So, y’all? Personally, I think the fact that this guy brought a U of M seat cushion to the Spartan game says a lot (besides the fact that he’s going to put his ass on it - which, y’know, only seems right somehow). They seem to be deserting Ann Arbor. Looking for a winner? (Okay, so right now, they’re up on Notre Dame 31-0, but y’all? They.still.lost.to.Appalachian.State.

Michigan State 17. Pitt (is Shitt) 13. Close game dudes. Way too many penalties and stupidity on the field.

There was a family that sat next to us that had 4 kids under the age of 8. How they managed to last until halftime is beyond me. There were more hotdogs, popcorn, pop and candy flowing than a movie theatre filled with stoned college students. We did heave a sigh of relief though when they left. The climbing back and forth and the screaming for more - more - more was getting to be a bit much.

Now, if only my Beloved Marshall could figure out that they do.not.belong.in.Conference.USA.they.should.have.never.left.the.MAC. At the half. New Hampshire 24. Marshall 0. [sob]

Um. Notre Dame chicks? WTF?

Going to thaw out my toes now. And drink.

Remember the mid-year-reviews that had to be completed by the end of July? How I bitched about them? How I said they were pretty much useless? We got an email today.

It says (I’ll paraphrase a bit):

Dear Managers,

…..[all identifying features about company removed, etc, because I can’t get fired] all “end of year” performance ratings for employees ….must be completed….and reviews discussed with employees by the end of this month.

…[More stuff about how to do it and yes, this means you, and don’t even give me that look young lady because we pay you and therefore for the sake of your employees, you will do this]….

….Oh, and by the way. Don’t be late.

Seriously. That is the gist of the email.

Hello? It’s September, isn’t it? Why, yes, it is. (I checked the calendar!) We need to do end of year reviews? Does this tell you that maybe, juuuuuust maybe, the management team won’t be around come December? Hmmmmmmmm. Because otherwise? How would everyone else get their pay raises come next year?

49%

Mingle² - Free Online Dating

You’d think with all of the Stephen King books I’ve read (ALL of them y’all. Even the non-fiction and the short stories and the Richard Bachman books….), I’d fare a better than 50-50 shot at surviving.

Shortman finished Part 2 (Defensive Driving Skills) of Driver’s Education yesterday. He can now take his road test. This morning he informed me:

“When I get my license and I drive to school, I’m going to stop at Subway every day on the way home.”

He thinks he’s Jared - I tried to explain that:

1. Jared walked to Subway and
2. Jared had money to pay for his sandwiches.

Once again, I was left speaking to air.

Cheering “Pitt is Shitt!” And watching for U of M vs. Notre Dame score updates. My dear ND fans? You better deliver. I’m counting on a few ‘Hail Marys‘ to pave the way to an Irish win tomorrow.

Mr. Hot has promised us a gourmet breakfast before we go to the game so that we don’t starve. He’s an expert breakfast maker. Eggs, potatoes, fruit, juice and lots of coffee. Yum. Also, it’s supposed to be a balmy 59-degrees tomorrow at game time. The extra layer of fat should help.

MomandDad are coming over on Sunday. Dad thought he was going to be able to watch the Lions on the plasma, which is still not back. It died on August 21. On August 23, it was whisked away by people who were going to fix it and make it all better. Um, it’s September 14. And we’re still waiting for the effin’ replacement digital board, which, according to the repair guys “Never goes out”. Excuse me? If that particular part “never goes out”, then why in hell is it back-fuckin-ordered? For three weeks?

Mr. Hot called them on Monday:

Mr. Hot: “I’m calling about the 42″ Samsung plasma you have? You picked it up on August 23rd?”

Smart Ass TV Repairman: “Yea, $500.”

Mr. Hot: “Excuse me?”

SATR: “Sorry, man, just kiddin’ ya. Yea, we got it.”

