What my mother said

She said:

My baby sister has surgery to remove Harrington rods and fuse additional vertebrae which will leave her immobile for a while. First time was a month. Surgery on the 14th - I get there the 13th.

She can't come immediately because she has to have a barium swallow. She has a suspicious lesion in her throat. Baby and baby sister will be my responsibility until she feels well enough to come to LA.

What she didn't say:

Why she went to the doctor in the first place - initial complaint (heartburn/indigestion) or difficulty swallowing.

Instead, she emphasized a few times that I would be in SOLE charge of my nephew, that my sister would be unconscious or totally immobile. Check, Ma.

Babies are a 24/7 deal. Yeah, Ma.

Babies need constant attendance and supervision as he is WALKING now and into everything and I REALLY cannot take my eye off of him for one moment. Unless he is unconscious AND in his crib and he DOES NOT like his crib - so pleaseforthelovegod do NOT put him in his crib unless you absolutelyhave to because he will wake up startled and afraid. He hates his crib!!.

Got it mom.

Yes, I had my nephew for 24 hours one other time. He developed a fever. I spent the entire night with his fevered head buried into my chest while I swabbed him with cold washcloths. I believe this was the illness that resulted in his preference for chest-sleeping rather than crib/bed/car seat/swing sleeping. His father said this event immediately proceeded baby's complete refusal to enter crib under any circumstances. He also said that I fried baby's brain by under medicating him. (I was afraid to overdose him!!) Completely overlooked the brain-frying aspect.

Anyway, my sister has major surgery and my mom has an unidentified throat lesion and she is worried sick about my nephew.

She doesn't have the typical esophageal carcinoma markers. She isn't a man, she's not yet 65, she doesn't have a history of GERD or acid reflux. She does have a history of drinking and smoking though, which would more closely align themselves with EC as opposed to, say, Barrett's esophagus.

My trip home may be significantly longer than I had anticipated. If my mother is unwell, I don't think I could bring myself to get on a plane and come back to MD.

Somehow, if you reach a certain age and are (!still!) childless, people start treating you like you are actually brainless. Or rather, they start treating you like you are a child. Like there isn't a childless adulthood, there is only parenthood and childhood. And adolescence, which is just an extension of childhood. Parenting is a necessary part of adult life, making those who aren't parenting some sort of weird anomaly, difficult to relate to. I guess, even if it's your own kid.

Rambling.

Not Biting Today

As I mentioned, I work at a start-up. If you have ever worked at a start up, this will all probably make sense to you.

If you have never worked for a start up, this will all seem ridiculous - as it should.

Our founder (my boss and co-worker) basically the guy who hit his rich folks' friends up for a couple million in investor cash is the star of this story.

Working 70+ hours per week for the past two years, I haven't had the opportunity to attend to personal business. So, I whipped up a letter and sent it to *boss*, requesting 25% raise - pronto. (Believe me, he owes me AND it is long over due.) Shouldn't have been a surprise. I kind of let it slide for awhile because I knew that we didn't have the cash.

What was surprising (and alarming) was that he SHINED ME ON. Seriously.

OK, so what to do? Well, considering this is the first time in 28 months that I actually took the time to consider being unhappy, I decided that the pertinent and smart thing to do would be to put my resume together, send it out and assess what my current market value is - considering that I've gained a few skills (like how to run a company) in the past two years. What I really wanted to know was, "How much am I worth?" Not "How much can WE afford?", which is typically how I think of this question, but what is my education and skill set worth in this market.

So, I figure since i was still sore at having been dismissed by "boss", I'd work on it this weekend.

While I was doing that, I checked a couple of our online sites that list my name, contact and position. I then sent a note to "designer" to update my title to more closely reflect what I actually do and to match my business cards. NBFD.

Then I noticed that "designer" (yeah - the guy of the afore posted email fame, who shows up late for work EVERY friggin day because he didn't hear his alarm, who frequently embarrasses me and our company in front of clients and who, for all intents and purposes, is functionally illiterate, had also listed HIMSELF on the management page - right under me.)

