Karate man, the plan, & get it right this time

I have a new job and a new boss. Mr. Perfect Plan. He has every second of every day on a schedule for optimum performance, health, and advancement. He doesn't understand why I can not follow his example.
We are complete opposites. He arrives at 7am every day parks in the same spot, wears the same clothes, and follows his day planner like it is the bible. He eats on a schedule. He probably uses the bathroom on a schedule.
I slide into work between 7 & 8:15am and park wherever my car will fit. I'm lucky if I have matching socks and my hair is not still wet. I consider arriving at work with my clothes on and right-side-out a big win. My day is spent putting out fires and attempting to do the other jobs I have around the phones.
I have been doing payroll now for 8 years. So long in fact that I brought the Excel spreadsheet created by my old coworker over to the new place to use for payroll.
Payroll goes like this: Millwrights and crane operators and truck drivers work all day and fill in time tickets and various other papers and bring them to me at days end to turn into money for them. The nest of paper I receive daily looks like a drawer outside the shop threw up, got walked on, spilled coffee on itself, had a car accident, and was attacked by Bic pen wielding chickens. None of these guys can spell, count, read, or decide what the date is. They don't know where they were, what they were doing, for who, or for how long. From this I make payroll. My spreadsheet came to my current work with 2 pages. Page one was employee's time for the week and the amount of money they earned for that time. Page two was a table of what everyone gets for what job they are doing. I made this page up because what you're entering into the payroll system has to be exact for the Union and the payroll totals from the spreadsheet are a fail-safe. If the paycheck total and the spreadsheet total match it's a good bet I'm doing it right.. right?  Now that I have been working here for 3 months the spreadsheet has become a book. Mr. Perfect Plan has added pivot tables, profit and loss pages, billable and non-billable pages, you get my drift? It has become a nightmare of details.
I no longer have the cutesy fun font and the wild colors. It is all color coded by boring and the font is so STANDARD it makes me want to puke. AND every week he changes something in it. He calls it fine tuning. I call it torture.
The point of the rant is today he actually came up to me and said "You need to work on consistency in your payroll inputting. Every week something is different."
 What?      You change it each week and have since day one and you expect my output to stay the same? We have 13 more pages than when I started. He changed my wages driven system to a letter driven system with secret wage code pages because someone might come up to my desk and see someone else's wages for the week.

But of course I want to keep my job so I swallowed my pride and asked meekly if he had any suggestions. (Mine for him include an enema) And that folks is why I make the lowest wage per hour of any employee at this company. It sucks knowing that but I need a job.

He better be careful or I'll be out there in my Marlboro jacket looking to Karate up some secretary at a new job.







 

Women of the world unite

My fake son-in-law grin gifted me with his old computer from deployment days this Christmas. I named it Black Bart. Partially because it is very black and partially because it is depressingly difficult for me to figure out how to work it. Since this can NOT be my fault in any way, the computer has been dubbed a name that reflects it's propensity for stubborn logic and refusal to bend to my whims.

I decided last week that Bart needs to get in touch with his feminine side so I have been looking for one of those skins for laptops. Maybe a kinder gentler Bart will be nice and run for me.
While I was looking for skins Brittany walks up and accuses me of emasculating Joel's computer.  So before he sees it and flips let me warn you : I'm not going for sex change here, I just want to make it look a little less "regulation army".
Not rainbows and screaming gay pride, but not I am a man so you must bow to my manliness black.
A little bending to the will of the dominant female in the building would be nice.  When I click anything on the screen I want results, not lip. I'm sick of the no results or warnings I don't understand.
I haven't found one that is a winner yet but I am leaning toward the chuzzle ball in purple.

nuff said

I went to the DMV to license my car. It cost me 3 hours of my life and enough of my income to make me cry. There were the usual problems/ calamities and they got my address wrong.
The curse doesn't count for the DMV, everyone has this experience.

