Blown Fuse

"Oh lord, here comes a manager."

Do I look like a thief? Obviously, that's a rhetorical question, because only a sprinkling of you have ever seen me in person. True, I leave the house looking like a bum on some days (today included), but I don't read "thief."

Okay, see, because I worked in retail for longer than I care to remember, I know how to spot a sketchy customer. Even to this day if I'm in Wal*Mart and see some character behaving suspiciously, 90% of the time I can pick out if they're just weird or if they're waiting for you to go away so they can shoplift.

I don't fit the thief profile. For one thing, being pregnant means being slow. I'm not going to shove an electric pencil sharpener under my shirt and then try to make a run for it. I stand far enough back from the displays that you can see everything I'm doing. I carry a purse too small to stuff anything of significance into. If I have to get a shopping list or the phone out of my purse, I make a big show of it so that those people watching me on the security monitors can see that I'm not stealing.

That being said, I don't like being customer-serviced. Let me examine the 47 varieties of #10 envelopes in peace before you ask me if I need help. If I'm scratching my head and looking back and forth between two packages, you may assist. If I'm just standing back taking in the display - shoo. I'm more than likely comparing prices.

I know a lot of these big retail chains (clothing stores, especially) force their employees to provide proactive customer service, but I find it annoying. I just want to be left alone to shop until I either need help or want to be checked out. I don't want to waste four words ("I'm fine, thank you.") on someone. I need that energy to yell at the cats.

Like a bad Ricki Lake episode.

I think I just quit my job, or something. I won't get into the nitty gritty details of it, but the woman from the state office came out and met with me and my site supervisor. I walked in calmly, stated my true feelings (the non-pregnant Tiffany would have tempered herself), and left with my dignity.

The offer was made for me to stay with certain changes being made...namely that I'd be given work to do that adequately reflects my skill level. Err, too late. It's been a month. If he'd been around more than 15 minutes/week he'd know that I'm a frickin' superstar.

Of course, the site supervisor tried to pin everything on the fact that I hadn't communicated with him that I didn't have enough to do. When did he want me to do that? When he was at home with his kids or perhaps when he was out at yet another meeting? Right, it's my fault that he thought that I wasn't efficient enough to be given more work to do. Why didn't I ask for more work to do? Because I was already driving around the continent doing shitty menial jobs - why would I want to do MORE of that? And who in their right mind would say, "Um, I'm not doing that" knowing they can get fired for insubordination? He didn't even want to acknowledge that the work I was doing was menial. He didn't even want to acknowledge that he's sent me out to deliver paperwork more than once. Feh, how soon they forget.

Anyway, if he couldn't recognize that there was a problem before I had to get the state office gestapo on his ass, I'm not going to sit around there for another 11 months trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents. It's not my responsibility to request supervision. He's the supervisor - that's what he's there for...to SUPERVISE!

My choice now is to move laterally into the same position in another county or to tender my resignation altogether. I've already rejected staying at the current location and turned in my key.

If I can line a temp job up by Friday, I'm through with the whole national service thing altogether. See, I tried to be nice and sacrifice and I get pooed on. Karma's a bitch.

I'll just float around the temp world until after the baby is born and then take some time to find a job in my actual career path.

Ew!

I'm sorry, but why must some men wear shorts so short that they expose cooter?

There was this guy at Office Depot who was wearing short-shorts that ended several inches above his knees. I was so distracted by that I didn't bother to see if he was also committing the sock + sandal faux pas.

When he left the store I watched to see what kind of car he was going to get into.

Two-seater convertable. Repeat after me, kids: "mid-life crisis."

Nincompoop.

I had a revelation this morning sometime between snooze button hit number 3 and snooze button hit number 4.

My supervisor at work doesn't know what he's doing. "Bumbling fool" comes to mind.

You know, for most people, that tidbit of information would have been "DUuUh!" from jump, however me - being the undercover optimist that I am, can always find an excuse for why things aren't what I planned.

For one thing, both me and my husband sacrificed a lot by me taking this position. It's not that I was earning my worth at my previous job, but if you know anything about AmeriCorps or Peace Corps positions, you can guess that I'm earning approximately $diddlysquat right now. Part of what made leaving my last job so painless was that my standard of living wouldn't be effected all that much.

People in their right minds don't job shift when they're pregnant. They stick it out until after the baby is born and then just don't come back after maternity leave. I knew that this would be an easy way for me to jump ship and move into a position where I could actually put that experience on my résumé and at the end of the service year I'll have proof that I can do this job.

I have to make you understand that my learning curve is typically super-short - even in situations where I have no contacts, limited resources, and no supervision. If someone gives me a task to complete, you'd better be damn sure that by the time they come back I'll have found a way to get it done. I don't make excuses. If I can't figure out how, I figure out who to call. If something is impossible to do, I want to be able to tell my supervisor why.

