my shipper/receiver (by the way - he is so lucky he's my favorite) got a chain and hauled it out it was 7:30.

Meh, it was still kind of an early night.

So tonight all of my recent rage built up and I sent The Polish Guy a text. "I think you're a giant asshole for the way you ended things. It was cold, mean and unnecessarily cruel."

Stunningly I heard the ding of a response. When I got up the nerve to check, it was only "You got the wrong number"

My reply "Sorry, story of my life." Sue me, I'm feeling sorry for myself here.

Then I texted my girlfriend.

Me: Did he seriously change his number even? What a fucking asshole.

GF: Not that I know of, haven't talked to him today.

Me: Well then he's just being a fucking cunt.

GF: Why what's wrong.

Me: I just felt it was time to tell him I think he's a giant asshole.

GF: Vanessa

Me: Sometimes it's got to be said. And if he changed his number just lately I haven't texted him in over a fucking month.

Me: Actually, I need to put my glasses on. I did have the wrong number.

I must be completely deranged, because now I'm just finding this entire situation hilarious. It is kind of disappointing that I no longer feel the need to send that text though. Now is right about when he would have to painfully struggle out of bed (with his broken ribs) to see that it was only me telling him he's an asshole.

He is a giant asshole. A ginormous asshole.

Sunday - it needs to be two days.

I wasn't home much this week. I'm not sure if the kids missed me, they might have missed me washing laundry. I know the dog missed me though since he's been plastered to my side all morning.

Of course then I start to notice things. Like the mats behind his ears that I forgot to trim out last weekend. Like the distinct doggy aroma wafting to my nose.

That's about when Louie learned that mommy's love isn't all cuddles and treats. By some miracle I was able to find all the necessary tools for an extended grooming session.

Scissors to clean up the Sasquatch feet.

Thinning shears to trim up the ass fur so it's short enough it no longer provides a landing pad for whatever is coming out of his ass. Also handy for kerchunking through the mats so they can be combed out and not leave a bald spot.

The nail trimmers so we can put a stop to the annoying clickety click. I've got three out of four paws done so it's currently clickety pad pad pad, but I'll get that last paw.

The brush to get rid of those endless gobs of shedding out undercoat. If you've never had the pleasure, a Golden Retriever's undercoat is not hair. It's more like gobs of poplar fuzz or dandelion fluff.

Miss Kitty did her sibling duty of taunting him while he endured the torture. 

Then I took off his collars and threw them into the dishwasher, and ordered the dog into the tub. My back is grateful that Asshat #1 taught him that command. My back would appreciate it though if Louie could lather himself up and rinse.

Now I'm just waiting for him to dry so I can love him up some more with the brush. It could take a while as it seems I either don't own more than one towel or Asshat #1 has one hell of a pile of them in his bedroom.

That, groceries and making a pot of soup are the sum total of my plans for the day.

The soup is in hope of having something to eat other than granola bars this week so I can prevent future gas explosions. 

Assholes bring out my inner Evil Bitch. AKA Fuck You Polish Guy.

I like to try to keep the evil bitch part of my personality on a tight leash. Or at least I like to try. Tonight though, she's trying really hard to slip the leash.

Two weeks ago, The Polish Guy probably saw his life flash before his eyes. I hope the motherfucker wept at the loneliness of it.

He was up North at the cottage he shares with his brother. The one I no longer am welcomed at as a guest, but I bet the money hungry asshole would let me rent it!

His brother had bought some sort of ATV on Kijiji and not bothered with silly things like brakes. Or a good strong towing cable. You are both idiots - one for calling half-assed good enough, and the other one for not just assuming your brother fucked shit up like he normally does. Polish Guy - you know better by now.

Some sort of accident happened because of this and The Polish Guy wound up under one of the ATV's. Then he got to spend 3 days in Englehart's hospital. Looks good on you and I hope it fucking hurt. 

So now he's home with four broken ribs (Oh, I bet that hurts don't it? I hope it does!) and a scraped up face.

