Don't Be A Complete Tool

Mr. A:

Tuesday (on our way into the grocery store): "Hey carry the car keys for me."
Thursday (switching cars): "I don't want to leave the stereo face in the other car.  Put it in your purse."
Friday (on the way home): "I stole this candy from the jar at the front desk. Carry it for me."
Monday (after a doctor appointment): "I don't want to lose this prescription.  You hang on to it."
Wednesday (after meeting a gabillion vendors): "I don't have anywhere to put all these business cards. Stick 'em in your purse for me."

GGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Awesomeness: You know what I'm going to get you for Father's Day?
Mr. Awesomeness: Huh?
Awesomeness: A man purse.
Mr. Awesomeness: You know I would never use that.
Awesomeness: You use a purse almost every day.  It's about time you packed it around.
Mr. Awesomeness: What are you talking about?
Awesomeness: All that crap I have to carry around for you in my purse.
Mr. Awesomeness: What crap?  I almost never ask you to put things in your purse.
Awesomeness: You've asked me 5 times in a week.
Mr. Awesomeness: I think you're lying.
Awesomeness: [quick recap]
Mr. Awesomeness: Yeah, but it's not like I ask you all the time.  Before last week, when was the last time I asked you to carry something?
Awesomeness: The week before last when I was packing around your insurance card.
Mr. Awesomeness: .....I think you're lying.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Father's Day gift:
http://www.ebags.com/product/kenneth-cole-reaction-business-and-luggage/ask-the-mess-es-canvas-messenger/150644

It's even on sale right now.

You know, when cartoons want to portray a nasty stench coming off of someone, they draw the stink lines.  Sometimes it's a stink cloud or a stink fog.  This was based off of the two of you in real life.   You all were the worst smelling people I have ever had the displeasure to encounter in my entire life.  This would include the homeless guy who lives in our dumpster.

You obviously haven't bathed for months.  While some might applaud your water conservation efforts, they would stop applauding and keel over dead if they came within 5 feet of you.

Let's start with your heads.  Dandruff is gross enough, black dandruff is terrifying.  Like they could write that shit into horror movies.  If either of you looked like you've worked a day in your life, I might give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it's, like, tar or something, but you've obviously not been in public for quite some time.

Your foreheads had thick, chunky layers of gray.  Your clothes would sicken maggots.  But it was your feet that will haunt my dreams for years, Mr. Pigpen.  Curling yellow and black talons on toes that were all pointing at one another.  The rest of the foot looked like a cross between an ad for Hobbit Lamisil and the before pictures from Ped Egg.

I dared not look at your face when you smiled or talked.  I can just imagine the putridness emanating from your mouth.  The concept alone will help me fast for a week.

Before you stop by to see us next, please call and let us know.  I'll have the boys put on some hazmat suits and meet you at the door.

Saturday was my annual* eye exam.  I dread them because I'm just waiting for the time when the optometrist tells me I can no longer wear my contacts.  It hasn't come yet, but I know it's around the corner and I'm going to stockpile contacts like crazy cry a lot and put my damn glasses on.

This year I also made an appointment for Mr. Awesomeness.  He hasn't had his eyes checked since his exam for the Army and that was in 1996.  He's always had better than 20/20 vision, but lately he's been complaining that his vision isn't as sharp as he's used to.  I thought it was past time for him to go see the doctor.

Mr. A went first, and while he was getting his exam, the doctor's assistant did all the fun tests with me, like the glaucoma test and that shitty test where you have to click the button when you see squiggly lines.

I really hate that test.  The squiggle test.  What the fuck is that all about?  They tell you to concentrate on a dot in the middle of the screen while little squiggly lines randomly flash up.  My vision starts to go gray about every 5 seconds and I have to close my eyes for a second to clear it.  Then I get all paranoid that I missed some squiggles, so I click the button about every 3 seconds or so whether or not I see the lines.

In order to perform the tests, they asked me to take my contacts out.  After it was over, they had me leave the contacts out and take a seat until the doctor was ready to see me.  Now I'm sitting in the waiting area completely blind.  At least the staff thought it was funny.  When it was time for me to be seen, the assistant says, "I know you can't see me right now, but just follow the bright white blob."  Ha ha, very funny motherfucker.

