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Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Moron Cat Vs The Cat With No Name

Okay recently I was forced into accepting a stray cat into our household.  Pretty sure my arm was behind my back.  For some reason I made the mistake of feeding the cat from up the street, who looked anorexic, and the dinner bell rang for every stray within a mile, plus raccoons, possums, and possibly a few chubacabras visiting from the Caribbean.

Okay, who knew they make milk bones
for Chupacabras?
First came the Cat with No Name, a white with charcoal gray-spotted cat who we couldn't quite get a good look at the under the tail to determine the gender.  (Turns out he was a neutered male.)  Then there was a skinny cat with white socks who was all male.  (Not neutered, really not neutered.)  The one with the socks vanished.  (I don't think good things happened to him.)  Then another cat showed up, a black one with a white bib and paws.  He was horribly skinny.  He was also not neutered and very friendly.  So he got to go to the vet first.  Turns out he was sick with feline leukemia and worst of all, had no teeth in his upper jaw.  The vet said he'd had a hard life.  I take no joy in admitting that the best thing to do was to have him put down.  (I know people are going to hate me for it but we have a healthy cat and he's already gotten worms from one of the strays.  It's sad but we couldn't take care of the sick one.)
I am not a monster, I swear.
Since that cat had feline leukemia I thought for sure the Cat with No Name would have it too.  They'd been hanging out and sharing food bowls.  I had just got the cat to trust me when we dumped a towel over his head and shoved him into a cat carrier.  (Which is the sort of thing that happens on docks or at frat houses.  Sometimes at republican and democratic conventions, too.)
It turns out they make a lot of sad cat memes.
So after $250 later we found out that the CWNN was disease free but not very happy with the amount of needles that had gone into his butt.  HIM and Cressy both went on a shopping spree at Petsmart and the CWNN came home with us, rechristened Splotchy, because I don't get to name pets anymore.  (I wanted Dr. No or Sarcamanga or something cool like Goldfinger.)  Everyone was happy but me and the new cat.
Now I'm just getting silly.
Megaroy, the Moron Cat, was not pleased.  While it was great that cats hung out on the porch and gave him worms (True story.) it was not great that they came inside, inside his terra firma, his abode, his turf.  Splotchy went under a bed and stayed there for about two days.  Then he tore out all the berber rug in front of the bedroom door.  What fun and joy.  Then he realized the grub was free and the darkness under the bed wasn't so bad.  He came out, started exploring, and Megaroy was further alarmed.
The return of...da da dah...LadderCat.
Two weeks later and Megaroy has thawed out but is dismayed that Splotchy doesn't want to play let-me-bounce-you-into-the-floor and is not impressed by the sideways scamper.  Splotchy could also be known as the diagonal cat who longs to trip you while going up the stairs.  If your leg and his side aren't connected the universe is wrong.  This is a cat who is looking for a pet to happen.  He pretty much ignores everything but pets and food.  We might have to put him on a diet.

Yesterday cat WWWIII occurred.  Megaroy has decided that sniffing Splotchy's butt is the thing to do.  Splotchy has decided that he'll put up with it until he didn't.  Much bad language ensued with things like "Get your fricking nose out of my butt, diphose!" and "If your butt didn't smell so bad I wouldn't have to sniff it up, dingwa!"  And Splotchy has now conquered Megaroy in a display of street cat dominance that left Megaroy in the dirt.

Our house is never really boring.
And there he is...Splotchy.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Minutia and Other Random Stuff

Warning: Fat Woman may use big words like minutia and minutiae and expect readers to understand them.  Ranting may be involved.  Subjects could be changed very quickly.

I just learned, just now, that the plural of minutia is minutiae, and I feel compelled to share it.  There you go.  With that in mind I found two memes relating to minutia.
I need this t-shirt.
Then here was a classic explanation of the difference between minutia and minutiae.  (There's an extra e in minutiae.  Also it's plural.  Just sayin'.)

Could not be simpler.

So now for an abrupt change of subjects.  Recently someone complained that...wait, I have to insert a spoiler alert here.

For anyone who hasn't read Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies, I will be making a reference to the plot of the same and I don't want anyone to say, "OMG, Caren, you totally spoiled it by making me read the blog before I read the book.  You wanker."  Or something like that.  So attention, spoiler, spoiler, spoiler.  If you haven't read Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies, and you desperately want to read Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies, but just haven't got the chance, DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT.
Spoiler for George R. R. Martin.
(Why does he have two middle names?)
See you did it anyway.

