They Did It AGAIN!!

Long and faithful readers may remember my posting an entry around Christmas a couple of years back about tacky people inviting friends and family to our holiday party.  I thought I had clearly explained what you and a guest are cordially invited actually means.

The invitations have yet to go out and I already have an issue.  Sorry but I am to busy shoving the tissue back in my head from my brain exploding so you kids will have to wait for the complete story.

Perhaps I will be calm in a month or two.

This Friday's site is Vintage Ads.  Check it out.

Inside Outside

Why do I have two closets completely packed with clothes and can't find a g-d damn thing to wear tomorrow night?

I thought I would be so smart planning ahead so I won't be rushed after work getting ready for my sushi date.  My bedroom looks like the walk in regurgitated jeans, skirts, blouses and shoes and I still keep flinging things off in exasperation.

It is probably a mood thing.  I have a headache, my daughter is Miss Chatty Cathy tonight and I have yet to clean up the dinner dishes.  It is hard to feel beautiful on the outside when you have ugliness battling to escape on the inside.

Anyone else ever feel this way?

I think my jeans will look much better if I have few beers.  If not, I probably won't give a shit either way.

Dogs Best Friend?

My dog is obsessed with me.

Not being fond of most animals, human beings included, I find this phenomenon very weird.

My little yappy dog, Maxwell, has just turned four and doesn't appear to be outgrowing his attachment. Actually, it appears to be getting worse. I already deal with the fact that he has a breathing attack most days when I get home. His excitement triggers his collapsed trachea abnormality and he will struggle for breath until he calms down.
Or passes out whichever comes first.
He follows me around the house like a..well..puppy dog and must be in the same room I am at all times.  If SCM dares to try to pick him up in my presence, Maxwell will fight and snap until he lets him down to stand guard over me.  He waits outside of the bathroom when I am in there and sleeps on my bed when I am alone and under it when SCM has invited himself for a visit.
In my ignorance, I thought Maxwell, along with the spare dog, just napped and played during the day when I was at the office. I have discovered this is not the case. Evidentially, the dog howls and cries all day long until I get home.


How did I find out he does this? I was left a little neighborgram taped to my door.

Hmmm. Well, we learned two things from this note. One, the dog cries and howls all day. Two, Bill can not spell. Since I can't control the latter, I figure I bet get a handle on the former.
I checked with SCM to find out if he was aware of this. After all, he is often home during the day.
"Sure, he has always done that. The minute you leave until you get home. I throw him out because it drives me crazy."
Good plan. Subject the neighbors to the torture so you don't have to deal with it.

I checked some dog message boards run by obsessive people that refer to their dogs as their "babies" and themselves as "mommy and daddy" and I was advised to get the maladjusted furry thing to a doggy shrink. But BY NO MEANS am I to drug the animal.

This morning I called the vet to make an appointment to get Maxwell on some doggy tranquilizes to chill the fuck out.
What is good for me is certainly good enough for my dog.

I work in the medical field in a business capacity.  Basically this means I don't have to deal with bat shit crazy patients on a regular basis.

Or any basis if it is a good day.

Occasionally I get called into the trenches to toss someone for being nasty to the staff or call 911 for a junky that thought my office would provide them with their abused prescription drug of choice.

Mostly though I crunch numbers and yell at my staff.

Yesterday was one of those days I wish I had gone to work in a safe boring accountanting firm.

The day started when I walked through a full waiting room having my usual sing songy good mornings greeted with an uncomfortable silence usually reserved for people that have been waiting a while and are losing patience.

Now I know that a medical facility isn't people's favorite place to visit on a Monday morning but the vibe was really off. My bad feeling intensified when I saw a couple of police officers milling around the place talking to the staff.

I grabbed the first employee I passed to inquire what the fuck was going on.

"We had an incident".

Ahhh, an incident. I see.

No I didn't.

"Could you be more specific?"

My office opens at 6:30 each morning to perform procedures. Generally all patients are either in recovery or discharged by the time I get in around 8:30. It was clear due to the twenty five or thirty people in the waiting room that it wasn't working that way today. Apparently a mother of an adult patient wanted to observe her son's procedure. No one noticed her following behind the nurse pushing the wheelchair until she entered the sterile environment with street clothes and sneakers.

