Category Archives: Random Crap
As an executive admin I had to relieve our receptionist at lunch from time to time when I worked for Major Retailer at their corporate headquarters.
This is how the phone exchanges went every time:
ME: Thank you for calling Major Retailer, how may I direct your call?
CALLER: Is Mr. Bigshot there?
ME: May I ask who’s calling?
CALLER: Mr. Biggershot
ME: One moment,please.
Then, I’d hit the “HOLD” button and everything that just took place would disappear from my brain.
Sometimes, I had to go back to the caller 2-3 times before I’d retain the information long enough to transfer the call to the right person.
Before too long, I was permanently relieved from receptionist relief.
I never have figured out why. My guess is they paid me too much to sit up at the front desk and take calls.
One Saturday afternoon a quiet suburban couple, on a quiet suburban street were enjoying the peace and quiet of a home they shared as empty-nesters.
Suddenly, the door bell rang and the husband answered the door.
In burst “Wendy”, claiming to have just come from “your neighbor’s house”, and saying she wanted her guys to “shampoo your living room carpet”.
“We’ll be in and out in 30-40 minutes. And it won’t cost you a thing.”
The husband, either too flummoxed by Wendy’s fast-talk or seeing this as a way to get a free carpet cleaning so he wouldn’t have to do it, let her in.
He completely ignored the fact that anything ‘free’ is usually expensive. Especially when it shows up at your door on a Saturday afternoon.
Wendy’s “guys” followed her in the house dragging a large box with the word Kirby on the side.
By this time, the wife had emerged from her quiet reading room and seeing the “Kirby” logo new this would not end well.
Unless by ‘well’ you mean costing her and the husband a lot of money.
I guess it’s a matter of perspective.
Two and a half hours later, and the carpets, furniture, walls, and bed were vacuumed and one room’s carpets were clean and fluffy.
The house looked great. And it smelled fresh and clean.
The wife asked if in lieu of buying the Kirby, for the same amount of money would the guys just come over every weekend and clean her house.
The guys didn’t like that idea.
So, lo the husband presented the credit card and the Kirby changed hands, and all was good and well in the quiet suburban home on the quiet suburban street.
A few days later the doorbell rang again.
This time, the husband refused to answer the door.
It appears he is learning.
And not in a blatant, roll-over-you or fall-on-top-of-you way.
No, my car knows that if it’s going to kill me it will have to do it subtly.
Like, pretend it’s been shot and make me think that I’ve been shot.
That’s what it did on Sunday.
I was driving home from the store when I heard the loudest BANG! come from the driver’s side door.
I looked for a hole in the door. Nothin’.
I looked for blood running from me, somewhere. Nothin’.
Then, apparently because I hadn’t died from the non-shot shot, the driver’s side window suddenly SUH-LAMMED! down into the door frame.
I admit a twinge of pain in my chest as I reacted to that one.
Or it may have just been that I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Fortunately, I remembered.
I got home, and since hubby was mowing the front yard he yelled over the lawnmower “Shut your window!”
“I CAN’T. It’s GONE!” I replied, as I proceeded to wave my hand around in the window frame where there should have been a hefty piece of tempered glass but now there was just dusty, grass-filled air.
As if the fact that I was gone a short time mattered, hubby said: “You were gone for like 5 minutes. What happened?”
I shrugged, “I have no idea, but the glass is inside the door. Maybe we can get it out and I don’t know, duck tape it in place.”
He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.
Needless to say, that idea went nowhere. Fast.
Also needless to say, I tried anyway and got nowhere. Fast.
The next morning I was waiting at the dealership – the only place that could fix the car quickly – and I spent the day at home, playing with my new Kirby.
That sounds way more kinky than it is.
A Kirby is not a “who”..it’s a “what”.
It’s a fancy-schmancy (read ‘expensive’) vacuum cleaner, and hubby bought me one recently.
When I went to pick up the car, the bill was well over $400 and included words like “replace” and “regulator” and probably “flugelbinder”.
I admit that I grew faint reading the numbers. So much so, that the ‘Service Advisor’ (why isn’t anyone just a plain-old mechanic anymore?) offered me a hefty discount if I promised not to die right there on the service-bay floor.
So, although well-played Vlad (my car’s name is Vlad, because he’s an Impala – wait a moment, you’ll get it) you failed to kill me…barely.