Now, how does that go back to my supervisor not knowing what he's doing? There are several little incidents that have occured and mini-realizations I've had over the past couple of weeks. I'll give you an example.

Last Wednesday, we went out to a company to give a presentation to some people who were potential middle school student mentors. He had asked what I wanted to talk about during the presentation, and I was like "Huh? I don't want to talk about anything - I have no idea what's going on, so I'm just observing." Seriously. I said that. Dude knows he hasn't specifically trained me on anything. I ain't psychic. I don't know what promises he's made these people (that's another whole bag of worms I'm not even going to talk about right now - promises he makes people that I find from those people) I'm not going to go out running my mouth. Anyway, we get to the company, and the way the session was ran was sort of like a question-and-answer roundtable. I don't think that man answered a single direct question. In fact, there were a lot of statements he made that made my eyebrows shoot up "Whaaaaat?"

I'll just say that the conversation was about mentoring in specific and after a while it became apparent that this man had never mentored a student one-on-one in his life. I have. Rather than say anything that was contrary to what he was spewing, I kept my mouth shut for the sake of professionalism. Most simply: privileged students don't need the sort of mentoring we're tring to foster. You don't skirt around that fact because you think you'll be able to get a couple of more volunteers out of it. Let's cut the bullshit - this is Durham. In some of our schools, 80% of the students can't afford to pay for lunch.

You have to be upfront and say that chances are good they'd be matched with a student whose teacher has a REASON for referring them to the program. It ain't because that kid is interested in what the mentor does for a living, but it's not necessarily because they're little gangbangers. It might just be that they've discovered a new group of peers who for some reason have caused their grades to slip from one year to the next. That's how I was matched with my last mentee - the enrichment teacher wanted to find out why the little girl's grades had slipped. I found out from the girl's mother that she'd starting hanging out with some girls who were criticizing her for making good grades.

I'm rambling at 7 a.m. Lord.

Point is, I can't go to this dude and tell him he's got to change his style or else I'm out. Ultimately, he's not even my supervisior - a woman in the state office is. Today I have to get in touch with her and make sure she has an understanding of what's going on. I know the guy had a VISTA last year that he inherited from the previous director. I don't want it to seem like, "Well, she stuck it out - she did the job. Why can't you?" when the reality is that the woman didn't have a car and spent most of her time in the office doing clerical work (poorly).

I'm evaluating some options right now, but first and foremost is telling my state supervisor my grievances soon as possible. That way if I find something else in the meanwhile, she won't be put off because she knew I had beef.

I'll let you know what she says.

Grumpy young woman.

I want to know who rang my doorbell at 10 this morning.

See, at our house we don't get up before noon on weekends. Part of it is laziness. The other part is "and why am I getting up this early if I have no reason to?" There are no kids to get up and tend to yet. There's nothing on t.v. that early. We don't attend church. We're not trying to get to McDonald's in time for breakfast. It wasn't the lawn guy...he was here last week.

Whoever rang the bell was ringing it like they knew us. They rang it violently - 4 or 5 times in rapid succession. And then again. That annoyed me mightily. Anyone who knows us knows that they shouldn't just stop by. I don't even bother putting grown-up clothes on on weekends. If people don't give us an hour's warning that they're coming - the door's not getting opened, even if it is obvious that both cars are in the driveway.

No, I didn't get up. Scott didn't get up because being partially deaf has the fortunate side of being able to take your hearing aids out on weekend nights to ignore such noises (we'll have to have a discussion about that, sweetie. how are you going to be able to hear whether our teenage daughter(s) have boys coming in and out their windows?). The least the inconsiderate jerkwad could have done was brought our newspaper up to the stoop. Now I'm up at this unreasonable hour blogging. Dangit.

Let's play musical chairs!

I always watch my local NBC affiliate's station. I always have. When I was a kid I watched WAVY-TV 10 out of Virginia. The staff had low-turnover, and to this day the sports and weather guy are the same that I watched 15 years ago.

So when I moved out for college and had to learn a new channel line-up, it seemed natural that I watch NBC's news broadcasts. The station here in the Raleigh-Durham area is NBC-17 - the lowest rated broadcast out of the top 3 (CBS, ABC, NBC). I've tried watching other stations...I just didn't like the way their anchors looked at me :/.

Over the past several months, NBC-17 has been going through a revolving door of staff. It seems like all of the experienced anchors are either leaving "for personal reasons" or are being booted because of the station's takeover.

It's understandable that an anchor I really liked, Sharon Delaney, left after her daughter died to spend more time with her family. Then last night, I caught the anchor who had been her newscast partner, Bill Gaines, giving his final sign-off. NBC won't comment on why he's been asked to leave, but say that they don't blame him completely for the low ratings. I do suspect that their staff scheduling has something to do with the ratings. On some nights, it seems that they have the least diverse news staff in the area.

