the time that an especially moronic crime show claimed a human body would freeze solid at 40 degrees F:
I got a credit card offer in the mail today. One of its selling points?
"Our cards are made with carbon."
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
I Hate People
It's a good thing that the police dispatchers are so nice. Because I call them all the time.
This apartment is still better than the last one: I no longer go pound on the neighbors' door with a shoe every night. However, between the loud drunk Latino neighbors (salsa music at 1 AM: not my favorite) and the loud drunk white trash neighbors (loud poundy music at 2 AM: not my favorite) and that woman with her damn CAT, I want to set them all on fire.
Ironically, we have enough cash in various banks and investments to buy a small house IN CASH. Fucking postdocs. One day we will live somewhere for more than two years and will not have people living below us and NOBODY WILL WAKE ME AT MIDNIGHT WITH THEIR DRUNKEN INANE WHITE TRASH CONVERSATIONS.
This apartment is still better than the last one: I no longer go pound on the neighbors' door with a shoe every night. However, between the loud drunk Latino neighbors (salsa music at 1 AM: not my favorite) and the loud drunk white trash neighbors (loud poundy music at 2 AM: not my favorite) and that woman with her damn CAT, I want to set them all on fire.
Ironically, we have enough cash in various banks and investments to buy a small house IN CASH. Fucking postdocs. One day we will live somewhere for more than two years and will not have people living below us and NOBODY WILL WAKE ME AT MIDNIGHT WITH THEIR DRUNKEN INANE WHITE TRASH CONVERSATIONS.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Headaches
As part of my job, people who buy our bicycles call and ask me all about fixing them.
I'm used to working with very direct, analytical people. So when I answer their questions, I assume that they have tried A, B, and C in a linear fashion, and none of this worked. I am usually wrong.
They call and ask why the gearshift won't move. I explain that it's a feature: when the brake is engaged, you can't change gears. They say yes, they knew that. I wonder why they asked, then. They say that they want to know, in fact, not why the gearshift won't move when they have the brake engaged, but if it is possible to paint the brake line bright pink and engage the gearshift when a button is pressed. Then I want to beat my head on my desk.
Sometimes I feel like we're not even speaking the same language.
(To add to the joy, sometimes I get the end result of a bad game of Telephone, where the bicycle riders talked to their bicycle mechanics, who talked to the secretary in the office, who told the boss, who has never been on a bike, who tells the secretary something, and then the secretary, who has never been on a bike, calls me. Aaaagh.)
(There's one person who sends me a line drawing of the problem, with all the parts labeled properly, and arrows detailing what's wrong. Sometimes Polaroids of the broken bike in action. I think I love this person.)
I think I need to re-examine my assumptions. Possibly I need to draw a diagram and send them the diagram. But we're not in Kansas any more, Toto.
(The fact that I only slept 5 of the last 30 hours probably doesn't help much. Baby's First Ear Infection sucks.)
I'm used to working with very direct, analytical people. So when I answer their questions, I assume that they have tried A, B, and C in a linear fashion, and none of this worked. I am usually wrong.
They call and ask why the gearshift won't move. I explain that it's a feature: when the brake is engaged, you can't change gears. They say yes, they knew that. I wonder why they asked, then. They say that they want to know, in fact, not why the gearshift won't move when they have the brake engaged, but if it is possible to paint the brake line bright pink and engage the gearshift when a button is pressed. Then I want to beat my head on my desk.
Sometimes I feel like we're not even speaking the same language.
(To add to the joy, sometimes I get the end result of a bad game of Telephone, where the bicycle riders talked to their bicycle mechanics, who talked to the secretary in the office, who told the boss, who has never been on a bike, who tells the secretary something, and then the secretary, who has never been on a bike, calls me. Aaaagh.)
(There's one person who sends me a line drawing of the problem, with all the parts labeled properly, and arrows detailing what's wrong. Sometimes Polaroids of the broken bike in action. I think I love this person.)
I think I need to re-examine my assumptions. Possibly I need to draw a diagram and send them the diagram. But we're not in Kansas any more, Toto.
(The fact that I only slept 5 of the last 30 hours probably doesn't help much. Baby's First Ear Infection sucks.)
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time
So I kind of like working. Mostly. Also, my supervisor-type-people are very understanding of family responsibilities, which helps. (One of my work friends complains that people with kids get away with working reasonable hours, but they assume single people will work 50 hours every single week. Which is totally true. Also, I have made it clear to the supervisor types that I will work my ass off for every minute of the 41.75 hours I am at work, which helps. It's still not fair to the childless.) And my boss's boss stopped by the other day to tell me I'm doing great.
But.
The Pumpkin has caught his first Daycare Plague, and we all want to die. We have all been coughing for a week. He has stayed home for 4.5 of the last 6 weekdays. He keeps getting feverish (only a little, i.e., enough to be sent home). He just nursed for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. He keeps waking up at 3 AM. Daycare keeps calling me: 'Your child has a fever... again.' 'I SWEAR he didn't yesterday! Or this morning!' I think I have a sinus infection, but I do not want Thrush, Again, Kill Me Now, so hot washcloths and misery all around! Where's a retired grandma when I need her? (Three states away, is where.)
File under 'Working Parents Hating Life.'
But.
The Pumpkin has caught his first Daycare Plague, and we all want to die. We have all been coughing for a week. He has stayed home for 4.5 of the last 6 weekdays. He keeps getting feverish (only a little, i.e., enough to be sent home). He just nursed for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. He keeps waking up at 3 AM. Daycare keeps calling me: 'Your child has a fever... again.' 'I SWEAR he didn't yesterday! Or this morning!' I think I have a sinus infection, but I do not want Thrush, Again, Kill Me Now, so hot washcloths and misery all around! Where's a retired grandma when I need her? (Three states away, is where.)
File under 'Working Parents Hating Life.'
Sunday, October 04, 2009
The Pumpkin just spent his first week at daycare. I was nervous and nightmare-filled and sleepless for three weeks before. He was crabby and screamy and full of baby rage for three weeks before (teething, crawling, etc.). Just to make us feel better about going back to work.
He was fine. I think he does better there than with me. I'm not sure whether I feel miffed, relieved, or both.
He was fine. I think he does better there than with me. I'm not sure whether I feel miffed, relieved, or both.
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