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?

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.

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.

How to Close an Interesting Year.

Tam and I consider 2010 to be an interesting year, and by interesting, I mean ACK! Oh my fucking BRAINS, what the hell was that?

To be honest, I don’t even remember how the hell it started, but I do know 2009 was kind of a pisser/bummer of a year end with the divorce and everything, so 2010 didn’t start out as anything too spectacular (despite the horoscope insisting otherwise: banner year, stellar things happening, blah, blah, blah…).

There were good things that happened, great things too. And a few not-so-great things, but let’s not dwell on those not-so-good moments, ok? In fact, please excuse me while I push those little bastard moments right over the nearest cliff.

Oh, much better!

But the end of the year has turned out to be equally hilarious as it is frustrating.

For example, Tam and I had to hit the grocery store. We frequent this particular store because they know us, it’s not a department store, so the parking lot is smaller as is the store itself, and they’re gay friendly. At least, they’re friendly to us.

While we were standing in line, a Snarfy Old Dude was busy perusing the supermarket tabloids, when he pulled one out and in a loud voice quoted the headline, “Who’s Gay and Who’s Not?”
I looked over at him and said, “I am.”
Snarfy Old Dude suddenly found it difficult to say anything else.
Tam and I found it difficult to not stand there laughing like a couple of deranged hyenas.

When we got home, I wanted to check on the status of a bank transfer, so I got online, discovered nothing was doing what it was supposed to be doing, and I got a little cranky. I pulled up the “contact us” information of the financial institution, took down the numbers and the options I wanted on their phone tree, and made the call.

I wanted to talk to a live operator. I needed to verbally eviscerate some miserable wretch because my money wasn’t where it was supposed to be and I was concerned. When I say “concerned,” I really mean pissed as hell. I dialed the number, and pressed the option I got from the online information.
The same online information that was written on the bank’s website.
And learned it was not a viable option! Excuse me?
My grip on the phone receiver tightened. I waited, listening again to the options, and pressed a different button, one that I knew would not give me the information I wanted, but what the hell?
At the end of that waste of time, it gave me the chance to get information on transfers and which button I needed to push to get to said information. I pushed that button. That very button their automated operator TOLD me to push for that information.
And learned THAT was not a viable option either and I needed to make another selection!
Then? Then I did a very childish thing. I began smacking the button pad on the phone, hitting several of them at once while casting aspersions on the species and parentage of the engineers of such a technological nightmare as that phone tree. Childish? Yes, indeed. Satisfying? HELLS YES!
What’s better? In the middle of my tirade, a voice came over the line stating that I would now be connected to a live operator.

Do you think they heard me?

Solstice Celebration!

We celebrated Solstice and what a great day it was!

It started out with a long-overdue luncheon with a group of gals I’ve known for about 20 years. We try to meet up once a month, but we’re not always successful.

We’re busy girls, you know, and one of us is going to be a GRANDMA in July! (No, it’s NOT me, sorry). Wow… yeah… one of my best friends is going to be a grandma.

Please hold while I wrap my brain around this fact…

Asl;kflkjsdfklkg asdfksdfklskla fklajkleiognakl;df asdf ghallsdljk s!!!! holyshit!!!!!

Thank you.

Anyway, these are women who have been with me (and me with them) through thick and thin, hell and high water, marriages, divorces, death and birth.

And coming out.

These are women who stood by me when I came out of the closet. These good Christian women did not judge me, they accepted me, embraced me, and occasionally poke fun at me (“So, Tooth ‘fairy’ has taken on a whole new meaning at your house then?”), and I’ve had the honor of returning all those favors in kind.

Yesterday was the first time we’d been able to get together in several months, and wow, so much has happened for all of us. Fortunately, the staff at the restaurant knew this and did not press us to hurry up and move along. Even after three hours! Probably has a lot to do with the good tipping practices we employ.

After that, I arrived home to find a marvelous spread of MORE FOOD! that my beloved partner set out for Solstice. The original plan had been to have her offspring over for Solstice and mine would visit on Christmas. However, things have a tendency to not go as planned, so when I got home, two of my children were there and Tam was still waiting for her out-of-town daughter (The Hair) to arrive. Her older son would not be able to come over, as he had to work.

The Hair showed up about the same time my youngest made an appearance and food was devoured. We sat around laughing, swapping stories, and munching on such fare as fresh veggies, multi-grain rolls with sliced meats and cheeses, mustards of a myriad of flavors (cranberry mustard on ham and Swiss = YUM!). The Hair’s roommate had also joined us and brought home made strawberry marshmallows and oh!my!brains! what bliss! They were especially awesome when roasted.

I suppose it was a good thing I had such an awesome Solstice, because the next day was the one I’d scheduled to be my “get the last of the gifts purchased” day, which involves a trip to hell the mall.

Tam and her youngest (Li’l Red) joined me and my sons, and we planned to divide and conquer. This meant I had to drive to the mall. Through traffic. Holiday traffic. Not a fan of it, believe me. The stress began approximately two blocks from home when Tam mentioned the name of a local mall. The place USED to be called “SouthCenter” because of its location: South of Seattle and kind of in the middle of everything.

Then some folks bought it and changed the name to include the “word” Shoppingtown.

