Welcome to My Quarter-Life Crisis

A Sad Goodbye & Signing Off. AND ON AGAIN! May 2, 2011

Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone out there?!  I totally don’t blame you if you’re not…  It’s only been FOREVER, but for whatever reason this ol’ blog chugs right along and still gets a decent amount of traffic.  The most popular post?  The Cornhole one.  So random. 

I don’t even know where to begin…  life is…  different.  The biggest thing to report is that about six weeks ago our little family of four became an incredibly sad family of three.  We unexpectedly lost our sweet protector – our Great Dane, Duley.  As much as I was around euthanasia at the vet, as described in detail here, I was completely unprepared for how much it actually hurts and the way that it shakes you to the core.  Baron is so lost and lonely, and now that is the hardest part.  We want him to have a friend, but are not even close to ready to consider getting another dog.  There’s just nothing that can fill the void.  We miss our Dule Bar every day. 

On another note, as most of you know, I started this blog during a particularly crappy time in my life, so even though I like to laugh and joke about the ridiculousness of everyday life, this blog has always had a shadow of bitterness and sorrow for me.  Well, considering the fact that I just turned 29 (and the fact that I doubt I’ll live to be 120), my “quarter-life crisis” is over.  WHAT?  WAIT!  What does it all mean?!  Just relax, blog peeps!  I am retiring this blog and gearing back up with a new one. 

My Dad told me not too long ago that much like himself, I tend to create my own little piles of chaos, just to keep things interesting.  Ummmm…  True.  He said he thought that it had something to do with being intelligent and never having an idle mind or something to that effect…  I can’ t remember exactly ’cause I was thinking about something else at the time.  Anyway, I have been thinking so much about that lately and how it seems that these days my life has just about the perfect level of insanity.  Thanks to the love of my life and our oh-so-perfect-for-us location, I have just enough beachy fun hang-out party time, balanced by a silly amount of work (for not nearly enough money).  We fight and make up, we get knocked down and we get back up, and we laugh and love all the while.    It’s the perfect balance of chaos and normalcy that my restless mind requires.  Hence, the new blog title……  drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (that’s a drumroll) – “Perfectly Kaotic”.  For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Katie, so that’s why the chaos starts with “K”.  Now normally I hate that kind of grammatical crap (or krap, if you will)…  but for my new little bloggy’s purposes, I love it. 

And another thing!!! – the further along I got into this blog and the more people who started reading it, the more I toned down what I REALLY wanted to say out of worry about what so and so would think about this or that.  NO MORE, PEOPLE.  I started writing for ME.  Now don’t get me wrong – I am not (and will never be) intentionally trying to hurt anyone’s feelings.  I’m just going to say what I’m thinkin’ when I’m thinkin’ it.  And be warned – I have a potty mouth.  And I also have a new fancy schmancy phone, that I’m hoping will make me more apt to blog on the fly.  Sneak preview:  my thoughts on how difficult it is to NOT look like an asshole when one of your neighbors waves to you while you’re walking your dog and holding a bag of his shit.  Jeez WHY am I always talking about shit?!  Okay so maybe less shit on the new blog.  But maybe not…  Hope y’all will check it out either way.  Quarter-Life Crisis Girl – over & out.

www.perfectlykaotic.blogspot.com

Things Are Looking Up! Just Call Me a Lightning Rod… September 14, 2010

Since I last wrote:

The sewer backed up in my old house,

and the fuckers fine folks at JEA came out to dig the manhole cover out from under 3 layers of pavement a mere 5 days AFTER they left a note on my door telling me that everything had been inspected and was “fine on their end”.

I caught a Blue Fish!

We ditched the old shithole and moved into a beautiful casa, complete with functional a/c AND plumbing – ahhhh the little luxuries!

Got everything all set up…

Including the GAME ROOM (a.k.a. the “Playpen”), where I am working on my pool shark abilities…

And speaking of sharks…  I caught one!

And the bf got a fancy truck for our beach excursions…

I passed the NCIDQ…  mostly.  And I don’t have a pic for this one, but I passed two out of three sections, which I am thrilled about.  I needed a 500 on the last section and got a 476.  Ouch.  But it’s ok.  I’m retaking that section on October 1st and then I’ll be all set. 

And oh by the way, I got a new job too!  I don’t have a pic for this one either, but it is GOOD NEWS!  It was just sorta one of those things that just happened out of the blue and I could not be more excited.  I am going to be starting a design program at the Calico Corners store here.  It is a great opportunity and the potential is HUGE.  I will write more about that one later, but for now I’ll just say that I have six tiny more days of hearing words like “anal glands” and having bags of shit on my desk and I couldn’t be more elated. 

I hesitate to say it for fear that I may be struck by a wayward bolt of lightning, but things are going really well!  I will try to be a better blogger, but cut me some slack…  lots going on!  And it’s all wonderful stuff!  Holy shit…  did I just hear thunder?…

Lessons Learned from the World’s Funniest Dad June 20, 2010

Yes, that’s Elvis on YouTube. And for the record, this was an “unauthorized photograph” taken of my Dad.

To commemorate father’s day, and because he recently told me that I need to update the blog more often, I thought I’d write a little ode to my Daddy, just so everyone knows why he is the best, and hands down funniest, Dad in the world.  His methoods may have sometimes been ummm, let’s call them “unconventional”, but I’ve learned some of life’s most important lessons from my Dad.  Here are a few of my favorites.    

When my brother, K.B., and I were little, Dad used to drive from Louisville to Atlanta every other weekend to see us.  Since we were still too little to be left to our own devices, the three of us would stay in CONNECTING hotel rooms so that Dad could keep a close enough eye on us to tuck us in, make sure we weren’t accidentally renting anything on Spanktravision, and – as we got older – make sure we weren’t breaking into the minibar.  Well, during one of these visits and when we were still kiddos, some genius Marriott employee made the silly mistake of confusing “adjoining” and “connecting” hotel rooms.  This was the employee’s “silly” mistake.  Her STUPID mistake was telling my Dad that there were no other rooms available and then starting an uneducated argument with him about the definitions of “adjoining” and “connecting”.  I remember thinking, “Jeez Dad is so smart!”  I also remember him making absolutely no progress in his argument with the glazed over moron behind the check-in counter.  Dad said, “No.  No, no, no.  It’s NOT the same thing.  Adjoining means they’re just next to each other.  Connecting means they connect.  One has a DOOR.  A way to get THROUGH to the other room.”  And in return he got a blank stare.  Their verbal exchange got heated and before I knew it, K.B. and I were loaded back up in the car.  We headed back to our house and Dad went straight for the dictionary.  He flipped to the “A’s”…  riiiiiiiiiip.  He flipped to the “C’s”……  riiiiiiip.  And back to the hotel we went.  By the time he was done presenting the entire front desk staff with the Webster’s Dictionary pages containing the EXACT definitions of “adjoining” and “connecting”, I’m pretty sure they all understood the difference.  And I can’t really remember if it was at that particular hotel or not (I’m pretty sure it was), but I know we had connecting rooms to sleep in that night.   No Spanktravision, but a good lesson learned:  The squeaky wheel always gets the grease.     