All right, recently someone complained that I skipped the whoopee scene between Bubba and Willodean.  There it is, in a nut shell, no pun intended.  They actually complained that I skipped the scene and what the hell was I thinking by doing so.

Consequently, I was thinking about the complaint.  In all honesty I think the Bubba series aren't the kind of books where a gratuitous scene should be included.  Furthermore I hate coming up with ten synonyms for the male member, (penis, tool, peter, phallus, Johnson, schlong, willy, wait I have to stop to laugh) and I've been known to giggle while writing such scenes.  Basically I don't usually write them.

I went looking for romantic memes and I found pulp fiction covers, which are almost as good.  (This counts as a change in the blog, but don't worry I'll get back to the other thing quickly.)
 
I love this cover.  I might have to go and read this
book.
Anyway back to the complaint.  I decided that I would write the Bubba/Willodean love scene and post it on my blog.  Just for those critics.  Here it is:
Bubba looked into Willodean's eyes.  Willodean looked into Bubba's eyes.  The bedroom door shut.  Several minutes later, "WHOO HOO!" was heard. 

There you go.  That's as explicit as I'm going to get with that.  Just for that one complainer person.

But to make up for it, here's some more funky pulp fiction covers.
This looks newer but it's also really cool.
I love this one, too.  It doesn't get any more
succinct.  She wakes up screaming.
It's implicit.
 

Who doesn't like a jungle babe looking at a
great ape whipping men?

Seven bone chilling tales.  Seven.
Golly.
And my favorite...

If you're going to have a radioactive redhead,
she should be a badass.  It goes without
saying, although I said it anyway.
All right.  Enough blathering.  Back to Bubba 6.

Friday, July 18, 2014

The ER of Doom OR How I'm Not Allowed to Go Back to the Hospital Anymore

In last week's exciting blog, I encountered Pier 1 and its clerk, AKA the Woman Who Cannot Ask for Help and is Wonderful at Standing Around With Her Thumb Up Her Bleep.  (I should call her Bleep for short.)

After I drove myself home, which was basically a huge fricking mistake, I tried to tough it out by calling my general practitioner and making an appointment.  The nice lady on the phone suggested I just go ahead and go to the ER, because 1) they could do something about the pain, and 2) they have an X-ray machine.  (I'll come back to these two points later.)

I totally didn't do this.
I called the hubster, or HIM, the man to whom I'm married and said/whined, "I've had an accident and need to go to the ER."  HIM said, "Be there in a jif," or something like that because I honestly don't remember what he did say.  (It might have been, "I'm in the middle of having something probed by aliens from Alpha Centuri, but they'll understand," but I was in too much pain to pay attention.)  I do remember finding a bottle of ibuprofen and the ice bag.  Some years later he showed up and helped me out to the car.  By the time we actually got to the hospital I was feeling marginally better.  However, I couldn't walk, talk, or chew bubblegum.

Once I checked into the ER, riding in a wheelchair, the real fun began.  I began my stint in the ER waiting room in a genial mood despite the fact that my calf felt like someone had reached inside my muscles and yanked several out, spit on them, tied knots in them, and then shoved them back in.  I got my vitals taken fairly quickly and explained to the nurse that I did not feel good.  I think they wrote "booboo on leg" on the form.  I believe that was a mistake on my part.  I should have insisted they write "horribly mangled, agonizing, ruptured muscles that have me writhing in pain" instead.  I should have begged for morphine and/or vodka.  I'm convinced that if I had done that I would have been seen faster.  A corpse would have been seen faster.
If a cartoon character had shown up in
my ER, they would have been seen
before me.
Now don't get me wrong.  I do understand why the man with the chest pains has to be seen first.  I totally get it.  I understand why the man who chopped off the tip of his finger with a machete had to go before me.  (Not making this up.  Seriously, the man who came in after me did chop his finger off via the machete method.  Unfortunately neither he nor I was in the mood to get/give backstory.)  I get why the meth head who was having convulsions and frothing at the mouth was going before me.  However, there was a couple who was there before me and both had hospital bracelets on, and both chatted constantly on their phones while waiting for a doctor/something.  I think they were at the ER to have a physical.  There was a hooker there who possibly was having STD tests.  There was a man there riding in a motorized wheel chair who looked like one of the humans from Wall-E.  (Coming from a fat woman, this is highly critical.  I wanted to tell him, "Just get up and walk because you're working that chair way too good."  Seriously, he could have stopped on a dime after racing through the chairs in the waiting room.  He zipped over to the bathroom and then back again so easily it was like he had a license for it.)  (Secretly I was jealous that I didn't have one.)
I was waiting for something all right.
Therein commenced the waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.  As the ibuprofen began to fail and my leg began to throb like bongo drugs, I got snarkier and snarkier.  In fact, I think HIM wanted to leave me at the ER so that he could run away to Africa and become the guy who takes people on safaris.
This would be the title of HIM's blog.
Or something like that.  HIM probably would have taken penguins at the South Pole over my snarkiness.
I don't know why I stuck this in here.  Probably because I thought
it was funny.  This is how I see myself while I was waiting
in the Emergency Room.
Whilst I was waiting/moaning/complaining, one poor clerk came to get my insurance information.  Poor woman.  Then I waited so long they had to take my vitals again.  The man who took my vitals again got into a conversation about how cool Tom Cruise was in Oblivion and I said that Tom Cruise probably would have gotten seen in the ER before me even if he had the weird thing on Oprah's couch.  (The young man didn't really care for my opinion.  Go figure.)

