Monday, January 31, 2011

Hell is NOT Underground.

Not only is hell above ground, it is surrounded by asphalt covered in white lines and cars driven by idiots. Those same idiots who drive aimlessly to find some white lines that suit their requirements, the most important one being as close to their destination as possible. Those idiots then bring their poorly-driven vehicles to a stop in the general vicinity of three or four white lines, because these people are under the impression that the more white lines you cover with your car, the better you are.

These same people then begin their amble toward the gates of hell. A very slow, plodding, distracted amble in what they think must be the widest sidewalk in history… right down the middle of the driving lane of the parking lot. This causes drivers to either carelessly roar past them at unsafe speeds, or follow the Plodders in their vehicles giving the drivers plenty of time to build up a full head of rage.

Plodders see no reason to act any differently in hell than they do in the parking lot. Shopping carts are propelled aimlessly through various departments, plowing through groups of Actual Shoppers who are attempting to complete their lists, thus scattering their carts to the four winds and making them start all over.

Besides the Plodders, there are several other species that dwell within the confines of this particular hell. They are all from the Genus, the Aimless Ones.

Freezer Standers will pause for long moments in the freezer section with the doors open, gazing at all the wonders thawing in front of their eyes. Never mind that the doors are clean and clear and the display is well lit, they must open the door and stare until one of two things happen: they actually make a decision (rare) or someone drops a coin on the floor.

For a while, I believed these Freezer Standers would be summoned back from the frozen wastes by their electronic umbilicus, aka their cell-phone, but no. Sometimes these idiots will stand in the freezer with the door open while they’re texting or chatting on the phone about something totally unrelated to frozen, or thawing, foods.

Close relatives of the Freezer Standers are the Aisle Blockers. Aisle Blockers are oblivious to anyone else in the vicinity and will stand for long moments giving the shelves of pasta the 1,000-mile stare. They don’t even want pasta, and neither should you, dammit. *Note: a sub-sub class of Aisle Blockers is the genus of Farters. Farters should be avoided at all costs, and above all, DO NOT FOLLOW A FARTER. If you do, you will succumb to the smell and be lost in hell forever.

Once the cart is full, it is time for the Lurkers to spring into action. Lurkers wait on side aisles until they spot People In a Hurry to Leave, and they lunge out of hiding, directly in the path of the hurrying people aaaaand slow down. Sub-genre of Lurkers are the Stop-n-Starers, which are not to be confused with the Aisle Blockers. Stop-n-Starers do their stopping and staring primarily in areas of high traffic and favor those aisles that lead to the check-out stands.

You can tell the difference between Aisle Blockers and Stop-n-Starers because Aisle Blockers tend to be either solitary or travel only with offspring. Small offspring. Small, noisy, ill-mannered offspring. Stop-n-Starers, on the other hand, travel in loose packs in order to block as much of the exit aisle as possible, slowing as many People in a Hurry as possible until we turn on each other.

Many have asked, “Why do Stop-n-Starers stop?” Who the fuck knows. Maybe they got a text, or there is a large display of unhealthy snacks that demand their full attention. Or because there is so much air… between their ears…

Once the gauntlet has been run, it is time to face the CHECKOUT DEMON! Checkout Demons are an odd bunch. Some are fast, efficient, and even friendly (and I only say that because I know one personally, and she is awesome, however, she was not working that day), while the majority are… not so much of the awesome.

For example, the conveyers are not automatic at this particular hell hole; they must be triggered by a switch which is controlled by the demon. The demon would rather reach across miles of broken glass and sharp rocks to get your purchases rather than move the conveyer forward, thus allowing you to finish putting said purchases on the conveyer and move up to the money-grabbing device.

But, it’s a trap! Not only do you have the slowest form of demon scanning and not moving your stuff, but you’re now becoming familiar with that vilest denizen of hell, the Butt Bumper. This dreadful creature will bump your butt with its cart every few moments, while you try to convince the Checkout Demon to please move the conveyer forward so the next person in line, a.k.a., the Butt Bumper, can unload their cart. If you ask the Checkout Demon to please move the items forward on the conveyer, said demon will look at you as if you just asked her to give birth to yet another litter of demon pups RIGHT THERE IN THE CHECKOUT STAND! How dare!