K.B. and I learned this next lesson from Dad with the help of a little Michael Jackson tape.  Dad is a huge music fan.  LOVES it.  And he has the most random taste ever.  I can remember my friends in sixth grade thinking he was the coolest Dad EVER because he was listening to Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me” on a parent chaperoned trip to Six Flags or something.  You just never know what’s gonna be in his tape deck, or I guess his CD changer or i-pod nowadays.  (K.B. I know this is where you get your ecclectic taste in music!).  But long before the days of “Freak Like Me”, there was a little M.J. tape that some of you might remember – I think it was “Man in the Mirror”.  Or it may have been whatever album “Do You Remember the Time” was on…  either way, we were listening to it in the tape deck as we were cruising around in Dad’s Mercedes one weekend.  We were jammin’ and life was good, and then Dad went to turn off the car.  The car turned off, but, for whatever reason, Michael Jackson did not.    We were confused.  Dad pressed the eject button.  Nothing.  MJ still blaring.  Fast forward, rewind, eject, stop, car on, car off…  nothing worked and the King of Pop kept on.  Dad was becoming more and more frustrated.  His face was turning red and he was getting a little sweaty and he started grumbling about how the “effin possessed cassette was gonna run down the battery in the damn car”, all the while K.B. and I were cracking up.  We pulled into the service section of the Mercedes lot and Dad got to work.  He was pressing combinations of buttons, banging on the tape deck, flipping the little tape trap door back and forth.  The cussing increased, along with me and my brother’s laughter, and then it hit him.  Dad removed the keys from the ignition and shoved the longest one forcefully into the tape deck.  Little chunks of plastic were breaking off of the tape as he stabbed it back and forth, and FINALLY Dad broke the tape free of the deck.  VICTORY!  But was this enough?  HELL NO.  Dad opened his door, flung the tape out onto the ground, and proceeded to stomp it into about 7,000 tiny pieces as K.B. and I watched in disbelief.  We peeled out of there, leaving a cloud of exhaust and about three miles of the ribbon from inside the cassette tape blowing in the breeze.  Lesson learned:  Persistance pays off.   

Disney World.  It’s gotta be every parent’s dream nightmare.  I’m sure that my Dad felt the same way when he took me and K.B. when we were still little tykes.  I remember our trip there, but my telling of this incident will be more because I’ve heard my Dad tell the story a hundred times.  And with good reason.  It was our first big day at the theme park, and of course it was hotter than the surface of the sun outside.  According to my Dad’s version of the story, we had barely gotten through the front gate when K.B. and I started whining about being thirsty.  Dad towed us through the crowds to the nearest concession stand and asked what we wanted to order.  “I want a Coke, Daddy!”, I said.  When he asked what size I naturally replied, “I want the BIG one Daddy!”  So the big one it was.  Seriously this coke was bigger than my head at the time.  It was at least a gallon and probably cost about $10.25.  We had just parked it at a table to enjoy our refreshing beverages when, in all my Cinderella excitement, I flung one of my chubby kid arms into the tower of syrupy soda.  It was as if a dam had broken on my side of the table…  a tidal wave of coke flew towards my Dad, splashed directly into his lap, and ran like sugary rivers down into his socks and tennis shoes.  The entire restaurant collectively cringed a “that poor bastard” cringe, but Daddy assured me that it was ok and that he knew it was an accident.  If he were telling the story now, he would say, “and for the rest of the day, out in 1,000 degree heat, I squished around with Coke in my shoes and my toes stuck together, swatting bees away from my dick.”  But from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to Space Mountain, he never made me feel bad about it.  He was just bein’ a Dad.  Lesson learned:  Patience is a virtue. 

That story reminds me of another Coke incident.  Once again at a hotel, when K.B. and I were still young cubs, we had been out with Dad laaaaate.  We were sleepy and cranky and Dad was doing his damndest to get us to bed.  We went into the hotel – and this was not a Holiday Inn, friends – this was a swanky Doubletree with a baby grand piano in the lobby.  It was fancy.  So we go to check-in and, after a less than pleasant exchange, the oh-so helpful front desk manager informed Dad that our reservation had been lost in the fray, that there was a convention in town, and there were no rooms to be had.  This was not the news that Papa Bear, two sleepy cubs in tow, wanted to hear.  They argued for a few more minutes and when Dad could see that he was fighting a losing battle, he instructed us to head back to the car.  As the three of us were making our way out of the lobby, Dad casually took a sip of the very full Big Gulp fountain Coke that he had carried in with him, and then, ever so gracefully, he sailed it right across the luxurious lobby.  I am pretty sure that, in addition to the coke, Dad tossed a few choice phrases regarding  just exactly how he felt about the situation, in case he had left any room for doubt amidst the soaking wet oriental rugs and dripping marble stairs.  K.B. and I once again watched in disbelief, as we tottered on to the car.  WHOA – Dad means business!  Really was a pisser when Dad realized on the way out of the hotel parking lot that he had left his credit card at the front desk…  Lesson learned though:  Don’t fuck with the cubs.   

There are countless other stories that I could tell…  humor was, and continues to be, his best teaching tool.  When I got caught sneaking out in high school my official nickname until I graduated was “Midnight Rider”.  When I was little and some mean boy on the playground told me that I had a big head, Dad called me “Hydro” – that’s short for hydrocephalic – and he used to take my hats and sneakily move them over a notch or two and watch me struggle to put them back on.  When I got a HUGE speeding ticket a few years ago he called me “Danica Patrick” for months.  All that being said, the man who made up all these nicknames is the same Daddy who gave little miss “Midnight Rider” the Mercedes with the posessed tape deck for my first car when I turned 16.  He’s the same protective Father who may or may not have broken a bone or two when he shook the hand of the bully who told me I had a big head.  And he’s the same supportive Dad who helped lead-foot “Danica” pay that big, huge speeding ticket.    

My brother and I would not have the incredibly blessed, priviledged, and student-loan-free lives that we enjoy now if had not been for Dad’s love, support, and hard work.  I guess as you grow up you begin to realize that your invincible, perfect parents are human just like everyone else, faults and all.  But Dad, I hope that you know every day – and especially on Father’s day – that you’ll always be Superman to me.  I love you – Happy Father’s Day.  

Dad, me, & Grammy

  

    

             

 

Dad, me, & K.B.

             

            

An Educational 6 Weeks June 13, 2010

I know, I know.  I did it again.  I am the biggest slacker that a blog has ever seen.  I am trying to get back on track and catch up a little bit, so instead of a thirty page novel detailing every aspect of the last six weeks, I think I’ll just tell you guys about some important lessons that I’ve learned during my blog hiatus. 

1)  12-16 weeks is a reallllly long time to wait for NCIDQ scores.  Particularly when my “career” is in a stall pattern while PATIENTLY awaiting this certification and bags of dog shit continue to be handed to me on a daily basis. 

2)  Truth:  No good deed goes unpunished.  Case and point:  I think I’ve made my stance on shopping at any place that requires a shopping cart pretty clear.  In case you’ve forgotten, please refer to my tribute to Self-Checkout blog.  There is only one word to describe it.  HATE.  So it should come as no surprise that by the end of my 3 hour Target run, I was frazzled.  I really wanted to head home, so after a few brief rounds of  “are you gonna go, or am I gonna go?” between me and my cart and some cars in the parking lot, I was hastily slinging my parcels in the back of my vehicle.  Then, much to my chagrin, I removed the 1,000 lb. dog food bag and discovered that a liiiittle pack of batteries was hiding underneath it in the cart.  I picked them up, looked up at the front of the store, and thought “and now we come to a crossroads, Target.”  Option A – toss the batteries in the car and chalk it up to a four dollar win for me, or Option B – do the right thing and go back into the trenches to pay for the damn batteries.  So, I sucked it up and went back in.  While standing in line, I noticed that particular impulse item stand had my very favorite gum that I can never find!  (It’s Mega Mystery, f.y.i. – it’s like grown up Fruit Stripe gum and it doesn’t taste like a piece of notebook paper in 30 seconds.)  SWEET, I thought, karma smiles on me for doing the right thing with the batteries.  So I grab two packs of the gum and toss them, along with the batteries, up onto the perpetually milky conveyor belt.  Beep, beep, beep.  Cashier: 
“EWWW  that’s WEIRD.  Your total will be $6.66 ma’am.”  Well fuck you too, karma.

