Blown Fuse

Who me? Facetious?

Now that the Democrats have regained some semblance of control, will the price of pre-packaged Rice Krispies Treats go down or will we need to invade the Keebler Elves to steal protect their marshmallows?

:) Mmm...yummy preservative-laced cereal bars.....*drools*

"You want me to put what where?"

I hate Indian tech support. Don't get me wrong: I like the idea of "Indians" and tech support is sort of a necessary evil of microcomputing. The problem is when those two forces combine to form a time-wasting, infuriating segment of an industry.

I'm the de facto Ms. Fixit in the office. If someone's PC goes bonkers it's my job to either fix it or complain to someone who can.

There's a PC in our server room that has two purposes: collecting call data from the phone system, and broadcasting the "on hold" music. That's all it does. Nothing else (well.....occassionally I go back there to check my bank balance before lunch without the prying eyes of my cohorts). About a month ago the computer stopped collecting data from the phone system. This was very confusing and sent the entire office into an emasculating clusterfuck. You see, the boys don't know what to do with themselves if they don't know how many phone calls they've made.

I hounded the software manufacturer and discovered it wasn't their fault. Nor was it a problem with the phone system as it was sending data as programmed. After much back and forth we learned the problem was a busted COM port.

The remote tech people we have on retainer informed me that the unit itself was no longer under service warranty but the part itself was eligible for replacement. They never got back to me on that, but being armed with this information I attempted to get the problem solved directly through the OEM.

Let me tell you - I wasted two hours of my life this morning dealing with some bozo who didn't even understand the problem. Such is the case when you have people sit around all day, scan for keywords, and search a F.A.Q. database.

He tried to walk me through taking the machine apart (which I pretended to do), resetting this and that, and finally determined that problem was with the external modem which was not shipped with the unit and therefore not covered by warranty.

Um...WHAT EXTERNAL MODEM? This dude needed to be blindfolded and whipped.

I logged out of the session and gave up. Tomorrow I have to try this all over again. Pray for me.

Stupid Spam Subjects:

Here's a particuarly good one from today's email:

"you've made it. Now you can apply online for a bra"

Thanks! I've always wanted a bra!

A PSA for Southern Chickies

It's hotter than horse shit outside.

This is the time of year that Southern girls start letting it all hang out - halter tops, daisy dukes, mini-skirts - you name it and there are people [who really shouldn't be] wearing it.

While I have no real hateration towards these ladies and the disgusting fleshy rolls amount of meat they choose to allow to hang out of their shorts, I have one request: if you're going to wear coochie-cutters, could you at least not wear them with stilletos? I don't want to feel like I have to wipe your chair down with a Clorox wipe when you leave.

Thank you.

The Tiffany is NOT happy.

Not happy at all.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw an advert in the newspaper coupons for one of those Danbury Mint ornaments.

You know The Danbury Mint, right? They sell "collectibles"? Well, some of it is just corny-ass shit that people buy as gifts that end up being continously regifted.

Anyway, I collect pigs, so I ordered a Chrismas reindeer pig from them many moons ago. It's cute. I take it out every winter.

Well, this time I saw an ad for a 2005 UNC Tar Heels Santa ornament. I wanted it so badly that I almost peed right then and there.

Mind you, in the four years Scott and I have been acquainted, we've never even bought a tree. I figured we'd start this year.

Anyhow. Today, my ornament arrived.

Imagine my pisstivity to open it up and see a purple and gold LSU TIGERS logo on the top.

I'm so pissed that steam is escaping from my ears. How hard is it tell apart a sky blue (the sky is blue because God loves the Tar Heels) ornament from dang-ol' purple one?!?

They're not even in the same conference.

I'm going to bitch them out via email. If this was words, it'd be fightin' ones.

Good thing I haven't paid them yet.

I haven't forgotten.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

*rolls eyes and makes retching noise*

I saw teenaged boys standing out in the rain waiting for the bus this morning holding some of those foil baloons. I guess they still do that thing at school where you drop your crap off at the office and the volunteers/class-skippers will deliver them to your sweetie.