I really don't have anything against this dude. Honestly. It's just that his work ethic sucks BIG time and it has caused me to look foolish in front of clients a few times for which I have not forgiven him. He basically does nothing unless threatened or unless he can see some immediate and direct reward for himself. I have made mention of his less-than-stellar performance many times.

*Operations* sent me a quick note saying that she didn't know if she could accommodate my request, so I just told her to take my fucking name off the page. I don't want to be listed as co-management with "designer" anyway, as I work in a small industry and don't want my name associated with his.

This, apparently, created some panic within the ranks. "Boss" immediately sent me the following email:

Lets set up a time to meet this week if possible. I know you have concerns and hopefully we can address them. There's a lot going on and I want you to be part of it. Regarding "designer", he definitely doesn't have your attention to detail. etc, etc, blah...
Can you meet Thursday afternoon for a drink and talk?
Thoughts?
Thanks,
"Boss"

So, I find myself in a quandary. My precise "thoughts" are - "blow it out your ass".

Where was the love a month ago? There were no drinks proffered, no meeting requested. But now that he thinks I'm looking for another job, suddenly he wants to know my "thoughts" - over drinks, no less. Last month he didn't want to hear jack sh1t - no drinks of any sort.

I need to respond to this, but I need to do it in an appropriate and adult way. (I am really bad at both).

"Boss" is also in sales. I am just not in the mood to take the train into the city and listen to him feed me a line. Maybe, if it weren't 400 degrees out and 89% humidity, I'd go for the drinks - but this is July, mofo.

None of it really matters anyway, because now I know the kind of man he really is, which means that I can't stay anyway.

Why can't people ever do the right thing just because it's the right thing and not because they fear some other, less desirable outcome?

2 years - he really had me going.

Our House is a Very, Very, Very

I may have mentioned that F and I live in an charming cape cod on the Potomac River in MD. I may not have mentioned that it was built by a weekend carpenter.

No big deal, really -except that we have quirks here and there - oh, we have quirks. (And apparently mice at one time as ANY time we move/life a major appliance, there are mice droppings galore). Yuck. And none of the appliances work or have worked at some point - washing machine, refrigerator, toilet, etc.

But one oddity of this place is the lack of space in the stairwell - not sure if that shit is to code -that make it impossible to move any furniture upstairs.

Granted, with the price of gas and, by extension, the cost of air travel being what it is - probably no one is coming to visit our asses anyway.

But, just in case, F and I wanted a bed upstairs - there's a loft outside the Master.

Problem is, you cannot fit a queen sized box mattress up the stairs, and all we had was 2 queen mattresses and 2 queen box springs.

F was able, with the help of movers, to get 1 mattress upstairs. The remaining mattress (ala 1978 gift from sister and BIL after my divorce when I got my first place and had nothing) finally had to go to the Salvation Army as well as the two box springs. We looked into a storage facility, but found that, for some reason, your typical self-store outfit around here (sticks, boonies) charges roughly the same rent for a 8x8 as a 2 bedroom walk up in dc within spitting distance of the metro and a fabulous view of the Rock Creek Park. At first we were outraged, livid, frustrated, furious, considered writing letters to our representatives - but then we decided to just skip it and get rid of 'em.

So I've got this mattress and this frame - but no box spring. And living by the maxim that has been my life whilst posted far from my family - "If you don't build it, they will come. If you do, they won't". I conceived of the idea of building a box spring ourselves. (Or F's self - I've been on antibiotic that makes me want to hurl for the past 2 days, so I've done a lot of nothing).

F gathered the lumber, a drill (we are now the proud owners of a jig saw) and began construction yesterday at noon-ish. He slept for about 6 hours and has been back on the project for roughly 12 hours now.

Just now he came in, sweaty, stared at me fiercely and said, "OK, so there is NOTHING in the house with protein in it, right?" An utterly base and offensive come back popped into my head, but I looked at sweat-drenched F holding a power tool and just left it at "no". WTF? Why am I the purveyor of all protein for the house. I don't even *like* protein -not to mention I don't ever want to ingest another piece of food with protein in it again.