Once you’ve sold your soul and packed your souvenirs into your car, you have only one more task to complete before you can fully exit hell. You must once again face the parking lot trial. Only this time, you know to wait until the path is all clear before you proceed. Unfortunately, that’s right about the time they open the gates of hell and release the Discount Shoppers.

These final species are truly odious, for not only are they heavily laden, they are smug and oblivious. Like their cousins, the Stop-n-Starers, the Discount Shoppers lurch out in the path of oncoming traffic, unaware of imminent danger. They don’t care! After all, they’ve just shopped for hours and saved a TON of money they can now use to pay their hospital bills!

Next time, if there is one, I’m sending Og in to the fray. Won’t that be…fun?

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Yeah, That Figures

The blog sits untended for weeks, so of course, I decide to write something for it the night I’ve taken a couple of Nyquil liquid-filled capsules and my mind is beginning to play tricks on me. Nyquil gives me lucid dreams, ones that don’t always end when I finally haul my sorry, drugged ass out of bed.

My job is going to kill me. Just last week, I was hit so hard a couple times, it took me a moment to collect myself (and the body parts that got slapped right off my sorry carcass). Telling the office manager that I’m currently on a scavenger hunt for my nose is getting old. Filling out those damn incident forms is even less fun, although she’s making it easier by filling out the important stuff that never changes.

Especially the part that says, “forgot to duck.”

Then there’s the part where parents send in their sick kids, kids who will never master the art of not coughing into other people’s faces. Yeah, my job can kind of suck the gross factor on a rather regular basis.

But, all in all, work isn’t bad, and I’m not exactly at liberty to discuss much of it, and we all know how dangerous it can be to even mention it, but you know, there are some things that just need venting and there’s enough Nyquil in my system to make that bad idea go straight to the page.

What is it about some people who just can’t say a single nice thing about those co-workers who are out of earshot? I mean seriously, the minute we are out of the room on a breakfast run, she’s blasting OUR co-workers with nasty words and cutting comments, and while not everything she says is untrue or exaggerated, I’m getting tired of hearing it. Especially since I’m pretty sure she’s saying the same kind of thing about me when I’m out of the room. Mind you, I don’t give a rip about her opinion of me.

I’m not too crazy about the one who hangs out on the computer most of the day, shopping. Not for the classroom, but for herself or her family. Hey, we have a room full of high maintenance kids, we need all the help we can get. And the look she gives anyone who asks her to help…? Wow, more scars to add to my collection of work-related boo-boos.

Then there’s the loud one. Loud and opinionated, and while those two traits on their own can be difficult to handle, when they’re together? Oh, man… she has no idea that the things she says are heard by people who really don’t need to hear them. Like the big boss. Wow, that was an awkward moment.

But there are some nice gals there, ones I enjoy working with, although they’re not perfect, they’re decent to each and every other person there.

Then there’s the one who loves to give presents, but that means we all “get” to chip in a “small amount.” While 5 dollars may not seem like a lot to most people, when the paycheck is finished before the bills are, five dollars is a LOT. Yet, she cannot understand why I’m not all giddy about joining in the festivities. Sorry, babe, I’m poor. I don’t expect anything from them on my birthday, in fact, I’d rather they NOT do anything for my birthday except wish me a happy one. I don’t need anything (well, except maybe some home improvement help, but that’s not going to happen). But the majority (or the vocal minority, I’m not sure exactly how this happens to line up) gets their knickers in a knot if we don’t all play the game.

“It’s a hardship on the rest of us, when people don’t pitch in.”

Yeah, well, hello, it’s a hardship on this end of the spectrum, too, so STFU. Besides, the ones who are the poutiest about the gifts are the ones who are married to men with good jobs and their paychecks earned while working in the classroom goes to pay for fun stuff, vacations, new gadgets, and the upgrades on the vehicles.