3)  No matter how yummy it may be, you can not eat corn dip for three straight days and not expect repercussions.

4)  Even though you know your 86-year-old Grandmother is bat shit crazy, it’s still really sad when she’s actually diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia.

5)  Road trips over 3 hours by yourself are not as easy as they used to be.  And consequently I’ve learned that the “turn on the a/c, roll down the windows, turn up the music” tricks don’t really work.  The only thing that actually kept me awake was the idea of someone finding my car in a ditch, Hall and Oates blaring on the radio, a/c at full tilt, all the windows down, and me sound asleep and drooling on myself behind the wheel.

6)  The most effective way to pick up half-soft dog shit out of a high pile rug is to pick up one piece and then dab the other pieces with it.  Don’t ask.  You’ll think of me the next time you pick up dog turds though.  Probably not my greatest claim to fame, but I hope it helps your rug anyway.

7)  Horseshoe crabs are the most prehistoric mother effers on the PLANET and they look like some kind of heinous Predator vs. Alien reject.  Check this guy out…

8)  It is not okay to laugh at a precious French Bulldog puppy that has been electrocuted by chewing on a lamp cord, even if the name on his collar tag says “TOAST”.

9)  Dog bites hurt even when they don’t break the skin.  And consequently…

10)  I can, in fact, restrain myself from kicking a wild ass dog, even when it crushes my wrist in it’s disgusting mouth.

And on that high note, I guess that’s all for now!  I promise to try to update on a regular basis…  it’s just hard when the pool or beach starts calling my name.  Definitely lovin’ the Florida summer.  Dog shit/dog bites/corn dip = no.  Summer/pool/beach = yes.

Don’t You DARE Call Me a Decorator! April 21, 2010

I really hate when I do this.  Take so long to write a blog I mean.  When I let this much time go by, so much happens that I want to write about that I eventually get to a point where I’m like, “eh, eff it – it’s just too much” and then I put it off longer.  But now here I am, and it’s time to play catch up.  Oh and p.s., you might notice that I have a new blog theme.  Perhaps it’s because I started this blog during a less than stellar time of my life, but that old theme just started to seem too dark to me.  So I thought this new theme appropriate, #1 because I LOVE the moon, stars, etc.  (in fact, a special little someone actually had a star named after me not so long ago…), and #2 because, as you’ll see by the end of this post, I am starting a new and QUITE stellar part of my life.  Sidenote:  Although it may seem a little Debbie-downerish (and though I hate to admit it, I’m getting just a smidge too old…), I am keeping the “Quarter Life Crisis” title, if for no other reason than to remind me where I started…

Okay, so the big events.  I have mentioned before that to work in commercial design in the great state of Florida, you must have a Florida license.  To get a Florida license, you must have passed the NCIDQ examination.  “NCIDQ” stands for National Council for Interior Design Qualification and all I remember learning about it in school was that I never, ever wanted to take it.  The teacher explained all about it and how the creme de la creme were the only ones who took it and usually it was after at least 10-15 years working in design, and even then the exam only carried a 30% pass rate.  “Holy crap – no interest in that”, I thought to myself.  “And I’ll never really NEED it….”  It dawns on me now that this reminds me of a story wherein my father decided that he didn’t really need to learn Spanish in high school, so he worked out a deal with the teacher so that whenever there was a test, he’d come in and sign his name, and be on his merry way to lunch.  He gladly accepted three straight “F’s”.  And by the way, thanks for that Dad, seeing as though my brother and I BOTH had the same lady teach us Spanish 20 years later!  Sure was a surprise for her when she called roll the first day, recognized my last name and leaned over to get a good look at my face while simultaneously saying, “Noooooooo!”  But she was nice to me and my bro and she definitely appreciated the fact that my “I’ll never need Spanish” Dad has worked in Miami for the last fifteen years.  I’m not sure how familiar all of you are with the cultural dynamics of Miami, but ummmm, the majority of the roadsigns aren’t even in English.  Point being, knowing  a smidge of Spanish woulda come in handy for him.  I am now seeing how hilariously ironic it is that things like this always seem to come full circle.  Dad needed Spanish, and I need an NCIDQ certification. 

While I try to stay positive at the vet and I am supremely thankful that I was able to find a job in such a scary market, it’s tough.  Sparing all of the often-times horriffic details, I’ll just say that over the last ten working days I’ve had four different people hand me four different dead dogs before 8:30 a.m.  Not that someone handing  you a dead dog at any time of the day would really be loads better, but when it happens before you can even down a complete cup of coffee?!  Well let’s just say it’s not really an inspiring way to start the day, and it has finally started to get to me.  Also, I’m a little bit DONE with all of the dog shit.  I would be absolutely ecstatic if I could just go one full day without someone handing me a warm bag of poo.  BUT, all of the negativity aside, the very very best thing about this job is that it’s made me miss design with a burning passion.  When I moved here I was confused and burnt out and wasn’t even sure if I wanted to still do design.  But I miss it!  And I LOVE it!  I know now that I chose the right profession for ME from the very beginning.  That is a pretty cool feeling. 

So naturally, now that I’m all fired up about it, I can not WAIT to get back into design.  Studying for the NCIDQ was the perfect reminder of why I love design and all of the things that I was missing about it.  I had really kinda taken a “decorator’s/sales” job in Columbus and, while I seriously kicked ass at it and won all kinds of sales awards and whatnot, actual design is MUCH different…  Hence why whenever someone calls me a “decorator” I want to hammer bamboo chutes under their fingernails.  So that everyone reading this knows the difference and avoids this faux pas later in life, ANYONE can be a decorator.  Anyone.  My dachshund Baron could be a decorator.  There is no certification required, no degree required, just the whole, “I’m good at decorating” attitude, and that’s it!  A designer, on the other hand, has a 5 year (or 4.5 year in my case) degree from an accredited university, can draw entire space plans (blue prints) accurately, can draw reflected ceiling plans, lighting plans, knows about HVAC, plumbing, lighting, and life safety systems integration and can competently work with the individuals who install these systems, they can draw life safety plans, calculate occupancy loads, draw egress plans, draw handicap accessible space plans according to ADA specifications, they can correctly draw and specifiy millwork sections and elevations,  AND do all of the finish “decorating” work, like choosing fabrics, finishes, etc.  Point being:  don’t call me a fucking decorator. 

The NCIDQ is a comprehensive test that goes back to everything that a designer learns in school.  It is a two day test that is offered only once every six months and you must meet a huge list of requirements to even apply for this test. When I moved here I had juuuuuust missed the deadline to apply for the Fall session of the test.  So I immediately began gathering all of the forms, letters, and paperwork that were required to apply for the Spring 2010 session.  First, I needed $160 to apply.  Ok, no prob.  Then, I needed a “Work Verification Form” that proves that I have worked for a minimum of 9,500 hours in the design profession.  (Sidenote:  Can I tell you how tricky it was to get a work verification form signed by your previous employer when you’ve just divorced that person?…  Had to get a little creative on that one – and NO, I did not forge anything.)  Next, I had to get three letters of recommendation from my “professional peers”, and the obnoxious part about all of this was that I had to send my “professional peers” these letters with instructions and special return envelopes (that they had to return to me), and they all had to sign across the seal of the envelope and I was not allowed to open them.  (I really wanted to though – and thank you to the peeps/peers who did this for me.  I definitely owe you guys!)  Then, I had to request my official Auburn transcript to be sent back to me in another one of these signed/sealed envelopes, then all of that stuff (my letter of application, Auburn transcript, peer letters, and work verification) had to go in an envelope with about 30 other forms that I personally had to fill out, and it all had to be mailed to NCIDQ in a special packet and postmarked by a certain date.  I mailed the packet in November and they tell you that it’ll take up to eight weeks for you to know if you’re even accepted in to take the test.  GEE THANKS – I guess I’ll just go ahead and order the $300 worth of study materials in the HOPES that I get accepted then???  And let me tell you what – it was hard to drop that packet into the mailbox.  I had spent so much time working on it and double checked everything at least 87 times.  I definitely had to give myself a pep talk in the car in order to finally drop it into the mail box. 

