I assume that the average American is never blessed with the opportunity to extract small woodland creatures from their undergarments. While I'm no expert in the field, I can wholeheartedly endorse the idea that it's far easier to do so with the aid of an assistant. Things get especially complicated when the terrified creature chooses to Velcro itself to one's bra, right in the middle of one's back.
It all started innocently enough - I was getting ready to light the grill for lunch while our white Lab, Bo, did his thing in the yard. I heard a chipmunk's chirp of alarm, and when I looked in that direction I saw the dog attempting to crawl underneath a folded seat cushion. While the dog's head was covered by one side of the cushion, a chipmunk darted out from under the other side of the cushion and hid himself in the grass patch near where I was standing. I had thoughtfully left it unmowed, so much so that he would have had no problem hiding his entire family there with him. Bo continued searching for the chipmunk beneath the cushion, so had it remained still it probably would have been in no danger.
As I watched, the grass shook in places and I was able to mark the chipmunk's progress away from the dog and toward my feet. I was wearing sandals and figured it would be just my luck that he was going to run across my feet on his way to the big tree in our yard. He finally emerged from the grass about 6" from my toes, and instead of running over my feet he jumped onto the nearest "tree" - my pant leg!
Instead of going into a full-on panic, I was still attempting to remain as low-key as possible to not attract the attention of the dog. He has gotten quite good at catching the small animals that the cats had already maimed and playing 'Keep Away From Mom' while I yelled at him to drop it. I understand that Nature can be cruel and that there will always be predator and prey, but I also believe in a fast and merciful kill - a concept that my dog does not grasp.
So instead of yelling, I say in a hushed voice to this chipmunk (that I'm attempting not to startle), "hey little guy, I'm not a tree, try that one over there." I also helpfully move my eyes in the direction of the tree I'm referring to, in case the creature doesn't understand 'lunaticspeak'.
Bo, always attentive to Mom, abandons the cushion and trots over to see who I'm talking to. The chipmunk, alarmed by the approach of the dog, darts the rest of the way up my leg and underneath the hem of my t-shirt. Still in "OMG must save the forest" mode, I bring my hand down to cover the chipmunk and shield him from the dog. This gives him an additional foothold and I soon find myself staring down at what appears to be a migrating tumor on my abdomen. I gingerly waddle over to the house and send the dog inside, just in case my 'tumor' decides to go racing across the yard.
Still H3ll-bent on getting this chipmunk out of harm's way, I make my way over to the tree that he had failed to locate earlier. By this time he has moved to my t-shirt's armpit and I moved my arm out to the tree trunk to build him a little cotton "bridge" to safety out of my sleeve. Possibly spooked by the idea of "heading toward the light", instead of exiting my shirt via the sleeve he begins to use the fabric of my bra to traverse my rib cage until he is perfectly between my shoulder blades and impossible to reach. It's at this point that I decide perhaps an assistant would be of some value, so I once again made my way to the front door.
"Hon, get the camera and get out here to help me get this chipmunk out of my shirt!" I'm not sure whether I should be disturbed by the fact that my husband didn't seem particularly alarmed by my request, and not once did he ask me how I managed to acquire my new little friend. Instead, he dutifully followed me out to the yard and simply asked "what do you need me to do?" The chipmunk refused to budge until my husband had completely uncovered him and then finally had to shoo him toward the tree with his hand. Sadly, we didn't have a good opportunity for pictures before my new friend had run screaming toward the forest, or you can be sure I would need to share them. I thanked my husband, he went back into the house, and I went back to lighting the grill. Just another average day on the farm.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Pie Charts
I just received a Powerpoint presentation for a meeting to discuss a project status (of COURSE the meeting is scheduled for 1 hour). As I was clicking through the slides, desperately searching for some kind of point, I was relieved to see that some thoughtful soul had included a pie chart to illustrate a measure at 100%. Yes. You read that correctly. There was time and effort put into the point of illustrating the concept of "all".
