Monthly Archives: October 2006

Trying not to laugh

I went out home teaching yesterday, and had two really good visits.

‘cept at the first one, the old lady had a bad case of the belches. It was really hard not to chuckle.

And at the second, my companion kept making faces just like the Farting Preacher. It was really hard not to laugh.

Just for Kim, here’s another clip from MXC. The contestants are wearing a velcro-covered bodysuit, and must swing across a little pond and try to stick themselves to a velcro-covered wall. The commentary is one of the best parts. When they dub it, they make up all sorts of stuff. Supposedly two teams are competing in the games – the Zoologists vs Reality TV Producers.

Oh, and just today I realized that NaNoWriMo starts in two days! I don’t think I’ll write a novel this year. Just don’t have the time.

New title for the Fat Old Hag

It turns out I’d been paying a co-worker an undeserved compliment in calling her the Falling Apart Old Lady.

She’s no lady.

la‧dy  /ˈleɪdi/ –noun
1. a woman who is refined, polite, and well-spoken: She may be poor and have little education, but she’s a real lady.

Apparently, she called in a new food and supplies order late yesterday, and it was delivered this morning, around 9:00 AM or so. Unfortunatly, we received two big shipments of computer stuff yesterday, so the area near the back door was too blocked for the Costco guy to simply bring in his pallet of stuff. Instead, he had to break down the pallet, and bring everything in through the front door.

As I sit in the back, I returned to work, and didn’t see anything the Costco guy did that morning. When I went to the bathroom some time later, I discovered that he had piled everything up in the breakroom – food, frozen & refridgerated goods, office supplies – everything.

A bunch of people were in the office by then, everyone going about their business. I put the yogurt in the fridge, the frozen stuff in the freezer, and took a AAA battery for one of my desktop devices.

Sometime later, the FAOL came in, and was shocked – Shocked! – to find everything in the breakroom. She came over and asked me to help put it away, and I said I would. I was in the middle of some time-sensitive stuff, though, so finished that before heading over.

Now, I used to help her, half out of pity, and half out of the simple fact that in our old building I sat right outside the breakroom. I was the closest to it, so was the easiest for her to ask for help. Now, the breakroom is in the middle of the floor, and I’m way off to the side. There’s at least a dozen other people in a semi-circle around the breakroom, and two or three times that many within the distance from the breakroom to me. The supply room is on the opposite side of the building from me, with the breakroom in the middle.

When I got to the breakroom, she was apparently complaining to someone else and asking for help, thinking that I wasn’t going to help her. He quickly vacated the breakroom, as the FAOL started complaining that I hadn’t told the Costco guy where to put everything. I laughingly joked that if she would come in in the morning, she could have told him where to put it herself.

Angrily, she replied, “You’re shipping and receiving, idiot.”

Shocked, I turned around and was about to ask her if she was serious. I looked at her face – tight lipped, slitted eyes, stern flabby face – and could tell that she was serious. There was nothing refined, polite, or well-spoken about her. Nothing but her crude disgust for everyone who does not do exactly what she expects them to do. No professional courtosey or demeanor. No grattitude for someone helping her instead of performing his own responsibilities. No acknowledgement that I am not actually the shipping and receiving dept.

She is now officially the Fat Old Hag.

hag1  /hæg/ –noun
1. an ugly old woman, esp. a vicious or malicious one.

I blinked, put some stuff onto the hand truck, and pushed it back to the storage room and unloaded it. Then I went back over to my desk to see if my e-mails had been replied to, and forwarded them over to the people waiting for the responses. As I was doing so, she came over to my cube, asked if I was done helping, and stood there behind me until I finished, got up, and walked back over, speaking with her as little as possible for the remainder of the time.

Most women keep their venom at home. Out in public or at work, they’ll put on the best of faces, doing all those kind and polite things women are expected to do. But at home where there’s no one to impress, they’ll lash out without restraint, usually verbally, but sometimes physically.

Some people are single due through no fault of their own, despite their charm, talents, and beauty. Some people are alone because they deserve to be. Fat Old Hag lives alone with a bunny – the only animal dumb enough to stay. Fat Old Hag doesn’t have anyone to abuse at home, so she takes it out at work.

I haven’t really written much about the Fat Old Hag’s personality. She’s the type that if she were in management, she’d be a micromanager. When she hears me moving stuff around in my area, she comes over to see what’s going on, and ask all about it. When she sees the FedEx truck, she’ll yell at me to open the door. If you do her favors, kiss up to her, listen to all the inane stories she doesn’t have anyone else to tell, she’ll be your friend until you stop or otherwise displease her. Then you find out that she perhaps never liked you at all, she just liked using you for her purposes.

She will now be avoided at all costs.

A SkyHawk kinda life

Well, since my motorcycle’s been dead, I’ve had to drive the SkyHawk everywhere.

I had actually stopped driving it entirely, because its tires were completely bald. So, first thing I did was drive it to Big-O tires to get a new set.

But I missed the turn into their driveway, and by the time I turned around, a whole mess of other cars were pulling in, so I went to American Tires instead. They fixed me up real good, with a set of tires guaranteed not to wear out until they are out of warranty.

On the plus side, the SkyHawk seems to drive better now, not just with the new tires, but it seems being driven regularly has worked out a lot of the laggishness it had. Either that, or a I’m just used to it. But, I hypothesize that it had been sitting so much, that the fuel system was all clogged up or something, making it extra sluggy. Now, it’s kinda peppy. It’ll hold a constant speed uphill, but I haven’t tried out the other hill that always slowed it down to 45 mph.

Now, my only complaint with it is that the headliner is still falling off. During humid times, the headliner gets extra heavy, and drapes across my head. During warmer times, it just barely rests on my head, but still drags across my short hair.

A few months ago, Becky and the kids took some sticky velcro and stuck it to the headliner and the roof, and that held it up until the first hot day. Then all the glue melted, and now the weight of the velcro pulls the liner down even more.

A few days ago, I bought a can of aerosol glue, and sprayed a ton of it up between the headliner and the ceiling. That held the liner up for a few days, and now it’s sagging agin.

So, I’m taking off the kid gloves, and putting on the very mad gloves. I am taking a screwdriver and scissors to that headliner, and removing it entirely. Then I’ll paint the ceiling of the car black or gray or something, and it’ll never bug me again.

It’s stuff like this that proves Man to be the dominant species on earth.

Accidents happen

Today at work, I accidentally initiated small talk with a teammate, after telling him something that I actually had to tell him.

He’s the guy that came to pick me up after my motorcycle broke down, because my wife wouldn’t, and took me back to work. He had a crappy old rusty pick-up truck that was falling apart, and was thinking about getting a new car.

So I accidentally asked him about it.

Oh boy, I was stuck for like 20 minutes listening to his tale of traveling around with his wife, comparison shopping and researching, dealing with salesmen, and so on and so forth. As he yammered on and on, I became acutely aware of my face, of my eyeballs, and what they each were doing. I couldn’t just stare at him, so I tried looking creatively around his cube, and tried to make my face move in expressions of interest rather than of longing for escape.

It felt like my eyeballs knew they could move on their own, and were going to make a run for it, if they could only figure out how to unhook the optic nerves without assistance from my fingers, which were desperately searching for something to drum on, scratch, or fiddle with.

Finally, when he took a breath, I ran away.