I got my acceptance e-mail back just a few weeks later – thankfully I didn’t have to wait the full 6-8 – so at that point all I had to do was rob a few liquor stores to come up with the $835 to register for the test and another $300 for all of the study materials, and then operation “Study for NCIDQ” commenced.  The test is two days long, eight hours both days.  The first day consists of 300 multiple choice questions – 150 in the morning session covering codes, building systems, construction standards, and contract administration, and 150 in the afternoon session covering design application, project coordination and professional practice.  The second day is the practicum.  It consists of seven different excercises – space planning, lighting design, egress, life safety, restroom (washroom) design, systems integration and millwork.  Oh my GOD it exhausts me to even think of it now.  Every spare moment that I had I was studying.  I had this whole house covered up in space plans, I always had the laptop in my lap double-checking my work, I reviewed the practice mulitiple choice about a zillion times, I pulled out all my old college notes and books and everything that I thought would help.  It was exhausting, and often times frustrating as hell, but it was FUN!  It reminded me of all the stuff that I haven’t done since school and my first job out of college and I remembered how much I LOVE it.  I had become so lackadaisical with my “decorator’s” job (and my life, but that’s a blog for another day), and had just forgotten what it was all about and why I chose that profession. 

And in true “I can’t believe this bullshit is happening to me” fashion, on the last full day that I had to study, the bf’s 130 lb. Great Dane had explosive (and splashing) diarrhea all over my house.  AS IF I DON’T DEAL WITH DOG SHIT ENOUGH AT WORK?!  Now I gotta deal with THIS disgustingness at home?!  Fab.  Since it took me the majority of the day to remove everything from the house and disinfect it from floor to ceiling with bleach, I did not get the amount of time that I had hoped for last minute study/review/prep.  The actual test was on Friday, April 9th and Saturday, April 10th.  It is only offered in certain cities and the closest location to Jax was Savannah.  Thankfully the bf has family that lives in Savannah and they let us stay with them, so we didn’t have to throw even MORE cash at this money-sucking NCIDQ beast for an overpriced hotel.  After loading up a still-sick Dane and Bear-bear into my little RDX and carefully hauling them to the vet to stay for the weekend (talk about a nerve-racking ride – if that level of shitty explosiveness had happened in my vehicle, I’d have just had to push the dog out into traffic and then driven off of a bridge – there is no amount of steam cleaning or Febreze that coulda fixed that), we headed to Savannah on the evening of the 8th.  I  was feeling pretty good because I had all of my study stuff ready to go in the car and I had checked fifty times to make sure that I had all my drafting tools, my calculator, pencils, etc., etc.  My plan was to study the multiple choice stuff in the car and when we got the the house that night and then study then study the practicum stuff on Friday night. 

We arrived and got all settled in and I juuuuuuust sat down with all of my study materials when ZZSSHHHHHJJJJJJJhhh.  (That’s the sound of the power cutting off.)  I sat there for a few seconds.  Nothing.  Just darkness.  And quiet.  Now for studying, the utter silence would not have been so bad.  The darkness?  Not so much.  Makes it a teeensy bit hard to read.  So I thought that surely the power would come back on in a matter of minutes.  Ok, so I’ll go ahead and get ready for bed.  Got a flashlight – it died midway through brushing my teeth.  Okay.  Fine.  I’ll get a candle.  Only by this point the air had been off long enough that it was HOT, and for whatever reason this particular candle emitted an amount of heat equivalent to the surface of the sun.  Not to mention that an open flame and ruffling pages of study materials was making me just a little nervous.  So I had studied as long as I could take it and went to bed.  Sleep did not come easy, however, because the only alarms that we had were our cell phones and they were both on their last battery legs, and need I remind you that the power was off and there was no way to charge them…  I was terrified that I was going to oversleep and they make it perfectly clear that if you are late to the test, you WILL be locked out and  you WILL NOT be allowed to take it.  Anyone who knows me knows that being on time is not (and never has been) my forte, so I was already nervous enough, but now the thought of no alarm?!  Terrified.  It turned out that the power came back on after about 4 hours, so I knew my phone would be charged and I finally got some sleep. 

I left with plenty of time to get to the test site (30 miles away), and my trusty navigation took me right to the building.  The only problem was that I couldn’t find anywhere to PARK.  And let me just mention that the test was given on MLK, Jr. Blvd., so I didn’t really want to be running around too much down there.  I drove and drove and drove around in circles and couldn’t find a single parking place.  I was getting frustrated and anxious and it was getting way to close to test time, so I finally just parked in some random parking deck and had to RUN – and I mean R-U-N – ten blocks to the test center.  Panting and sweating, I got to the front doors.  Locked.  OHHHHHHHHHHH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!  You’ve GOT to be kidding me.  Again, I ran around to the side of the building frantically looking for an open door.  5 minutes ’til test time.  I FINALLY find a door that looks right and there is a security guard sitting right on the other side of it.  I frantically pull on the door – locked again.  The guard looks at me like I’m crazy, puts down her doughnut, wedges the tiny stool out from in between her giant asscrack and moseys on over to casually open the door.  REALLY?  Why oh why must I be tested like this?  She finally, FINALLY points me in the right direction and I make it to the test room with two minutes to spare. 

It took about fifteen minutes to get my heart rate back to where I couldn’t actually hear it in my ears, and it took about 30 minutes for me to stop coughing up the massive quantities of south Georgia pollen that I had inhaled on my little pre-test jog, but after that I settled into the groove of the test and I was rockin’ and rollin’.  It was only slightly distracting that the test center was settled conveniently between the Savannah welcome center, train tracks, and a major freeway, and the fact that the building was a little bit older and every time the air clicked on it sounded reminicient of ohhhh say like a shotgun blast wasn’t bothersome at all.  Oh and I forgot to mention that the best part about the welcome center is that they give Trolley rides every fifteen minutes!!!  So every so often there was a little “DING DING” and for a good five minutes after every “ding”, all I could think about was how much I mysteriously craved Rice-a-roni.  It is, after all, the San Fransisco treat.  DING DING! 

So I got through the first half of the multiple choice and we had an hour for lunch.  By this point I had finally figured out where I was supposed to park, so I had just enough time to truck it over to get my car, pick up a lunchable from a scary gas station where the only other lunch option was hot wings, and move over to the correct lot while trying to stack cheese slices and round processed meat patties onto the little crackers and shove them into my mouth.   Not a relaxing lunch, but I went back in there and powered out the second half of the multiple choice and headed back to the house to study for Saturday.

As far as travel time and actually getting to the test site, Saturday was much better than Friday.  But the test was HARD.  And I mean HARD.  It was eight solid hours of on-your-feet drafting, reading, processing, problem solving….  I have never gone that long with every single neuron in my brain firing as hard as they were firing and it was absolutely exhausting.  The good part of this though is that the eight hours FLEW by.  The second I plopped into my car when the test was over, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  My back hurt, my feet hurt, I could hardly feel the fingers on my right hand from all of the drafting, and my brain was so tired I could hardly see straight.  The thirty mile drive home is a blur.  All I know is that when I finally made it to the house, the bf and his whole family were soooooooooo excited and all they wanted to do was hug me and congratulate me and go out to dinner and hang out on the boat…  they had a big celebratory evening planned.  They were even all waiting for me in the driveway, but when I stepped out of the car I just started crying.  Uncontrollably.  I went straight into the house, took off my shoes, and curled up under the covers with the lights off in the fetal position for a good thirty minutes.  The bf tried to comfort me and all I can remember saying is something to the effect of “I hate everything”…  I had a straight up nervous breakdown!  It was awful.  Thank goodness it only lasted for about 45 minutes and then I scraped myself up, took a shower, and we all headed out on the boat to a GREAT seafood restaurant.  All in all in was a great night – except when one of the family friends who also happened to be dining at the same establishment asked me how my “decorator’s test” went…  SOMEBODY GET THE BAMBOO CHUTES!!!!!  Thankfully before I could even go off the rails on this girl, the bf set her straight with a quickness. 