Now I do work with some people who are routinely thwarted by the concept of 'Reply All'. And some of these same people are completely unable to cancel a meeting invitation without sending out 3 modified invitations and then finally just sending out an email to ask everyone to delete the original meeting invite from their calendars. But at the same time, I've met cats who didn't seem to have any difficulty at all with the idea of "all". As in, "I'm going to yack up ALL of my dinner onto your living room carpet."
I'm happy to report, however, that the graph was well-received by the group. At least I -think- those were noises of approval. Sometimes it's hard to hear over the cacophony of ill-conceived projects mutating into lumbering, career-devouring horrors.
Now I do work with some people who are routinely thwarted by the concept of 'Reply All'. And some of these same people are completely unable to cancel a meeting invitation without sending out 3 modified invitations and then finally just sending out an email to ask everyone to delete the original meeting invite from their calendars. But at the same time, I've met cats who didn't seem to have any difficulty at all with the idea of "all". As in, "I'm going to yack up ALL of my dinner onto your living room carpet."
I'm happy to report, however, that the graph was well-received by the group. At least I -think- those were noises of approval. Sometimes it's hard to hear over the cacophony of ill-conceived projects mutating into lumbering, career-devouring horrors.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
An Hour??
Is there any other place, other than the workplace, where the default time allotted for a topic is one hour? I mean, when all parties are sober at least? What business topic is so utterly pressing that two or more people expect to need an hour to talk through it? Surely it's something complex, with huge market and/or financial implications!! I mean, think about it! An HOUR!! If anyone outside of your workplace approached you and asked for an hour of your time to discuss something I guarantee you:
A) They're trying to sell you something that will require a bank loan
B) They're paid by the hour
And/Or
C) At some point the authorities are going to be involved
Even better is when one of these hour-long clusterfcks has no real goal to speak of.
2:00 - 3:00 -Meeting to Review and Discuss XYZ Document/Report/Presentation
A meeting with that kind of a subject should be grounds for -immediate- termination and a public stoning. Even better is when the document is not disclosed prior to the meeting! THEN, it's like the world's shittiest Christmas EVER. Just a bunch of lunatics that you wouldn't voluntarily interact with, sitting around in a circle and watching one another "review" a document that reads like an instruction manual for ready-to-assemble furniture. Good job, Beaker! I enjoy your utter disregard of complete sentences or punctuation, and your avoidance of the spell-check feature is so brazen that I fear I may swoon. Momus would be so proud!
I've also learned, through trial-and-error, that any requests for edits, recommendations, or feedback are never sincere. Especially not candid feedback like "have you ever considered a career path that doesn't involve you subjecting others to your idea of communication, you talentless fck?"
A) They're trying to sell you something that will require a bank loan
B) They're paid by the hour
And/Or
C) At some point the authorities are going to be involved
Even better is when one of these hour-long clusterfcks has no real goal to speak of.
2:00 - 3:00 -Meeting to Review and Discuss XYZ Document/Report/Presentation
A meeting with that kind of a subject should be grounds for -immediate- termination and a public stoning. Even better is when the document is not disclosed prior to the meeting! THEN, it's like the world's shittiest Christmas EVER. Just a bunch of lunatics that you wouldn't voluntarily interact with, sitting around in a circle and watching one another "review" a document that reads like an instruction manual for ready-to-assemble furniture. Good job, Beaker! I enjoy your utter disregard of complete sentences or punctuation, and your avoidance of the spell-check feature is so brazen that I fear I may swoon. Momus would be so proud!
I've also learned, through trial-and-error, that any requests for edits, recommendations, or feedback are never sincere. Especially not candid feedback like "have you ever considered a career path that doesn't involve you subjecting others to your idea of communication, you talentless fck?"