Tonight, I'm so fucking mad at him for breaking up with me over who the fuck knows what since he won't say. I bet it's because I didn't clean up after my dog - even though my friend who cut my grass this week is wondering where all the dog shit I haven't had time to clean up since last fall is. Or maybe because I didn't vacuum his house free of dog hair before leaving - buy a decent fucking vacuum and if you want a wife, marry one! Or maybe because I wouldn't do his grocery shopping for him anymore - again if you want the milk, buy the fucking cow.

But anyhow....

I'm so mad at him that I want to sprinkle pepper under his nose until he sneezes while poking him in his broken ribs.

Plus I want a demented clown to tickle his feet for a half hour straight and make him laugh the entire 30 minutes.

Hurts, you fucker, don't it?

Oh and by the way? The dog is really wondering what the fuck is going on. So not only are you mean to women, now you're mean to dogs as well. 

Asshole.

Granola Bars, Crazy Hours and Fart Walls.

Yesterday, I had one of my workers text in that he couldn't come to work because he hadn't been able to go #2 in 4 days. When my co-supervisor showed me the text my response was "Are you kidding me? With the hours we've been working I bet half the people here haven't been able to shit in four days yet they're all here!" I might have been more sympathetic, except he had already been absent for one day earlier in the week. Plus - I'm just not. Sympathetic I mean.

Let's face it, there are certain "digestive issues" that accompany working ridiculous hours. For starters, most of the time you really just don't have enough time in the morning to sit and relax and give your morning coffee time to work it's magic.

Plus when you work crazy hours, healthy eating kind of flies out the window. I tend to grab granola bars throughout the day and follow it with a meal of highly processed carbs smothered in cheese. I know granola bars are usually pretty high in fiber, but it's been my experience that it's not really the pooping kind of fiber. It's more the farting kind of fiber.

I have mentioned before that aging has brought the nasty surprise of "fart incontinence" right? So it shouldn't have really been a shock that when I arrived at work and bent over to put my bag under the desk one tiny little fart escaped.

I mean we are talking an entire work week of crappy food and no time to let nature do it's work here.

What was shocking about that tiny little fart bubble, was the smell that assaulted my nose when I stood up. So I immediately slammed the office window open, but before I could make it over to the exhaust fan my co-supervisor came hurtling into the office. Right into my fart wall.

That slowed him down a bit.

Thankfully the only thing he said was "I know I didn't do that!" I'm even more grateful that I didn't start snickering like an eight year old.

Like I've said before, I can be an asshole sometimes.

***

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Miss Kitty shreds her enemies.

In case you missed me moaning about it, I've been working a lot of hours. The days all start at 6 and at the beginning of the week rarely end before 9:30.

You can imagine that the very last thing I want to do on my way home from work is stop at the grocery store. However yesterday we only had a partial roll of toilet paper on the go, and one full one remaining in the package. With me and the asshats using said toilet paper, it's dangerous to cut things that close.

Since I do consider toilet paper to be an essential no matter how tired I am, I stopped at the grocery store. At that time of night, there is only one register open. Of course the two ladies with their fully loaded carts had to race to get in front of me with my five items. There is no doubt in my mind they did it intentionally since both of them glared at me as they ran for the checkout.

Lucky for them, I was too tired to commit bodily harm or even a gusty sigh and sarcastic eye roll. In fact, I don't even think I had the energy to put my "I will cut you" evil bitch face on.

So this morning, when I saw that there was still a roll of paper in the package I was a little bit put out that I had stopped needlessly. Until I pulled the roll out.

It seems Miss Kitty had crawled into the bag and had a serious altercation with that last roll of TP.

Turned out it was a good thing I did stop at the store last night, since I was too tired to assemble those shreds into something I could wipe my ass with.

Friends are like panties, and I've got one that covers my butt when I need her to.

Sometimes friends really are like panties - the ones that cover your butt when you need them to. Like when your friend knows you're working ridiculous hours and cuts your lawn for you. And weeds your flower beds. And weedwacks.