Anyway, I have a 300 lb box spring and a hungry, angry man on my hands.

Ahhhh Sigh. The sick hilarity

I had to blog this because work is SO much of my life that not including it here is just sort of disingenuous.

I *had* to send the following email to my co-workers, critiqing their management skills.

I have deleted all names, assocaotions, email addresses and URLs to protect the innocent - including myself.

You have to understand that:

a. We run an support company over here.
b. One of the things we do for our gov't clients is email lgoin information to their users.
c. Gov't passwords have to meet federal complexity requirements - ie, if you are NOT a gov't employee, think of your online banking password on CRACK.
and d. we are actually a SERVICE company, meaining that we have to not only provide a servide, but do it in a servce-like manner (whatever that means, I have 3 braincells left after last week, but you get what I'm saying).

I intercepted this email from one of our staff to a user. His frustration with her inability to remember her password or to stop registering for new accounts because she had forgotten her old passwords is apparent. (We have all done this).

Here is my follow up email to my co-workers:

(We had agreed that they would have a talk with him about his tone with users about 2 weeks ago after a client complained that we were "rude".)

To: DC and MG

Great talk with *Bob*. I see the whole politeness with clients thing really hit home.

I'm really looking forward to reviewing the notes you take out of *Bob's* upcoming critique of *mycompany* company structure and user support, DC (CEO).

I think better would have been:

Subject: Hey Jen - Fuck You!

Body:

Fucking Idiot!

My Company
mycompany.com

***************************************************************************

Support wrote:
>
> *Jennifer*,
>
> EITHER WRITE DOWN THIS LOGIN INFO OR SAVE THIS EMAIL. DO NOT CREATE
> ANY MORE ACCOUNTS IN THE *online site*. You currently have 5 accounts.
>
>
> Below is your *online site* login information. Please read carefully.
>
etc....
>
I LOOOVE how the email specifically states "from support".
Kinda like the support you get from an abusive spouse or parent.

Don't get me wrong. This woman is a total idiot for various and sundry reasons- but kind of not the point. We are a start up; we have to be nice. We would like to turn a profit some time this decade. Every little bit helps - including being "nice" as sophomoric as that may seem.

What a Year Can Do

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Blush (not Bush) and the Economy

This is a major investment!

I finally picked out the remaining corners of my last blush (MAC – orgasm) and had to admit that, after a strong 4 years together, it was time to move on. In fact, I had persisted in vigorously rubbing the blush cartridge and brushing it on my cheeks AFTER it was empty in desperate denial for at least 2 months. I’ve been “applying” blush, but don’t really think I’ve had any actually ON since – oh, the wedding? Yesterday I said – screw 30$ blush; I’ll go to Rite Aide; that’s where Laura Bush gets her makeup! (She also married a man who apparently has to be supervised while eating snack food – the “tortilla chip” incident, so probably not good judgment on my part there.) Plus, I watched a Dateline NBC special several years ago that claimed all the ingredients were the same, so “designer” makeup was a waste of money.

But when I peeled the 4 dollars of plastic packaging (what F would call an environmental nightmare) off of the 6$ blush I got there, it looked exactly like strawberry frosting.

F&^* YOU WET AND WILD!

I’ve got no Sephora, the mall is 30 minutes away and its idea of haute couture is Dillards (east coast JC Penny – but jazzy!). So, my options are limited. I’ve got to get it online, which means 6$ shipping for 30$ total. If you compare the monetary and time investment there to my last and current marriages, it’s a pretty significant commitment. Possibly second after F. So, sigh, lots of research. It is on its way now.

BTW – I do make my own shimmery lip gloss though, and I am using vinegar and baking soda to “no poo” my hair now, so I’m saving there.