Mr. Hot: “I’m in no mood for this. You’ve had it three weeks. You originally said it would be a couple of days. Last week I called, and whoever I talked to first said you didn’t have it. Then they found it. When is it going to be done?”

SATR: “Uh, well, man, see, the part was backordered.”

Mr. Hot: “Yes, I know. Because the SATR I talked to last week told me that. I want to know when the part will be in. I’ve been watching football since the opening of the season on a damn 13-inch portable.”

SATR: “Um, well, man, that television has been recalled.”

Mr. Hot: “Oh, it has? And so what’s that got to do with the part? Is that why it was recalled? Is that why the part is backordered?”

SATR: “Yea, man.”

Mr. Hot: “Thanks. Then I’ll call Circuit City about the backorder.”

********* Later **********

Mr. Hot (On the phone with Circuit City): “I understand that the Samsung 42″ plasma that I purchased 18 months ago was recalled due to a defective digital board?”

Circuit City Customer Service: “Well, no, sir, I don’t have any back order records for that model. Or any Samsung plasma for that matter. Only a microwave.”

Mr. Hot explained the situation and the conversation with the SATR. CCCS lady offered to call the repair shop and speak to the owner and call Mr. Hot back.

********* Later again***********

CCCS: “Mr. Hot? Yes, I spoke with the owner of the shop and the board is backordered and should be there by Wednesday next week. He assured me that it will be installed as soon as they receive it and you’ll have your television back.”

Mr. Hot: “Thanks, that’s all I needed, just an answer.”

Now, me? I’d have probably turned around and called the owner back and told him (in no uncertain terms, but then y’all know this about me….) exactly what kind of full-page ad I was going to take out in the local newspaper explaining how his fuckin’ funny man employee treats their customers.

Because, y’know, I am that kinda ‘reaction first, think later’ gal. But, somehow, I managed to find a man who will wait until after we get the television back to do that.

Because he’s smart that way.

—- Y’all hav a great weekend. Here’s some cuteness for you from the LOLCats archives. I’m practicing…y’know, just in case. —-

Thud.

Excuse me, I never could walk in heels and an evening gown. And who thought that stairs up to the stage made sense? Like that damn red carpet wasn’t booby trap enough, what with the flashes going off in my face and all. Hey! MomandDad doesn’t call me Grace for nuthin’.

I’d like to thank my darlin’ Helen, who presented me with this:

It will look so nice on my sidebar mantle. I’ll make sure Mr. Hot the maid dusts it regularly and that I’m never so broke jaded that I auction it off on eBay.

Now, to pass along the honors to all of these others who make me smile (and who, I am certain, are much more graceful and elegant than me):

1. Her Bad Mother,
2. Petroville,
3. Pyreflies of Zanarkind,
4. Canned Laughter,
5. My Left Nerve,
6. Cripes, Suzette,
7. Not a Girl, Not yet a Wino,
8. Oh The Joys,
9. Mom on the Rise,
10. Sarah and the Goon Squad

—- Carmen? I so feel for you. But somehow, I still think you look better on your ass than I do on mine. —-

Y’all. Are you wondering about the funny? Geez. Semi-seriousness on Monday. Complete seriousness yesterday. For cryin’ out loud - even Sunday was nuthin’ but a bitch-fest.

So, um, yea, sorry about that. I need some of the funny back myself. Instead, I’ll bore the crap out of you with:

5:51 am - Alarm goes off. Mr. Hot shoves me in the shoulder to let me know that the alarm has started beeping. He forgets that I am deaf when I lay on my right side. Or my left side. Or if the day starts with M, T, W, or F. The alarm doesn’t go off on “S” days, so … not an issue.

5:52 am - Hit snooze.

6:00 am - Moan. Turn over and try to move arm that has been trapped under 35 lb dog and is now full of needles. Turn off alarm.

6:03 am - Moan. Get up. Bash hip into various pieces of furniture.