I got on the internet this morning to find out why Bill was leaving (his speech seemed heavily rehearsed and like he'd been told to keep his mouth shut), and saw that they've already yanked his profile off the website. Helluva fanfare, huh? It wasn't until this morning that I noticed that the chief meteorologist left last month. I thought that new guy that comes on weekend mornings was just fresh meat. Looks like he'll move up rung of the ladder, too.

I have a itching suspicion that the ex-chief meteorologist's husband who anchors the morning newscast has a bounty on his head, too.

I really hope they get their stuff straight. I'd hate to start relying on the Internet for local news like other people who don't read the newspaper.

Yes, I'm recalcitrant.

You know, my work productivity slows down exponentially when I feel like I'm being "checked up on." I know I have certain things to do by certain times. I can get them done without incessant reminders because I'm professional. I sort of feel like if you're going to spend so much of your energy reminding me to do something, you should be doing that thing yourself.

Here's the deal. My job entails (and I say "entail" rather than "require" for a reason) that I drive around a lot. If I didn't have a car, the tasks I'd be assigned to would be equally demeaning, just less mobile. Instead of schlepping school supplies around and engaging in manual labor, I'd be sitting in that dusty-ass office waiting for the phone to ring. Whoopie.

If I have to run out and burn my gas to do a task, there's a 90% possibility that I ain't coming back to the office afterward. Especially being that my computer at work is so close to death that getting a document completed requires praying and holding your breath. Also, I park a block and a half away from the building. That's too damn much exercise to be making trips in and out of the office. I usually create most of my reports at home and get them to whoever needs them. It smells better here and the creepy people on the sixth floor don't pop their head into the office to bother me. The three phone calls that I didn't catch because I wasn't in the office can wait until the next day.

What I'm tiptoeing around saying right now is that I think it's bullshit that I have to fill out time sheets. Because VISTAs are on-call to serve 24 hours/day for 365 days, it's basically pointless to ask us to itemize our time spent working. I can just slap down "8 hours, 8 hours, 8 hours, 8 hours..." and know that there's no way the site supervisor can verify it. HE'S NEVER THERE. But the reality is, I don't know how much time I actually work at home. Just like I can't itemize how much productive time I have in that damned office (because it's pretty close to zero).

What am I going to do? Well, if he wants time records for the past four weeks, I'll give him some numbers. I'll pull them right out of the sky, and then ask who's signing off on his time sheets.

Muwuhahahahaha!

I totally believe that occasionally, Netflix will send you a movie with a return evelope addressed to some far away state. That way it'll take longer to return, and you spend more days without a movie in your hands, thereby maximizing thier profits.

I watched Brigadoon in the afternoon and wanted to get it to the post office to mail off before five. That way, Netflix would get it back today and we'd have two new movies for the weekend. When I was sealing the envelope, I noticed it was addressed to a distribution center in Arizona. They wouldn't "receive" it until Monday as they don't process on Saturdays.

What did I do? I pulled out an address label and covered up the Arizona destination, and scribbled onto it the address of the Raleigh distribution center. Today, Netflix recieved both discs I mailed yesterday.

I feel like I'm winning their game.

I should go pet her now.

Last night I had a dream that there was a swarm of grey cats under my deck. Most were either fat or ugly. Yes, there is a such thing as an ugly cat.

Somehow Puffy had darted out the back door and had mingled amongst them...and I couldn't figure out which cat she was.

Bodie has a distinguishable white belly splotch, and I've never seen another cat that has a face like hers. Puffy...not so much. She just looks like any other skinny grey cat. She's cute and all, but she's in puberty - who knows what she'll look like a year from now.

Anyway, I woke up feeling like a failure because I couldn't figure out which one of those cats was mine. And that's sad because in hindsight, they were actually beavers.

"And...what will you be doing?"

I'm pissed. I'm almost even livid at this point. To not make a short story long, I'll just say at this point that I spend a good part of last night ranting myself red in the face about my current work situation. Yes, that one. The new one. Why? Because I've been made a lot of promises that haven't been made good, but I don't have time to explicate on that right now.

What I'm really pissed about this morning is that [(1) I haven't had breakfast, won't have time for breakfast (or to pick up lunch for that matter) and I'm getting lightheaded] and that I have to be at some fucking back-to-school event in about 20 minutes to set up a table. Why am I blogging about it instead of hopping to? Because if I go down there without getting this off my chest, I'm going to bite someone's head off.

I was supposed to bring a few things to the event: a volunteer sign-up sheet, a donation sheet, an information flyer (all of which I had to create last night on my home computer), business cards, etc. There was a list of things that the executive director wrote down that we should take, like the banner and some other display items.

