F*CK You Friday

Yeah, I haven’t had a F*CK You Friday in a while.  Things were going smoothly for awhile, then I hit a speed bump or three and didn’t have the energy to put it all out there.  I also took care of a few of my rants in my last few posts so this should be a pretty light F*CK You…

  • F*CK You to bicyclists in New York City.  While I’m thrilled that you’re taking the greener route home and not clogging the streets with cars, I’m exasperated that none of you are following traffic rules.  Seriously, every bicyclist I see runs through red lights!  And seriously, I’ve almost been run over at least three times a week.Slow the f*ck down and stop at the damn lights…you’re going to kill yourself or more importantly, me.
  • F*CK You to Bank of America.  This morning when I got to Penn Station I tried to buy a monthly unlimited Metrocard.  I tried four freaking times and each time I got “We can’t process your request at this moment”. (I envision this said in a very snooty voice.)  The card is $104 and I’m 99.99% positive I have the money in my account to cover it.  And I’m also 99.99% sure I have NO cash in my wallet to buy a single ride.  So I hike it to 48th Street and arrive at work ten minutes late and more than a little sweaty to find a text message and a voice mail telling me BoA has put a stop on my account due to suspicious activity on my card.  The last time I got this message, they stopped my account because I spent .99 on a download for my Silhoutte machine.  Yes, ninety-nine cents.

That made them suspicious?

I called them and they had put a stop after I purchased  my daily LIRR ticket ($20) and they wouldn’t let the four $104 transactions through, either, thank goodness.  They made a note that I MAY be making an MTA purchase at the end of the month so that they’ll let it through and not suspect someone else wants to go to Manhattan by railroad.  What. The. Hell.  They are monitoring my purchases!  And approving them!  I thanked them kindly for the consideration  then told them I’m furious at them for not letting my purchase a Metrocard and making me walk twenty some-odd blocks.  My wallet and my sore feet say F*CK You, Bank of America.

  • F*CK You to my team at work.  I don’t want to bore anyone with the details of our fight at our last monthly meeting.   I just want the support I was promised when I need it, the workload I was guaranteed when I require it and no egos, bullshit or excuses when I’m trying appease everyone else in the bank.  I want to do my job as quickly and as painlessly as possible so I can go home and not worry about stuff at work.  I’ve been doing this too long to have this kind of crap being pulled all the time from my own team- we’re supposed to be a team, functioning on the same wavelength, not everyone out for themselves.  Piss off, I’m still not speaking to any of you.
  • Speaking of work, F*CK You to all the project managers who NEED things from me.  I NEED THIS and I NEED THAT.   GIVE me this, GIVE me that.   I NEED $100,000, doesn’t mean I’m going to get it.  Try asking, nicely, for the things you need.  You all sound like spoiled children- trying saying please and thank you.  This isn’t 1950 and I’m not your secretary getting you coffee and picking up your dry cleaning.  I have more education than you and definitely more manners.  I WILL tell you to ask nicely next time, asshats.

Okay, I’m out of here.  I got an appointment with a few needles (Dr. Wang, tee hee!) and then a weekend full of soccer and soccer and, oh…soccer.

Have a great weekend!

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Tweets I Would Have Twittered

I’m a twit.  I have a Twitter account but have no farking idea how to Tweet.  @ and # and %^&!? Thanks, but no thanks.  I do like the idea of putting out short “in the moment” ideas and feelings instead of typing 1,024 words about a recent bus incident.   But I just can’t figure Twitter out, and I don’t want my head up my phone’s ass all the time.

So I jot them all down on paper.  What for? I haven’t a clue, but I’m going to put them here anyway.  It was time to clean out my pocketbook.

The one that started it all:

  • My friend said “Wait, what?”  I punched him in the arm because I thought he was calling me a twat.
  • If you knew what I had in my bag, you wouldn’t sit next to me on the bus.
  • I kicked an acorn all the way to my bus stop.  It will probably be the highlight of my day.
  • @annoying soccer mom: Next time you waste 15 minutes of my time telling me about your son’s job at your country club I’m going to stick my umbrella into your eye.
  • @annoying soccer mom:  Next time you manage to slip into the conversation that you own 11 stores, I’m going to stick my umbrella into your other eye.
  • @annoying soccer mom:  I don’t care about where you went to school, where your husband went to school or where your child goes to school.  Shit like that doesn’t impress me.  Please go away.
  • On the way to work I stopped to smell the roses.  I missed my bus.
  • I think the dog/cat/lizard peed on my sneakers. I get a whiff and a squish every time I walk.
  • If I had a bus and a CDL license, I would be gunning for your ass right now.
  • Weigh, twat?
  • My firm doesn’t have to lay off 3,500 persons.  Just fire the one person that lost $2,300,000,000.00 in bad trades.
  • What does coconut water really supposed to taste like?  I’ve had this box for 2 years…
  • I just beat out somebody bidding on a wedding dress on eBay.  I’m using it for Halloween.  What if she really wanted to wear it for her wedding?  I suck.
  • There isn’t enough Black Cohosh on the planet to soothe the last five days of my raging anger.
  • I looked up my old therapist.  She’s retired, battling cancer.  I feel bad we never talked about her and her life.
  • Zombiegirl’s soccer team sucks. The girls really aren’t trying.   If one more parent tells me their kid isn’t going to go on to play soccer when they’re older as an excuse for their kid not playing their heart out now I’m going to explode.  I’m going to need more umbrellas.
  • My kid has been invited to 4 sleepovers in less than a week.  Why can’t adults have sleepovers?
  • How do squirrels remember where they put their nuts?  No, really.  I want to know.
  • I’m friends with @DianaGabaldon, @NeilGaiman, @ChristopherMoore, @CrystalBowersox, @Regretsy and @DunkinDonuts on Facebook.  I read the comments on their statuses more than I do my friend’s statuses.
  • My husband needs mental Post-it notes.
  • I want a tattoo of a mockingbird but it is one boring looking bird.
  • One Million Moms are wrong about boycotting Schweddy Balls.  Kids will find nothing vulgar about the name if they haven’t seen the SNL skit.  If I see Ben & Jerry’s Schweddy Balls ice cream at the store, I’m buying two.

Okay, pocketbook is lighter.  I may need to weigh it down with the “Twitter for Dummies” book.

Argh! What to Do, What to Do?

It’s Friday, September 16th!  Ahh!   What should I do? Should I continue my blog posting about Part 2 and 3 of things I’m never going to do again, or do I do a F*CK You Friday post?  Lord knows I have a lot to write about for both blog entries.

Or, do I post that it’s 100 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS!  Yes, the countdown has started!  I have things to say, stuff to plan!

Or do I post about my extremely interesting bus ride into work this morning that leaves me covered in purple dust?

Stay tuned to see what path I go down…

Things I Will Never Do Again- Part One

Sometimes I never learn.  I do the same things over and over with the same horrific results because I always feel the outcome will be different.  Like eating ice cream.  Like trusting people.  Like giving birth.

(Okay, I don’t do the birthing thing anymore.  And I can honestly say that although the birthing(s) themselves absolutely sucked, the outcomes weren’t horrific.  Entertaining, maybe, but definitely not horrific.)

You can teach an old dog new tricks.  Or at least teach the old dog not to do the same stupid tricks.  This old dog has been taught never to do the following things:

I will never again give platelets.  Just seeing that in print makes me infinitely sad.  I’ve been giving blood for years and years before they started hounding me to give up my -AB platelets.  Seems I’m a universal donor for platelets.  I only went a few times only because frankly, it was a pain in the ass.  It took a few hours and both my arms had needles in them so I couldn’t read and the movies they showed were terrible.  But I did it.  And I was proud that I did.  It was probably the only nice thing I ever did for my fellow humans.

It also helped that they were “paying” me for giving blood.  For every four platelet donations, I’d get a $25 Gift Card to Home Depot.  I figured I would help pay for our bathroom renovation with blood money.  Literally.

This last time, though, damn near killed me.  I was excited because the procedure was upgraded so the “give” and “take” came out of the same arm, so I’d be able to kill time with a book.  This time should be a cinch.

When the phlebotomist looked at my arm, she made that upsetting clicking sound with her tongue and teeth.  I looked up and she told me my vein was really small.  She inspected my other arm and declared that one worse.  I told her I had no problem giving in the past, but she explained that because the procedure was happening in one arm now, the vein had to be a little larger to take the push and pull of the machine.  She said we’d try, but it might take longer than the normal give time (1-1/2 hours).  She poked the needle in, started up the machine and typed in the time.  Two hours, forty minutes.

Did I mention I was “at lunch”?  I left the office telling them where I would be going, and that I might be a little late.  I didn’t think it would be three hours, and I couldn’t call anyone because my phone was dead,as usual.  This was not turning out to be a very good day.

And it got worse.  I didn’t know that you had to monitor the screen to see when they were pulling the blood out of you so you could squeeze the little squishy thing in your hand.  Totally distracting;  I put my book down after the first 10 minutes and resigned myself to watching “Hidalgo”- their movie of choice.  As time went on, I started feeling less and less of my fingers making it almost impossible to squeeze the squishy thing.  And on the last “draw” of the machine, my vein closed up like a straw at the end of a milkshake.  The machine would beep it’s annoyance and if it didn’t get anything from me, it would stop and an alarm would sound.  A nurse (?) would come over to override it and the machine would start pumping my blood and an anti-coagulant back in.  After a few minutes the draw process would start again, collapse the vein and sound the alarm.