Jack & the beanstalk

Today at work I placed my hand on my chin and discovered that I am growing a beard. I have 3, count 'em with me, t-h-r-e-e hairs on my chin! Not just 3 little fuzzy hair's either. There are 3 giant, black, quarter inch long, spiky hairs poking out of my face.
I did not even know they existed until a year ago when I found what I thought was a dog hair stuck on my face was actually growing out of my chin. This sucker was at least 2 inches long and about as black as night with grey highlights. (Like black hair growing out of your face isn't bad enough, it truly had highlights) I had missed a giant black curly hair that size?
Oh the shame, to be female and have a hair growing on your chin you did not notice. I plucked it out without a second thought. The next day I found the second hair. Close to the hole where the first one had been, but it seemed to have been partially shaved off because it was only about one half inch long. So I went home and repeated the process again. Third day, third hair.
Thus began the quest for the fuzz-free face.
It isn't like I eat prenatal vitamins or use hair fertilizing tonics for balding men or anything.
I sit each night and pluck. Then at least once a week I shave with various shaving tools for an extended period of time. I have a thousand watt, magnification 200x lighted mirror by my desk which I fire up each night and search for the hairs. I re shave and re pluck and move the bat light around to see my face from every angle until I have flash photo eyes and my skin is too hot to touch, and still
I have 3 hairs erupting like grapevines out of my chin.
Jack's beanstalk did not grow this fast.
I think they must be ninja master hairs and can blend in with my chin until about 3 when their powers are weakest and they become visible again.
 

You are the wind beneath my skirt

I always admired my Grandmother. I would sometimes watch her watching me and think "Wow she looks so happy and she doesn't even have one of these cookies to eat.". Now I know the truth, she was smiling because later she was going to be rolling on the floor laughing over the stuff the Grand kids did and said that day.
Today one of the kids in this house "crop-dusted" his brother and I discovered a whole world of language I did not know exists within the vocabulary of your average 10 year old. Do you know what "crop-dusting" has become? To me it conjures a picture of a bi-plane with chemicals in it's hold spreading DDT on our corn back in the day. Nowadays it means to run past someone and fart. There are several degrees of farting now also, everything from a "puff bomb" to a "shart". I do love to keep abreast of the latest trends in bodily function naming.
This generation seems to have a lot more to say than we did in my day. Farts were disgusting and you never owned up to one. These boys seem to delight in farting. They tell each other all about them and whenever one of them actually produces sound with the air it is like the most hilarious thing they have ever heard. I would think it is a lack of training or manners but their friends and cousins are the same. Maybe it is the fault of too much information, everybody knows everybody farts so what's the big deal? They showed me an iguana fart in the bathtub video on youtube tonight.
It is true, you learn more when you listen than when you talk.
Today I learned little boy's are gross.

Sunday is here.

Today is the day of rest.  I got up at 7:45am and looked at the clock and just about died of shock. 7:45am? I have 15 minutes to bathe, concoct a hairdo, drive 25 minutes to work, and .. Then I remembered it is Sunday. All I do on Sunday is go to church and babysit for my darling daughter while she goes to work. Since church starts at 9am and work starts just after noon I laid back down and surrendered to the pillow. At 8am I took an invigorating frozen shower (see previous blog on broken water heater in my curse section) thus proving the early to rise and it's rewards saying. I was only 4 minutes late to church due to slow-moving frozen limbs.
I have the cutest group of 6 year olds in my Primary class this year. They all had me as a teacher 2 years ago when I was teaching the 4 year olds so they know my name and how much they can get away with. At 6 the kids sing in singing time, know some of the words to some of the songs they sing, ask reasonable questions, answer questions, and best of all do not cry when dropped off at my class. Today I asked if anyone knew why we were here and one of them told me that we all have bodies, that's why we are here. I didn't say they have the right answers, just answers.
If anyone at all in the world knew how precious and darling these kids are at this age I would have a big fight on my hands for my teaching position. Yes I said the same thing about the 4 year olds and yes I am a little biased. I have been seeing them every Sunday since they were born and had most of their older brothers and sisters in my class before them. But still it is very fun on Sunday to see each of them and teach them. I feel like a great gift was given to me to be able to teach them.