(Yes, my staff is super observant.)

Everything could have been quickly rectified if the Mom had followed the nurse out like she was instructed to do.

Nope. Wasn't going to happen. She wasn't going anywhere. She wouldn't allow anyone in or out either.

One of the physician assistants attempted to open the door and was told..

"You aren't going anywhere tubby"

(Yes, I did burst out laughing at this part of the story. Bad Chris.)

So, as I was in Starbucks having a yummy mocha frappuccino, my staff was being held hostage by a crazy person.

One of the techs pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. Fortunately, before the police could arrive the son talked Mom down and they both ended up leaving the premises. I spent the rest of the morning with the police filling out forms to press charges.

The patient called back later that afternoon to see if he could reschedule. I gladly referred him to the competition.

.

What A Long Strange Trip Its Been...

I attended a birthday dinner last night for someone who is right around my age.  She was telling me how much she is looking forward to 50 in a few years and how liberating it will be.

What. The. Fuck?

To me, that is like looking forward to the root canal because you really dig the Nitrous oxide. 

No.  Just No.

Men can look forward to 50.  They can look forward to that distinguished look of gray around the temples and experience lines around their eyes.  They get to feel relieved that the kids are gone and they can now spend their money on green fees and sports cars that they look ridiculous driving.

But women?  Women can only look forward to more trips to the salon the cover the gray, painful botox injections and buying shoe inserts to go in the pumps that make our legs look great but irritate that fucking bunion that just appeared one day.

Yes, my friend does have the right attitude.  She is secure in her relationship, secure in her head and ready for the next adventure in life.

Me? I have yet to figure  out what I want to be when I grow up.  The thought of finding peace where my head is at now is like being happy that I got half way through a 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and giving up and putting the pieces back in the box.

NO!  I say.  NO!  I am going to finish that freakin' thing even if it is all black pieces and I am going to glue it together and put it on the wall of the old folks home.

But for now, I am going to continue to sort out the straight pieces so I can at least finish the outside.

Have a nice week kewl kids.

In my mind's eye, I should have been through with all my current office bullshit and should be dealing with another office's bullshit by now. After all these years I am still smacking around the same people, listening to the same grumbles and have the same few brown nosers kissing my ass.

I know this is turning into a work blog and that wasn't my intention. Like Seinfield reruns, this blog is supposed to be about nothing. However, I do need to vent and what better a place than at the kewl kid's table with a captive audience?

Ms. BB has been back one week and I noticed I wasn't getting the amount of output from the gal I hired to take over her job. When I inquired, it appeared that Ms. BB decided that since SHE wasn't able to work that hard having someone else do it made her look bad.  So she divided the work among three people.

Yes, it is true. The woman that I have gone through so much trouble to keep due to her work ethic was instructed to slow down so others have more work. Of course when I asked Ms. BB what she was thinking I got the same deer in the headlights look that I have been receiving since 1998. She doesn't even attempt to make excuses but looks at me with a stupid expression that says.."snagged"...and she waits for me to tell her what she already knows. What actually should be happening.

In the meantime, I laid in bed last night trying to come up with a solution to Ms. BB and her intense odor problem.  (Instead of being laid in bed which would have been a lot more fun.)  I think I managed to work it out that she would have an office to herself which is really quite annoying.  Forget to bathe and you get your own private office.  I wonder if I'd have to make her a VP if she stops wearing her dentures?

She did tell me this happy news this morning.

"Chris, I am here to stay.  I am not going to be able to retire until I am dead."

Don't tempt me.

One Simply Can't Make This Shit Up.

No sooner do I finally think I've got everyone settled into their new offices without blood shed, I hear a tentative knock on my door.
Before I have time to hide under my desk, one of the secretaries came in and asked to talk.
This particular employee was only affected by the changes in that she was given a new office mate.  Unfortunately, it was Ms. BB of stinky bowel movement fame. Unbeknownst to me, I was informed she also has other hygiene problems. To put it the same way as my visitor...

"She smells like ass."
So now I either need to move this doodie stinkin', ass smelling, dandruff flaking, BO environment polluting old bag somewhere alone or I need to figure out how to tell a woman 35 years my senior, that soap and water are our friends.

Aren't you kids glad you aren't me?