Atta Dude!

I work with a couple of people who are, to use the technical term, Professional Grumps. 

Now, I will admit that I have many a time when I am a Scowley McCrankypants or a Teary McWoeisme, but I feel the majority of  the time I serve myself up as Cheerful, with Side of Wit and a Tangy Sarcastic Dipping Sauce.  (Try me with fries!) 

These two gentlemen have *never* said hello or good morning to me in the nine months I've worked here.  NEVER.  The first three months, I valiantly wished them good morning every day, hoping to one day get at least a grunt in return.  Nada.  I eventually gave up and now barely acknowledge their existence.  If everyone else in the firm was the same way, I could chalk it up to some asinine office policy.  But everyone else's attitude ranges from Distantly Affable to Overly Friendly, which is pretty normal.  These are the only two Mordor Posterboys.  (Which makes me want to come to work some day in a robe and long, white wig and confront them when they walk in the door by saying, "You Shall Not Pass!  Till you say good morning!"  I think Sir Ian would approve.)

I see no reason for/nor have patience with this attitude.  It takes two seconds to say good morning (I timed it), and it is just good manners.  It seems to me if you're making a Million Gajillion Dollars a year, you can afford two seconds of non-billable time to say good morning to the Lowly Receptionist.  But then, I've never been very good with money, so I may be all wrong here.  Come to think of it, if I never said good morning to Bad Steve, I might still have all the money he stole from me.  (Note to self:  ask Mr. Buffet about this, the next time I'm talking to him.) But no matter what economic spin you put on it, it is still Bad Manners and Rude and Bad Form. 

 I will now shake off  my Bitchy O'Complainington persona and resume my Post-Lunch McSleepyton personality.

The Sound of Musings

 I get the sense the entire country is depressed because Punxsutawney Phil lied to us.  Seriously, what is the world coming to if you can't trust a rodent?  I feel there is a joke about Congress here somewhere, but I'm too depressed to figure it out, so make one up yourself.

In an attempt to bring us all out of the doldrums, I will now compend a list of A Few Of My Favorite Things.  I have no idea how this is going to make any of you feel cheerier, but it may help me, so in the tradition of the Great American Way, I say Fuck Y'All, I'm The Only One Who Matters. 

1.  Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (I thought I'd get it out of the way)

2.  Easter candy (with the exception of marshmallow peeps, a true confectionary abomination)

3.  Bra straps that stay up (these don't exist, but they would make me happy if they did)

4.  Warm, sunny days (see paranthetical note 3, above)

5.  Getting cast in a play (no explanation needed)

6.  Saturday mornings (Sundays, not so much, because of the lingering childhood trauma of having to go to church on Sundays.  It was my weekly emotional  root canal.)

7.  My kids (They are, unequivacably, the two most awesome human beings on the planet.)

8.  My kitties (same as #7, but substitute cats for human beings, which is a pretty good idea overall.)

9.  My friends (my friends are The Best and My Family and I love them.)

10. My bed (which is where I wish I were right now)

I could go on, but the 32 of you who are reading this are probably ready to wander off and get some Easter candy, and I don't blame you.  But, if Spring ever does actually show up, I will continue the list.  Yeah, don't hold your breath.

All the Olds That's Fit to Print

In much the same way that a child will longingly watch teenagers, to see what lies ahead, I sometimes observe Eldsters, to see what I have to look forward to, unless I'm lucky enough to drop dead first. 

Evidently, the hot new trend in walkers is this thing with three wheels that appears to have handbrakes.  I don't understand why a walker would need handbrakes.  (Or handbreaks, for that matter.  Most Oldies are pretty adept at breaking their hands on their own.)  But, yet, I have noticed many an Overthehillian merrily careening down the sidewalk at the breathtaking rate of 2 miles/month, hands tensed near the handbrakes, just in case their feet forget how to stop themselves.  But at least a handbrake-equipped walker is less embarrassing than::

THE HOVEROUND

If, Universe forbid, I ever get so debilitated that I require a Hoveround, please do the humane thing and put a bullet in my head.  I would be Demonic on a Hoveround.  I would get it pimped out with hydraulics and a horn that played Play That Funky Music White Boy, leopard seat covers, and heavy bass speakers that you can hear 3 counties away.  And I'd run over everyone in my path.  Hey, I'm old and I can't walk, what do I care? Move, motherfuckers, I'm crippled!  Either that or I'd just get drunk and keep driving the thing in circles till I pass out. 

At least it gives me something to look forward to.

Political Rand

I don't understand what Paul Rand was trying to achieve with his fillibuster yesterday.  He knew going into it that John Brennan had enough support on both sides of the aisle to get enough votes to be confirmed, but he went ahead with the stupid fillibuster thingy anyway.  These are the only reasons I can come up with why he thought This Would Be a Good Idea:

1.  He hopes to be the next Jimmy Stewart and he thought that by staging a one-man production of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, he'd be a shoe-in.  Personally, I think he would have been better off choosing something a little lighter, like Harvey.  Who wouldn't enjoy seeing a Republican walk around talking to a six-foot invisible rabbit?  (White Rabbit, of course.)

2.  He wants to follow in the footsteps of other great Historical Rands, like Ayn or McNally, but he's neither an author nor a cartographer.  He'd be better off adding a Y to his name and writing clever songs about short people or TV detectives, and singing them with a New Orleans accent.  There's your surefire ticket to fame, right there.

3.  He's an Asshole.

You make the call.

Now is the winter of our yadda, yadda, yadda

I don't like winter, and here's why:

It's cold.