I had no idea that I would be responsible for taking ALL OF THEM. When I last saw him yesterday, we were at some company recruiting volunteers in RTP when he scurried out to leave me to pack my car with school supplies the company donated. He said he'd see me this morning at the event.

Oh.kay. I knew I had to come into the office this morning to print things, so here I am. I didn't realize until I came in that he wasn't going to take ANYTHING.

Let me tell you something. My fucking car is packed to the ceiling with school supplies because I haven't coordinated with the person who's supposed to receive the donation. Scott is driving my car today because it'll be less likely to get broken into where he parks. I have to take all this shit to the event, find parking, and then pay for my own parking. Then I have to sit there for four hours while the ED is at home with his kids. Then I have to pack up all this shit and bring it back to the office.

And in 4 weeks I haven't been reimbursed a penny for gas. It's going to be hard to put a fucking smile on my face and be nice to the public when I am so fucking pissed off at how poorly this program is being run.

Manning the Booth

Tomorrow, my agency is participating in this back-to-school bash thing at a local hotel. What that means is that we're setting up a table with information on volunteering and such.

The event is really geared towards kids, so there will be a ballroom full of little screamers. They'll be entertained by other stuff going on in the room, so I won't be interfacing with a whole lot of people, but the adults that do stop by will probably want to ask me an assload of questions I don't have politically correct answers to (i.e. "why don't you work with my son's school?").

The thing is, I have to be there for four hours. My supervisor, depending on how bored his kids get, will be there for one. One hour. One. And then I get abandoned to slump in my chair and look pitiful.

As much as I recognize the "throw her into the water and see if she swims" approach to things, I think in general it's a bad idea to leave someone who's been working with your agency for less than four weeks in a role they didn't expect they'd be playing. Because I'm awesome, I know that I'm not going to embarrass myself, but at the same time I really feel like this is a task a more outgoing person should be involved in. I suck at making small-talk and I won't make eye contact with a person unless I'm actively conversing with them. I could just do without the crowds, thanks.

*does Snoopy dance*

For those of you familiar with Blown Fuse before it was assimilated into the munu collective, you might remember certain video clips of me dancing around like a fool to demonstrate my glee at certain things. For those who haven't seen them, let's just say it involves leaping about like a gazelle and pumping my fist "Yes! Yes!"

If I still had that clip, I'd put it riiiiight here. If I weren't pregnant, I'd make a new one for you.

Anyway, you might remember me bitching about how a certain writing contest I'd entered was frustrating the hell out of me because long after the deadline had passed for them to post the winners, I still hadn't got my "Thanks! Here's your story back! Please recycle!" letter. I'm typically less concerned on winning because I'm such an amateur and I've no illusions that my writing is any more fantastic than anyone else's, but I've got to have a "yes" or "no."

It's like my previous boss used to say: "I come to work every day to get decisions, most of which will be 'no'." I need that "no" so I can move on.

Well, about a month ago (and mind you, this is almost a full year after the contest deadline), I got an email from one of the staff members of Simon & Schuster congratulating me on being one of 10 second prize winners of the "Be the Next Downtown Press Girl" contest and telling me to look for my prize in the mail.

I thought she was bullshitting me. Scott asked why I couldn't just be happy for myself, and I think my response was something like "Eh." I couldn't even remember what the story I submitted was about and had to go read it (I'll refrain from giving you my criticisms a year later).

Well, my prize came today. Hee hee! I am now the proud owner of 10 Downtown Press books - 9 of which I haven't read. I own a lot of Downtown Press books. I didn't know exactly how many until I did an inventory of my bookcase a couple of weeks ago. I'm excited that I want to read all nine of these books...and that I didn't have to pay for them. Yay! Go me!

And no you can't read the story.

The books are:

How to give a negative reference

I was poking about at Mac's reading her post on being a job leper, where someone brought up in the comments that she should have a decoy call her references to make sure someone she listed isn't talking shit about her. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's not illegal to say something that's true and can be proven (like the fact that you clocked in an hour late every day for a year and were warned about it four times before being fired), but in general, if you say something negative that prevents the job seeker from finding employment, you could be sued.

So, if you tell someone that so-and-so was bossy and had an attitude problem, they would have grounds to say that you caused them to be stigmatized by their potential employer (or some such bullshit).

I was actually thinking about giving a couple of past coworkers negative references if anyone had called, but fortunately that hasn't happened. I'm glad I've come across this article on eHow: How to Give a Negative Employee Reference. Now I realize I should keep my mouth shut seeing as how those people could be potentially litigous.

"And that's HOW much in pounds?"