HIM had to leave (the lucky bastard) to go pick up the little girl at Girl Scout camp.
My daughter thinks this is funny.
AFTER three hours, I got wheeled back into a room.  There the nurse took some more vitals and told me to take my top off but not my jeans.  I was confused because I was sure I had injured my calf muscle and not my boobs.  SERIOUSLY, a woman named Frechandra, named after her father Fred and a woman named Sandra, wanted me to loose my t-shirt but not my pants.  (Shouldn't that have been Fresandra?  Fredsandra?  Frandra?  Safredra?)

Anyway, I waited some more.

This funness was followed up by Frechandra wanting me to take a pregnancy test.  I informed Frechandra that not only was I 50 years old, but my tubes had gone buh-bye in a tubal ligation event back in 2004.  She said unless I had a hysterectomy I had to pee in a little cup and make with the hormones/or no hormones to prove it.  I got a box with the appropriate stuff in it and apparently medical science has improved because now women get a little funnel thing instead of having to aim for a 2 inch cup.  (All the women reading this are sagely nodding their heads.)  Who hasn't had to wipe off a cup?  Hmm?  Let's just say I can't hit the little cup any better than I can sink a basketball in a hoop.

I was informed I was not pregnant.  I think my eyes rolled back into my head at that point in time and bounced off the back of my brain.

HIM returned with the little girl.  The little girl cried because I was in the hospital.  I said it was okay.  I said that she could wait on me at home, serve me ice cream, and be my slave.  She cried some more.  Then I said she didn't have to wait on me.  She stopped crying.
If you have to have crutches, go big.
Finally, the doctor came.  The doctor didn't have a sense of humor.  She asked what was wrong.  I said I had reached for the wrong thing and she said, "Huh?"  Then she felt my leg.  She asked where it hurt, while squeezing stuff and while I writhed in agony.  When I was able to speak again, I told her.  She said something about possibly having torn some muscles, take over the counter stuff, keep off it, go to the doctor after a week if it didn't improve, and not to let the door hit me on the ass on the way out.

So four and a half hours later, I hadn't been X-rayed, I hadn't gotten any bleeping thing for the pain, and I had wasted time and money at a place where the nurses look at you like you're a criminal.  Also I discovered I wasn't really pregnant.
Where was this when I needed an Ikea meme
last month?
But hey, I have all the material for a nifty blog.

Anyway, it's a week later, and it's slowly improving.  And people wonder why I hate doctors, hospitals, and medical personnel.

Friday, July 11, 2014

It's All Pier 1's Fault OR How I Enjoyed a Trip to the ER

Warning: Fat Woman may rant.  Nuff said.

How I tore a muscle in my calf or how I got material for a blog.  Both good subtitles.

It is Pier 1's fault.  I wanted a chair for my upstairs landing, so Pier 1 sent me a really good coupon.  See.  Their fault, completely, but they are even more complicit.  I found the chair I wanted online.  I ordered it, plus a cushion, and I used the coupon.  (Really good coupon.  I can't say no to a really good coupon.)  They sent me an email saying hey you ordered shizz.  Then they sent me an email saying your order is ready.  This is the significant part.  "Your order is ready."  I have quoted and thus it is official.  "YOUR ORDER IS READY!"  In my mind I add the bitch part.
This is the only Pier 1 meme I could find.
You know I just saw The Blues Brothers and there was a Pier 1
in the mall they drove through.  Just sayin'.
I went to Pier 1.  I gave the email that I printed out saying my order was ready to the clerk.  The clerk looked at the email.  She looked at me.  She looked at the email.  She looked at me.  She stepped to her computer and started staring at the computer.  She wasn't doing anything except staring at the computer.  It was at this point in time that I realized that I was in trouble.  I had ordered something and the clerk was an idiot.  I wasn't going to get my chair.  I wasn't going to get anything.