This went on for two hours.

Finally, a nurse (?) got wise and stayed with me and the blood-sucking machine.  She tried to rub a hot squishy thing up and down my wrist to get the tingling to go away.  She gave me six Tums to chew on (they counteract the chemical in the anti-coagulant and stop the tingling.  I needed six JARS, not six tablets.)  She overrode the machine on each draw.  She gave me a cold compress when I said I felt like I was going to pass out.  She was getting pissed and I felt really guilty that my veins were so small.

I’ve never once passed out while giving blood.  I experienced dizziness a few times, but that was the extent of the uncomfortableness.  (I just invented a new word!).  I looked around at all the other donors and they’re not only staring at me, they all seem fine.

I felt like crap.  Literally and figuratively.

The procedure was finally over.  She couldn’t get the needle out of me fast enough.  It may have come across that this woman was caring and concerned about me- oh, no.  Although it’s her job to make sure all her “patients” are comfortable and don’t die, she had the attitude of a typical civil servant.  She sighed, she banged things around, she clicked her tongue repeatedly while she was hovering over me.  I really didn’t need that additional guilt on top of my vein guilt and the fact that I felt physically ill.

When I took my arm down from over my head for her to bandage, she gasped and said, “Uh oh.  You’re a bleeder.”  I looked at my arm (big mistake) and the blood is running down faster than she can catch it.  Even though I give blood (and platelets) I try not to look at it because it makes me all squeamish. I glared at her while she cleaned me up and helped me stand. Which wasn’t going to happen.

My feet as well as my lips and nose went as numb as my fingers.  I had to sit back down or I was going to pitch forward and bring Nurse Ratched down with me.  Still annoyed, she went and got me a Gatorade and some pretzels.

Ugh.  Gross.  I hate Gatorade.  And where are my damn cookies?

I drank the dreadful drink in three gulps and relaxed for a minute or two.  Surprisingly, I felt a lot better.  We made our way to the recuperating table where I found my cookies.  I grabbed a few (six) packages, downed another Gatorade (they were small) and stuffed another one in my bag before I made my hasty exit.  The receptionist tried to get me to make another appointment, but I yelled back over my shoulder I’d make one online.  I had to get out of there- my job and my sanity were on the line.

The walk back to the office (I gave at the Citicorp complex) was ethereal.  I felt like I was floating and that everyone was looking at me (maybe I WAS floating…)  By the time I got to my office, the urge to cry was strong, but I sucked it up.  My manager needed to talk to me when I got back, but after one look at me she offered to call me car service to take me home.  I told her I just needed to eat- it was after 3 o’clock and I’d feel a lot better.  I did, and I didn’t so I asked her if I could go home.   I didn’t take the car service because I thought it would take twice as long with traffic so I took the subway and the bus- my normal route home.  I knew I’d get a nice nap out of it.

It was a really GOOD nap because I stumbled up the subway stairs to the bus and got on the dreaded LIMITED without realizing.  I ended up at the other end of the neighborhood feeling woozy and no way to call home (dead phone, remember?)  There’s that urge to cry again.   As I walked home, I felt very disconnected and the minute I stepped in the door I burst into tears.  MR didn’t know what to do with me so he brought me into the bedroom, laid me on the bed, took off my shoes and gave me a glass of orange juice.

And a cookie.

So my good Samaritan days are nearing an end.  I can still give whole blood but with my blood type, I’ve been told chances are it would be disposed because it’s so rare and it probably wouldn’t be used.  If that’s true I may as well go with Cheesestick and get our matching tattoos.  Either that or put that money aside for the bathroom renovation.

I’m sure as hell not going through that again.

Stay tuned for Parts Two and Three of Things I Will Never Do Again.

Six More Years

Okay, I reread my last post.  Don’t get me wrong…I don’t hate Mr. B.  I really like Mr. B.  He’s kind, generous and has a good sense of humor.  His wife is really nice and his kids are nice too.  I don’t hate my neighbors- I’m actually blessed with good neighbors for the most part. We put up with them and they put up with us and our stupid dogs.

My problem is I live too close to people.  Sixteen feet between houses is WAY too confined for someone who likes to walk around the house half undressed and absolutely hates curtains.  I need space.  Land to grow things and raise chickens and have a patio and a dog run and be able to make coffee without pants on.  I would never survive in an apartment building.  I would nuke the place.

Please don’t think I hate Mr. B.  I’m just touchy about my personal space.

So because Zombiegirl won’t move, I’m stuck on a shady 40′ x 100′ lot on Long Island.