The Presto Way

This is the instruction manual/cookbook that came with the Presto Pressure Cooker (one of two) that my MIL bequeathed to me on my marriage to her son. Notice the caption - "It's Fun to Keep House the Presto Way!" along with illustration of perky housewife. Stuff like this cracks me up. Then I consider that, when my MIL originally received this, it wasn't a joke. I wonder if she laughed it off anyway, or was she supposed to take this shit seriously. The only way I am every going to attain this level of perky-home-maker exhilaration will not be through use of the Presto Cooker. Unless I use it to make crack. I haven't tried it yet, but I'll keep you posted and include pictures of myself, while using, to see if we can detect any noticeable orgasm-like quality to my appearance. We shall see.

One of the other things that was gifted to me by MIL and FIL is a slow cooker. Not the cheap kind you get at Target for 20 bucks, but an old fashioned, ceramic insert, harvest brown crock pot. I've used it every day this week to make dinner, as I'm trying to figure out what it's best used for. Here's what I made last night:

After years and years of trial and error, I have finally achieved all of my hopes and dreams. Somewhere, Mike Burkholder (that's right - I shamelessly reveal is name on the Internets and interwebs for all to read far and wide) YOU HAVE BEEN BEATEN. Of course, this blog isn't searchable, so no chance that someone is going to learn of Mike's great and mighty take-down.

But the interwebs god know.

This mac and cheese, and the recipe that I developed to create it, beats your mac and cheese's ass. You mac and cheese is officially OWNED.

Further, it is possessed of supernatural powers which it conveys through image alone. I sent this picture to F yesterday at work and he magically appeared in the kitchen 20 minutes later, where he consumed 4 pounds of it. The fifth pound, he took with him to work today. He may actually be trading it for heroin or gasoline. I don't know.

Cambridge, you broke my heart

F and I went to Cambridge for the weekend to visit his 89 year old godmother and take her to the doctor. Cambridge is 8 hours away by car.

Between here and there, there are approxamately 4,763 toll booths, and some woopty-doo New Jersey bridge was under construction at 1 am, so it wasn't a quick trip up. Around the time we hit the bridge in New Jersey (sorry New Jersey-ans [or whatever you are]) besides bat-shit insane for living in NEW JERSEY (and please don't start with the hate mail, I actaully have FAMILY in New Jersey) I looked up at F - I was lying down staring out the sunroof TRYING to pretend that we were not in NJ and said that I was going to need a 5th of tequila, a lime and a pack of smokes ASA fucking P. I haven't smoked in oh-so-long, and now the smell bothers me quite a bit, but anything woud have been an improvement to the "ode du New Jersey" that the Benz' carbon air purifier could NOT eliminate, no matter how it tried. F obliged me by pulling that bitch off at the next available gas station, which we did not know was actaully Cannecticuit. While Conn. does smell significantly better, it does not sell liqour of any type after 9pm. I almost bought cough syrup.

BTW - I am currently on a canference call with a client and I am shining them on so I can provide you, dear reader, with this fascinating update on my life and times. And also, of course, to record it for posterity.

Anyway, I went along with F while he took his godmother to the Dr and pharmacy, then to lunch at her favorite place and gave her chocolates and flowers.

This, btw, is why of course, I love F.

Anyway, the only thing that I wanted to do was find a bookstore, peruse the selection and buy a set of nameplates for my nephew. I am trying to cultivate his taste in literature by giving him books. And no - not for presents (I know kids don't want books as Christmas presents) but for "I love you" reminders. I saw this book I fell in love with about a month ago in B&N and got it for him with the intention of mailing it with a nameplate in it so that he would always remember that it came from me. It is called, "I Love You Through and Through" which made me so utterly think of him, that I could not bare not to give it to him with an inscription that reads "To C - I love YOU through and through" (I do)

Anyway, I finally found some at this bookstore in Cambridge, got them, opened them and discovered that they are not the nameplates that I rememner Grandma N lovingly pasting into MY childhood books. Cheap, cheap, cheap. And for 8 dollars!! I returned them post haste. F you Cambridge bookstore. I have decided to MAKE all of C's nameplates. I'll need to get on that as, at 15 months, I think he'll soon be at the age when he'l like to be read to. (Hopefully, if his father doesn't introduce him to the X Box first).

Poor C. I've had this stinking book for a month and haven't had one spare moment to mail it to him. He'll forget all about me. Not to mention that I love him from top to bottom.