SO, now only 12 short weeks until I get the results.  I honestly have no idea if I passed or not.  I hope like hell that I did…  I have no desire to go through that again.  But pass or fail, I have to say that for the first time in I don’t even know HOW long, I feel genuinely proud of myself.  This was a huge accomplishment and I learned SO much.  While I wait for the scores I am updating my portfolio – something that I shamefully haven’t done in years – and I rejoined ASID (American Society for Interior Design).  Hey, it was only $400 to reinstate!  Who doesn’t have an extra four-hundred smacks just laying around?!  But it doesn’t matter – it is important to me and I am really excited about it.  There is a continuing education conference that I am going to next week on my day off – it’s in Orlando and it’s going to be great.  I figured that if I can’t get a job doing what I want to do yet, I can at least start making some connections at these events and learning some stuff and adding some good things to my resume.  And another great part is that when I move from Florida and the NCIDQ certification isn’t required, it puts me in a totally different bracket from other job applicants.  And we all know that whatever edge you can get in this job market sure as hell doesn’t hurt!  I really feel like everything is getting back on track and I love, love, love that I can see the light at the end of the dog-shit tunnel! 

Now if I could just get everyone straightened out on this “decorator” thing….

Be Careful What You Spit For… March 11, 2010

I mean REALLY???

I have a confession to make.  There is nothing that annoys me more than underage, spoiled, obnoxious bitches that have to do nothing other than go to class and not exceed the spending limit on their daddy’s credit card.  (Sidenote:  yes, I appreciate the irony because I used to be one of these people, although I like to think that I did not take it for granted the way that these entitled whorebags do…)  Anyway, they are everywhere down here – mostly at the beach, mostly in bathing suits with perfectly highlighted hair and funky accessories (even though they’re going SWIMMING…), and mostly riddling holes into my already shaky self-confidence with their itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny freakin’ obnoxiously small bikinis.  And they’re just sooooooo completely oblivious to anyone and everyone else in existence that might not directly be serving whatever is on their agenda.

SO, the other day we were down by the beach at a funky little sandwich shop that had been highly recommended by one of the BF’s coworkers.  It was easy to see when we first drove by that this was definitely a surfer/beach girl hangout.  I was still in scrubs and really in no mood to be surrounded by tiny people in cutie little bathing suits with their perfectly tousled beach girl hairstyles while I plowed a colossal sub into my face, but whatevs.  So we pull into the parking lot and there are two empty spaces right at the end of the lot.  There was a car directly behind us that pulled into the spot beside us at almost the exact same time that we pulled into our spot.  I look over and driving the brand new Jetta (with the rims all scuffed up from drunken driving adventures no doubt) next to us is “that girl”…  Freshly highlighted hair with a little headband, designer-ish halter top, big fashionable sunglasses, fresh make-up…  this chick has done nothing all day but roll out of bed and “get ready” to go to lunch with her friend.  I am instantly annoyed when I see her, but even more so when she completely disregards the fact that my door was half way open when she flung her door open and right into the path of my door.  No prob. I’LL WAIT.  So I close my door and give her an evil glare – which she of course did not see because I do not exist in her universe.  AND THEN this bitch just half spits/half plops a big wad of gum out of her trampy mouth and RIGHT into the middle of the walkway between our two cars.  I INSTANTLY start stringing together expletives and various other phrases that properly conveyed my disgust, but of course she didn’t hear me because my door was closed. 

Now I know that gum gets stale, and I realize that they were going into a restaurant to eat and the gum needed to come out sooner or later, but let me just outline what made this whole event quite so upsetting to me…  there was a patch of grass no further than 4.5 feet from where this skankbucket got out of her car and plopped this huge wad of ripe, sticky gum.  There was also a trash can directly beside the entrance of the restaurant, and a napkin on her dashboard.  PLUS, we pulled into these parking places at the exact same time – she knew we’d be getting out and walking there for fuck’s sake!  Where she spit this gum was directly where my foot would have landed when I got out of the car, and that nasty disease-filled wad would have created the biggest stickiest nastiest mess ever, had I not seen her do it.  And I’m tellin’ you – this gum was fresh.  It was definitely at the point where it would have created those big sticky strings when you lift up your foot just after you step on it…  Ugh – that’s the kind of crap that’ll just start your day on a downhill slide.  And should I (or any other unsuspecting sandwich shop patron) suffer for one lazy person’s self-absorbed thoughtlessness???  I think not.   

Now I ask you – and bear in mind this misguided chick’s blatant disregard for other human beings & the fact that I mostly likely saved some poor sap from a gum wad on their shoe/in their car – is it wrong that I took a napkin from my glovebox, picked up that sticky wad, and placed it ever-so-lovingly in the middle of her windshield?…

Baron’s Diagnosis: Chronic Active Proliferative and Necro-ulcerative Glossitis – A.K.A. NOT CANCER!!! March 3, 2010

You'd think that was a Magnum-sized paw...

That’s right – my little man is free of the big “C” and will live to fight another day!   

The waiting was absolute agony – for those of you whose lives have not come to a screeching halt since the big “c” was uttered, it has been ONE WEEK today.  I have not left the house (or Baron’s side) since the surgery.  For the first few days he was doing really well – despite literally being stitched from tongue to tail and having a huge bandage on his right front paw.  I took him to work with me on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and then sat with him all day Sunday.  Oh and let’s not forget my $155 trip to PetCo to purchase Bear-bear a new “premium” diet, a new fluffy bed, a $12 plush walrus toy, a new stylish little harness for when he can actuallly walk again, new stainless steel bowls, and any other little Bear-bear toy or accessory I thought he might need.  And I even went all doggie-mommy-nazi on the girl at the checkout counter who tried to give Baron a treat…  He can’t have any hard food since he had a tooth extracted during his teeth cleaning, so when she offered the treat up to him, I slapped it right out of her hand and down to the ground.  Rude?  Probably.  But hey listen, I have not been spending thirty minutes every night soaking dog kibble in warm water and grinding it up with the magic bullet to have my efforts foiled by some willy-nilly PetCo check out girl!  (p.s. I think I got a tiny glimpse of what you Mommies are feeling when people offer your kids candy and crap like that…)  We have been restricting his movement (not easy) and wrapping his little paw in a ziploc bag when he goes outside to keep his bandage dry.  And I have maintained a very regimented pain med and anitbiotic dosing schedule – long story short, I have been doing everything I can possibly think of to make his recovery easier.   

Against alllllll of my rationality and better judgement, I did make the mistake of breaking down and Googling things like “tumors in dog’s mouths” and other various fun phrases.  Yeah, ummm…  Googling is not a good plan for something like that.  After I read like 2-3 articles I was in hysterics and convinced that Baron may keel over dead at any moment.  Post-Google it became “Doxie Death Watch 2010” in my house.  Not fun.   

I was totally useless at work too.  Everytime someone would call about their dog’s issue I would begrudgingly help them while thinking, “you selfish a-hole!  Your problem does not even COMPARE to my dog’s!  How DARE you call up here and bother me with such trivial situations!”  And then I would log on to the Lab website and check to see if Baron’s results had been posted.  And for a WEEK there was nothin’.  Well, there was an “In Progress”, which in my mind of course meant, “we’ll get to it when we’re good and freakin’ ready and you can just sit there and suffer and continue Death Watch 2K10.”  

