Monday, September 26, 2011

Technology Clusterf*ck
So, it's just a normal Tuesday when my computer starts making a clackety-clack noise on start-up.  My groovy sister (GS) tells me that could be my hard drive getting ready to crap out and I better do something quick.  NO PROB, my work husband (WH) is the IT guy at our company, he'll look at it for me.  So, I stay up half the night backing up and copying stuff to my external drive, cause I'm awesome like that, and take the hard drive to work with me. WH says he'd be happy to check it out.  I'm thinking, perfect, if all goes well, I can have my computer back by Thursday.  No big deal, I have my smart phone to check email, etc.

Right.  Wednesday night, no cell service.  For me.  My daughter has excellent service and she's sitting right next to me on the couch.  Freaking AT&T. Bummer.  No Facebook, or Words with Friends. Ok, I can hang.  Probably good for me to be "unplugged" for a day, anyway.  More time to help my son with his homework, cause I LOVE homework.

Then WH calls to let me know he hasn't had a chance to look at my computer, is Thursday night ok?  Sure, of course, I completely understand, truly.  Thanks so much for looking at it for me, whenever you have time.  And I honestly mean that.  He is an awesome guy anyway, even without doing me a favor like this.

So, natch, Thursday morning half-way to work, my phone goes ape-shit crazy with all the texts, emails, and FB notifications I missed the night before.  No biggie, I'll just deal with this on my computer when I get to work like everyone else does. Ahhh, reconnected!  And surely, this phone issue was just a network problem which will be all resolved by the time I get home this afternoon. No such luck.  Another excruciating evening with absolutely no interaction with anyone except the Pooties.  Bring on the vodka.  Now.  I am really irritable at this point.  Even the Wii won't connect to our wireless network without the damned computer. ARGH!

I somehow manage to make a phone call to GS even without a damned cell signal and she says this must mean something is wrong with my phone, not the network.  She says I should call AT&T to see what they have to say about the situation.  Since she's my tech support (and lifeline for everything else), I know she's right, but I'm beat down already. Homework is kicking my ass and I don't feel like being on the phone with customer service. I'll let it ride till tomorrow and see if I have service.  Meanwhile, WH calls with the fabulous news that the problem is not my hard drive (YAYYAYYAYYAYAYAYAY), but the bearings in the fan on the video card which will have to be replaced at some point.  But, I'm back in the game!  Tomorrow is Friday, and I will have my computer back in time for the weekend. Happy dance!

New life is breathed into my poor tired body/brain and so I set about untangling all the wires that will be plugged back into the hard drive, getting everything ready for the big homecoming. So exciting!  I did remember, however, that the cable genius who put in all the jacks, etc., left me with more than one outlet that is a complete failure and the cable to my modem has a connection so sensitive that if you BREATHE on it, the internet is gone in an instant.  Jiggle if you will, MAYBE the connection will come back.  When it FEELS like it (FU, too, Comcast).  Ah, another challenge.

Friday morning brings more teeth-clenching as my cell phone still has no service!  Until I am half-way to work.  Again.  FUCK.  And Friday drags its ass as slowly as it possibly can till 5pm.  Finally.  Get home, plug all the things into my baby and fire her up.  Of course, since EH2 just had to have Vista, the start-up takes freaking forever.  I wait, not the least bit patiently, cussing and spitting.  And, we're back.  With no internet.  Great.  Fix the modem, restart the computer.    Meantime, my daughter reminds me I am supposed to take her to her friend's house for the weekend.  Look at my phone. NO FUCKING SIGNAL.  That's it.  I'm calling AT&T.

So, the very helpful rep says this sounds like a sim card issue.  Please take the phone to your nearest AT&T store and they'll give you a new sim card at no charge.  NO PROB.  Right on the way to my destination anyway, so off we go. But guess what?  The store is EMPTY. No "We've Moved To" sign on the door.  Nothing.  So, I call the store, after going through the damned automated system and the little smart ass on the phone asks me what I am trying to do today.  Ummm, find the store and punch you in the mouth?!  Finally find the damned place and a little sugarplum named R (we'll call him Fancy) with spiked hair and a purple rhinestone belt buckle a la Adam Lambert is assigned to my case. Yay.

