Tool Selection

Could be someone I know, someone I don't know, fictional characters, dead people. I don't care, I'm an equal opportunity complainer when it comes to complete dickwads.

Wherever there's a Complete Tool, I'll follow closely behind with my anonymous bitching. 'Cuz that'll show 'em.

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Saturday, February 26, 2011

Why We're Horrible Parents: Reason #163

The other night, my daughter woke up crying.  She said that her stomach hurt, so Mr. A naturally assumed she was going to die.  I didn't think that 2 people needed to tend to a kid with a bellyache, so I fell asleep.

At 2:30 in the morning, Mr. A wakes me up.  "She started throwing up."  Yup.  Sometimes kids with bellyaches do that.  "She's also got a fever."  Uh huh.  "She's at 99.8."  Jackass.  That's not a fever.  "She seems to be in so much pain.  She can barely walk."  Um, the kid who has been awake for about 20 hours and just finished puking her guts out can't walk right?  "I think we should take her in."  GRRRRRRR!

I go downstairs and she's asleep on the couch.  "So, you want to start getting ready?"  No, I don't want to start getting ready, asshole!  I want to let our tired kid, who just threw up, get some sleep. 

A while later, he won.  I don't know how, but at the time it just seemed easier to agree with him.

We take her to Urgent Care, where Dr. Dipshit the nice doctor looks her over and starts jamming his hand into her belly.  "Do you see that?  Do you see the way she's flexing her stomach muscles?  We call that 'guarding'."  Oh, no you fucking didn't. This has got to be some joke you play on dumb parents who bring their kids to Urgent Care for no reason.  Anyone with half a sense of logic can tell that she's just reacting to you jamming your hands repeatedly into her tender belly.  He urged us to take her to the children's hospital for an ultrasound because he thinks she might have appendicitis.

What do we look like, fucking moro....

Where's Mr. A going?

To the emergency room at the children's hospital.

Oh, please.  I just want to get myself and my kid home for some much needed sleep.

Nope.  To the emergency room we go.  A doctor there takes a look at her, asks us questions about what brought us in, takes some notes...

Doctor Judgypants:  When was the last time she had a bowel movement?

I look at Mr. A; he looks at me; we shrug.  "Uh, we have no idea."

Doctor Judgypants: Neither of you can tell me about the last time she pooped?

Oh, crap.  The part about keeping track of her crap wasn't in our kid's instruction manual. 

Turns out she was blocked up.  Our co-pay is $250 for emergency room visits.  My daughter got a $250 enema that night.

The whole time, though, the doctor kept pushing the issue, "You seriously have no idea when the last time she went was?  Do you know if she's gone at all this week?"

My daughter has been fully potty trained for about 2 years now.  She wipes her own ass (most of the time) and everything.  How in the hell are we supposed to know when she's shitting?  We can ask her, I guess, but she doesn't have the best handle on the whole "time" thing.  Besides, she was answering, "Uh, huh," to every question.  "Kiddo, did you poop yesterday?"  "Uh, huh,"  "Did you poop out a goat on the moon?"  "Uh, huh,"

If there's any parent out there that knows about when the last time their fully potty trained kid took a dump, please set me straight.
Friday, February 18, 2011

Waterbed City

We are in the market for a new mattress.  Mr. A has a twitchy back and the little princess he cannot tolerate our cushy pillow top mattress any longer.

(Seriously, we've only had the mattress for a couple of years.  There's no reason he should be this uncomfortable.)

Taxes filed + return expected = mattress shopping has commenced.  He knows that he will no longer be able to rest his dainty head on a regular spring mattress any longer, as they've been banned by the Geneva Convention as instruments of torture. *cough* So he's put in some time to do research on his alternatives.

Air beds: no.  Apparently they're nothing but problems.  Most of the reviews he read have mentioned something about the air leaking out.  It really sounds like a pain-in-the-ass.

Tempurpedic: no.  Something about the foam taking the shape of your body in no time flat.

The last viable option he looked into was a waterbed.  For anyone who hasn't shopped for a new bed in a while, waterbeds are now made with foam sides so they can be placed on a regular bed frame.  They also no longer make you sea sick.

This suited his majesty and he proceeded to locate places in town that sell these new wonder beds.

The top Google search pick: Waterbed City.

Sounds promising.  I mean, surely you can find one bed you like in an entire city of them.

He pulls into the parking lot of a tiny storefront.  One other car graces the parking lot.  That would be the car of Waterbed City's one employee.

He chanced walking in anyway, only to find 4 waterbeds.  He also swears that one of the mattresses had a blood stain.

This place has some nerve calling itself Waterbed City.

Waterbed City, you have officially been downgraded to Waterbed Village of the Damned.

**this post has been brought to you today by 2 Margaritas**
Thursday, February 3, 2011


Citizens of Phoenix:

You all are the whiniest motherfuckers EVER.  It got cold yesterday.  Get over it.  You have to put up with 37F, beautiful, sunny weather while the rest of the country is buried in ice.

It's not raining.  It's not snowing.  It's barely windy.  The only reason you notice the wind is because the low temps make it kinda chilly.

I left the house without jacket or gloves yesterday.  Me.  The girl who resides in a house kept at 75F and feels the need to dress in sweats and socks and is currently covered in a heavy comforter.  Brrrrr.

You, at large, left your house in motherfucking parkas.  Dramatic?  A thick sweater really would do, you dicks.

The accidents on the road: unbelievable.  You would think that there really was ice everywhere with as much as you people were crashing into one another.  There were 3 accidents within a half-mile of my work as I was leaving.  Mr. A went around these and found himself trudging by another accident a mile down the road.

You are not in the arctic.  You are not even in the Midwest.  You need to collectively man up and deal with the fact that it was chilly for 2 fucking days in your desert paradise.

Sunday's projected temp: 71F.  The rest of the country will still be buried in snow and your spoiled ass will be golfing.

Shut the fuck up.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011

First, Start With Your Eyeballs...

Hello there, People Who Clean The Office.

I am very grateful for the work you do.  I wouldn't do it if you paid me a million dollars, so the fact that you do it for slightly more than minimum wage makes you saints in my eyes.

Speaking of eyes, I'd like to point out that using them every so often would greatly improve, not only the quality of your work, but our relationship as well.

The issue starts with the fact that you only come in to clean at night, long after I've left and long before I return.  Our sole method of communication is through a notebook that we keep in the closet with your cleaning supplies.

Last Monday, when you came in, you left me a note that said, "Need peper towls."  Spelling errors aside, this was an effective communication that we were running low on a much needed supply.  Peper towls were ordered and the box was placed just inside the closet door underneath the shelf that holds the notebook.

Wednesday rolls around and you write in the book, "".  This tells me that you still need peper towls.  Um, I hate to embarrass you, but you had to climb over a case of peper towls to get to the notebook where you're making your ditto marks.  Surely, you will see this the next time.

Friday, more "".  Wow.  The box has a big, blue picture of peper towls right on it.  I turned the box so that you might notice this finally.

Monday, I get "" and arrows.  My bad for not opening the peper towl box for you.  I also placed some peper towls next to the notebook.  Now that I've done that, let's see if you can find them tonight.