So, I'm working away on both my Summer Lovin' entry and my third installment of Terrible True Tales for the past week. (I haven't actually grouped them yet. I might should talk to Laurel about that sometime to make it easier for people who find my stories to differentiate between the ones that are purposefully terrible and the ones that are, you know, just terrible.) Anyway, the wife has been pretty understanding about my distracted crotchetiness (crotchetierness?) since I got bit by the writing bug again and especially wrestling this damn contest entry into submission. Daisy, the discount therapy puppy, not so much. The cats... meh, they do their own thing regardless of what their slaves think they want to do.
Yeah, so I gave myself a headache yesterday pounding away on the keyboard for eighteen hours off and on between dealing with the semi-permanent roommates (even odds on just which death does us part depending on the day). I saved my work, did all seven of my security scans and shut 'er down.
And woke up at the crack of noon to the wonderful sound of someone getting sick somewhere. Anyone who has a cat knows what I mean. Wake up out of a sound sleep to "hu-WAH hu-wah hu-WAH GACK!" (rinse and repeat until the obstruction is cleared) somewhere in the house, and you know not where.
My stomach has always been infamous for it's weakness. It's a little bit better since I told the white coated menace what he could do with the twenty-seven pills I would supposedly not be able to survive without. But, yeah. Furballs and I are not friends.
I laid there and wrestled my stomach back under control. Then the realization hit me. I had to pee! And I didn't know where the present had been left! Fudge buckets!
Now, it's a really good thing the wife loves me so much. A really good thing. You see, when I crank up my sympathetic gag response, the neighbors can hear me two doors down. Daisy usually hides. The three cats come running from everywhere going "Damn, dude! This one's gonna be epic!" The wife, well, she turns pretty green and swallows a lot until I manage to stop.
Needless to say, my delicate blushing flower has forwarded a formal request that if I even suspect something might have been regurgitated, I let her know so she can go check it out without the sound effects. Even if it means waking her up out of a sound sleep. As she put it, "I'd rather be woken up by a slap on the ass than your Tyrannosaurus rex mating call."
I did as requested and smacked her on the hip to let her know there had been a regurgitative event, I didn't know where, and I really needed to pee. After the third time of her mumbling something about "in a minute", it was either risk it or sit there and wet the bed. And, you know, it could have been in the living room, or in the kitchen, or in the second bedroom/study. There was a lot of floor space that could have been where they left their loving gift for me to stumble across.
Of course, it was in the bathroom on the counter right next to the toilet.
Oh, but it just kept getting better! The water had been turned off!
And yes, we'd paid the bill. The thing is, we live in probably the weirdest duplex ever built. Instead of side by side, the units are front and back. And, for whatever brilliant engineering reason, the plumbing is connected. They'd had to shut off the water to the front doing some sort of reconstructive surgery after our last idiots in the front moved out. (Who the fuck keeps NINE PitBull dogs in a four by four enclosure off their porch without EVER mucking out the inevitable shit from the pen?!)
Anyway, we managed to convince the mentally deficit maintenance crew finally that yes, they had shut off the water to our place too. And, no, that other meter is on a pipe that doesn't go anywhere and turning it on will do nothing but turn the little strip of yard between us and the next unit into Zika central. Of course, they had to try it themselves first and see. But, what the hell do I know? I've just lived in this pit for a year and a half. They are the maintenance crew that was hired a month ago by the owner that bought it May.
By now, I'm starting to get the sense of deja vu from a day several years ago that started with me accidentally bumping the bathroom sink and knocking it off the fucking wall. But, no. I don't take the hint.
I crank up my computer.
One of my security scans last night, or something, crashed something in the start up and it hangs up in the BIOS check. This just ain't my day. Fortunately, I used to teach wannabe network administrators and on my good days I can still hum pieces of the tune. Sometimes it's just the chorus, but eventually I can get there.
After thirty minutes of cussing and slapping out "shave and a haircut" on the sides and top of the computer case, I manage to get booted and start looking for the problem.
And the fucking morons in A shut off the damn power!
The wife caught me on the way out the door and took the 3lb hammer out of my hand. That was all right. I still had my cane.
Fortunately for them, our sole remaining RL friend came by on her lunch break to see if we needed anything.
The wife hands me a shopping list that is "oh, my God! Do you think this is Saturday and she doesn't have to go back to work?!"
The city had decided to resurface the road in front of the little store we usually go to and since our friend had a new car, she doesn't want to go freestyling down the fresh tar before it can dry. Hard to blame her since the white car is less than a week old.