6:05 am - Walk down hallway to bathroom. Potty. (Aren’t you glad I share?) Turn on water and pray that it warms up quickly. Shampoo, condition, wash, shave the fuckin’ pieces that need to be shaved.

6:20 am - Back to bedroom. Stop at Shortman’s door and yell that it’s time to get up. Tell dog (who is laying on Mr. Hot’s pillow) “Go wake up Shortman”. Dog looks up, moans, and goes back to sleep. Bash other hip on same various pieces of furniture.

6:23 am - Yell at Shortman again. Mr. Hot brings in coffee.

6:25 am - Yell at Shortman again.

6:27 am - Yell at Shortman again. “If I don’t hear feet hit the floor, I’m coming in and pulling that blanket off your ass!” (Shortman sleeps ‘au naturel’. He doesn’t know I know this. What could be worse than having your mother find out in quite that manner?) Shortman gets his nekkid butt up.

6:55 am - Feel competent and awake enough to dry my hair.

7:00 am - Realize that I hate my hair. For the seven-zillionth time.

7:05 am - Moisturize. Put on makeup. Try to not poke eye out with eyeliner or mascara wand. Put hair in ponytail or some sort of clip. Realize I hate my hair. For the seven-zillion-and-first time.

7:15 am - Walk to closet. Step on cat that decides it’s time to come out from under chair that is piled with clothes that need to be dry-cleaned. Look at clothes that are hanging (and don’t need to be dry-cleaned). Pick pair of black pants (out of 12 pairs of black pants). Pick shirt that doesn’t break any dress code rules. Change to different pair of black pants. Yell at Shortman to go put in his contacts, “We’re leaving at 7:30 on the dot!” Pick out earrings. Put on rings.

Seriously, black pants.

7:25 am - Look for security badge.

7:27 am - Find security badge on original pair of black pants.

7:31 am - Back to bathroom to brush coffee stained teeth.

7:35 am - Throw fruit in bag for lunch. Kiss Mr. Hot goodbye. Kiss Poopy Puppy goodbye. Watch Shortman put on shoes. Swear that tomorrow, we’re out the door at 7:30. No later. Seriously.

7:36 am-6:05 pm - Drop Shortman at school. Drive to office. Check email. Check work email. Work shit. Read a couple of blogs during especially boring conference calls. More work shit. Eat lunch. Drop blob of yogurt on black pants. Read another blog or two during lunch. Go to face-to-face meeting. Work. Listen to bitching. Sigh a lot. More conference calls. (Oh, the glamour!)

6:10 pm - Drive home. Kiss Poopy Puppy. Kiss Mr. Hot. Yell to Shortman “Did you do your homework?” (Because it’s the law when you’re a mom that you have to yell that, apparently).

6:30 pm-9:30 pm - Work out (okay, shut.up. - I really do this). Eat dinner. Have a beer or glass of wine, or several. Monday and Thursday - watch football. Clean cat litter. Sigh a lot. Ask Shortman if he’s done his homework. (Again, yes, that law thing) Listen to Mr. Hot explain politics. Try to remember in case I’m quizzed later. Tell Shortman we’re leaving at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Try to look serious when saying this. Know that being laughed at by a 15-year-old really undermines my parental authority.

9:35 pm - Brush teeth, wash face, collapse into bed. Pick up book. Read one page and then snore.

—- Once upon a time, someone gave me a book to read. “The Changing Life of a Corporate Wife.” They evidently thought I was going to marry an executive. This cracks me up every time I think about it. Dinner parties? Business events? Ha. Ha, I say!—-

Some days will forever be replayed in your mind - there’s simply no need for video or blog entries. Pearl Harbor. The JFK Assassination. September 11, 2001. But sometimes, it’s good to share those memories. Sharing keeps your heart whole and strong.

I was meeting with a vendor who was trying to sell me some new software add-on that I didn’t need. My phone rang. I knew it was my home phone number, so I excused myself to the Sales Rep and picked up the phone.