Explain the sitch to him and he graciously says he'll be happy to take care of this.  He helpfully removes my sim card and installs the new one.  Starts the phone.  Hands it to me to enter my Motoblur login.  WHAT?! OMG. I activated that Motoblur thing 8 months ago when I GOT the phone.  RUFKM?  Try every email address and password combination I can think of, but no.  Motoblur doesn't like any of them.  So my phone is completely LOCKED.  I cannot text, talk, download.  Just stare at the Motoblur login screen.  I ask him to give me the old sim card.  He says sure, but it's deactivated.  Fancy says he's really sorry, but there's nothing else he can do.  He guides me to a landline phone in the store and dials AT&T customer service for me and sweetly hands me the phone.  I want to beat him to death with that shiny belt buckle.

So, the dude on the PHONE gets to hear my whole story and I did not leave out any of the profanity from which I spared Fancy.  He says when I can get to a computer I should go to and request a new password.  The only other option is to wipe the phone clean and start over. There are flames shooting out of the top of my head at this point, so I think it's best if I get out of there before someone loses body parts.  As I'm driving my daughter to her friend's house, it occurs to me that THIS jackass just told me how to recover my freaking EMAIL password.  Hello?!  Catfucker!! I KNOW my email password.  OMG, OMG, OMG

So, as I'm driving, I borrow my daughter's cell phone to once again call AT&T customer service.  And try not to vent my frustration on the poor chick who has the honor and privilege of taking my call.  She apologizes and tells me to go to to reset that password once I can get to a computer.  So, I drop my daughter off and drive like a bat out of hell to get home.  Still no internet.  So, I once again jiggle wires and reset the modem...FINALLY.  Now I have to restart the computer again. Ok, I will not let it bother me. I'll just open the new eye shadow I bought on the way home. That should be easy.  NOT. The package is sealed up tighter than a new CD.  More cussing and spitting.

And then, finally, by the grace of all that's holy, my computer is up and running and connected to the internet.  Whereupon I humbly request a new password from MyMotoBlur, which is granted promptly.  Problem solved, phone unlocked.  BLISS.  My blood pressure slowly begins to return to normal.  And I slept well and deeply knowing all was right with my world.

And today, I got my revenge.  AT&T sent me a text asking me to rate Fancy's service.........

Ah, karma!

Thursday, September 15, 2011


(You're a douche.) This is what I say in my head to/about the Dude I Broke Up With quite often.  Every time he sends me a cute little text or an email. Apparently he doesn't *get* that I broke up with him. Ok, well, in his defense, I have done this at least twice in the past already.  But this time I mean it.  The reason I feel Dude is a douche is not because he doesn't get the breakup; he so does really get it.  It's the fact that he's still trying to worm his way back in.

UrADouche.  That's how I see the letters in my brain. And now I have proof that he is a douche. Because he's been secretly working for Hallmark. He/they have a new line of greeting cards in the "Between You and Me" group called "Suggestive Love".  I shit you not.  And you will not find these on the Hallmark website.  I checked.  When I get the cold hard facts that Dude I Broke Up With was involved, I'm going after half of his royalties because I know with unerring certainty that I was his research project/unwitting assistant. Because I fell for this crap hook, line and sinker.

I was too cheap and too afraid of copyright infringement to buy a card and post  it here.
But you can check out some of the cards here:

Aw, that is beautiful, right?  Yes, it could be, if this card was from your undyingly faithful husband/boyfriend who just isn't able to verbally express his desire for you without sounding like a jackass.  Unfortunately, dudes like that will not be buying these cards.  It will be the disingenuous assholes who want you to believe that they have feelings for you other than plain old lust.