My eye exam took longer than usual.  It took me a while to fill the doctor in on all my previous eye drama, eye drop allergies, etc.  Also, for some reason, the squiggly line test produced some "interesting" results....(whoops!) so she had to measure my vision in my left eye using manual tools.  Then she squirted dye in my eyes because she wanted to see my scars. (My eyeballs are totally macho.)  All together, my exam took about an hour.

I thought for sure that Mr. A would be totally ready to go when I got out.  Nope.  The ladies at the front counter inform me that he's been waiting for me to be done so I can help him pick out glasses.  Glasses?  Bwahahahahaha!  I asked him, "What did she say you need them for?"

"Well, she didn't really say.  I guess I would just wear them while I'm driving," he said.  What the fuck?  How could she have missed telling him when he would need to wear his prescription?  She seemed like a pretty sharp lady, so I was pretty sure the confusion was all Mr. A's.

Since he was going to wear them for driving, we settled on getting him a pair of prescription sunglasses.  This process includes: looking at every prescription-ready frame at least twice, trying them all on, looking at them in a downward angle, looking at them in an upward angle, testing the hinges.  Old ladies don't put as much effort into this.  When he finally settled on a pair, I had to check my phone to see what year it was.

$55 for the frames and the lenses are covered.  Awesome!  Let's go!!  Nope, we need the special blue tint.  Fuck.  Then he needs some other expensive tint or it's going to fuck up his mojo or something.  Shit.  Then the dipshit lady adding up all of his completely unnecessary add-ons can't work the computer.  Iwillfuckingkillyoulady!!  By the time she was done, it added up to a ridiculous $110.  Ugh.

After an hour and 15 minutes, he's finally checking out.  Oh. My. God.  Finally!  Then out comes the optometrist.  Her day is done.  Or she was retiring.  I couldn't tell.  She was a little surprised that we were still there.  Me too.

After we left, I told him about how my appointment went & I asked him about how bad his eyes were that he needed glasses.

I'm not sure why I need glasses.  She said that my eyes were still at least 20/20.  She only tested for 20/20, though.

So, to recap, I spent an hour and 15 minutes picking out and expensively customizing glasses for a motherfucker who has perfect vision.

I wanted to punch him right then.

*by annual exam, I mean as annually as I remember

Imagine you're in your home, reading your favorite blog *ahem* when you hear a funny noise.  It kind of sounds like crunching glass.  You say a cuss word, get up and start walking to the source of the sound.

As you round a corner, (whichever one, it's your house, pick one) some huge guy cracks you in the face with a crowbar, then proceeds to terrorize you for hours on end before finally getting bored and smashing your skull in.

Do you, at any point, stroll over to the neighbor's house to inform them of your situation?
Do you call a time out to answer the phone?
What's the likelihood of someone noticing the point of entry from outside your home?

Now, let's say you're a smart cookie and install a burglar alarm.  'Cuz, then, when shit like this goes down, the alarm goes off and the police will come right out and save your ass.

Right?

Right Avondale, Arizona?

Right now the city of Avondale is considering adopting something called Verified Response.  What this means is that the police would only respond if either the alarm company asks them to or it's been verified that a crime is taking place.  Their defense is that they waste a lot of man-hours and paperwork on responding to false alarms.

I understand, but when I'm being pinned to my floor with my nail gun and then ass-raped by some AIDS-infested ax murderer, my one hopeful thought is that, thanks to my burglar alarm, help is on the way.

Because I don't live in Avondale.

It's just not working out Firefox.  I love your applications, but I can get the same functionality from other browsers.  You know, ones that don't inhibit my internet usage.

You crash in the stupidest places.  Like when a pop up window opens.  Is that really too sophisticated a process for your programming?

I need to be able to do uncomplicated things like follow other cool blogs or comment.  Granted, you've probably saved me some face by stopping me from making an ass of myself, but I don't appreciate the censorship.  If I want to embarrass myself in public, what business is it of yours?

So, I'm giving Google Chrome another chance.  I never really gave it much of a shot after I fired IE about a year ago.  You've been warned, Google: any attempts to save me from myself will also get you fired.

For three years I've put up with, what I've come to think of as "The Pony Show."  Once a month, MisManager's boss comes in for 1/2 a day to meet with her and see what we're up to.

The days leading up to this meeting:





*sigh* "Yes, ma'am."