I never got shit.

Hold on...

I forgot what I was going to blog.

Shit. I hate it when that happens.

What am I, made of money?

This month's natural gas bill: $216.53. Keep in mind that that's only for heat. Every thing else is electric.

Carry on.

*kicks the Department of Revenue*

I'm all done with my federal income tax paperwork. I'll be expecting that direct deposit in 8-16 days, thankyouverymuch.

I just did a preliminary jotting of my state taxes and see that once again we're in the red.

What the fuck? Every year we pay out the ass in taxes and come filing time we've never paid enough in state taxes. Scott was being deducted at the higher single rate for most of the year, so I don't understand where we're being gouged.

Am I a complete and total idiot, or does the state of North Carolina make it impossible to pay enough in tax?

Longest Commute Ever

Left work at 4:15 p.m.
Arrived home at 5:33 p.m.
Distance between work and home: 12 miles.

I just spent an hour driving at a slow crawl through RTP (four miles) become some bumfucks don't know how to act when there's an inch of snow on the roads. Once I turned off Alexander Drive the drive became much more sedate and I was able to drive the last half of my commute in about ten minutes.

If there's snow on the road, people should automatically assume that there's ice beneath it instead of driving like idiots, swerving into other peoples' cars, and tying up traffic for hours.

When I crept over the I-40 overpass, I saw that traffic was at a standstill. I think at that point the road is at least six lanes, so that's really accomplishing something. I heard on the news that the interstate was bumper-to-bumper.

Considering the fact that North Carolina has no real mass transit system other than those hoopty buses that get shot up in the ghettoer parts of Durham, this congestion gets to be a real problem.

Elves are stealing my winter apparel.

Okay, on mornings when it's 14 degrees outside, it's a good idea to wear a scarf and gloves. Well, I've been wearing a scarf all week, but it seems to have disappeared between yesterday's arrival at home and this morning.

When I went into the coat closet this morning to pull out last year's gloves, I found that one of them had been eaten up by something. I'm assuming/hoping/praying it was moths, but I'm suspicious. When I pulled them down from the top shelf I heard little items falling to the floor (I immediately thought, "That better not be hardened mouse poop"). There's no overhead light in that room so I couldn't fully investigate. All I know is that there'd better not be mice in my coat closet and that my hands were cold during the 15 minutes it took my heat to kick in in the car.

I guess this calls for me getting my "stand-by" gloves out of my winter sock cache: you know, those "stretch - one-size-fits-all" dealies that suck in snowball fights?

By George, I think I've got it.

I think I've located the mysterious Dr Pepper thief.

When I rode to Wendy's with Mr. 9.9 yesterday, there was a half-empty can in his car, which he poured the rest of which out in the parking lot.

Sad. Stole my drink and didn't even have the courtesy to finish it. Tsk.

"Teen Shemales!" "Mature Sluts!"

I'm just wondering...but, isn't tranny porn easy enough to find on the internet without having to advertise in blog comments?

I'm just saying...

Nothing is sacred.

They're at it again. 300 comment spams. And this is after I tweaked my comments to do forced preview.

*Sigh*

This is getting less fun.

...oh-tay

Left on my voicemail by my sister:

"Hi, it's Davoya. I see you haven't called me. Hmm. Why not? I haven't called you because I have so many damn kids. Bye."

Putting a bad taste in their mouths for next year.

Since I was sort of miffed about that whole $15 gift thing, I decided to get the most tasteless collection of tripe possible.

My problem is that we're not doing the tried-and-true secret Santa thing, but are turning the gifting into a little game. I'll explain.

All who are participating draw a number. The person who draws "1" gets to select whichever item they're fond of.

The person who draws "2" gets to select a gift from what's left or take number 1's gift. Number 3 can take what's left or take what they want from person 1 or 2....and on and on.

The way I see it, the only way to make everyone happy in a situation like that would be if everyone bought the same exact thing, say a $15 gift card to wherever.