Now, let me just say that at that right time with the right person, a good "just for funsies fuck-buddy" relationship can be just the ticket.  But what I don't understand is why some guys think it's ok to lie through their teeth to get what they want.  I, for one, would welcome some good old-fashioned honesty.  Seriously.  Just TELL me you only want to have a good time.  I can hang.  But for the love of God(dess), do not pretend that there is anything more than sex behind your intentions if there isn't.   Do not say/write things that paint a rosier picture of you than the lying scumbag you really are.  Do not practice the art of deception. Call a spade a spade, or, in this case, call a fuck a fuck.

I was so outraged when I saw these cards at my corner drugstore/mini we-have-everything-you'd-ever-need-mart that I scared everyone within two or three aisles of me.  Sputtering out loud, profanity and all.  Using "Love" as a euphemism for sex should be punishable by having certain body parts removed slowly by the person to whom you have lied/pretended/lied by omission of fact(s)/caused emotional devastation.  And those body parts should also include your lying eyes, and the lips you used to utter all this bullshit.

Now for the slimy catf*ckers at Hallmark who actually approved and put into production this line of "greeting" cards, I would just like to send a big FU.  I hope a dirtbag like the Dude I Broke Up With sends these kinds of cards to your daughter(s).

UPDATE:  Afterthought
PS.  To the Dude I Broke Up With:  You never returned my copy of "Wicked" which I loaned you over a year ago and have asked for twice now.  It occurs to me this instant that you either a) loaned it to another casualty of your bullshit and/or 2) used it for chick bait.  Either way, please feel free to keep it.  It is tainted with your bad juju and I would rather spend money to buy a new one.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down

Thanks to PearlsAndShit for the picture!

So today I found out that someone who has worked for my employer for 27 years turned in her notice.  Why?  Because the bastards in charge not only passed her up for a well-deserved promotion, but threw her loyalty and devotion in her face by giving the position to someone with no experience and no qualifications who has been here less than a year and then demoting her because she "hadn't been doing a good job".  

Really??  No warnings or write-ups for her "poor job performance", etc. Just the sudden demotion and inauguration of the new acting "leader" of the department.  I am not naive enough to think that there are "policies and procedures" in place to protect the employees of any company. Those are basically bullshit.  This ain't my first rodeo.  A privately-held corporation can pretty much do whatever the hell they want whenever it suits them.  And I'm sure their spin on this will, if it ever meets the light of day, make me want to vomit.

BUT, this person has devoted herself to this place for practically forever, contributing above and beyond to one of the biggest fund-raising events of the year out of the goodness of her heart and because of her passion.  Thank GOD she is quitting before the event this year.  Take THAT, empire-building assholes.  May the Gods of Justice shit upon you heavily as you are not concerned in the least with the betterment of the establishment to which you have been entrusted.  

I can only hope that the pain she is feeling right now will be short-lived and that she will emerge on the other side of it with righteous indignation and find something so much more rewarding and fulfilling.  She has made this company a better place and I, for one, feel fortunate to have worked with someone with such passion and devotion.  It showed.  Every day.

And I am paralyzed with fear about publishing this post.  Because there has already been a backlash about a group on a social networking site for former employees of this place.  (So, please, don't share this post on a certain very-well-known social networking site.  :)  If you like it, feel free to email it.)  

I am outraged over this and find it difficult to look those people who were involved in the eye and smile like a good little doo-bee.  One thing that really chaps my ass is injustice and this has my pants on fire, and not in a good way.  I  know what goes around comes around, but sometimes that takes a really long time to happen.  Some people have said, "Oh, well, it doesn't affect me or my job."  Guess what?  Oh, yes, it does.  You work for the same company that felt it was ok to do this, so just be ready to have the rug pulled out from under you some day.

I SO wanna go all Norma Rae on their asses, but alas, I have kiddies to feed.  And so, I will have to bite holes in my tongue and glue on my happy face.  For now.