Technically speaking

Now that I have been proven right... the happy taxes did not get deposited I want to move on to other things.
I started this blog back up to keep track of the curse.. and that sucker is still doing just fine.
I have lost my keys. I would tell you that the keys are easy to lose but that is not true about my keys. I have no less than 6 key charms on my 4 ring cluster of keys. Not little dinky things either and not grey or black. We are talking a flaming pink conglomeration of fun springy coils, ribbons, rude key chain sayings, and noise making clacks! It is huge. The last time I saw it I was giving my fake son in law grin the key chain of pink death to program my car to accept my new cell phone. The son in law is all tecky - all the time".
This leads me to part of the curse we have not explored in this blog yet. The sad truth is that if I can't make it work and it is electrical, mechanical, technical, or cellular  I call my daughter and have her husband mosey on over and fix it or pronounce it dead.
Whatever was broken suddenly works. The moment he touches it. Every time. In fact it will keep working until he leaves. Once he is out of the door it goes back to the near death experience I have been having with it.
I would say it is a big coincidence, but it keeps happening. When my near new refrigerator started blowing hot air and refused to make ice he came over and the only problem seemed to be dirty coils. So he vacuumed them out for me. The fridge was fine when he left. 2 hours later it turned into a furnace. While he was here we had cold air in that fridge.
I could not get Black Bart to work at all beyond a game of solitaire. He turned it on and played a DVD. He stayed here a long time and made sure everything worked, downloaded some stuff and about a hundred books, ran every program on the darn beastie.When he left I hurried and stuck New Moon in and got bupkiss. Can't even figure out how to start the darn thing.
But I have wandered off topic.. the keys are gone and whoever has them is not giving them up. I expect one of the kids has locked them up in their lockers.
The curse continues

Happy Taxes

The IRS website says that tomorrow my refund will be direct deposited into my account. I'll believe it when I see the zero's.
Every year I wait the whole 5 or 6 weeks it takes the government to decide if I can have a small percentage of my money back believing they will not let me have it. Don't ask why, I just do NOT trust the gub'ment. Maybe it's a throwback to the days when my Grandparents talked about the "revenue-ers", or just a general lack of faith in my own luck.
Not that I don't have luck mind you. It is just the worst kind of luck available.
My luck experiences have led me to my credo;
"If something can go wrong.. it already did and I just don't know about it yet."
But regardless of luck or the lack thereof, every year I look at that little happy taxes reminder and think "Yea, right." I guess if they don't come this year it would be in keeping with the rest of the curse.
Speaking of curses the TV in the living room caught fire last week. That is TV #2 to die that way in this house.
I am generally not opposed to attrition, everything here on earth is temporary but were the sizzling noises and fire really necessary? Most people find out their TV is dead when they turn it on and it doesn't work. Then they hit the sides in a kind of desperate TV CPR to make it work long enough to watch one last show. It is not normal to be hitting it to beat out the flames.

The only plus to flaming death is I know it is dead,
finito,
so over,
totally gone,
the 52" has left the building,  
outta here.

IF my happy taxes come tomorrow I am going to find a new TV to buy.
I'm looking for anything that doesn't say "Fire extinguisher not included."

Fat Sunday

Today is the Sunday when everyone in America sits around watching 2 teams fight it out with a pointy brown ball on fake grass for 3 or 4 hours with slow-motion commentary and commercial breaks.  I will not embarrass myself with attempts to acknowledge the respective prowess of whoever is playing this year. I know less than bupkiss about football and less than that about what is going on with the 2 teams and yet I have watched this spectacle every year since 1990. I have recorded it for 5 years now since the commercials are so good. This is a strictly matriarchal household.
During the actual game we in my house turn the television all the way down and snack. During the commercials we turn on the volume and laugh, a lot. Having attended more than a few Superbowl parties I know some households watch the game and cheer for whomever they want to win. Considering past years when the whole thing was "time-lagged", this seems ridiculous to me. Your screaming and jumping up and down can NOT effect the outcome of this competition. Now that it is "live" maybe the enthusiasm is valid. The thing is with the sound down, I hear my neighbors cheering and screaming at their TV's. So I gave up and joined them.
Even though I have caved to the peer pressure of a nation in love with it's padded athletes I still don't cheer anyone on or even care who wins. To me it is an excuse to eat a 3" football shaped iced brownie, chips, dip, various salads, hot grilled meats, and drink obscene amounts of soda. The only other times anyone would pig out like this is Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. That makes the Superbowl one of the fattest holidays of the year.
How did food and athleticism ever get mixed up like this? People all over this country are smashing avocados, pouring giant bags of chips into football shaped bowls for everyone to share, swilling beer, grilling anything that doesn't move, and calling it a good time.

I'm just the slightest bit guilty of climbing on the band wagon.
Maybe just one more brownie.