It was Mr. Hot. “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.” He wasn’t panicked. I remember thinking that it must have been a small little plane. The kind that flew in and out of our local airstrip. Maybe a corporate jet. My response was typical of someone who isn’t really paying attention because of other nuisances going on. “Really? Wow. You’d think you wouldn’t miss something that big. Hey, let me call you back, I’ve got someone here. Love you, bye.”

I turned back to the vendor. My phone rang again in the time it took me to turn around and say, “Sorry, that was my husband telling me that a plane….geez. I’m just Miss Popular today.” I look at the number flashing. Home again. Uh-oh.

“Another plane. Hit the other tower. They’re saying on the news that they’re passenger jets, not little planes.” I looked at my visitor, and started repeating everything that Mr. Hot was telling me. “Huge holes in the building. Passenger jets. Hijacked. “ I told Mr. Hot to hold on, put the phone down, and simply said. “I don’t think we’re going to have time for the rest of this meeting. We’d better find a television.”

I remember Mr. Hot telling me when the North Tower fell. I remember my boss calling from Chicago, telling me to send everyone home. I remember no one leaving, because there was a television on the floor, and we all clustered around it.

I remember walking into the living room in our little condo. Mr. Hot was on the couch, tears in his eyes. Shortman was just ready to turn 10. I sat with my family, the three of us, the rest of the night. We watched George W. Bush (it was the last time I respected that man) and Rudy Guiliani. I remember calling an especially close friend from work. She was in Chicago, but lived on Long Island. “Are you okay? Is your family okay? Are you staying in Chicago? How are you getting back?”

Our building in Chicago was evacuated. We had an office in New York. As I watched the crawler at the bottom of the television screen, I saw my company’s name listed as having space in WTC.

We focus on the Towers, but must also remember Flight 93 in Shanksville, Pennsylvania - about 80 miles from where my mother grew up. And the Pentagon. Those people who were on Flights 11, 77, 175 and 93.

I remember driving, days later, home from one of Shortman’s soccer games. It was getting to be dusk, but not yet dark. His best friend’s mother was behind us, following us in her car. Mr. Hot and I were listening to the news. It seemed like we were always listening to the news. Up above, a plane was flying. The planes were back in the air. We looked at each other. We beeped and pointed, out the window at the plane.

Two weeks after September 11, 2001, I flew to Chicago. The mood on the American Airlines flight was solemn. We were wearing ribbons. The flight attendants were wearing ribbons. The pilots thanked us for flying American. They thanked us for remembering their fallen brothers.

It was a bad time in the United States. It was a good time in the United States. We were all Americans, and we had banded together.

—- “The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.” Henry David Thoreau —-

I’m still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my life and I’m very happy with where I’ve landed. When my childhood dreams of becoming a veterinarian were dashed, I got my degree in something I thought maybe I’d be good at - Business Management. I focused on Organizational Theory (please, don’t snore too loudly …. you’ll wake the freakin’ dead), got a job in Human Resources, and pretended to be a grown up for about five years.

After I realized that my profession of choice wasn’t necessarily correct for me at the time (that, & the comment on my annual performance review that I was “abrupt, abrasive and abusive” - seriously - my boss hated me, really wanted me to succeed, felt that was constructive criticism), I started thinking about what I liked. What did I want to do that:

• wouldn’t make me want to scratch other people’s eyes out,
• wouldn’t make me want to puke with the absolute sickening sweet necessity of being nice all the time.

I decided that something in the technical line of study would be more conducive to my, erm, somewhat impatient nature when dealing with idiots others. (snort) I ended up at Marshall University in their Computer Science program - the only woman in the program. (Do y’all see the pattern?)

I met Mr. Hot (who was in the Management Information Systems side of the program….less math, more business-y type stuff), got married, had Shortman, graduated, moved back north and found a job over the next two years. Head spinning yet? I felt like Regan - only older and with bigger boobs.