Had my monthly ob appointment this morning. I've gained five pounds since last month's weigh-in. Supposedly that's normal. Even if the kid is gaining half a pound per week from now on, that means that the rest is coming from me. *looks at chubby arms*

I'm sure that most pregnant women say this at some point or other, but I've never weighed this much in my life. I know I'll lose most of the weight within a couple of weeks of the baby being born, but damn I feel like a blimp. So much so that I fear that unless I walk exactly through the middle of a door frame I'll scrape the sides. I'm sure part of that is a bit of body dysmorphia, but I have to tell you it isn't stopping me from eating.

So. Hungry.

"We're parked on lot 33."

I went to a childhood development training session through my agency last week, and this funny comment stuck in my head. A woman was retelling some anecdote about driving some ghetto kid home from a volunteer function (I'm paraphrasing; I don't think she said "ghetto"). She remarked that yeah, she'd drive out to the projects 'cause she really don't care.

I couldn't help but to think "Wow, she's super-tact." Oh, and she's white.

Okay, see, well, you'll be hard-pressed to find the Tiffany driving through any of Durham's bad spots because we statistically have way too many murders for a city our size. And I'm too young to die.

However, I will be driving through the sticks tomorrow to drop off some supplies. And I will be making a stop at at least one trailer park. Now, I'm country. Not exactly Britney Spears country, but I'm country enough to know that country folks like to keep guns loaded and cocked. Hell, my grandma had one just in case some fool tried to break and enter. Thankfully, she never had to take it out in my presense, but I knew where it was.

Even knowing that, I'd rather take my chances out in the boonies any day. I speak the language. I've got mud splatter on my Jeep. I'll blend in.

Well, I never!

Found printed inside my Reese's cup wrapper:

"Candy is a treat. Please consume in moderation."

*blink*

*blink blink*

Uh uh, too early for that.

Um. Something told me today wouldn't be simple. I left the office yesterday at around 3:20 because my computer here runs Windows 98. Because it runs Windows 98 and is lacking a lot of the programs I need to edit graphics, open certain types of files, etc., I had to go home to use my computer so that I could create a flyer to send out (that really needed to go out yesterday, but anyway). I couldn't even get by downloading a trial program from Download.com because nothing there supports Windows 98.

Anyhow. After spending much of yesterday pissed off, I figured I'd come in today to a fairly lazy day (save certain asinine tasks I won't even discuss). I unpacked my bag and turned on my behemoth CPU. Behold the start-up failure message!

At that point I started grinding my teeth. I was able to start it finally by holding the power button and doing a cold reboot, but just to be on the safe side, I'm going to need to back up all the files that I've created since I've been here.

Oh, and there's no USB port for me to stick my portable drive into, so I have to email everything to myself.

I can't wait for this computer to explode. And this fucking laser printer that you have to feed one page at a time into. At least then, I could justifiably work at home.

Reader Poll Monday

Blog fodder courtesy of the mistress of swirl.

1. Watch a porno with your parents OR starring your parents?

With my parents...only if I can sit there with my fingers in my ears and blindfolded. It'd be bad enough having the two of them in the same room.

2. Lick the handle on a public restroom toilet OR eat a wad of toilet paper from the stall floor?

I'd rather lick the handle and then gargle with moonshine than actually have to digest it.

3. Be MC Hammer OR Vanilla Ice?

Vanilla Ice. We have the same amount of rhythm.

4. Be able to fly OR read people's minds?

I'd rather be able to fly. I don't think I'd appreciate having people talk shit about me and not be able to react with any evidence to back me up.

5. Have whatever you want for one year then die OR be paralyzed for life?

Assuming that "life" means until I'm 80 or so and that I'm in one of those motorized wheelchairs, I'd rather be paralyzed.

6. Have a permanent smile OR a permanent blank stare?

I already have the blank stare.

7. Be burned alive OR drown?

Shit. Drown.

8. Be known worldwide as a racist OR a child molestor?

Who wrote these questions? Racist, I guess, although that's pretty ironic given my circumstances.

9. Eat three pounds of hair OR drink a gallon of shampoo?

I think shampoo has stuff in it that makes you throw up if you ingest it, so I'd rather have that. I can't imagine sitting at my desk coughing up wads of hairballs.

10. Be god OR the devil?

Can I be God and then the devil on Halloween?

Strippers

This is particuarly directed towards my geek readers, but any non-geeks with connections can take a stab at it as well.

I've sort of promised that I'd look into getting an assload of donated (working) laptop computers for an Elementary School the agency I work with has programs going in.

Now, I don't want your laptop specifically, but I want to know if I get a bunch of oh-so-magnanimous people to donate their laptops (that they were going to dispose of anyway), there will be far less problems with getting them to part with them if we have a means in place to strip their hard drives of sensitive information.

I know that the only real way to erase that information permanently is to set a fire to your hard drive, but that's not practical in this instance. Is there software available that anyone can recommend we use that will at least give people some peace of mind?