I'm a victim not a psycho

I have decided to blog for 3 days in a row! Yea! Now that the media has been alerted maybe we can get on with it.
Today I discovered that I am politically incorrect. I know,  you're shocked. As a mother of 4 grown children and a Grandmother of 11 you would think I would be a model of old womanish correctness. Really, somewhere along the line while raising 4 kids or helping nurture 11 grand kids you would think I learned some restraint and propriety.
  You would be wrong.
Improprieties sort of fall out of my mouth. It's not that I am striving to be incorrect I was just raised by a family where I thought my middle name was a swear word until I was 10. My family never had the neighbors over and the neighborhood kids all ran far and fast from my parents. Even in the 50's my parents were offensive. I thought "little bastards" was a sweet endearment my Dad had for all children in general, and his own especially.  I thought swearing was an art              and damn my family was good.
"The water faucet won't shut off." was just not a complete sentence to my family. It was " f-)(_&^ water faucet @%$! broken again." The dog was not going out for a call of nature, he was "taking a  $#@!(&  ^^##@". Even when my dad was being really serious and trying to make a point, he would swear and make remarks that would peel the paint off the walls. He threatened me with cursing, he ordered me around with cursing, he talked about work with cursing.
I'm going to apologize up front for this little bit of truth buy I don't think without crude language, it's not natural for me. It's sort of like an accent. It was how I learned syntax.  This is what I was exposed to in my formative years. It's what I am the most comfortable with, it's my  &%#*ing roots.
So the fact that I told one of my coworkers today he would look better in a stripper cop outfit with those RayBan's, that is a handicap of my upbringing. Not inappropriate office language and I am not stalking the paperboy.
 

Weep for the loss, it's a fluff-less world.

Today I discovered I am dying. Little hints of it are everywhere in this house. There are NO sources of chocolate anywhere here. Who would believe that in a month where I spent literally a thousand dollars on food this could be true?
It must be the Hostess guys corporate screw up trickling down to the household level. I always have  Ding-Dongs, Ho-Hos, and Twinkies stashed somewhere in the house. The Snowballs pink gooey goodness is always blatantly on display in several rooms.
It is a mortal imperative to have chocolate where small grandchildren and older, smarter children just can't find it. Now that the baking empire has fallen my stashes are finally all tapped out. (insert heavy long-suffering sigh here) and in a post apocalyptic baking world there just isn't any reasonable replacement available. Why oh why can't someone make a decent fake ding dong?
Nothing says living the dream like a Suzie q and a diet Pepsi. The taste combination is just indescribable. Plus, the irony.. a diet drink with a 1,800 calorie cake... get it get it?
They just took it away? Now all I can get is a cardboard box with a similar enough to be recognizable label yet dissimilar enough inside to make me want to eat the box instead knock off.
Don't even get me started on the available sweets in the cupboard. All we have here is vanilla pudding in a box. Bah.. Vanilla. Is that even a flavor or just the absence of Chocolate?  Someone bought this box in this house? Isn't vanilla free since it grovels so far below chocolate? Did we not see the chocolate pudding and just knocked this into the cart by mistake? Is there a universe in which vanilla is a choice and not a mistake?
So here I sit at the end of days feeding vanilla pudding to my 100 pound dog so Britt won't know I dumped all her hard work making me pudding in a fit of  IT'S NOT CHOCOLATE.

This also begs the question
  
What did they do with all that marshmallow filing?

Worst job interview ever

You know one, I know you do. A person who knows EVERYTHING, has done EVERYTHING, has had every cool adventure, and who wants to re-live how cool they are right now with you.

