Old Old Old Lady

Know what is TOTALLY hot?  Runners.  Running girls, with sweaty ponytails, mismatched running clothes, a band of plastic strapped around their chest (that's for the heart rate monitor), a plastic watch (it's a Garmin, shut up.)

No, no, I am not going to pretend I am running again, but... I have run 1.69 miles each day for the last two days.  And that stupid watch thinks I ought to be hitting 9 minute miles (For.  Real.) so I've actually really been trying hard.  To hit 12 minute miles, which is much more my speed.  Literally.

And this is the antithesis to what I would prefer to be doing, which is either playing Wii Jeopardy (the only show I miss on tv.) or working on my puzzle.  Holy eff, I am 100 years old.

At any rate, so yeah, I've been running.  Ish.  I'd like to see what kind of distance I can get up to, but I'm still struggling with figuring out when to run.  I could run after work, but then the kids don't eat until seven.  Or, I could run after supper, but I'm so tirrrrrred.  Wah fucking wah, hunh?

So the watch was my Big Christmas Present, and it's pretty great.  I also got some books, some money, some gift cards.  Good stuff.  A donut maker, and that's sort of unexpected, but it's red, ergo, cute.

The Russian contingency is BACK and I'm super pysched, but I haven't seen them yet or snuggled my new nephew (who is, apparently, rather snuggly) so that sort of sucks, but I'm a few short days of getting that fixed.  Come on, Saturday!

And I have nothing else, which means, time for kittens!  WAIT NO - look, this is my favorite dog in the whole wide world (except my gay boyfriend's dog, Bradley, because he is family.):

Giver of Cheer. Receiver of Cheer, actually.

I have had a truly remarkable week.  After being propositioned by a (perhaps) Indian man on Monday, it has only gone uphill.

A boy told me that he thinks I'm pretty, which, you know?  Definitely a nice thing to hear.  Definitely the highlight of my week.

Other than all that, we had our choir Christmas party and we had band practice, and the artist formerly known as my husband and I are legally separated and that's GOOD BUT WEIRD TOO, and his mom has Doodlebug but she is bringing him to me today, so that's good, too.

It's just weird.

But anyway, today was Christmas-at-work day, and I got some nice, nice things:
1) A new rosary (nicer than the one I bought myself, and good nuns have multiples, so I'm in good shape.)
2) Two candles
3) An ornament
4) A big, fabulous LSU hoodie.  FREAKING LOVE IT.
5) A gift certificate to Applebees, about which I am a little meh, because, you know?  yuck.  Applebees.  But still, free meal.
6) A few other little things from my friends.

I have nice friends at work.  Makes me happy.

The good stuff starts tomorrow, and I'm excited.  Christmas is my favorite.  For real.

I'll fill you in later.

In the meantime, Happy Christmas Adam, Eve tomorrow, and glorious day on Saturday.

Receptionist, or... hooker, it would seem

I wear a lot of different hats at my place d'emploi.  I am the HR girl, the Finance girl, the shredder girl, the IT girl, you name it.  I also answer the phones.

Now, please note, we have a handful of full time staff, including several office people and then four guys that work out in the hall (it's a big place.)

We also hire part timers, usually to work nights and weekends, when we have events.  Because that's what we do at my work. 

So last summer, we hired this girl, I'll call her Brittany (because that is her name.)  Pretty much immediately after we hired her, she started getting called by what I can only guess is a bill collector that has been outsourced to a call center in the middle east somewhere.  I'm guessing India.

I took a message for Brittany once or twice, but then I told them that this was not a good number for her, she can't take calls here, etc.  Bastards were persistent, and they called back several more times, and I was emphatic that they May Not Call Here anymore.  And eventually, they stopped calling.

Note, Brittany does not work here any more.

Okay, so yesterday?  I answer the phone, and HEY LOOK BRITTANY IS BACK ON THEIR SHIT LIST.  So this happened:

"Hello, may I please speak to Britt-i-an-ee?"

"Let me speak to your boss."

"Why?"

!

"That's none of your business!"

There was a pause, and then,

"Hello, this is boss"

(hi, Peggy.)

"Listen.  I have told you that you cannot call here anymore, you cannot reach Brittany at this number.  She does not even work here any more."

"Look.  I am going to call you as much as I want to.  What is it that you are going to do about it?"

"I am going to CALL THE POLICE."

"Well, I want to fuck you."

!

"What?"

"Yeah, I want to fuck you.  What is it that you are going to do about it?"

"Don't ever call here again."

And I hung up the phone.

O.  M.  G.  WHAT is that???  WHO does that? 

Unfortunately, there is no caller ID for me to report to the po po, and I don't even know they name of the company, so no good is to come of this and I cannot really report this without any of that information, but...  I really, really hope they call back.