I don't like winter clothes.  Long sleeves annoy me.  Most sweaters make me itchy and turtlenecks make me feel like I'm choking, besides the fact that I don't have a neck. I have a wattle, and they don't make turtlewattles, although they should, because it's a delightful word. 

It's cold.

As I Piscean, I suffer from Fucked Up Feet Syndrome, which means there are only about 3 pairs of shoes in the universe that don't hurt my feet and none of those shoes are, in any way, attractive.  However, in the summer I can wear sandals, which allow my tootsies to wave freely in the open air and not be imprisoned in the cramped darkness of Closed Toes.  This is less painful and marginally more attractive.  In the winter I do not have this option, because....

It's cold.

That S.A.D. thing that everyone in the country has, except maybe Stevie Wonder.  Are blind people supposed to be that happy all the time?  I saw him in concert once, he was amazing.  Each Beat of My Heart is one of my favorite songs.   But I digress,  probably because...

It's cold.

No matter how many layers of uncomfortable, itchy turtlewattles I may be wearing, I never seem to get warm until it gets above seventy degrees outside.  The closest I get to being warm in winter is when I'm in my incredibly unattractive flannel jammies, tucked in my bed with tons of covers and the space heater six inches away.  This is one of the many explanations for why I sleep alone. (The other reasons are depressing and it's winter and we already have S.A.D., so I won't go into them.  You're welcome.)  Then, just as I'm about to drift off to sleep, I get a hot flash.  Meh.  So I tear off all my clothes, shut off the space heater, and sweat like a mofo for five minutes, after which I freeze and reverse the process.   This routine annoys my cats.  I ain't crazy about it myself.

Have I mentioned winter is cold?

Okay, this has been an abnormally cranky post, (even for me) but it's March Eve and it's Birmingham, AL and that equation should not have a solution set consisting of freezing temperatures with a forecast of snow on Saturday, but it does and my feet hurt, and my turtlewattle itches and I sleep alone and. . .

It's cold.

Pope-pourri

I know I have written about religion before, so I may have already previously stated some of the views located herein.  But I'm too lazy to go back and reread any of my old shit, so I figure if I can't remember what I wrote, then the two of you who read my blog won't remember either. 

I'm not knocking anyone's religion.  If your Particular Set of Beliefs gets you through the day, good for you.  And I won't bore you with my PSoB, because you don't care.  You're welcome. 

I'm in a slight quandary over the big bruha caused by the Pope's Resignation.  I know it hasn't happened for 700 years or something, but it's not the Black Plague; which I can see getting top billing if it comes back after 700 years. (Also, it would be a bad time to be a rat.)  This is a senile old man retiring from his job, who may or may not have been issued an arrest warrant in December for covering up the pedophilia scandal,  a fairly common occurrence. 

And, honestly, in this day and endtimes, how is the Papacy even relevant?  Why should we be concerned about an old guy who sits on a golden throne, wearing a goofy hat and red velvet shoes when we have *really* important things to be worried about like an overabundance of Harlem Shake YouTubes, the current lack of sex scandals in Congress and Saint Meryl Streep scratching her ass on camera at the Oscars.  These are the real problems, people!  Sure, the Catholic Church (aka Six Flags Over The Dark Ages) has major issues with rampant pedophilia, not condoning gay marriage, women's rights and birth control, but do you really think that the next dude that God picks (if, by "God", you mean a group of old, petty, greedy, power-hungry men) is going to do anything different about those issues? 

Only if NewPope comes out on the balcony wearing his pants below his ass, a t-shirt declaring "Shit Happens" and a backwards baseball cap will I start to believe that perhaps this archaic, irrelevant institution might be considering joining the 21st Century.  But if he makes a fucking Harlem Shake video, I'm done.

Older White Lady Problems

One of the joys of living alone is that you can do what you want, when you want.

One of the disadvantages of living alone is that there is no one to share the shit.  So, one learns to become creative. 

The main problem I have (other than all my appliances/electronic devices constantly dying) is the Removing of the Garbage from my apartment.  The dumpster behind my apartment is on a mound of concrete and therefore about 3 feet taller than I am, (yes, thus making it 4 feet tall, ha  ha).  So I have to throw bags of garbage over my head to get it dumpsterfied.  Below are listed some elements that make this difficult (other than the fact that I am one foot tall):

1.  I have two cats.  I am (surprisingly) fairly diligent in cleaning out the cat pan.  Used cat litter is the heaviest substance on earth known to man. 

2.  I am lazy.  I hate taking out the garbage and am extremely creative in thinking up excuses not to do it.  I am willing to sell this list for a small fee.  You will be amazed (and horrified).

3.  My refrigerator died on Sunday and, due to the laziness factor mentioned above, I hadn't cleaned it out..well, I've lived there three years, so you do the math. 

SO, I am now left with the solution set of having multiple bags of yucky refrigerator food, plus multiple bags of regular + cat litter garbage and my kitchen has developed a "distinked" odor.  BUT, since I am physically unable to lift these odiferous garbage bags over my head, I am forced to put on my Thomas Edison cap, (not the I'm An Asshole Thomas Edison Cap, the I'm A Great Inventor Thomas Edison Cap) and come up with a solution.

TA-DA!!!

1.  First, wear shoes that lessen the possibility I will fall during this process.  No guarantee, but still.

2.  Take my kitchen stepstool out to the dumpster.

3.  Carry all 9 bags of garbage out to dumpster, climb stool and dispose of garbage.

4.  Drink many beers to congratulate myself.

Now, I realize that in The Grand Scheme of Things this is a mite on the back of a flea,  but for someone whose creativity usually consists of making bad puns (see "distinked", above), this is a major breakthrough for me. 

Next up, figure out a way to illuminate a room other than with gas lamps or candles.