Since I was taking him to work with me, every night before bed I would prepare Baron’s bag, which contained his two prescriptions, his pill pockets for his prescriptions, ziploc bag for his foot along with cloth hair scrunchie to wrap around said ziploc bag, his collar, his leash, his e-collar (a.k.a. the lamp shade), and his new fluffy walrus.  In addition to all of that, I had his bed and his magic blanket (the one that he was wrapped in when he recovered from Christmas Day ’08 ass-chompin’).  So I would load all of that stuff into the car and then come back to get Baron.  Between all of that stuff, Baron, and my purse and coffee cup, I made like 30 trips to and from the car upon my arrival at work each day.   

Monday I was going to try to be a big girl and leave Baron at home, but at the last minute I just couldn’t do it.  So I loaded up all of his stuff again and took him in.  And it’s a good thing I did because as it turns out, his bandage needed to be changed that day anyway.  (Thanks for that memo, Doc!)  Sunday night I had a feeling that something was wrong and that’s why I took him in Monday, so I was not surprised when we took the bandage off and his little toes were absolutely RAW.  I’ll spare you the details, but it was nasty and very easy to see why Baron had been in such misery the night before.  The doc said that once the bandage was changed he should stop messing with it and that he’d get some relief, so when he was still ravenous to get at his little mitten yesterday at lunch, I knew the damn bandage needed to come off.  I soaked his little paw in an antibacterial wash and put the stupid lampshade on his head and about an hour later it looked at least 300% better.  

I was totally preparing myself to spend today, my day off, in limbo for another day, but on a crazy whim at 5:30 last night I logged on to the Lab website to check one last time…  What did I see?  “One new lab result.  Baron Collett Histopathology:  Results Final.”  I immediately blurted out “OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod….”, crapped my pants, and went running back to the treatment area where the doctor was.  I’m not even sure what I said to her, but I do know that the jist of it was that the results for Baron are final and I don’t know what any of it means – can you please look?  I also know that I wanted to smack her like a dog treat out of a PetCo employee’s hand when she didn’t stop what she was doing and look at Baron’s results immediately.  I had to stand there sweating with anticipation while she tinkered around with whatever the fuck she was doing  for another three minutes.  I mean SERIOUSLY?!  I’ve been in pre-cardiac arrest for a WEEK – you’re really gonna make me stand here for three more minutes?!  In the mean time, one of my precious coworkers had come back into the treatment area and said, “Umm  I don’t think it’s bad…”  to which I immediately snapped, “DON’T!”  because the truth was I had seen enough of the result to know that I didn’t see the words “cancer” or “malignant” anywhere and I thought that everything looked good too…  I was just so afraid that there was some fancy doctor word that I had missed and that could still make the results bad.   

By the time the Doc leisurely strolled over to the computer to look at the results, I had taken lamp-shade boy out of his condo in the treatment area and was holding him while pacing back and forth, and the two girls who I’ve been driving crazy about this for the last week were all assembled in the treatment area when the doctor FINALLY uttered the words, “no signs of cancer seen”.  BREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEATHE!!!!!!!!!  I just had to hide my face behind Bear-bear’s lampshade for ONE second to hide some happy tears and then I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.  My little boy is gonna be ok. 

As it turns out, that the nasty thing in his foot was caused by some sort of foreign body that had gotten wedged in between his little toes, and the thing in his mouth was Chronic Active Proliferative and Necro-ulcerative Glossitis, which apparently is caused by some a residual bacterial infection OR TRAUMA….  ummmm does anyone remember that part of the post where I talked about how Baron had “facial paralysis due to trauma”?  Yeah well that was on the left side of his face and I am convinced that they are related.   

By the time I stopped reeling from the incredibly good news, it was time to close up for the day.  I loaded Baron into the car and rolled down the window for him on the way home.  This was a great idea in theory, and I really wanted Baron to share in the excitement of the good news, but imagine holding a lampshade against the wind out of your car window…  I tried to go slow, but every now and then the wind would catch the lamp shade just right and his little Bear-bear head would go flying back…  so while he doesn’t have cancer, he may or may not have whiplash.  He LOVED every second of it though.   

The only thing we’ll have to deal with now is covering his little paw when he goes outside.  The ziploc bag is really not ideal because the way the plastic folds up at the top of his two inch legs it rubs right against all of his stitches and he tries to walk by sticking his leg straight out.  It is mildly hilarious because he looks like a little Third Reich soldier, but I also know that it is really uncomfortable for him.  So last night after a celebratory cocktail (or five) we found ourselves brainstorming about what would work better for covering up his little paw.  The conclusion that we naturally drew was a condom.  Roll that sucker on there, no muss, no fuss, no plastic rubbing the stitches, no rubber band around the leg – perfect!  So after fighting off my natural inclination to think that Baron would have some kind of latex allergy that would send him into anaphylactic shock, I searched the local Walgreens for unlubricated Magnums.  (For those that are curious, they don’t exist.)  So to end the week from hell, at 1 a.m. last night I was washing lubricant off of a Trojan in my kitchen sink and subsequently rolling it onto my dog’s wounded paw.  Apparently Baron is not quite Magnum-sized, because the damn thing came off as soon as he started running back inside.  It was too dark to find it last night, so there is a de-lubed condom tumbling around somewhere in my back yard, but there’s a cancer-free puppy in this house and I couldn’t be happier!   

p.s. thank you so much to everyone for all of the support – you guys definitely made the week from hell easier.  Baron & I love you all!  xoxo 

The World’s Toughest Dachshund and the Light of My Life! February 24, 2010

FUCK YOU

So I gotta ask whoever reads this silly little blog for a favor…  Some of you may have read a post from a few weeks ago entitled “Christmas Day – Another Spent in the Animal ER”.  If you did read it, you know #1) how amazingly cute my little dachshund Baron is, #2 that despite my overprotective efforts,  he has had a pretty crappy run of luck in his six years of life, and #3)  I literally love this dog more than I could love a human baby.  He is my BOY and I absolutely adore him and would do anything to make his little dachshund life better.  So naturally when the vet said that he needed a teeth cleaning during his yearly exam last week, I immediately set up the appointment. 

Today was the day.  I was so so so nervous because not only was the little boy getting his teeth cleaned, but he also had to have 4 lumps removed – two lipomas from his chest and one skin tag from his heel (all no biggie) and then one mass between the first two toes on his right front foot (this one I knew was going to be a little more involved).  

Long story short, I got the boy all settled in and the doctor and technician began the procedure.  It wasn’t but a few minutes later when the doctor called me back to the operation table with this AWFUL look on her face.  She then asked me how old Baron is and I told her he was six.  And she looked back down at his mouth and said that she had something she needed to show me.  It was a lump on the underside of the back of his tongue and the doctor said, “it’s some kind of cancer” or “it might be cancer”…  blah blah blah – all I know is whatever the hell she said ended with the big C-word.  And I freakin’ LOST it.  I mean hysterics.  The big C is not a word we just casually toss around and I couldn’t really handle it.  And I still can’t. 

By the sheer grace of God I managed to suck it up and dry my tears up enough to do two appointments and I got back to the surgery table just as the doctor was finishing up the last lumpectomy.  As soon as Baron started coming out from under the anesthesia he started crying.  Just crying out in pain.  I have never heard him cry like that – out of any of the horrible injuries that he’s had, he’s never cried.  It just shattered my heart to hear him in such pain…  I waited until he woke up a little bit more and then I made us a pallet in the back of the hospital and layed on the floor with him.  And I’ll just be damned if my tiny little boy, still wobbly from the anesthesia, with a million Frankenstein stitches in his chest, stitches on his heel, two holes in his mouth, and a front right foot that is completely bandaged, didn’t try to army crawl his way under the cages to scarf up a few wayward pieces of dog food.  TELL ME my pup is not a fighter?!  I don’t freakin’ think so.  He’s the toughest little man I’ve ever seen and I am so proud of him!