Better luck next time.
A coworker is going to Cambridge – the one in England – to attend her sister’s wedding, eat scones, have ‘high’ tea, and do whatever else one does when one is across the pond.
She asked me today what I wanted her to bring me.
Aside from a Tardis, I could only think of one thing she might have a reasonable chance of getting.
ME: I want one of those tall hats the guards in front of Buckingham Palace wears.
CW: A what?
ME: You know those big, black hats they wear? I have no idea what they are called, but I want one.
CW: Oh…yeah, I don’t know what they are called either, but I’ll see if any of the shops sell them…
ME: Oh, no…missy. You don’t understand. I want you to walk up to one of the guards and ask him to give it to you. Tell him there’s a crazy woman in the U.S. that might go apeshit on you if you don’t.
CW: *blink, blink*
ME: I’m serious.
CW: I…umm….I’ll see what I can do.
ME: Remember – pics or it didn’t happen!
I’ll be modeling my new hat when she gets back in August. I’ll post a picture for y’all…or, you know, it didn’t happen.
So…I went researching a bit after this conversation, because I was curious about what those hats are called.
Holy shit, people! Those Brits are serious about their military attire.
And now, I’m conflicted. I mean, on the one hand…aww….bears! And, on the other…it’s a moral imperative that I get one of these…immediately, because aww….bears.
I was walking through the grocery store when a man passed me going the opposite direction down the aisle.
He looked out of place, and agitated.
He looked out of place because he was dressed for a Jimmy Buffet concert.
He was agitated because he couldn’t find something.
Parrothead: You would think the garbanzo beans would be with the beans, right?
Me: Right (smiling)
Parrothead: Well, they’re not.
Me: (clearly he was not capable of finding them on his own, and I was there..so) They are down this aisle here, by the vegetables. And they are often called ‘chickpeas’.
Me: Yep, and if you mash them up and add some oil, garlic, and lemon juice you’ve got hummus.
Parrothead: Hummus, huh?
Parrothead: Apparently, I need to watch a LOT more cooking shows. (walks away muttering to himself)
Me: (still standing there) And, I guess I watch way too many.
I’m back, but I’m not really back. Not yet.
Today, I’m attempting to trap/capture a stray dog that has been living at the property where I work for a year. It involves catch poles (possibly), restraints (probably), and a trap (most likely). This dog has her own Facebook page, and has attained celebrity status across the nation. She has no idea. Coordinating this effort to trap, transport, and finally get her a forever home has taken months.
So, it comes down to this day. The hottest day of the year, so far, and what am I doing? Chasing a stray dog around approximately 4 million square miles of ideal hidey-holes for dogs, cats, snakes, and skunks.
This is my life.
I got this spam comment on here the other day, and I deleted it because it pissed me off.
And, there’s probably a way to retrieve deleted comments, but damned if I know how.
This post is not about retrieving deleted comments.
It’s about the inability of any blogger to always be on top of her (or his) game.
So Sir Spambot told me he used to come here and read my posts because I was hilarious and uplifting, and now…not so much.
Well, it’s easy to be a critic when that’s all you do.
Which brings me to my next point.
Was this a spammer, or was this an honest opinion?
Doesn’t matter, I deleted it and promptly got all righteous and stuff about how I am such a “brilliant” writer and how dare anyone question my blogging capabilities.
Then I threw up in my mouth a little.
Then I decided I was at least partially right. At least the part about the difficulties of writing a blog for entertainment purposes. The rest? Yeah, not so much.
But, I am honest…or at least I try to be.
Look, whoever you are…if you are a real person…you may have a point. I maybe don’t always have that edge. Maybe I’m not all that interesting, maybe I am boring sometimes, but guess what? This is my little corner of the worldwide web, and if you don’t like it go somewhere else.
Life’s in a holding pattern.
Winter will not leave Texas, and despite the blazing sun I’m cold.
All. The. Time.
I have a million things I need to do, and zero interest in most of them.
I tried yard work, and jacked-up my already fecked-up-beyond-belief back.
So, I guess I do have something to post about. It’s just that I’m posting about whiny stuff.
Nothing to see here.
Not only am I now awaiting my THIRD “Supernatural: Third Season, Disc 2” to arrive from Blockbuster – the first two having been broken in half when I got them, and now I’m wondering what supernatural forces are working to keep me from seeing this particular batch of episodes.