Shoppingtown?! For some reason, that particular turn of phrase makes me lose my shit every time I hear it. Shoppingtown sounds like something you’d hear out of the sticky face of a four-year-old, dressed in layers of fluffy pink chiffon, with snappy Mary Janes, and a fucking “hello kitty” purse dangling from her white gloved hands as she skips along with her pony-tail swinging and little birds chirping and flitting overhead…

What? I told you I hated that term. Shopping-fucking-town… sheesh.

So, that was how the adventure started, and when we tossed in a shit-load of idiot drivers and some low blood-sugar, wow, what a fun time we had just getting there!

But now most of my shopping is complete. I have a couple more things I’d like to get, but they may have to wait until after the holiday when they go on sale. Or even later, like after I’ve paid all my bills and have another payday under my belt at the end of January, and yes, I DO hate getting paid only once a month, especially when they “do us a favor” by paying us REALLY early in December “just in time for Christmas shopping,” making that six weeks until the next check feel like a bloody eternity, rife with pink chiffon, snappy little Mary Jane’s and a fucking “hello kitty” purse that is filled with air because it’s taking payday for-fucking-ever to arrive…

WHAT???

On top of all this? We’re trying to plan a trip down to see my parents for a few days before we have to head back to work. My parents, a.k.a. those people who haven’t quite figured out that I’ve grown up a bit over the years and actually have a clue about some things. Oh and I’m a lesbian, which seems to amuse my mother. No, I don’t know why, I just know she asks a LOT of questions.

Please excuse me while I stick my head in this handy little Hello Kitty purse and attempt to regulate my breathing.

Bye-Bye, Birdie Bird

My bird died.

We have no idea how old he was, but he flew into Tam’s life about 12 years ago. They saw that little cockatiel in the yard, the weather was starting to get cold, so she and her kids spent the next day or so trying to catch him. He finally found himself under a overturned laundry basket and was taken inside the house.

All the accoutrements were purchased, and a name was given: Pokey.

He was a neurotic, feather pulling, untagged little tyrant who refused to bond with anyone. Well, he tried to bond with Tam’s mom, but she’s more of a dog person, so that didn’t quite work out.

Then Tam moved in with me, and somehow I managed to persuade Pokey to become my friend. It didn’t take long for the two of us to bond, and for the first time in my life, I felt there was a pet that was truly mine. I was his favorite.

He would shriek a greeting the moment he heard me come home, and make all kinds of racket until I greeted him properly. Many of my clothes were adorned by bird poop, because, well, birds poop rather indiscriminately. We would “schmoozle” each other and his little feet would be so warm on my arm.

Pokey was a frequent visitor at my computer, and I considered him my muse. I did some of my best writing with him perched there. Not always, though. There were moments I spent more time keeping him off my keyboard, where he would attempt to eat the symbols off the keys, or just stroll around and act like he was about to poop. Again.

So, he was at least 13 years old when he flew over the Rainbow Bridge. Some people say that’s only midlife for a bird, others say that’s about all you get. Whatever. As far as I’m concerned, it wasn’t long enough. Ten more years wouldn’t have been long enough. I only got to enjoy him for a little over a year.

But it was a good year for both of us.

We buried him outside the office window, his favorite toy hanging in the apple tree next to his grave. Later that afternoon, I had to run an errand, I didn’t really want to be alone, but I was a big girl and did what needed to be done. When I was on my way home, teary and sad, something caught my eye.

Right there, over the valley where I live, was a rainbow…

SNOW!

We’ve had our first official snow of the year and oh, what fun!

As usual, there was panic because in the Pacific NW (at least in my particular area) snow isn’t that common, so when we get it we get weird. Also, we have hills. Kind of steep ones, with lots of twists and turns in them. Unfortunately, we have a tendency to get all excited and drive our cars over steep precipices, into ditches, or just leave them in the middle of the road when we realize it’s too slippery to continue in the direction we had been traveling.

It’s not that we can’t find a different way to get to our destination; it’s just that if we had to choose between the smell of our own urine and feces in an enclosed vehicle or getting out and walking, we’ll always choose a lively game of dodge-car any damn day.

That’s why I love my car. It can, and will, go anywhere, and because my mother was very good at insisting I learn how to drive in the snow when I was a new driver, I can do wonderful things with my car. Like, you know, get to where I’m going and still retain all my pee and poo inside my body. Yes, I’m THAT awesome!

The worst thing to happen to me was that time the car I was driving lost traction and we ended up in a slow 360 spin across the road, over a curb and into a field. Spawn was just a tiny monster and my first thought was “don’tletmybabygethurt.” I did not evacuate my bladder or my bowels.

Neither did Spawn. Her first thought was not PANIC! It was “Do ‘gain, Mommy.”

It could have been worse, but I kept my head and didn’t roll the car. Probably because I was going too damn slow for that to happen.

Anyway, I think the best part about the snow today was one of the kids in class. He’s never seen the stuff. We were on our way to the cafeteria, when my charge unexpectedly wheeled his chair over to some snow-covered benches and proceeded to investigate this new white fluff all over the place.

He got very excited and proceeded to tell everyone about it, wheeling his chair around like a maniac, laughing and showing everyone his…empty hand! Wait! Where’s the snow? He tried to go back and get some more, but it was lunch time and I promised him it would still be there later. Thankfully, I was right.

So now, most of the district employees are begging for a two-hour late start (which means we don’t have to make up the day later in the year). The chant has begun.

2-hour late start! 2-hour late start! 2-hour late start!