I finally got him home and he seems to be resting comfortably now.  I had him set up in the corner of the sofa, but he crawled over to me as soon as I sat down and has been snuggled up in my lap ever since.  And as long as he is comfortable, I don’t plan on moving.  I can no longer feel either one of my feet, and I really have to go to the bathroom, but I refuse to move and disturb him and these sofa cushions ARE reversible…

Anyway, the lovely specimens pictured above were sent out for histopathology tonight and the results will take a few days.  Waiting is NOT my favorite, especially when it comes to something this serious – and ESPECIALLY when it comes to my Baron –  but we’ll just have to hang in there and figure out the plan of attack as soon as the results roll in.  So until then, if you all would be so kind – please say a prayer for the world’s toughest dachshund.

sweet boy had a shitty day

CORNHOLE! Disorderly Conduct at the Sports Authority February 17, 2010

a cornhole game was all I wanted...

It was delicately brought to my attention that some who read my last post might have misconstrued it as racist or discrimanatory or something of the like.  I reread it and felt so bad for a moment that I even considered taking the post down, but alas I decided against it.  Why?  Because the simple fact is that I am not racist.  I know this, and everyone who knows me knows this.  The only people that I have (or will ever) discriminate against are the STUPID ones, regardless of color, shape, size, nationality, religion, etc.  All of that is of no consequence to me in any way, shape, form, or fashion.  To each his/her own, and I am down with it.    But if you’re stupid, I’m gonna make fun of you.  That’s all there is to it.  And I think that we can all agree that only a stupid person would list “my baby’s daddy went to jail” as a reason for seeking employment on their resume.  So while I am not a racist in any form, I’d like to establish that I WILL make fun of morons like this any chance I get.  All of that being said, I’m going to tell you about this week’s Stupid Person Award Winner.  I was not even going to write about this – but it’s just too ridiculous not to share.  WARNING:  I will try to clean up the language the best that I can, but I really don’t want to loose the effect of the story and feel it’s best that I repeat the Stupid Person Award Winner’s words verbatim.  So here we go…

I was told a few weeks ago by my neighbor that I just HAD to get a “Super Bowl Present” for my boyfriend.  Apparently my neighbor invented this concept a few years ago and it has worked like a charm for he and his wife.  His whole logic is that there is one non-holiday day a year that men wake up all excited like it’s Christmas morning, and that is Super Bowl.  By the same token, there is one non- (real) holiday day a year that women wake up all excited, and that is Valentine’s Day.  It works out well that these two days are usually relatively close together in February, because (pay attention ladies!) the nicer your Super Bowl gift to him is, the nicer his Valentine’s Day gift to you will be.  It’s a genius idea really and my neighbor has told all of his friends (now including us) about it, and they all consequently get Super Bowl gifts.  Well, we were having a party at our house for Super Bowl, so in all of my cleaning and grocery shopping and preparing for the party, the friggin’ Super Bowl present completely slipped my mind. 

So there I am, with only 3 hours until everyone is at our house, and no Super Bowl present.  Luckily I had an idea.  I wanted to get a Cornhole game (“beanbag toss” for you lame-os) for our back yard, so I ran to the closest sporting goods store.  And that store just happened to be in a less than desirable shopping plaza that (after this shopping experience) I will never be visiting again.  So I go in and I am searching all around for the one game.  I walked all over the whole store and couldn’t find it, and I was starting to get irritated.  There was an employee who was wandering around the sales floor and even asked me if I needed any help and of course, my automatic reflex was to say, “no thanks I’m fine”, even though I know he could have immediately pointed me in the right direction.  A few minutes later I found exactly what I was looking for and was standing there pondering if I really wanted to spend $60 for a Cornhole game (remembering of course that I would definitely be upping the ante for V-day) when I heard it. 

 “WHY DON’T YOU JUS’ BACK THE F*CK UP OFF ME DEN?!” – screamed at the top of her lungs.  About two seconds later I could see the helpful little store associate, and in front of him was a “lady” in houseslippers, a stray curler still in her hair, carrying a giiiiiiiiiiiiant bag with an open top.  No joke this bag was probably about two feet long by a foot tall.  I quickly deduced that the associate had asked the “lady” if she needed any help one too many times and she was pissed.  PISSED.  I thought that it might end after the one outburst, but ohhhhhhhhhhhh no.  That was only the beginning.  It became obvious to me (and every other store patron within a 3 mile radius) that the employee must have thought she was shop lifting – which was probably a good assessment judging by the size of the Samsonite that she was toting around.  She was walking riiiiiiiiiight down the very center aisle of the store towards the front, and then she turned around and unleashed on him.  “YOU CRACKA ASS MUTHA F*CKA NEED TO STAY UP OUT MY BIZNESS!  IF I’M GON PICK UP ANYTHING FROM THIS STO I’M GON’ BUY IT!”  At this point everyone in the store (including several small children in her immediate vicinity) has stopped what they were doing and turned to watch this fiasco.  The store associate says, “Ma’am you really need to lower your voice”, to which she replies, “YOU NEED TO GET THE F*CK AWAY FROM ME MUTHA FUCKA!” and then she takes a swipe at him with the Samsonite.  She kept on and on and on, stringing together the most vulgar arrangement of curse words that I have ever even witnessed, much less used, and is screaming them as loud as she possibly can.  And it went on forever!   Her foul-mouthed, three-minute assault finally pushed the guy to his breaking point.  His face was so red and his fists were balled up and he started to stalk towards her, when out of nowhere the 5’3 120 lb. “manager” arrived to diffuse the situation.  This only pissed her off further, because when the manager stepped between them, she stepped up her cursing AND the volume of her voice.  “MOTHA F*CKA WHATCHU GONNA DO?!  RUN UP ON ME LIKE THAT?  COME ON THEN YOU PU$$Y ASS CRACKA!  IT’S YO CAREER, NOT MINES!  IT’S YO CAREER YOU F*CKIN PU$$Y ASS BASTARD – ALL YOU CAN DO IS CALL THE POLICE NOW ‘CAUSE I’M GON BE WAITIN’ FO YA IN THE PARKIN LOT.  I WAIT ALLLLLL DAY MOTHA FUCKA!”  And the whole time she’s screaming, she is wildly flailing her arms and bouncing around and pointing to this guy.  It was so insane that my jaw was literally on the floor the entire time this was going on, and in all seriousness it was probably a good 5-7 minute ordeal because she would.  not.  leave.  The manager kept trying to gently herd her out the door and every time he got her close, she’d turn around and go off on another rant.  I wanted SO bad to yell out to her, “Are you SERIOUS right now?!  Do you even KNOW how ridiculous and ignorant you look?!  You are about to go to jail  because a Sports Authority salesperson asked you if you needed help?!”  It really was difficult to keep my mouth from saying those words, but I knew with a 100% certainty that had I directed any comments to her, she would have immediately beaten me to death with her Samsonite.  And since I don’t really want to go down in a shitty sporting goods store holding a Cornhole game, I left it alone. 

Finally finally finally the manager had her half way out the door (and in the mean time the sales associate has gone into a back office and was beating the shit out of the walls or something in there – you could hear it) when he makes the mistake of placing his hand on her back.  At this point the woman’s boyfriend steps out of the shadows (and by shadows I mean from in between the check out lines where he has been casually perusing the selection of chips and candies the ENTIRE time his lady was ripping the sales guy a new asshole) and grabs his arm – “DON’T YOU TOUCH HER MOTHA FUCKA!”  And you could almost hear the pee trickling down the manager’s khakis.  It was so sad.  But by some miracle the boyfriend managed to get the wild woman out of the store and the second they were gone, I paid for my game and got the Cornhole outta there!!! 