I also got this cryptic message from my e-mail Nazis at work.
[SUSPICIOUS MESSAGE] Pocket Devotions, day 478: A Hero’s Life
See the day? This is the 478th day I’ve received a Biblical message in my Inbox and today, of all days, it’s deemed ‘suspicious’.
There are forces at work here, I’m tellin’ ya.
The cosmos is fecking with my mind.
I’m kinda/sorta/maybe in the market to replace the 8-yr. old 165K miles-on-it car that I really do like. It’s just starting to have ‘issues’, and much as I hate break-ups I hate breakdowns even more.
Besides, at my age, my ass/back needs something comfy to sit in when I drive. And with the elebenty-hunnert grandchildren around these days we need something larger.
After much looking around the ‘Net I decided I want a Chevy Traverse. Hubby is underwhelmed at the idea of getting into payments again, so he has thus far refrained from shopping or test-driving.
I blame him for what happened Tuesday.
I found a very nice-looking Traverse with low mileage and a great price at a dealership near my house, so I decided to go by there and test drive it on my way home.
I’ve always been one to engage in the idle chatter that a used-car salesman will instigate the minute you get inside the vehicle for the test. This time I was tired, and I was trying to get a feel/listen to the Traverse, so I was silent.
ChattyBoy was not…so, he only has himself to blame for this:
ChattyBoy (CB): This is a nice vehicle, isn’t it? And you just never, ever find one for under $20K anywhere. Not ever.
ME: *silent as I’m navigating the turns out of the parking lot onto the street, but I notice there’s something ‘off’ about this vehicle*
CB: Nosiree, never one this low-priced. And…umm…it’s really nice, not scratches, no dings…..
ME: *except the scratched-to-hell inside of the back hatch door, and the chunk missing from one of the third-row seat backs and there’s something wrong with the way this thing handles*
CB: …and an exceptionally nice ride, for what’s basically a large SUV…handles pretty well, doesn’t it? And, the price! Can you believe it? Did I mention it’s also a ‘Certified’ vehicle? Yep, it goes through a 177 point inspection. All that for a remarkable price. So, what’s your budget?
ME: *finally speaking* I don’t have a set budget, it depends on the vehicle and there’s something really wrong with the suspension or else one of the right-side tires is in the shape of a football.
CB: *after a few seconds* You may be right.
ME: 177 point inspection? Really?
CB: *beaming*Yep, it’s got an extended warranty and it’s Certified.
ME: 177 points, and yet the mechanics missed the fact that one of tires may be in the shape of a football…or, there’s something much larger going on and that’s a big problem.
CB: *nervous laughter* Yeah, sometimes I wonder where the mechanic’s heads are at.
ME: So, if they missed this big a problem, what kind of confidence can I have that any of the other 177 points were addressed?
ME *on a roll now* And while we are at it, I’ve seen plenty of vehicles at or below this one’s price.
CB: Really? Where?
ME: At other-much-larger-dealership nearby.
CB: *sulking* Well, yeah..but they do a huge volume…
ME: Look, bud, you’re the one going on and on about pricing…and you know what? I wouldn’t pay that for this vehicle. It’s beat to hell, drives like it’s run the Baja, and is the most vanilla version of a Traverse.
By this time we were back at the dealership and he almost waited for the car to stop completely before getting out.
I walked into the showroom with him as he kept apologizing for the lousy condition of the car and promising it would get fixed.
CB: So, if we fix the problems, how much would you be willing to pay?
ME: No more than $13K (the sticker was $16.5K)…and I mean not a penny more.
CB: *looking crestfallen* I’ll call you.
ME: Yeah, you do that.
As I left I realized I’d just come across as the biggest bitch on the planet, and I also realized I don’t give a shit. I’m there to spend money, my money, and it’s going to be on my terms.
But, I have to admit I’d of been a lot less bitchy if hubby had gone with. He’s the voice-of-reason, and my warrior and protector. ChattyBoy wouldn’t have tried so hard after Hubby gave him that sideways glance the first time the car wonky-wooed to the right.
I told hubby about my adventure when I got home and his only response was, “You really shouldn’t be allowed to go places alone.”
Can’t argue with that logic.