Being that I have more imagination packed into my little finger than most people have in their entire bodies, I said "Fuck it." Last night as I haunted A.C. Moore for project yarn, I spotted, yes--you guessed it, the kiddy crafts.

So, whoever has the misfortune of drawing #1 will likely be stuck with:

1.
A book of action hero tattoos, value $1.00.

2.
A four-pack of play-doh in the usual colors, value $1.42.

3.
A Magic Rocks kit with crashed UFO, value $6.99.

Now then. I guess I can steal some sharpies from the supply closet to make up the other $5. Someone remind me to take the camera to work on Tuesday.

Crass Haiku (avert your eyes)

Chili

Spicy chili burns
On the way back out.
I need Pepto NOW.

Screwy.

As I stated earlier, I signed up for local phone service and was awaiting for a confirmation e-mail with the phone number and all that good stuff.

Well, a few minutes ago I got an e-mail stating that my request was cancelled because they could not validate my address.

???

Just on a whim, I tried to get it to validate on the AT&T site, too, and it couldn't find our address under Durham. It suggested the same address under Chapel Hill and Garner, and while we're close enough to either to fudge it, as far as I know this subdivision has always been in Durham.

Damn it. If I actually have to use my cellular minutes to call these fuckers during the daytime I'm going to be very miffed.

*counts on fingers...*

I just got one of those explanation of benefits things from my health terrorists insurance company.

If I figure this right...my crotch doctor bills approximately $714/hour.

....

That explains all that italian leather she was wearing.

"Can you hear me now? Shit."

More than a year after moving into our house, I finally ordered a home phone line.

We had been doing the cell-phone only thing where we'd count our minutes as if they were beans and make all of our out-of-network calls after 9 p.m.

Well, after my car window got blown out during that lawnmower fiasco and I had to file an insurance claim, I knew that enough was enough. We've been using SprintPCS for a cellular service from the get-go, and for whatever reason there never seem to be enough towers around where we live to get an adequate signal from home. We drop calls from the house constantly, yet if we drive east ten miles we'll have 5 or 6 service bars.

Anyhow, getting back to my story, I called in an insurance claim to have my window replaced and knowing that I wouldn't be able to find reception indoors, I went into the back yard. The woman still couldn't hear me. I walked in circles through the swarms of gnats through knee-high weeds to find a reception pocket, but couldn't.

I ended up in a corner of the bedroom crouched down by the floor. That's where they can all hear me from.

So, enough's enough. I want to be able to order a pizza without having to hang from the chandelier in some yoga contortion.

"I got a lot of money."

I understand that I might be unapproachable. The scowl on my face warns strangers to "STAY AWAY!" Most heed that.

Others, namely men, find new and what they believe are innovative ways of hitting on you.

Yesterday I was in the gas station trying to find myself a mid-afternoon snack. As I perused the aisle of candy I could overhear a group of guys ("men" wouldn't be an apt description here) commenting on someone. I assume it was me because the only other person in the store was the cashier.

I heard one guy say, "Go tell her you're rich. Tell her you have a lot of money."

I wondered at that point why I didn't have my cell phone with me. At least I could pretend I was talking to someone and they'd leave me alone.

Anyway, it turned out that the subject was a punk anyway and his end action turned out to be a slow walk past the aisle and a mumble of "I'm rich."

Oh yeah. That totally turned me on.

Stains stains everywhere.

Stains stains everywhere.

When I was in elementary school, there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't get off the school bus in the afternoon without fresh stains on my clothing. It could be mustard from the hotdogs served in the cafegymtorium for lunch, grass on my pants from recess, or even chocolate milk.

I think I'm reverting back to that.

On Monday, I spilled the tomato sauce from my ravioli on my shirt and pants. Yesterday I developed a mystery laceration on my thumb while driving to lunch and got blood on my pants. Today I cut myself shaving and failed to wait for it to clot before I put my pants on, so now there's yet another blood stain on my pants.

If I were me, I wouldn't do my own laundry.