I love this friend dearly, but she is directionally challenged. Both in terms of compass points and in following verbal directions. Fifteen minutes later, we are at a store five miles away, three miles further than the store I was trying to tell her to go to.
Now, I understand businesses need to get trucks in occasionally. And I do understand that not every business wants to do it the smart way and sling stock while the store is closed. But, who the hell thinks it's a bright idea to sling a truck's worth of stock through the lunch rush?!
After the third time one of four different employees came rushing past nearly knocking me over and saying "excuse me", I'd had enough. Our friend had used up almost her entire lunch hour, she was going to be late, and I have enough trouble maneuvering around without a damn obstacle course and a bunch of yahoos doing their headless chicken impersonations. We took the five items we'd snagged back up to the register.
One register was open. That one was doing a customer exchange. (Ok, seriously. If I can look at the pair of pants you're holding and tell at a glance that there is no fucking way you are going to get it over your ass, there's a problem. Spandex stretches, but only so much.) I didn't have a major problem with that. They had already been working on it when we walked up. What I had a problem with was the two employees behind the cashier that couldn't walk their happy ass over to the other register because they were too busy pretending to stock and flapping their gums at each other.
We left the cart and the store. Our friend had ten minutes to drop me back off and get back to work.
The maintenance crew caught me on the way back inside and asked if they could plug one of their power tools into our outlet since they'd had to flip the breakers off to the unit they were working on. Those are some either very brave men or very stupid.
Being the kind, thoughtful, and phlegmatic soul that I am, I took the offered extension cord and plugged it into the wall outlet just inside the door. I knew damn well that outlet didn't work. It hadn't worked since we'd moved in despite numerous work orders. So, even if they had quit screwing with us in our absence, it wasn't going to work.
Tweedledee looked over at Tweedledum and Tweedledummer and then peered back inside where he could clearly see the plug seated firmly in the non-functioning socket. I let this go on for three full minutes before I pointed out they were also working on the rear unit across the strip of grass from us, so why didn't they plug it in there.
The wife, naturally wanted to know why I didn't get anything on the two page list.
At least something had gone right. My computer was up and running. So apparently I must have managed to fix whatever the problem had been and I could get a little writing down. I pulled out my chair and sat down.
One of the cats had hawked up a furball in my chair while I was gone, unnoticed by the wife. And I'd just sat in it.
The fat grey fucker gave me the score from the Russian Olympic Judge, 7.5. And, no, it wasn't the Richter Scale.
So, how's your writing going today?
Yeah, so I gave myself a headache yesterday pounding away on the keyboard for eighteen hours off and on between dealing with the semi-permanent roommates (even odds on just which death does us part depending on the day). I saved my work, did all seven of my security scans and shut 'er down.
And woke up at the crack of noon to the wonderful sound of someone getting sick somewhere. Anyone who has a cat knows what I mean. Wake up out of a sound sleep to "hu-WAH hu-wah hu-WAH GACK!" (rinse and repeat until the obstruction is cleared) somewhere in the house, and you know not where.
My stomach has always been infamous for it's weakness. It's a little bit better since I told the white coated menace what he could do with the twenty-seven pills I would supposedly not be able to survive without. But, yeah. Furballs and I are not friends.
I laid there and wrestled my stomach back under control. Then the realization hit me. I had to pee! And I didn't know where the present had been left! Fudge buckets!
Now, it's a really good thing the wife loves me so much. A really good thing. You see, when I crank up my sympathetic gag response, the neighbors can hear me two doors down. Daisy usually hides. The three cats come running from everywhere going "Damn, dude! This one's gonna be epic!" The wife, well, she turns pretty green and swallows a lot until I manage to stop.
Needless to say, my delicate blushing flower has forwarded a formal request that if I even suspect something might have been regurgitated, I let her know so she can go check it out without the sound effects. Even if it means waking her up out of a sound sleep. As she put it, "I'd rather be woken up by a slap on the ass than your Tyrannosaurus rex mating call."
I did as requested and smacked her on the hip to let her know there had been a regurgitative event, I didn't know where, and I really needed to pee. After the third time of her mumbling something about "in a minute", it was either risk it or sit there and wet the bed. And, you know, it could have been in the living room, or in the kitchen, or in the second bedroom/study. There was a lot of floor space that could have been where they left their loving gift for me to stumble across.
Of course, it was in the bathroom on the counter right next to the toilet.
Oh, but it just kept getting better! The water had been turned off!