I was happy in my little COBOL programming world for a while (told you I was old). Then the bank I worked for was bought…..so I went to a new department - programming in FoxPro and Visual Basic. Then that bank was bought. (Patterns. My whole freakin’ life is about patterns.) I moved to web programming and design. Want to do your banking online? Apply for a mortgage? I lived through Y2k man! The only time I stayed completely sober on New Year’s Eve.

And then, someone apparently thought I’d become management material, and they took me away from the keyboard and put me back in front of people. I started using that old organizational theory shit. I now have a real title, a real office, and “people”.

And then, this bank was bought.

I have a job to do. I committed to running the show until these signs are swapped out and these systems are shut down, and everyone is either out the door or all snuggly working for the new guys. I wonder sometimes if I didn’t do myself a mis-service by staying. What will be left for me in the area after I send everyone away with the pats to their heads and their shiny reference letters? Will it be a gold star on my resume to be able to say that I have experience shutting down a business? Hmmmm. I wonder who wants that kind of expertise on their senior management staff?

I wonder what it would be like to work in a completely different field. Maybe I could do a reduced nursing program. Or, like Cupcake, teach. I could become a consultant, but I don’t know that I want to spend that much time on the road. Or go into law-yering.

Funny how time passes so quickly. I started that COBOL job 15 years ago on September 14th. Yes, 15 years ago this coming Friday. (And hey, Employee Awards program? Where’s my freakin’ pen and pencil set?????)

—- Maybe I should go back into Human Resources. I mean, surely I’ve mellowed over the years? Oh, little would they suspect that I was the original Triple-A girl. But y’know? the mellowness? most likely exhaustion and age. Let’s just pretend I’m like a fine wine, shall we? —-

…if I’m blogging. Hell to the no. I’m reading blogs. It’s been nuthin’ but effin’ football all day long and guess what!!!! Sunday Night football is on. Yeah. Whoopeee.

Now, I’m not saying that I hate football. I love the game (especially when my Spartans are concerned and winning…but that goes without saying), but my gawd people? Three games already today and now another one. Sigh. It’s like eating Breyer’s vanilla three times a day AND for dessert. You need a little crunch once in a while.

Sundays suck. You know it’s back to work the next day. You know that Shortman will argue that he doesn’t need that much sleep. You know that the humidity is going to kick in around 3 a.m. and you don’t know whether it’s freakin’ hot flashes or just a bedroom that doesn’t have any airflow. Suck, suck, suck. Oh, and don’t forget that the dog must.sleep.butt.up.against.my.legs.

Hey, but the Lions won. Whoo! Sorry Oakland. (Not really. Oakland fans scare me.)

The cable has been wreakin’ havoc around here. For about an hour, it was 15 seconds on, 15 minutes off. “It’s not complicated, it’s Comcast.” Yea, right. More like, “It’s not competent, it’s Comcast.” Argh.

Aaaaaannnnnyyway. I got nothing tonight you all. Nuthin’. Sorry, but my buds do. Go take a look/see at:

Pyreflies over Zanarkind- Beautiful photography. I get lost in some of these images.

The Inadvertent Gardener - One of the first blogs I found. Great images. = Great “life in the garden” posts.

And Miz S- Another animal lover. And Poopy Puppy and the Kittehs love her to death.

So, someone tell my why my last twitter shows “91 days ago”?

And why every time I step into the bathroom downstairs the cats decide it’s time to visit the litterbox?

And why sheets cost $100? Cotton, people, not silk!

And who decided that low rise pants are STILL the way to go? My ass does not do low rise.

And why the people across the street pay no attention to their dog who comes over to shit in my yard OR their boys who decide to play pellet gun out of their front window?

And why, why, men need to shout at the television? Like it’s going to answer back? Or the coach will change the play because they think it’s better to run than pass?

—- Bed (new sheets) and a book. The fan strategically positioned for maximum breezy value. It’s callin’ my name y’all. See you on the flip side. XXXXOOOO —–