These constant requests for money really stress me out and I tend to get a little cranky. This crankiness was commented on by someone in the room (I’m sure I can guess who) and I got called on the carpet for it.

I held my annoyance in check and apologized, promising to do better to keep a more positive attitude.

But, I’m still not handing over any money for gifts. I have to buy more icepacks for the bruises I’m busy collecting when I forget to duck.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Just Another Day in the Confession Booth

Forgive me, dear readers, for I must confess something rather… minor. At least, to me it’s minor. To someone I know and love, mainly my partner, it is a grievous issue.

I am not a cat person.

That’s not to say I don’t like cats, because I do. Sometimes. But I also like birds, dogs, horses, cows, not too crazy about chickens but that is fodder for another post much later, frogs, and most other critters that roam the planet.

But I’m not a “cat person.” This is not saying that I don’t appreciate kittens, because seriously, it’s hard to not love those little “chronovores.” Hours can disappear while you play with the little sprites and laugh at their antics.

Then they grow up and, well, become teenagers cats. Aloof, disrespectful, and oblivious to the obvious. Especially the ones Tam brought with her.

Thor and Freya (a.k.a. Crash and Burn) were so adorable as kittens, sucking up time like it was tuna water, but by the time they came to live with me, they were mostly adult-ish and not so fun. And they learned they could pee in special places because the catbox was upstairs and offspring tend to neglect such amenities as litterboxes even when said box is making their private domain smell like, um, the ass end of a cat.

So we ended up getting a second litter box and putting it in the office. Near the bookcase.

Did you know, cats like to read in the pottybox, at least ours do, judging by all the magazines pulled off the shelves and into the litter. No matter how many times we remove their reading material, they find more to leave in there for us to find. National Geographic is a favorite, but they also managed to wrestle an atlas into the pan.

I do question this desire to familiarize themselves with the planet as they do their pooping. Are they dreaming of a litterbox the size of the Sahara? Of course, it wouldn’t matter how big the box, Thor STILL wouldn’t manage to bury his poop. He’s so stupid, he takes a dump, then climbs out of the box and begins digging AROUND the outside of the box. When he’s certain he’s done an adequate job, he turns and sniffs, wrinkles his nose at the still-unburied pile of crap, and starts the process all over again.

Such an activity will continue until someone gets tired of hearing, “dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig…snifffff…dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig…” Lather, rinse, repeat… Once the breaking point has been reached, the humans will begin hissing and stomping, chasing his ridiculous furry ass out of the office.

And? The cats are longhairs, so that brings a whole new element of joy to the game. Long cat hairs in my coffee, my food, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, all over my clothes… Oh, and when they poop and it gets hung up on said long hairs, well, then it’s a very stinky monster and it’s chasing us all over the house. So we must run! Fast! And jump on all the furniture! And visit the clean laundry! And then our sibling must join in the merriment by mocking us for having a turd-monster hanging from our behind.

And then? We crash! Into something fragile or noisy, and we hiss and spit, and show our claws and teeth and pin our ears back and we STILL have a stinky turd-monster stuck to our butt only now we have a headache, too!

I like dogs. When the Ancient of Dogs was young and not too busy chewing baby Jesus’ sandals, she was a lot of fun. We’d go for walks, so she could check her pee-mail, and she’d play fetch. I miss playing fetch. These days, if I were to throw a ball at her (and if she even noticed it) she would give it a sniff, lick it once and then go back to sleep.

I’d really like a pony, or a couple of goats to keep the lawn looking good. Not that the neighbor boy didn’t do a good job of it. He’s cute in a teen male kind of way, but he’s not a cute furry animal who mows the lawn, trims the shrubbery, and fertilizes it as well. In fact, we appreciate the fact that he never did fertilize the lawn in any manner what so ever last year. Plus I had to pay him. Goats and ponies don’t take cash, they eat their pay.

As if the Bitch Fairy neighbor didn’t already hate us enough, I can only imagine what having livestock in my yard would do to her hair-do.