On Sunday we went to a hand-made shoe store that I was looking forward to visiting, but it was closed. Cambridge was muggy and uncomfortable. I can't afford any shoes anyway - so I told F we'd better head home.

And I am in a bad mood. I am in a bad mood because I miss my friends and family. And I'm going to continue on indefinately, because I just can't see any reason not to be in a bad mood. Or to enjoy anything or to even want to try. I want to go home. I know grown-ups don't get to go home. I don't care.

I miss my nephew and his little mother.

I miss the Z's (all of them).

I miss my own little mother and her dog.

I miss Bob and the Kurtzes

I miss Mexico.

I miss white trash pool parties, a hooker and her little dog, too.

I miss the pelts.

Friends and family ask me, "How is married life?" "How is DC?" "How's the job?" etc.

DC - Food, culture - great, house - beautiful.

F - Love of my life.

Work - Very successful. Got another raise.

So anyway, I hate pop music.

But when all else fails:

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Raspberry Charlotte

This is a picture of my first raspberry charlotte, cooling to perfection. I deviated slightly from the traditional recipes. This is 3 layers or moist pound cake soaked in home made raspberry syrup, layered with fresh raspberries and rich, creamy whipped cream. It's not much to look at though. Kind of like an upside-down trifle. I once had a wonderful world of wacky 50s recipes cook book that actually had a step-by-step guide for making a "tropical trifle". There were 3 ingredients: angel food cake - cubed, canned fruit cocktail and cool whip. This is why I love cookbooks from the 50s. The decade when the modern housewife discovered convenience food. The era of the Rolling Stones' with "what a drag it is gettin' old", etc. etc. I'll skip the food, but I'd take the drugs. Also included was a chicken recipe that was "perfect" for cocktail parties and get-togethers. Chicken bullion, hard-boiled eggs, Knox gelatin and a jello mold. They then loaded the middle of this ring of jello hell with a huge dollop of some sort of "chicken dip" (macerated chicken blended with cream cheese and pimentos) and served it with crackers. I guess you'd sort of have to be on drugs to eat or serve that. This was called chicken jello salad - perfect for summer!

Anyway, I digress, as usual - but someday I will have to do a post all about the culinary delights of the 50s, 60s and 70s.

Have you ever unloaded the dishwasher and realized that those were DIRTY DISHES? That brings me to the second point of this post. Pet peeves. Here are mine in no particular order:

1. Unloading the dishwasher - hate the feel of wet dishes.
2. Dirty dishes AFTER they have touched dishwater. If they're just dirty - fine, but once they hit hot water, they automatically trigger images of vomit for me. Can not do it. I put crusty, food-laden plates directly into the dishwasher. I have watched F look on in horror as I do this. He probably thinks I am a lazy slob. Should probably explain this to him.
3. Chickeny chicken. Hate it. I have a weird relationship with meat of all kinds, but on a meat day, I can consume my own body weight in cold cuts; however, I loathe "real" chicken - if I can see the grain of the meat - I may be instantaneously disgusted and unable to abide its presence. Last night I decided to grill up some chicken tenders for dinner when all of a sudden the house was overwhelmed by the smell of chicken-ness. I had to throw it in the trash, and the rice too because it had absorbed the smell of the chicken. When F came home he smelled deeply and asked, "Yum - what's for dinner?" to which I replied "nothing". I think he thought I was crazy - I should clear that up with him.
4. Blogs without pictures. No reasonable explanation there. Every post should have a picture of something.
5. Pet food - this is a problem because I have two cats. I refuse to touch or smell their food. I pour it out of the bag at a distance and if any spills on the floor I am sure as hell NOT picking it up. It smells and it's greasy. Shudder. Anything greasy should be HOT, not room temperature. Because I hate it so much, I generally wait until the last minute to feed the cats, thus F usually beats me to it. He probably thinks I'm a lazy, irresponsible pet owner. I'll have to clear that up with him.
6. You already know about the car window/locking - I won't go into that again.


Feel free to post your own list of pet peeves - bizarre or whatever.