And yes, we'd paid the bill. The thing is, we live in probably the weirdest duplex ever built. Instead of side by side, the units are front and back. And, for whatever brilliant engineering reason, the plumbing is connected. They'd had to shut off the water to the front doing some sort of reconstructive surgery after our last idiots in the front moved out. (Who the fuck keeps NINE PitBull dogs in a four by four enclosure off their porch without EVER mucking out the inevitable shit from the pen?!)
Anyway, we managed to convince the mentally deficit maintenance crew finally that yes, they had shut off the water to our place too. And, no, that other meter is on a pipe that doesn't go anywhere and turning it on will do nothing but turn the little strip of yard between us and the next unit into Zika central. Of course, they had to try it themselves first and see. But, what the hell do I know? I've just lived in this pit for a year and a half. They are the maintenance crew that was hired a month ago by the owner that bought it May.
By now, I'm starting to get the sense of deja vu from a day several years ago that started with me accidentally bumping the bathroom sink and knocking it off the fucking wall. But, no. I don't take the hint.
I crank up my computer.
One of my security scans last night, or something, crashed something in the start up and it hangs up in the BIOS check. This just ain't my day. Fortunately, I used to teach wannabe network administrators and on my good days I can still hum pieces of the tune. Sometimes it's just the chorus, but eventually I can get there.
After thirty minutes of cussing and slapping out "shave and a haircut" on the sides and top of the computer case, I manage to get booted and start looking for the problem.
And the fucking morons in A shut off the damn power!
The wife caught me on the way out the door and took the 3lb hammer out of my hand. That was all right. I still had my cane.
Fortunately for them, our sole remaining RL friend came by on her lunch break to see if we needed anything.
The wife hands me a shopping list that is "oh, my God! Do you think this is Saturday and she doesn't have to go back to work?!"
The city had decided to resurface the road in front of the little store we usually go to and since our friend had a new car, she doesn't want to go freestyling down the fresh tar before it can dry. Hard to blame her since the white car is less than a week old.
I love this friend dearly, but she is directionally challenged. Both in terms of compass points and in following verbal directions. Fifteen minutes later, we are at a store five miles away, three miles further than the store I was trying to tell her to go to.
Now, I understand businesses need to get trucks in occasionally. And I do understand that not every business wants to do it the smart way and sling stock while the store is closed. But, who the hell thinks it's a bright idea to sling a truck's worth of stock through the lunch rush?!
After the third time one of four different employees came rushing past nearly knocking me over and saying "excuse me", I'd had enough. Our friend had used up almost her entire lunch hour, she was going to be late, and I have enough trouble maneuvering around without a damn obstacle course and a bunch of yahoos doing their headless chicken impersonations. We took the five items we'd snagged back up to the register.
One register was open. That one was doing a customer exchange. (Ok, seriously. If I can look at the pair of pants you're holding and tell at a glance that there is no fucking way you are going to get it over your ass, there's a problem. Spandex stretches, but only so much.) I didn't have a major problem with that. They had already been working on it when we walked up. What I had a problem with was the two employees behind the cashier that couldn't walk their happy ass over to the other register because they were too busy pretending to stock and flapping their gums at each other.
We left the cart and the store. Our friend had ten minutes to drop me back off and get back to work.
The maintenance crew caught me on the way back inside and asked if they could plug one of their power tools into our outlet since they'd had to flip the breakers off to the unit they were working on. Those are some either very brave men or very stupid.
Being the kind, thoughtful, and phlegmatic soul that I am, I took the offered extension cord and plugged it into the wall outlet just inside the door. I knew damn well that outlet didn't work. It hadn't worked since we'd moved in despite numerous work orders. So, even if they had quit screwing with us in our absence, it wasn't going to work.
Tweedledee looked over at Tweedledum and Tweedledummer and then peered back inside where he could clearly see the plug seated firmly in the non-functioning socket. I let this go on for three full minutes before I pointed out they were also working on the rear unit across the strip of grass from us, so why didn't they plug it in there.
The wife, naturally wanted to know why I didn't get anything on the two page list.
At least something had gone right. My computer was up and running. So apparently I must have managed to fix whatever the problem had been and I could get a little writing down. I pulled out my chair and sat down.
One of the cats had hawked up a furball in my chair while I was gone, unnoticed by the wife. And I'd just sat in it.
The fat grey fucker gave me the score from the Russian Olympic Judge, 7.5. And, no, it wasn't the Richter Scale.
So, how's your writing going today?