Then her manager comes in and I get to put on a big, fake smile and recite my lines like a good little girl.

Recently, though, MisManager has gotten a new manager.  One that I've known for about 9 years now.  This lady actually trained me when I was hired on and I've been working with her in some capacity or another ever since.

So, earlier this week we went through the normal prepping and polishing ritual.  MisManager calls me in to talk to the boss.  Boss cuts her completely out of the conversation and has a rapid-fire series of questions that have nothing to do with my prepping.

Ahhhh, I love that woman!  Actual conversation is so refreshing.

And MisManager...picture her sitting behind her desk, looking visibly disturbed.  To the point where her boss called her out on it.  

Bwaaaaaahahahahahahaha! Suck it, MisManager.  The days of The Pony Show have ended and I couldn't be happier.

I'm not a big fan of doctors.  It's the entire reason that I have to be pretty much dead before I go see one.  Really, my opinion is unfair.  It's mostly based on unreasonable expectations that follow this sort of logic:


When they act less than superhuman, it bothers me worse than, say, when a waiter forgets my side of ranch dressing.  Why?  Consequences for lack of ranch dressing are not life-or-death. 

My distaste has been shaped over the years by some not-so-stellar run-ins with medical practitioners.  For instance, when I was 18 years old I decided that I needed to get the Depo-Provera shot.  Even though I didn't have a boyfriend and was certainly not sexually active right then.

Anyhow, one year later I went in for my physical.  I'd gained 30 lbs. and was severely depressed.  After she remarked on my tremendous weight gain, I start crying and looking for some encouragement and guidance from my gynecologist.  Since the only change in my lifestyle I'd made over the last year was the shot, I asked her if stopping the shot would help me lose it all again.  She said:

The shot doesn't make you gain weight.  It just makes you eat more.  And it also causes depression, which also makes you eat more.  Just use some self-control.

Fucking what?!  Apparently this lady flunked Logical Consequences 101 and How To Not Be A Dickhole To People 205.

And now...

My kids were sick last week, so we took them to urgent care. (I think if we visit one more time we get a free toaster.)  They had a constant, high fever for about 4 days, so we were fighting it with Tylenol and Motrin as necessary.

Imagine my horror when both Tylenol and Motrin are recalled by the manufacturer.  We checked the lot numbers and, sure enough, we've been feeding our kids Liquid Death for almost a week.  Terrific.

So, when I took my kids in for their follow up appointment, I explained to the nurse that I was also concerned that they'd been taking these meds.  I was wondering if there were any particular signs I should be on the look-out for.  The nurse had no idea that there even was a recall.

Awesome.  Well, that's okay.  Maybe the memo hadn't gotten around yet.  (I obviously don't know how nurses get their health news.)  Then the doctor comes in and I ask her the same thing.  She says, "Yeah, the nurse was just telling me about that."  Seriously? 

She asked what the recall was for and I told her.  Too much active ingredient, "particles", and inactive ingredients that "don't meet testing standards."

In my head:


Then she says:

"Well, it's a good thing that children's doses are established well below their level of tolerance."

I'm sorry, was I supposed to have a smug chuckle with you over that?  My kids have been pumped full of Agent Orange for about a week now and I'm supposed to breathe a sigh of relief because they got it in "tolerable" amounts?

Fucking jerkoff.  

She examined the kids and discovered that my daughter now has an ear infection.  Great!  I thought she was 100% better and ready to go back to school.  Ugh.  I collect the prescription for antibiotics and we're on our way.

I get to the pharmacy near my house -- a 30 minute drive away -- to turn it in when I notice she made the fucking prescription out for my son. 

Sigh.

doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo doctorsarepeopletoo...

Normally, I would say that Mr. A is a pretty bright guy.  I would absolutely claim that he is a lot more observant than me.  So a conversation we had this morning had me at a loss.

Background: We have a dishwasher and use the dry soap cakes (used to be called Electrasol, but now it's...whatever it wants to call itself).  In order to keep track of whether the dishes in the washer are clean or dirty, we automatically load a soap cake into it every time we unload the clean dishes.  So, for the last 4 years:

Soap = dirty
No soap = clean

I'm not quite sure how this conversation happened:

Mr. Awesomeness: You're going to cry when I win.