So there ya have it.  This week’s Stupid Person Award Winner.  What should her prize be?  Perhaps a sleeping bag and some camping gear?…  Because there’s no telling how long she’ll sit in that parking lot waiting for that guy.  She was definitely still there when I left ran to my car and tore ass out of there.

Kennel Assistant Hiring – Take 3. January 31, 2010

And so it begins.  Again.  I had to can the last kennel assistant that I hired (we’ll get into reasons in a minute) so I am in the midst of the hiring process for this God-forsaken job once again.  It’s day one of the job posting, and folks, we have some resume gems already.  We’ll get into those in minute, but first about this kennel girl…

So I hire this bitch because she can work the weird hours, seems to want to expand her knowledge base beyond pooper-scooping, and has glowing references.  The first day – THE VERY FIRST DAY OF HER EMPLOYMENT – she’s late.  I immediately had to pull her into an exam room and tell her that this is “her one get out of jail free” card.  Bad start.  And it goes downhill from there pretty fast.  She has no control over any animal in the hospital and frequently lets them run free throughout the entire facility.  This is not a good thing.  One morning I was sitting at the front desk and I see the front door start to open.  Only there was no person – there was a dog.  One of our boarding dogs!  Do I even HAVE to say how horriffic it would have been if that dog had actually pushed the door open and run out?!  I will NOT be the one to call a client and say, “well darned if ol’ Max didn’t just push the front door right open and mosey on out, so ummm yeah, right about now he’s a big spot of grease on the highway.  Sorrrrrry!”  No way that shit is goin’ down on my watch. 

Long story short with this girl, within a THREE WEEK span of employment, she had arrived lated for her very first shift, asked for two days off, come in 37 minutes late to a TWO HOUR shift, let 3 dogs (0n three different occasions) run loose in the hospital, and (on a non-work related note) she ate an entire tray of Christmas cookies that one of our clients brought.  UMMMM you’ve worked here for 13 seconds – the lady was not bringing the cookies to say “thanks” to YOU, so put down the chocolate chip and back away!  Aside from these catastrophic events, she had to be micromanaged for everything.  I’m seriously not even kidding when I say that if I left her alone for more that 20 minutes, when I would go to look for her, I’d find her standing around in the break room having snacks.  And when restraining any animal for procedures, the second they started to show the tiniest bit of resistance, she’d just let them go.  Just let ’em go.  Release them from any restraint whatsoever and throw her hands up in the air and take a step back, leaving whoever was within the animal’s reach vulnerable to a vicious attack.  Li-a-bil-i-ty.  The final straw came on her Thursday night shift when she was mopping the hospital and walking around talking on her cell phone.  Juuuust chattin’ it up.  She then came and informed me that she would not be making her Friday shifts because her husband was “in immigration jail in New York” and she had to fly there with a marriage certificate.  Ummm fuck the fuck off.  I let her finish her shift and while she was finising up, I was typing her termination notice.  I took her aside and said, “yeah, this just isn’t going to work out” and the bitch laughed.  Like a snide little chuckle.  Oh it was gross.

The good news is that I don’t have to deal with her cookie hoarding face anymore, the bad news is I have to hire another moron for this job.  It haunts my life.  But I guess the silver lining of the hiring process is that it really does give me such a wonderful glimpse into the human condition.  Take this lady for example:  (and remember spell check is not off and these are all directly copied and pasted from actual applications – aside from the names & numbers, of course – gotta protect these dumb asses identities…)  Anyway, take this lady:

My son Coddled McCoddleson  is interested in this job….his phone # xxx-xxxx

Sure lady – let me just give him a ringy-ding then!  I can not BELIEVE that parents think this is ok to do!!!  NEWSFLASH OVERBEARING MOTHERS – contacting employers on behalf of your children does NOT get them hired.  All I can think of when I see this is that YOU’RE going to be the one calling in for him when your precious baby boy has a poopy diaper and can’t come in to work.  Get a grip and make your over-protected spoiled ass punk children get out there and do this kind of stuff for themselves!  It’s the only way they’ll learn!

And then there is this person:

I have been desperately seeking a job in an animal clinic and haven’t had any luck, yet. I have attached my resume.
If you have any other job offers, or know another animal clinic that does, please feel free  to notify me. I desperately want a job working with animals!

First of all, don’t say “desperately” twice.  Or at all really.  It makes you sound, well… desperate.  Secondly, you want me to notify you if I can think of any other places for you to work?!  Do I look like fucking Ranstad to you?  No. I am not a staffing agency.   I am a super busy, underpaid, underappreciated office manager and I have literally one million things that need my immediate attention, so really sorry, but I don’t have time to assist you on your “desperate” job search.  Give me a break.

This was the subject line of one of the e-mailed resumes:

Animal Hospital Kennel Assistant-THIS IS WORTH LOOKING AT

Why do I feel like hard-core porn is going to pop up on the screen if I open this???

This was the first response I got to the job ad that I posted:

Really?    You expect alot for only $7.25 an hour.

I wrote back and said, “So shall I consider this your NON-application?”  I probably shouldn’t have, but seriously?!  How can you be such a fuckstick that you took time out of your life to respond to a job ad (for a job that you have no interest in taking) just to criticize the pay scale?  If I knew who you were I would come to your house and let all of the air out of your tires and pour salt in your grass and spray paint “a bitter cuntbag with too much time on her hands lives in this house” on the front of your garage.

And then there was this:

I consider myself to be an animal lover in all aspects.

All aspects, huh?  What one does in their personal time is no one’s business but their own – and the animal’s in this case I suppose.  And hey, far be it from me to judge, but I’m pretty sure that there are support groups for this kind of thing…

And then there’s just bad grammar and horriffic spelling.  (these are all from different people)

i was just wondering where to apply at

woud love this oppertunity

i would be eery able t o preform the tasts listed in the add

get back to me with a place to appy at your earlyest convenence

But without out a dubt I have a love for animals and they are drawn to me

I hope you like what you here so far

The grammar thing I can almost understand – it is sad though that the public school system failed these people so miserably – but SPELLING?!  Come on people.  There is simply no excuse for spelling errors when things like spellcheck exist. 

Now I want everyone to get ready.  I’ve got a really special treat for you.  In this instance, the best has definitely been saved for last.  Bear in mind, this is all real.  Ladies and Gentlemen, directly from our “Out of the Hood Program”, I present to you……..  Bonquiqui’s cover letter.

To work with a company that I can grow with as well it grow with me too. I am a very motivated person when it comes to work and to my life. I prefer to look ahead at the future then to dwell on the past. I dont let the negative things get to me. I believe you must always work hard to get somewhere. I have a nice clean appearance. No tattoos to be seen.  I have a reliable transportation. I have no daycare problems. 

Oh dear God.  The first sentence I just can’t even mess with, just because WTF?  I prefer to look ahead at the future THEN to dwell on the past?  Hmm.  Thaaaaat doesn’t really seem like a good plan to me…  Definite plus that she has a “nice clean appearance”, however the phrase “no tattoos to be seen” just makes me think about where they actually are on her body and what they might be.  I don’t need this mental image.  AT ALL.  And maybe it’s wrong, but I kinda feel like “reliable transportation” means the bus, and “no daycare issues” means your cribmidgets  live with your mom.  It is good though that she doesn’t “let the negative things get to her” because under “reason for leaving” one of her jobs she listed this: 

I planned on to be a stay home mother to my daughter. After 10 months of having my daughter the father of my child went to jail so I have to find a job.

 Ahh single mothers.  Ya gotta respect that. Should I hire her?  Clearly the only question becomes if her ankle bracelet will fit underneath scrubs or not….