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Accident-Free Cake
I went down to the work cafeteria for lunch today and they had a sheet cake down there celebrating their 800th accident free day. This cake was free for anyone to take, and there was ONE piece left. As I watched in fascination, 3 different people approached the "last" piece of cake, cut it in half, and then scuttled off with the other half like some kind of sugar-deprived crayfish. So at that point is was nothing more than about 3 frosted cake molecules, but NOBODY took that last piece, dammit. I had a primal urge to throw the last piece of cake on the floor and pray that someone slipped in the frosting. "What happened to you?" "I broke my leg when I slipped and fell in the frosting of the accident-free celebration cake".
I would have baked them a "greatest victim of comic irony EVER" cake.
I also realized something else today - I DO know what despair smells like. Incidentally, it smells just like a man in his mid 40's who has just showered himself in Axe body spray in order to speak to the "eye candy" down on the second floor, apparently in the hopes that the fumes emanating off from his person will render her unable to detect what a total and overwhelming douche he really is as he continues to engage in behavior that would normally be considered "crude", even for a sailor.
I would have baked them a "greatest victim of comic irony EVER" cake.
I also realized something else today - I DO know what despair smells like. Incidentally, it smells just like a man in his mid 40's who has just showered himself in Axe body spray in order to speak to the "eye candy" down on the second floor, apparently in the hopes that the fumes emanating off from his person will render her unable to detect what a total and overwhelming douche he really is as he continues to engage in behavior that would normally be considered "crude", even for a sailor.
Friday, July 10, 2009
I Drove Here for THIS?
Some time in November or December of last year, the stereo in my car developed an exciting new feature in which any component relating to playing CD's ceased to function. Instead, if I touched ANY of the buttons that pertained to the playing (or ejecting) of CDs, the stereo would respond with a barrage of angry clicks like some kind of deranged electronic beetle. After putting up with nothing but broadcast radio for over half a year, I finally called the dealer and made an appointment to get it fixed. At the time that I made the appointment, I told the person at the dealership that my stereo would neither play nor eject my CDs. They told me at that time "we'll take a look at it, but depending on what we find we may need to just order a new stereo. We don't keep those in stock." Fine, this makes sense.
SOOOO, fast forward to this morning when I lumber out of my house at the buttcrack of dawn to drive the 20 miles to the dealership in morning rush hour traffic. At least I could listen to my CDs while I . . . ohhh, wait. So, I pulled into the garage with the intention of working on my laptop in the waiting room while a technician looked at my car, attempted to fix the stereo with a coat hanger, and then provided me with an estimate as to how much a new one would cost (a stereo, not a coat hanger). So imagine my DELIGHT when the person I checked in with took my keys, spent approximately 15 seconds sitting in my car, and then proceeded to call the parts department to get a price on a new stereo. He explained to me "we don't even attempt to fix stereos. We just order a new or refurbished one."
W. T. F? I was perplexed, so I asked the silly question. "If you don't fix stereos, then why did someone have me make an appointment to bring my car down here?" Apparently I wasn't able to fully mask the hostility in my voice, as this man backed up a step before replying "well, so we could verify what the problem was."
OK, I will admit, I have girl parts. And I realize that this automatically excludes me from being able to comprehend the "tuck rule" in the NFL or to ever hope to write my name in yellow snow. HOWEVER, somehow I feel that I would have been able to scrape together enough spatial perception to not only LOCATE and DEPRESS the "eject" button on the stereo, but also to actually ascertain whether or not the CD was ejected from the device. I could have even probably called in a favor from a friend and had them verify that I was indeed pressing the correct button and that I had not recently suffered an extreme cranial injury.
SOOOO, fast forward to this morning when I lumber out of my house at the buttcrack of dawn to drive the 20 miles to the dealership in morning rush hour traffic. At least I could listen to my CDs while I . . . ohhh, wait. So, I pulled into the garage with the intention of working on my laptop in the waiting room while a technician looked at my car, attempted to fix the stereo with a coat hanger, and then provided me with an estimate as to how much a new one would cost (a stereo, not a coat hanger). So imagine my DELIGHT when the person I checked in with took my keys, spent approximately 15 seconds sitting in my car, and then proceeded to call the parts department to get a price on a new stereo. He explained to me "we don't even attempt to fix stereos. We just order a new or refurbished one."