Fuck it, I'm publishing this anyway!

Monday, September 12, 2011

Ghetto Lexus

So, I'm on my way to work this morning, when I roll up on this.  

I am not sure exactly why, but I laughed out loud, most of the rest of the way to work.

Now, I am not really very educated about Lexii in general, so I Googled "purple Lexus" and discovered this is a very popular color among gear heads.  Really, there is every imaginable shade of after-market purple available.

I think the one thing about this purple Lexus is that it at first struck me as a complete impostor, and one that isn't even trying very hard.  Was it really born a Lexus or did they steal the silver letters that spell "Lexus"? The bubbling tint and the broken gas tank lid along with the God-awful color has really confused me.  Are they really trying to be classy enough to own a Lexus or are they, in effect, saying FU to Lexus?  Is it a pimp-mobile?  What does it all mean?

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

I Hate Homework

I truly do.  It actually makes me violently angry.  Ok, so maybe it isn't the homework itself as much as my son's reluctance to actually do his homework.  And the little fits of rage he pitches.  Cause then I get even angrier, which makes me want to drink more vodka, which makes it really difficult for me to function at work, which might cause me to get fired, which might make ME have to go back to school, which means I would then have homework....and that's not happening.

Things I hate about homework:

a) Kids who won't DO their homework.

b) Kids who cry about/while doing their homework.

c) School boards that design a curriculum which causes a teacher to assign a 
    third grader three hours of homework.            

d) Little love notes in my son's planner from his teacher about no homework
    being turned in.  (I want to write her back that we were busy naked bonfire
    dancing, but I'm afraid she might get "the law" involved.)  PS.  I don't hate
    teachers, so please no emails!
e) That we can never find a freaking pencil anywhere in this house.  Oh, right, 
    cause we sent them all to school (along with a hundred other things that we
    now have none of).  So homework has to be done in pen.  By a third grader.
      So it looks like this:

(Well, this actually looks better in Blogland than in real life.  Surprisingly, my
son has pretty damned good handwriting for a left-handed third grade boy who
wishes the world revolved around Playstation games.)

After all this whining and complaining there is little time, if any, left to do homework so I write a cute little love note back to the teacher about how we'll do our best to complete the assignment tomorrow provided nothing untoward occurs.  Meaning it's time for his bath and my martini and anyways (ha) texting, etc., is going to be the downfall of the English language as we know it so who gives a rat's ass if my third-grader didn't finish copying definitions of his vocabulary words out of a dictionary that was published thirty years ago?!

See, all roads lead to vodka.  Seriously.  

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Glinda on Crack

One of my favorite lines from the Wizard of Oz is when Glinda the Good Witch of the North says to the Wicked Witch of the West, who is livid about her sister's shoes being glued to Dorothy's feet, "Be gone.  You have no power here."  And damned if old WWW doesn't do exactly as she is told.  Wait, what?!  GGW banished WWW and it took?  Just like that?

Ok, then, dammit.  That's my new mantra.  To be spewed gleefully upon all the energy vampires, time-stealers, clusterfuckers, whiners, criers, EH's (ex-husbands) and AW's (attention whores) who think they can ride on my cloud (and their little dogs, too).  "BE GONE.  YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE."  Period.  End of story.  No explanation necessary. 

So, I tested this theory on AW this morning.  Maybe I was still a little drunk from last night's martini or something.  Really, I'm not sure what possessed me.  But today when she did her little "drop the mouse 8 times to wake up the computer thing", I just yelled over the cubicle walls:  "Hey, who taught you that new trick?"  Followed a quick discussion of other ways to wake up your computer after a strong denial on my part that the sound of that noisy mouse thing bothers me (cause that's what she WANTS it to do).  And it worked.  She stopped doing it.  At least for today.

Now I am Glinda on crack.  F*cked up from the power rush of plowing through the unnecessary bullshit flung my way by people who attempt to take a bite of the glory that is me.

I am SO my own superhero.