Especially the weeding and weedwacking. The weedwacker is the work of the devil as far as I'm concerned. Unless you happen to be the type of person who enjoys having grass, stones, and plant juice flung at you at high velocity.

It's an even better friend who does all of the above when you can't remember the last time you did dog shit duty around the yard.

This is also the friend that's been there for me throughout The Polish Guy's defection. The one who has come over expecting to have a nice cup of tea and instead sat and listened to me - and let me tell you - I have not been Miss Suzy Sunshine. More like Sad Sue with a dash of Vengeful Vicky.

This grieving shit is hard. It's good to know I've got a friend who has my back and won't start bawling while I'm trying to hold it together.

I guess I'll forgive her for sitting in my chair that one time, even if it's not MY chair anymore.

Well played Monday, well played.

The washrooms at work are all single stall bathrooms. My first trip of the day to the bathroom had me finishing my business and reaching for the first roll on the commercial double roll dispenser. My questing hand was greeted by empty cardboard tube. I reached for the second roll and came up empty again. With no such thing as a handy tissue in my pocket, I looked around at the paper towel dispenser. It was empty as well. At least it was a pee visit.

Well played Monday, well played. 


When the end of the day finally arrived - at 9:30 pm - I went out to my car. When I opened the door I discovered that I really do need to empty my ashtray more often.

The entire car was filled with a swirling cloud of burning cigarette and cigarette filter.

The ashtray is mostly empty now, if a little bit soggy from me pouring half a can of pop on it to douse the smoldering butts.

I think that bitch Monday kicked some ass today. Too bad it was mostly my ass.

Gnarly toenails are one of my phobias.

I've got these "issues" when it comes to nails. Not the nails you pound into wood - those I've got under control.

Nope, I've got issues with fingernails and toenails.

Long fingernails kind of make me want to puke. Seriously, I try to keep my own fingernails with only 1 mm of white showing. Anything else bothers me, especially when I reach into my purse and get those mysterious purse crumbs under my nails somehow.

What the fuck are those purse crumbs from?

Toenails are something I'm fortunate enough to be able to forget about for 10 months of the year when everyone drags out their socks and winter shoes.

Inevitably though, summer weather rolls around and I will be exposed to the visual nightmare of gnarly toenails. I kind of get that guys aren't into the whole pedicure thing, but when I see a woman walking around in sandals with toenails that look like they belong on a troll, I want to vomit.

Being the type of person who can't trash talk a woman unless I'm not guilty of the same thing - this weekend was the time to do that first of the sandal season pedicure. Except when The Polish guy packed up my meager possessions and moved them out of his house - he forgot all of the pedicure shit.  Including the very important "toe separators"

You can see why they are an essential right?

So I go to the grocery store, only in their cosmetic section they are lacking the all important "toe separators" so I went to Shoppers Drug Mart.

I have been avoiding that place, because The Polish Guy's niece works there. It has been over a month though, time to grow up and start acting normal. Right?

Like all retail, I'm sure Shopper's doesn't have certain people on staff for every hour I might want to go there. I could get lucky. Right?

Wrong.

She's on duty, and standing in the nail polish aisle. Which is where my fucking toe separators are likely to be.

We have the "blah blah blah" conversation.

Hanging by a thread, I'm keeping it together, until she tells me The Polish Guy got hurt when he was opening up the cottage for the season. Hurt badly enough to spend three days in the hospital up there. I've been told he's got four broken ribs and he's all scraped up.

All because his asshole brother K, took another one of his "buy it on Kijiji, half assed fix it and then sell it" didn't think brakes were important.

That's how I ended up crying in Shopper's Drug Mart.

His niece wondered why I wasn't chasing him down and forcing him to see reason.

I'm not, because I've been around long enough to know one of the hardest facts of life.

No matter how much YOU love them, you can't MAKE anyone love YOU back.

Sadly, no matter how much you feel as if you've been disemboweled through your nose, the sun will continue to rise and set. Bills will continue to appear in your mailbox, and life will go on.