Time to put the poverty goggles back on.

We have this salad place called Green Tango here in Durham. It's had to have been in existence for a couple of years, but I didn't get around to going there until today. After a five-hour day in the office and then running some errands (for work), I figured it was time to bring my full-time volunteering ass on home. The laundry mounts.

I've been feeling guilty that the kid hasn't been getting enough leafy vegetables and that I'll pay for that one day by having a hyperactive child. I didn't really feel like coming home and making a salad because that entails work, so there we go.

I went in and looked at the menu board and felt the kid faint from surprise in my uterus at the prices. Granted, a "premium" salad at McD's will cost you around $6, but for $6 at this place you pretty much get lettuce with four ingredients added. I don't know how spartan you like your salad, but I have to have at least the following to be happy with taste and texture: cucumber, hard-boiled egg, salted sunflower seeds, and sharp cheddar cheese shreds in addition to lettuce and dressing. That's four things, but damn, if given the option I'd like to add a little banana pepper or some cottage cheese or strawberries without having my wallet raped.

I ended up ordering the Fiesta salad for a whopping $8.99. The grilled shrimp lured me in. It would have cost me $2 to have added them into a build-your-own type thing, so there's really no good way to get away from the price.

I should have been kicked in the ass for that. I felt like such a poser: it's one of those places where people go and say things like, "You know, it's so good for you," as they shovel cottage cheese-covered spinach leaves into their mouths. I can't afford $8.99 and I'm SO PISSED at myself for paying that. For $8.99 plus tax I could have bought all the ingredients and made something like 4 salads.

Oh, and because there's no Green Tango near you, let me explain something. These prices don't reflect a sit-down dining experience. You go in and stand in line like you're at a Subway restaurant.

*growls, unsatisfied*

Synchronized Swimmers

"EDINBURGH (Reuters) - Some sperm donation clinics invite men to leave a message behind for their unborn child to hear when they are 18."

"The Sperm Monologues."

Um. I don't know if I would trust the motivations of someone squeeing in a cup to leave a message for my soon-to-be child...is it standard practice for sperm banks to pay the donors? Because, it doesn't seem like a man would be put out that much by relieving some frustration in a cup.

Personally, I would hyperventilate at the very thought of my husband having millions upon millions of little swimmers stored in a cooler somewhere for the sake of being able to afford a bag of potato chips back in college. Whether you feel ethically obligated to support those [potential] kids or not, they're still your kids.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't want to get off track too much here, but I am 100% in favor of people donating sperm and eggs because they genuinely feel bad that some couples can't conceive, but it gets my goat that some people will do it just for the money. It's not like a lock of hair that'll have no consequences on anyone (but you if you've ordered to have a drug test completed and have been smoking the sticky-icky-icky weed).

Okay, point is...what exactly could a sperm donor have to say to a child they never want to meet? If you read the last three paragraphs of the linked story, I can handle those two statements, but certainly not all donors are so noble.

Cat & Mouse

I think I forgot to tell you all about our mouse. We had a mouse about this time last year which we trapped in the guest bedroom by shoving a towel into the crack under the door. Several days later we saw that the mouse had eaten its way through the towel, but it didn't show its furry little head around so that was that.

Sunday, I was sitting here at my computer...like hell if I remember what I was doing, but as always it sounded like the cats were in the hallway fighting. They banged against the door to Scott's office, and I turned to look to make sure neither had drawn blood from the other. Quick as a flash I see a little grey mouse shoot down the hallway and into the kitchen. They shot after it.

Quick as a flash my fat ass was standing in my desk chair, bruising ribs in the process. Knowing that I could either try to catch and release the mouse or stand there and wait for one of the cats to deposit the mangled carcass on my rug, I got off the chair. I opened the front door thinking that if the mouse ran that way it'd be home free, but then I thought that my housebound cats would probably run outside into the dark after it.

Eventually, Puffy mauled the mouse into submission long enough for me to trap it under one of those jumbo Taco Bell cups and slide a newspaper under it (which it promptly pissed on). I walked the mouse out the front door and flung it into the yard. It was either alive (or eaten by a bird of prey) as it was gone the next morning.

Puffy now has a short term reprieve for ruining my new chair cushion with about a gallon of cat piss.

*feels the need to shower*

Some dirty old man just came into the office and offered me a mint.

Actually, I saw him first on the elevator this morning coming in - he's the guy that goes around to all the suites to see if any of the lights have blown out. He eyed my belly unabashedly. I was giddy with relief when he got off on the bottom floor.