I also am kicking my own ass because I didn't respond with "Really?  Because I usually only like to fuck your holy precious cows."

Or at the very least, "Oh?  What are you wearing?  A sari?  Me TOO!"

God, I swear.

And yes, there is a teensy part of me that totally went, inside my head, "Mama's still got it going on."

Elf

At work, we do this annual pToysforTotsp give-away (that's so I cannot be googled.  Such a smart girl, me.)

We have collected almost 3,000 toys, not joking.  It's great.  It's awesome.  I have drawn a line through the barcode of almost 3,000 toys.  : /

I'll love it, I always do, but the toy giveaway starts tomorrow at 4:00, and I'm scared.  I'm already tired.  I'll be at work probably until close to midnight, and though there will be food a'plenty, I usually go to bed by 8:30.  At the latest.

How'mIGonnaDoThis?

Pray for me.  It's worth it.  Kids get happy tomorrow.

I get happy too, but also tired.

Little bit of awesome.

Have I told you I am addicted to bingo?  I freaking am, and I'm disgusted by this trivial little fact, but it is what it is.

Also, have I told you that I started running again... sort of?

What I mean to say is, I ran a mile and a half, twice, this week.  Which is 3 miles more than last week (I am very good at math.)

In other news, my brother and his family are in Russia to get their second child.  Which is absolutely FANTASTIC.  But I'm ready for them to be home.

And the baby was home sick yesterday, and he announced that he is allergic to pickles (snicker) and babies.

"But I don't wike them," he said.  "Yes, but you are not allergic," I said.

And I read freaking Upton Sinclair's OIL! and didn't stop mid-way and declare that I hated it this time.

That's how awesome I am.

Doctor, surgeon, public service announcer.

Bitches, I don't want to hear any smack talk about not being active with the whole blog thing.

That being said, I don't have much to tell you about, anyway.  So I'm going to gross you out instead.

About six months ago, Beanie told me he thought he had a little shard of glass stuck in his foot, like a splinter, but he couldn't get it out.

"No worries," said I.  "Just leave it alone and it will work itself out."

Only, it didn't, so eventually, I heard enough of his bitching to offer to do some at-home surgery with a tweezer and a needle.

He agonized and let me dig for a while, but I didn't come up with anything.  And the foot, it looked rough, but I couldn't even find any infection (EWWWW) (PUS!) (HAHAHA words are gross), so I kind of gave up.  We put some neosporin on that bitch and a band-aid, and hoped for the best.

AND THEN, someone told me about drawing salve, which is something I had never heard of before, and you have to ask for it at the pharmacy at Walgreen's, but it is an over-the-counter medicine of some sort.

Looks like tar and stinks like balls, but hey.

So we smacked some of that on his foot, and I went ahead and did some surgery on one of my own toenails.  EWW.  (feet are gross.)

ANYWAY, so even that did not work, and we finally gave in and he went to the doctor.

Turns out, it was a plantar wart.  Ever seen one?  No?  Here you go:

That is not Beanie's foot, but that's pretty much EXACTLY what it looks like.

So the doctor burned it off or froze it off or whatever you say when you are talking about that dry ice freezation thingee they do, and it was better for a couple of days.  Unfortunately, and this is somewhat to be expected, it's not all better.  So Beanie is back at the doc's right this very moment, getting it re-burned/froze.

If this doesn't work, they have to cut it all out.  I am NOT KIDDING YOU.

Dude, don't google that.

I'll let you know.  In the meantime, my gift to you this holiday season is drawing salve.  Because, holy shit did that clear up my toenail problem in like fifteen minutes.  For real.

Not really, but definitely within two days.  And that bitch was hurting.

Girlfriend to John Cusack. As per usual.

Ran a race this weekend.  It was a 5K, and I felt NOT GOOD about it, but mostly I got really asthma-y and wheezy and stuff.  I finished, though, so who cares, really.  AND everybody else that I knew either did just a 1 mile, or else they just stood around looking smug in their track suits.

I am a badass.

In other news, I guess I can tell you all that things progress, or they don't, and the only thing is this.  Do NOT tell someone they are "strong."  That is just confusing.  Either people are fooled into thinking I'm rocking this whole new world, or else I am a weenie when I lose my shit and cry and stuff. 

Strong is not what I need to hear.

You know what does help?

"Fucking courageous as balls."

"A brave little shit."

So feel free to call me either of those things, because I do think that those things apply.

In other news, once upon a time, I used to refer to John Cusack as "my boyfriend, John Cusack," so much so that I once got Valentine's Day flowers delivered to my work, signed from, "your boyfriend, John Cusack."  (that was a pretty amazing day.)

I'm thinking of taking him back.  I'll always love Lloyd Dobbler, anyway.



So, yeah... life goes on...