Home before dark - WTF happened?

Miracle of miracles - today was a "6:30 today, 6 tomorrow day".

I kept asking my co-supervisor why the extra half hour. I mean six should be as good as 6:30 right? How much work would we really accomplish in that half hour.

He wasn't buying it.

Then I asked him "are you sure you didn't really mean to say seven tomorrow?", because seven sounded more than reasonable to me.

He didn't buy that either.

I also tried to convince him he really meant to say five tonight.

It seems my powers of persuasion are non-existent, so we went to 6:30.

It's become a rare treat to be home before dark and have plenty of time to prepare a healthy nutritious meal.

Such a rare treat that I'm celebrating it by ordering pizza.

Turns out, now-a-days you've got to make an appointment to make an appointment.

So today was the "doctor appointment".

Turns out now-a-days, you not only have to practically take time off to make an appointment, when you go for the appointment, it's only to book another appointment for some actual "doctoring".

I'm not shitting you folks - that doctor did not even lay hands on me today. I go for blood work some time this week, then I see the Nurse Practitioner for a physical.

Then the Doctor will diagnose me and or refer me to a specialist.

Seriously dude, I'm here, my lady bits are presentable. Aunt Flo has made one of her rare visits to somebody else, and my feet don't stink.

Give me a fucking sheet and lets get this shit done.

But it doesn't work that way, so I got a Tetanus shot and a requisition or whatever for blood work and another appointment.

Which means my lady bits have to be presentable twice in the same fucking month. Something I normally don't worry about when there's no action happening down there.


So then I went and got my hair  cut and my eyebrows waxed - which is a big deal once the reading glasses become necessary. She straightened it too. My hair I mean - not my eyebrows - which look awesome by the way. I even got a sort of compliment from Asshat #1.

#1: You should straiten your hair all the time - it looks better like that.

Little does Asshat #1 realize, in order for me to straighten my hair I would need access to the bathroom for more than 10 minutes at a time.

I think I'll stick with my usual wash and wear look.

I've always said vinyl gloves look like condoms

Nine tonight, six tomorrow and prepare yourself for supper. Which means expect more of the same tomorrow.

Seriously, I would sell my soul for a seven o'clock start.

But then while I was walking up and down the line, checking that the ladies were still trimming up the tomato vines and weighing correctly a couple of the ladies stopped me.

I groaned inside thinking it would be more conversation about piece rates, but they surprised me with this.

I've always said that vinyl gloves look like condoms. They one-upped me and used one to make a condom for a tomato penis. Note they even made sure to leave the reservoir tip. 

So of course I took a picture - which really got the girls laughing. 

A little later, one of the guys came up and said the girls told him to come and see my picture. So I showed him, and a couple of other guys. Some laughed. One said "what the fuck is that" which leads me to believe condoms are not his birth control method of choice. 

Next the girl on that line all told me that L wanted to see the picture. Now there's three Mennonite ladies all in a row wanting to see my picture. 

My picture of a tomato with a dick wearing a condom. Did I mention they are three very sheltered Mennonite ladies?

Which is when I said "Can I show you a cute kitty picture instead?"

Dreams are weird.

I dreamed I was eating spare ribs last night. Which is really weird because I haven't eaten meat of any kind in almost 12 years. In my dream the spare rib tasted like nothing, but I kept chewing away while everyone watched me in drop jawed shock.

I'm looking at the clock on my computer, and the hours and minutes are going by far to quickly for my taste. I worked 74 hours last week and I'm expecting more of the same for the next two weeks. So some of today will be spent matching socks to make life easier next week. Cleaning - because the house is kind of gross looking right now. Grocery shopping - for convenience foods. I hope Lipton Sidekicks are on sale - the kids love that 7 minute rice.