An hour later, here I am, minding my own business...whiling away the hours before my supervisor comes in by blogging, and here comes the dude again. "Shit," my inner monologue said. He checks the light, and proceeds to offer me a mint, which I took (and ate. it was wrapped.). He asks me questions about my pregnancy and whether the baby will be spoiled and blah blah blah and tells me all about his fatherless childhood.

He left after that, and I just shook my head and went back to my time-wasting. Less than five minutes later he comes back to ask me if my husband works in the building. No, he doesn't. "Okay, well, you make sure you tell him to treat you right or I'll come after him."

*blink blink*

Okay, I need an office with a door. The only other one in this suite doesn't have air conditioning.

*grinds teeth*

I navigated through the maze of one-way streets that are downtown Durham to go to the main library where I was told there there was a veritable cornucopia of grant research materials.

I'm learning very quickly to never take anyone's word for anything in this job.

I never go to the downtown library branch - if I need to get a library book that isn't in the branch closest to my house, I just make a request for it and they notify me when it gets there. True, the branch I go to (if I have to go at all) is small, and tends not to have that many new publications, but seeing as how I read books that I heard about through the grapevine, being new is the least of my worries. It may be less than fully adequate (no wireless internet or anything), but at least it's clean.

*Sigh*. I didn't expect there to be huddled masses standing around the doorway at the main branch. It was like a fucking bus depot. Ever been to a Greyhound station...more specifically, on the outside of one? I can think of numerous occasions where I put my dumb ass on a bus to somewhere and during a layover (is that a term that can be applied to bus travel?) made the mistake of venturing outside to find food. Huddled masses. That has been the case at almost every metropolitan bus station I've been through.

That's a roundabout way of saying that I expected the library to have more resources than what's available using an unsophisticated Google search, and I wasted all that fucking gas driving around in circles (the library is .7 miles from where I work) to get onto the one-way streets it's accessible on to find one damned grant directory from 1994. 19-freakin'-94. All that to be stared at by angry homeless people.

BAH!

Fuck Sprint

What used to be "Sprint PCS", that is. I'd like to blame their recent merge with Nextel with the problems I have with them, however unfortunately they've been sticking it to us since we (meaning Scott) opened the original contract five years ago. I added myself onto his account after the fact because at the time I was using a prepaid plan which I was in the process of getting rid of (that shit's expensive). For $20/month, Sprint said that I could just tack myself onto his plan and share his minutes, which seemed economical.

Well, it ain't. We're not heavy phone users to start with, especially now that we have a landline (because our Sprint phones weren't working inside our residence), but we pay a shitload of money every month to maintain our cellular phone contract (because yes, if you call to REDUCE your plan to a lower one, you get an automatic extension). Yes, we have picture mail and all that good stuff which I guess is overpriced now that the novelty has worn off.

I know we could have switched to another company prior to now, but everyone you talk to has something bad to say about their current company.

For a full month my picture mail wasn't working, which I found strange seeing as how Scott and I have identical features on our phones and his was working. It's hard to send a "you've got to see this bullshit" photo from your workplace when you're getting error messages. I tried to get around having to deal with phone tech support, who would surely piss me off greatly, but email support was useless. They sent me a 15-paragraph long explanation of what to do with my phone (which didn't even apply to my phone), and stated at the bottom to call tech support.

Being sufficiently pissed off a month later, I called tech support and got it fixed (no, they didn't offer to credit me for my month of frustration, but anyway...). Now I can send picture mail, but get this - I tried sending a photo through flickr yesterday evening to autoblog, but it never showed up. Thinking that was strange, I sent it to Scott to see if there was something wrong with my account. Never showed up...

...that is until 6 o'clock this morning. I was awake in bed trying to get back to sleep after having padded my way to the bathroom in the dark. The cats were scratching the hell out of my bedspread, and I was just trying to block it all out. Next thing I know, Scott's phone (turned up to supersonic volume) starts playing that God-awful text message/photomail alert noise. Usually, it'll stop after playing the alert once, but it played at least four more times in ten minutes.

I got pissed thinking, "Who THE FUCK is sending my husband text messages at 6 am?" I went to piddle again, went into his office, flipped open his phone and saw that it was that fucking picture I'd sent last night. Eight hours later it gets sent to his phone and I still don't see it in flickr.

We pay way too much for this plan.

We realize now that it'd be less expensive to have two separate accounts - that $20 add-a-phone shit isn't a bargain for us because we don't use all our minutes. We could get the same services for probably $20 less if we divided the account.

The problem with being a "paid volunteer" is that I'm in no hurry to go put myself on my own plan. It's easy for me to hand Scott a bill that he helped create and say "Here, pay this," but not so much for my own personal expenses.

All the same, I'm going to call Sprint this week and see if I can haggle them into a less expensive plan. I see that the same damn plan we have is on the site advertised as being much less expensive, but I don't really want to extend the contract.

Eh.

And the Lord said, "Let there be a list..."