W. T. F? I was perplexed, so I asked the silly question. "If you don't fix stereos, then why did someone have me make an appointment to bring my car down here?" Apparently I wasn't able to fully mask the hostility in my voice, as this man backed up a step before replying "well, so we could verify what the problem was."
OK, I will admit, I have girl parts. And I realize that this automatically excludes me from being able to comprehend the "tuck rule" in the NFL or to ever hope to write my name in yellow snow. HOWEVER, somehow I feel that I would have been able to scrape together enough spatial perception to not only LOCATE and DEPRESS the "eject" button on the stereo, but also to actually ascertain whether or not the CD was ejected from the device. I could have even probably called in a favor from a friend and had them verify that I was indeed pressing the correct button and that I had not recently suffered an extreme cranial injury.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
First Day with the New Legs?
So the other day I come home from work early, and the trash can was at the end of the driveway. This is not unusual, as just that morning I had hauled it out to the curb for garbage pickup. Since my car parks in the can, and the trash collector had already been through, I thought I would be nice and drag it up to the house for the hubby. That right there should have been a guarantee that things would go smoothly.
I parked my car at the end of our driveway and towed the green can into the garage, shoving it up against the wall where it belonged. Heading back down the driveway to my car, I could hear the neighbor's wiener dog (Kirby, the mouth with legs) alerting everyone in a 6-block radius that he REALLY should be punted over the fence like a football. I turned my head and yelled at him over my shoulder, which was also my cue to begin an acrobatic performance that can only be described as "hippo, only less elegant". SOMEHOW, over the past 30+ years of my life, I had not yet mastered the art of walking and talking. My right foot landed on a small stick on our pavement driveway, and I went down like a walrus on rollerblades. The worst part was when I suddenly realized "I am going to catch myself with my face!"
I am not a graceful person by any means. I regularly run into the counter in our kitchen with my hips, leaving me to lament just HOW many axe handles across must my azz be for me to not even be able to successfully navigate within 4 feet of walking space without knocking into something. However, that generally happens within the privacy of my own home. As my face hurtled toward the front bumper of my car with frightening velocity, I realized that I was out on a public street and that this was really going to hurt.
My forehead narrowly missed the car and instead hit the pavement, while at the same time I emitted a noise similar to what I would anticipate a constipated buffalo sounds like. After a stunned silence of about 2 seconds (during which our neighbors' bastrd mutt continued to bay like a hound of H3ll), I gingerly rolled to my side and checked to see whether I could see the bones in my hands. Finding no blood there, I pulled off my glasses which had been mashed onto my face by the impact, peering through the lens to see a perfect impression left by the oil on my forehead. I looked around for my dignity unsuccessfully, and then decided that I would be better off trying to find THAT in the house. Cursing LOUDLY to myself, I pushed myself to my feet and climbed into my car. Pulling it into the garage, I shut both garage doors behind me and went in to inspect the damage.
As it turns out, the only place where I actually broke the skin was the top of my "index" toe on my right foot (I was wearing sandals). I caught most of my weight (no small feat) on my right knee, scraping it up a little bit but not even tearing a hole in my khakis. I also managed to shave off the top of the toe on my brand new sandals, scrape up my right forearm, mildly sprain my pinky finger, and of course scrape my forehead. Once I had triaged my injuries, I immediately set about the task of berating myself in my best outside voice. "What the fck?? Who the fck falls down on dry pavement and catches themself with their face?? Honestly! How fcking retarded are you to fall down like that? And how the fck did you hit your face?"
Finally realizing that this was, at the very least, comic gold, I finally finished my barrage of self-profanity and picked up the phone. This was a story worth sharing! I ended up calling both my husband and my parents, and also as an afterthought sent an instant message to my boss just in case I came into the office with a black eye the next day.