I've only managed to get my hair cut once since I started this job - the week before Labor Day. So on Wednesday, instead of going back to work after I see the Doctor I'm getting a freaking haircut. Maybe even an eyebrow wax.
And if the Doctor wants to do a lady exam before sending me to see a specialist who will evict Aunt Flo, I'll be reassuring myself with the thought that at least I'm not at work for a while. Plus I'll have a haircut to look forward to. 

What's in a name?

Guess what?

I may not be able to convince my kids to flush the toilet, but apparently I can shame grown men into not pissing on the floor. The pee talk worked and I did not once today have to worry about getting someone's pee on my pants cuff.

WINNING!

Then when I came home for lunch, the kitten was playing in the not my bedroom part of the house. With the dog and the kids.

WINNING!

Asshat #1 asked me "have you named this thing yet?"

He actually does love animals, once I wash the poo smell off them, but he has to act like he's a cynical tough guy.

So I told him her name was Miss Kitty.

Asshat #1: Well that's just ridiculous.

So I think he's going to call her Paws, but we know her name is really Miss Kitty.

Miss Kitty in true cat fashion is part of the reason I'm rarely on my computer these days. If she's awake she will continuously walk across the keyboard. After all, how dare I ignore her cuteness in favor of that silly little twitter bird.

Miss Kitty also frowns upon me reading in bed rather than indulging her cuteness. She's a bit mean to the books.

I promise better pictures in the future. My memory card in my phone just up and died on me one day. Which means I have to figure out how to get my Tomato Hunk back on my phone so I can show him off to complete strangers.

How the fuck did my life come to this?

There are days where I stop and wonder.

How the fuck did my life come to this point?

Yesterday that feeling hit me like a ton of bricks. Right after I went around talking to all the men in the packhouse about improving their aim. It seems we've got ourselves a fellow who is either waiting too long to go to the bathroom or is just a slob, because he pisses on the floor in front of the urinal at least 4 times a day.

Yes - I had the potty talk with a bunch of grown ass men. 

I mean it isn't sucky enough that I've been dumped from an almost 5 year relationship, I've also got this job that calls for some crazy assed hours - supervising a lot of people. Sixty of them.

Those sixty people are quite a mix too.

I've got high spirited Jamaicans displaying tomatoes with dicks at their workspaces. Today, I saw this lovely combo...

It's like they were made for each other isn't it?

Sadly, it's the most action I've seen in over a month.

And I've got strait laced Mennonite ladies - so I'm always doing the balancing act between being my usual trashy self and being my "mature professional" self.

Let's just say the trashy me is the real me.

Then I've got the problem people.

The young people who have no goals in life - and trust me it shows - that I'm always trying to encourage. I don't know why I let it happen but they bring out the mother in me.

The slow guy, who is a great worker - with a serious flirting issue - that always has to be tamped down. If there is a pretty girl in his vicinity he can't stop himself from staring.

Then there's The Swinger - who spent the week stomping around like a herd of PMSing 11 year old girls who had all just been dumped. I have never in my life met a man who gets his panties in a twist like this one does. To top it off, when I made my rounds doing the "aim" talk, he let me know that it wasn't him because he pees blood.

Eeew, just fucking eeew, but BULLSHIT! If the guy peed blood there would be a medical reason. He's obviously spent too many years working with people who don't know how to call him on his shit, because none of his BS is believable to me.

Seriously - How The Fuck Did My Life Come To THIS?

Nine tonight, six tomorrow and prepare yourself for supper

Two days in a row of working until 9 pm, after starting at 6 am, means I am officially dead dog tired.

To make it even worse, I had our Controller sitting at my desk all damn day. Tying up my computer and my chair, which meant I got to spend the entire day on my feet. He also had the heat on in the office full blast, which really brought out his personal aroma of old man. It took about 3 hours to clear the air of heat and smell after he finally left. It was like somebody had canned that Value Village old dusty clothes smell and let it out in my office. 

So then I asked one of the young people (anyone under 30) if his mom used Gain laundry detergent. Original scent Gain has a very distinct scent to me, and I kept catching whiffs of it.

K: To be honest, I used L's deodorant this morning because I didn't make it home last night.