I stood there while the clerk stared at her computer.  Finally she pushed a button.  She pushed a few more.  Then she stopped and started staring at the email.  She checked the email again.  I decided to take a deep breath.  She stopped to ask me if I had ordered it online.  To myself I said, "Isn't that what the email says?"  To her I nodded because I hadn't yet passed the point of no return.

This is a meme break because I couldn't find
any more Pier 1 memes.  I thought it was funny
and it is my blog.
Back to the computer.  A few more buttons.  She stood there.  I swear to god above, she did this for five minutes.  She finally decided to try another computer and I asked, "Is there a problem?" which was probably a dumb question because obviously there was.  And the twat didn't bother to answer me.

At this point in time customers came up to the other counter and waited on her to get to them.  I felt sorry for them because she didn't say anything to them either.  She just stared at A) the computer, B) the email, or C) the buttons on the keyboard.
Now this song is going through my head.
Also it's really funny to watch The Blues Brothers
while you're on painkillers.
Then she turned to me and said, "If this is on today's truck, it won't be here until this afternoon."

That was the point where if I had been a grenade I would have exploded and fragged the whole store and thought nothing about it.  I said, "The email says the order is ready."  I might have been somewhat snippy.

Then I relented because the poor people waiting on the clerk looked like they were about to blow a gasket.  I said, "Go ahead and check them out."

However, this is what happens when I am generous.  She took ten minutes to check them out because she obviously had issues with the computer, her brain, items on sale, and anything in front of her.  I was looking at tables because I wanted to distract myself.
This part happens later in the blog.  I didn't realize how long I could
rant about this subject.  Must have been saving up.
FINALLY, another clerk arrives from where she had been hiding, er, working in the back.  She looks at my expression and asks to help me.  I couldn't help myself.  I said, "I have an email here saying I have an order ready and she-" I pointed at the other clerk "-says it isn't here and won't be here until this afternoon."  The first clerk glared at me then.  Hey, I wasn't even exaggerating.

Five seconds, FIVE SECONDS, later the second clerk pushed a button and said, "Oh, yes, it's here.  I just saw the chair.  Let me make sure the rest of the order is there and I'll have you drive around to the back so we can load it."

So after twenty minutes and five seconds, I was ready to confirm I had an order.  It wasn't like I was waiting behind three other people including two clowns and Michelle Obama.  I was the ONLY one there when I first came in.  It was not busy.  I subject to anyone who's done retail sales that if you really don't know what to do after a minute or two of just standing there, then call the other clerk who she has to know is in the back of the store, not feet away from her.  Jeez.  Is that so hard to do?

Anyway, she confirms the order is all there, tells me to pull around to the back.  I do so, open the doors, and clerks one and two carry the chair and the cushion out.  It was a team effort by that time.  I wanted to yank it out of their hands and throw it into the Explorer so I could escape.
No, but I have tackled other things.
However, the chair was bigger than I thought.  I had to lower the middle row of seats down.  I got both side seats down easily and I could see clerk no. 1 was getting antsy as she tried to force the seat into the back, but the metal parts of the car weren't giving into the rattan of the chair.  I tried to hurry.

I reached to the middle seat, where it's got a little handle on one side, to pull it, and thus pull the seat forward.  I reached, and I stepped onto the step.  I couldn't quite reach it.  Then I got it, and as I got it, I heard the sound of material ripping.  Rippppppped.
I guess it was a good thing I didn't have a chainsaw
in the car.
I honestly thought I had ripped my pants reaching for the handle.  Haha.  I wish it had been my pants.  I wish my orange underwear with polka dots had been exposed to all and sundry.  I wish.  No, it wasn't material ripping or the step giving way.  It was the muscle in my calf that said, "Oh, I don't think so, sistah."

Then the pain set in.  The two clerks probably think I'm going to sue them.  Unfortunately I can't sue them for me being impatient with twats.

Next blog: the ER - home of weirdness even before I got there.