I parked my car at the end of our driveway and towed the green can into the garage, shoving it up against the wall where it belonged. Heading back down the driveway to my car, I could hear the neighbor's wiener dog (Kirby, the mouth with legs) alerting everyone in a 6-block radius that he REALLY should be punted over the fence like a football. I turned my head and yelled at him over my shoulder, which was also my cue to begin an acrobatic performance that can only be described as "hippo, only less elegant". SOMEHOW, over the past 30+ years of my life, I had not yet mastered the art of walking and talking. My right foot landed on a small stick on our pavement driveway, and I went down like a walrus on rollerblades. The worst part was when I suddenly realized "I am going to catch myself with my face!"
I am not a graceful person by any means. I regularly run into the counter in our kitchen with my hips, leaving me to lament just HOW many axe handles across must my azz be for me to not even be able to successfully navigate within 4 feet of walking space without knocking into something. However, that generally happens within the privacy of my own home. As my face hurtled toward the front bumper of my car with frightening velocity, I realized that I was out on a public street and that this was really going to hurt.
My forehead narrowly missed the car and instead hit the pavement, while at the same time I emitted a noise similar to what I would anticipate a constipated buffalo sounds like. After a stunned silence of about 2 seconds (during which our neighbors' bastrd mutt continued to bay like a hound of H3ll), I gingerly rolled to my side and checked to see whether I could see the bones in my hands. Finding no blood there, I pulled off my glasses which had been mashed onto my face by the impact, peering through the lens to see a perfect impression left by the oil on my forehead. I looked around for my dignity unsuccessfully, and then decided that I would be better off trying to find THAT in the house. Cursing LOUDLY to myself, I pushed myself to my feet and climbed into my car. Pulling it into the garage, I shut both garage doors behind me and went in to inspect the damage.
As it turns out, the only place where I actually broke the skin was the top of my "index" toe on my right foot (I was wearing sandals). I caught most of my weight (no small feat) on my right knee, scraping it up a little bit but not even tearing a hole in my khakis. I also managed to shave off the top of the toe on my brand new sandals, scrape up my right forearm, mildly sprain my pinky finger, and of course scrape my forehead. Once I had triaged my injuries, I immediately set about the task of berating myself in my best outside voice. "What the fck?? Who the fck falls down on dry pavement and catches themself with their face?? Honestly! How fcking retarded are you to fall down like that? And how the fck did you hit your face?"
Finally realizing that this was, at the very least, comic gold, I finally finished my barrage of self-profanity and picked up the phone. This was a story worth sharing! I ended up calling both my husband and my parents, and also as an afterthought sent an instant message to my boss just in case I came into the office with a black eye the next day.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The AXE Effect
Cox [2:19 PM]:Does Lowflow know we're not gay?
milly [2:20 PM]:You act as though this is some kind of unambiguous fact.
Cox [2:20 PM]:It better be....Cox [2:20 PM]:We (both SS and I) were contacted by Lowflow ...
milly [2:21 PM]:*listening*
Cox [2:21 PM]:...to vote for Steve Wozniak on "Dancing With The Stars" this evening
milly [2:21 PM]:*snickers*
Cox [2:22 PM]:I have an entire episode of 24 that I am watching during that time
milly [2:22 PM]:I shouldn't laugh, but I sat through the most painful handoff with him earlier today, so I'm glad someone else is being annoyed
milly [2:23 PM]:OMG, now they're discussing it here
milly [2:23 PM]:Out loud
Cox [2:23 PM]:Fantastic.
Cox [2:23 PM]:HA HA!
milly [2:23 PM]:Want me to bridge you in? You can listen
Cox [2:23 PM]:YesCox [2:23 PM]:Phone #
milly [2:23 PM]:Some day I should just dial you in and leave my phone on speaker
milly [2:24 PM]:So you can listen to the banter that happens here
Cox [2:24 PM]:lol!