Dear GOD after much tinkering, I've finally gotten the fraternal munu blogroll to work. I feel much better about my freeloading now.

The Cold: Day 3

Yes, I do believe this officially qualifies as a cold now, although I should hold off judgment until Scott starts sniffling and sniveling. My faux "nice person" voice has been compromised, and I've been sounding like Bea Arthur all week (I wonder if Golden Girls episodes are ready for iPod download yet...that'd be like having a mini t.v. on my desk at work).

Sometimes I wake up stuffy because we have cats and their hair clogs up the entire air system. By the time I get outside and into my car my head clears. This is a special kind of stuffy - this is a real, honest-to-God head cold. My right ear is popping and stuffy and I'm waking up with bloody nostrils (hi, pregnancy). Today, I even did one of those coughs that makes your diaphram hurt. Nothing came of it, but glad to know this bug is moving in the right direction.

If this just turns out to be another pregnancy oddity, all I can say at this point is that I'd rather sleep with my mouth open at night than have swollen ankles. That's all.

Dragging Ass

Either I'm coming down with the famed pregnancy nose congestion, or I'm in the beginning stages of a nasty cold (or end of a cold I didn't know I had). I hate colds. One of the reasons I like keeping an obscenely large amount of personal space between myself and strangers is that I'm absolutely miserable when I'm sick. I haven't had a cold since September of last year.

I suspect some runny-nosed brat on the plane last week passed their filth on to me. It's even worse being sick when you're pregnant because all your medication options become limited. I can take Tylenol for my throat, Claritin or Benadryl for the sneezing, but there's nothing I can effectively take for the congestion.

I've been absolutely exhausted all week. At Tuesday I was sitting at my desk fighting to keep my eyes open. I got up to pee thinking some activity would wake me up and I started falling asleep on the toilet. What finally woke me up was loudly chomping on a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

I left work at around 1:45 yesterday (I'm still building my schedule. I don't know if I want to do a traditional 40 hour week working 8 hours/day or if I want to work extended hours four days/week and take a day off. The upside of being "on call" 24 hours/day is that you can pretty much pick and choose when you'll be in the office...within reason) and went home to watch t.v. on the couch before I had to leave for a focus group.

Because I still haven't recovered from the stress of last week's trip and I'm sick and tired now, I'm not being 100% effective sitting here at work. Eh. As long as I appear to be effective, I'm technically doing my job.

Too much information.

People are stupid. I'm serious. Through force of habit I clicked on the Outlook Express shortcut in my shortcut menu on my work computer. Of course, I immediately realized what I'd done and tried to close the program before all the "outlook can not connect to the server" shit tried to pop up.

Well, lookie here, some people don't know how to delete their personal emails when they leave the job. I don't know if you know anything about VISTA positions, but in general you can't have outside work. Well, one girl was "President and CEO" of her own organization and was using this company's resources to promote her own business. She was also sending off various emails in regards to her child support claim. Okay.

The other chick that just left has a glut of personal emails stored on the computer as well.

Folks, if you're going to waste time working at a nonprofit at least cover your tracks.

Maybe I'll Close the Door

We have security guards sitting by all the public entrance doors in the building I work in. That doesn't say much other than the fact that on occassion you get some very unsavory characters darkening your doorstep when you work downtown. There were a couple of our (very disheveled and probably under the influence) homeless citizens standing around the parking lot yesterday during lunch, panning for change, just as an example.

It's the job of the security peeps to make everyone they don't recognize sign in (and tow vehicles out of your fucking paid parking place if you so demand). Occasionally, a few weirdos still get upstairs. Weirdos in daisy dukes wearing more hair gel than The Fonz. They walk around the hallways loud as hell, announcing such things as "It's hot - I'm gon' sit down," and you sit and hope that they aren't eyeballing the one chair that's in front of you desk by the door.

One member of the scanktified whoreiness church just poked her head in the door and asked where Mr. So-and-so was, to which I replied in a dry tone: "I have no idea who that is." It wasn't a lie. The cracked-out troll really thought she knew people on this floor. I think someone from the technical college down the hall finally told them they were barking up the wrong tree.

Fuck. Some woman just told a girl who was attempting to drink out of the water fountain not to "drink that water." I had half a bottle of that foul swill yesterday. Wish someone had told me.

Eep!

You know, you can see a lot of different things working in various jobs, but you're never quite prepared to react to "I'm sorry, but he's dead." Fortunately, I got that in automated email form and didn't have to stutter and stammer my way through condolences.

I sent a request for quote to the organization's preferred printer through their website and got an automated email back saying that the person who monitored the box, Tim, had passed away suddenly in the middle of the night. Wow. I don't know whether to forward the entire message to the customer service address provided or do some selective editing and pretend I never saw it.