The reason she doesn’t want to move is because she’ll miss her friends.  Her soccer friends, her neighborhood friends, her softball friends and her school friends.  The school friends she couldn’t wait to get back to today.The first day back to school with her cool skull backpack (made by me, last year) and turquoise hair.  So starts 7th grade, which means I only have six more years until I can skedaddle out of New York.

I may kill someone before then…

Summer, I’m Over You

For all intents and purposes,  summer is over.  We burned through Labor Day weekend at a soccer tournament, and Zombiegirl is starting school tomorrow.  Even though the official first day of Autumn is Friday, September 23rd, I’m taking liberties and calling tomorrow the first day of fall.

I am so over summer.

It’s not like it was a bad summer.  There was the week at the beach house, Z-girl at 4-H camp, Atlantic City camping, Splish Splash and BBQ’s with friends.  I also got a few crafts done, a garden planted (then harvested) and managed to convince MR to replace the molding in the kitchen.  Beena got a new (old) car, Cheesestick turned 21 and I organized 48 years of pictures.  We threw a party.  Good times, good times.  But, there was also the “C” scare (cancer or cervix, take your pick), a hail storm, Hurricane Irene and some not so nice incidences with so-called friends.

But that’s not why I’m over summer.  I want it to be autumn for two very selfish reasons.

I want to wear my Uggs.

Yes, I miss my boots.  Their comfy, pillowy softness .

I literally went all summer in various Converse Chucks.  I didn’t even have to get a pedicure since I wore open-toed shoes once, just once, at Beena and Dad’s party.  I didn’t show off my toes all summer.  And if I didn’t show off my tootsies, then I might as well be wearing my Uggs.

But it’s still too warm. So that’s one reason I can’t wait for Fall.

The other reason is once the cool weather comes I probably won’t have to listen to Barry Manilow.  Or Hall and Oates.  Or any of the other music that makes me wonder if my neighbor plays for the other team.

MR and I haven’t used the air conditioner all summer.  We didn’t even put it in.  We get a nice breeze off the creek in the back (or through the parking lot for the community pool) and when it got stifling hot, we turned on a fan.  We slept with the windows wide open and woke up to the sound of birds chirping.

Or several playings of “…her name was Lola, she was a showgirl…”

I’m talking about my neighbor, Mr. B and his really corny taste in music.

Don’t get me wrong, I love tunes.  I have my own little radio station in my head.  Yet when I hear the same CD (I think it’s a CD) played over and over very  LOUDLY (well, it seems loud.  Mr. B plays it in his garage which is approximately 20 feet from my bedroom window) I slip into a murderous rage.  He’s not even IN the garage half the time, but the music keeps blaring away.  He does turn it down when his wife gets home (again, I’m wondering if the man HAS balls)  but she works all day on the weekends so I can’t even take a nap in peace.

Cold weather=closed windows=sleep in heavenly peace.  I can’t wait.

So, Summer, thanks for everything but it’s time to move on.  I want some peace and comfort.

You Google’d What?

I just discovered the Site Stats section of WordPress.  I can see how many people have visited this site (a lot) and how they got here by what they put into the search engine.  I made the mistake of doing this at work.  Now I have to clean my desk and my monitor.  Coffee is a bitch to get out of a keyboard…

Most of the searches are for some form of CANCER+TATTOO+RIBBON, some combination of those three words and few others thrown in like “butterfly”, “mother”, “daughter”, “honor” and the suspect “grandmother” (?)  I know I get a lot of traffic because of my tattoo posts.  The most popular search is “ivy tattoo”.  I expect those.

What I didn’t expect was the amount of Harry Potter searches:  “Veela Hair”, “ollivander snake skeleton wand”, “feather pen and ink harry potter” were among the most popular.  Also up there were a bunch of cross-stitching inquiries and for some reason, women jousting.

The ones that really cracked me up were totally random searches that listed MY BLOG as a result:

will my life be sad without children

in the gyno stirrups

shrimp basket

young girls in chucks

kock out cancer tattoo

sweeti house from hansel and gretel

what happens to blackheads that are left unpopped for a long time?

costco peppermint bark heartburn.

my bunny wants all my money and all my carrots and beena

humpday question 2

“can bedbugs jump?”

sticker stuck in my hair  (HEY! I’m not the only one!)

ripstick air wills

i will be plaque-fighting man bo diddley bop

is ellen muth anorexic or a drug addict?

kansas racoon

little freak kids.

What. The. Heck. These were literally copied and pasted from the list.  I can understand why my little blog would come up on some of these, but what I don’t understand is why the heck people are googling this stuff.  Kansas racoon?  Who the hell is Ellen Muth?  And I’m totally creeped out by the person requesting “young girls in chucks.”  Likewise the “kock out cancer tattoo” person.  Please say that’s a typo…

Ah, I have a new source of amusement for an otherwise dreary day at work.