milly [2:24 PM]:However, for the full effect, you should get a slab of bacon, steep it in Axe Body Spray for 2 days, and put it on a potpouri warmer at your desk
Cox [2:25 PM]:That's horrible
milly [2:25 PM]:Smells like prom, being held at the Oscar Meyer farms
Cox [2:25 PM]:Nice visual and olfactory reference though - We are getting the full effect
milly [2:25 PM]:I'm glad to hear it
milly [2:26 PM]:You really have to live the experience to understand just how out of control it can be here some days
milly [2:26 PM]:My eyes were running for the first 2 hours after Buzzcut (old boss) arrived
milly [2:27 PM]:Like the Enola Gay flew over, filled with Axe
milly [2:27 PM]:And just blasted the place
Cox [2:27 PM]:Didn't get the Axe effect?
milly [2:27 PM]:I hope that the effect was seeing me in my skivvies. And I pray that what has been seen, cannot be unseen
milly [2:28 PM]:And if the "Axe Effect" was the one with the tiny little man in his banana hammock, I'll pass
milly [2:28 PM]:I ran into the kitchen for a butter knife to gouge out my eyes after seeing that little runt
Cox [2:28 PM]:Dude...You are giving me visual reference overload here
Cox [2:29 PM]:You gotta STOP!!
milly [2:29 PM]:OK, fine. Puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens
Cox [2:31 PM]:You got airplanes from WWII, banana hammocks, skivies, a scene from a slasher flick...c'mon give me a break
milly [2:33 PM]:Amateur
milly [2:33 PM]:Spend a day in my head, once.
milly [2:20 PM]:You act as though this is some kind of unambiguous fact.
Cox [2:20 PM]:It better be....Cox [2:20 PM]:We (both SS and I) were contacted by Lowflow ...
milly [2:21 PM]:*listening*
Cox [2:21 PM]:...to vote for Steve Wozniak on "Dancing With The Stars" this evening
milly [2:21 PM]:*snickers*
Cox [2:22 PM]:I have an entire episode of 24 that I am watching during that time
milly [2:22 PM]:I shouldn't laugh, but I sat through the most painful handoff with him earlier today, so I'm glad someone else is being annoyed
milly [2:23 PM]:OMG, now they're discussing it here
milly [2:23 PM]:Out loud
Cox [2:23 PM]:Fantastic.
Cox [2:23 PM]:HA HA!
milly [2:23 PM]:Want me to bridge you in? You can listen
Cox [2:23 PM]:YesCox [2:23 PM]:Phone #
milly [2:23 PM]:Some day I should just dial you in and leave my phone on speaker
milly [2:24 PM]:So you can listen to the banter that happens here
Cox [2:24 PM]:lol!
milly [2:24 PM]:However, for the full effect, you should get a slab of bacon, steep it in Axe Body Spray for 2 days, and put it on a potpouri warmer at your desk
Cox [2:25 PM]:That's horrible
milly [2:25 PM]:Smells like prom, being held at the Oscar Meyer farms
Cox [2:25 PM]:Nice visual and olfactory reference though - We are getting the full effect
milly [2:25 PM]:I'm glad to hear it
milly [2:26 PM]:You really have to live the experience to understand just how out of control it can be here some days
milly [2:26 PM]:My eyes were running for the first 2 hours after Buzzcut (old boss) arrived
milly [2:27 PM]:Like the Enola Gay flew over, filled with Axe
milly [2:27 PM]:And just blasted the place
Cox [2:27 PM]:Didn't get the Axe effect?
milly [2:27 PM]:I hope that the effect was seeing me in my skivvies. And I pray that what has been seen, cannot be unseen
milly [2:28 PM]:And if the "Axe Effect" was the one with the tiny little man in his banana hammock, I'll pass
milly [2:28 PM]:I ran into the kitchen for a butter knife to gouge out my eyes after seeing that little runt
Cox [2:28 PM]:Dude...You are giving me visual reference overload here
Cox [2:29 PM]:You gotta STOP!!
milly [2:29 PM]:OK, fine. Puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens
Cox [2:31 PM]:You got airplanes from WWII, banana hammocks, skivies, a scene from a slasher flick...c'mon give me a break
milly [2:33 PM]:Amateur
milly [2:33 PM]:Spend a day in my head, once.
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