L is a girl - one of the other Young People, and not his girlfriend either. Just good friends.

K: I figured watermelon was better than BO.

It was my best laugh of the day. 

Unfortunately, The Swinger is no longer mad at me. Which means he's talking to me again.

I'll work harder on pissing him off tomorrow. Which will be a 6 am start as well.

I honestly don't care if I never eat another damn tomato again. But I do have a tomato dick pick for you all.

Hyper-irritability Ruled Today

Honestly I haven't been to a Doctor in at least 3 years. I haven't been sick so I just haven't gone. I used to just go to a walk in clinic but then found myself a family doctor - and then never went.

I had forgotten how damn frustrating it could be to make an appointment.

I started last week. I called on my lunch, and found out there's no receptionist on duty at lunch time. Then I called from work at 4 - again no receptionist on duty at that time.

Seriously - I want that bitch's hours.

So I called the next day. From my pay as you go cell phone. I got through, started negotiating an appointment (that is what it felt like - negotiations) and ran out of minutes.

Today, I started again. I repeatedly got the "your call is important to us blah blah blah" and hung up, because I'm paying for those minutes. From 9 am to 12 pm I tried to get through to the receptionist.

At one point I was so frustrated, I was afraid I would get through and tear a strip off her. Which would earn me a "needs meds" notation on my file and the shittiest appointment times available for the rest of my life.

Finally at 3:30 I got through - so yeah, I'll finally be looking after my health. When I list my symptoms of fatigue, muscle cramps and Aunt Flo's extended visits, I'll be sure to add hyper-irritability to the list. I seem to have that symptom in spades.

Speaking of hyper-irritability - The Swinger felt it's edge today.

I had heard rumblings that he felt he was underpaid and not getting enough hours.

He gets shorted on hours because to be completely honest - he's a pain in the ass. Plus the other Shipper/Receiver works twice as hard and actually helps get things rolling in the morning. The Swinger just walks around yapping and irritating everyone.  

This afternoon he made a mistake and vented in front of me. I have to do all this paperwork, blah blah blah, they don't pay me enough, blah blah blah. 

I lost my temper and told him that if he wasn't happy there were at least three people waiting in line for his job and that he should try checking out the job market to see what people in our area are really making now that all the manufacturing jobs are gone.

He didn't like that so he whined to the other supervisor. The other supervisor told a little fib and said "you should listen then, she's above me."

The Swinger was even less happy to be told that I was his boss's boss. Which I'm not really - because I turned it down.

So I've got a doctors appointment and The Swinger isn't speaking to me.

In the game of life, I won today. 

The Swinger, Cramps, and the Not Long Weekend.

Most of the time, I try to avoid starting conversation with The Swinger. Once he starts talking it's nearly impossible to get away from him.

Friday I was desperate though. I had cramps and I knew The Swinger had a stash of Ibuprofin in his locker. So I asked him if I could have a couple.

The Swinger: blah blah blah, what's it for, blah blah blah.

Me: Cramps.

Now The Swinger is a single 40 year old man. I thought that would end the conversation nicely.

It didn't.

The Swinger: blah blah blah, when I was out in the greenhouse I had some Percocet for my back. I gave one to one of the ladies one time for her cramps and she said it worked great, blah blah blah.

Honestly, I was grateful for the Ibuprofin. Really I was, but discussing my period with The Swinger isn't my idea of fun - or even okay.

So far, the only topic I've discovered that puts the man off is if I start yapping about my dog. Especially if I spread the proud doggy mommy on thick.

Three day weekend? Pffft, as if. 

Here in Canada, it's a long weekend. For the rest of the country anyhow. For myself it's a regular Sunday only weekend.

To make it worse, some people will be taking Monday off. The locals, and especially the Mennonites because it's also a Mennonite religious holiday. All of this means that Monday will not only be me working resentfully because it is a holiday, it means it will be me working Monday frantically because certain key people will be missing.

It will probably be a long day too. 

Sometimes life just sucks giant monkey balls.