This random guy shows up at my work today for a "job interview". Nothing abnormal there, we hired 4 guys this month so far. He was wearing a BUDweiser beer red jacket, cowboy boots, and jeans. Still not too weird, most of my co-workers spend their Marlboro points on clothing advertising beer or cigarettes. He knew a name of the interviewer and seemed like he had it all ready to rock n roll just like any other applicant.
Until one of my coworkers came off shift walking through my desk area and remarked casually that he (the applicant) better watch himself with those red-headed women and showed him his black eye.  I think my coworker was hinting to the guy to sit down and fill in the application and leave the receptionist alone, or else.
This random goober just jumps in front of my coworker and says; "Oh, I have martial arts training." And proceeds to spend the next 5 minutes wrestling a man who could not quite grasp what the heck was happening. He moved his arms around in vaguely Egyptian poses and said stuff like "Here just go ahead and hit me." and a lot of "Ofcourse you would just move your arms like this and then, you are OK".  All the while I am sure I had the same shocked look of horror as the rest of the people in my general area did.
The coworker of mine knows the value of his job (since he has one) and would not cooperate.
So the random man just grabs his arms and starts showing him how to throw a punch  and defend against it.  It looked like every Kung Fu move my 7 year old grandson ever demonstrated for me in the last 3 years only less professional.
Then he spent the next 20 minutes explaining how he knows all these people who are famous and how he sent $500.00 each to the paramedics who rescued him from his near fatal accident. How he could not even talk or pee, or eat for a long time after that but that the doctor did some sort of whatever after the accident and it saved his faculties eventually. (I was wishing modern medicine hadn't been quite so advanced right then.) He rambled on about Ferrari's and strange bonding moments with famous people until I nearly lost my mind. The really astonishing thing was how he never let my coworker get a word in edgewise. It was like that guy on TV who wants to talk you into buying his greater, newer, less expensive, product. I have never met anyone with a greater capacity for malarkey. He went zipping through all the male hot button subjects like a jet.  Cool cars, yea he has driven millions of them. Injuries. Celebrities. Martial Arts.

I think he is normally kept in a dark little room somewhere and only allowed out once a year to speak to other people. I think he was in a desperate rush to show us all how truly COOL he is. (As if the jacket did not do it for me) I think he normally takes anti psychotic drugs daily and missed a dose.

Having been warned by several emails the interviewer did not spend enough time listening to his stories and wanted to focus on work. At the end of it this guy starts saying things like "I don't want to get tough here, but I need a job now". By then I was wondering if I would need therapy when this guy left. So he stops by my desk, knocks on it and says "Hopefully I'll be working here in a couple of days!"

Honey, I'm sorry. The best you can hope for is not being arrested if you come back.

Whoa there Nellie

I started this blog back up because I want to keep track of something I call "the curse".
For emperical research and data recording, I am using this blog.
I am cursed with a curse. and this is how it goes:  Sunday, January 6th I paid tithing. By the time I got home from church the heater in my house was shot and would not churn out a fart's worth of btu's. When I left it was working fine. After BD rewired it and reset virtually every electronic device known to exist in the house, I lost my phone.
 The cellphone is part of the curse and this is how that goes: I own only 3 kinds of cellphones
the one with no bars or reception in my home
the one that is totally drained of power
and the one that someone else is using right now.
So it showing up missing is not that unusual.... except right now I also have a car that hooks up to the cellphone and it could be working in the car for me if I could find it.
Last year in October my boss of 7 years decided to sell off the business and thus I got among my parting gifts the above mentioned car, which don't get me wrong... totally rocks. However I did have about 3 months of palpitations over where I would go to work and when. Thankfully, I got a job right away, and here comes the curse... both the other women I work with were there when he presented me the brand new car: fostering resentment on an epic scale for the new girl. Plus both of them have a really bitchy outlook on having someone new there sucking up their airspace evidently. These are my "trainers". Ha ha. Luckily, I can only suck so much before someone notices and forces one of them to tell me something.
Next part of curse: Appliances. Our water heater does not work right. If you want to use hot water at my house you need 3 hours notice to heat it up. My 7 year old grandson can start the water heater up. The thing NEVER has worked in 6 years and we have replaced it 2 times.
Neither does the refrigerator. There are 2 dead refrigerators in my back yard. I bought a brand new one when we moved in here. It lasted about 4 years. Robert bought 3 since then and on Wednesday of this week, the newest one of those died. The newest one will be delivered Monday.
This is stove # 3 we are currently killing. It looks like if you took a stove from the 1970's and broke several places off, beat up the outside, and rolled it in oil (well maybe a fire too). It works a lot of the time, which is better than the last 2.
Next part of the curse: Computers. Some will argue with me on this one but I am telling you my luck with computers is just terrible. I can't get black Bart (my laptop) to do anything. I just want to watch a dvd.
Anyway the last part of this darn curse is physical;
I have a HUGE toothache. I have dental insurance so I would go to the dentist, but both the top and the bottom hurts. It happens a lot. It will stop if I eat enough decongestants, so it is not my teeth.
But I can not seem to keep it under control.