Dr. Beads

Winter Arrives a Month Late

2008-12-09T18:52:00.000-08:00

Today was the first snowcone morning of the season.

The season itself (called "Winter," I think -- it's been so long) started about a month later than usual.

We are doomed.

Stop Talking Now

2008-08-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

My best friend made the mistake of saying something complimentary to her passive-aggressive coworker. The coworker immediately questioned the compliment.

Later the same morning, my friend told the p/a coworker that her son had been scheduled for a class taught by his father.

Coworker's response: "Is that legal?" (Notice: not "Is that a good idea?" or "How does he feel about that?" but a suggestion of a possible crime in progress)

Must remind best friend not to say anything to p/a coworker unless absolutely necessary.

Paging Dr. Beads

2008-08-16T19:37:00.000-07:00

Note to self:

Please stop waking me up by tapping me on the shoulder.
It's creeping me the fuck out.

That's My Boy

2008-07-22T15:20:00.000-07:00

As part of the new Age of Insomnia and Nightmares, too-ra-loo too-ra-lay, I've been returning to my old, bad habit of having an unhealthy late-night snack.

As I made myself a quesadilla, my son asked, "Are you hungry, or just bored?" I replied, "Mostly bored."

My son's advice: "Hard liquor and a good book will take care of that."

Should I have asked him whether the word "man" could be substituted for one of the other nouns there?

Land of a Thousand Nightmares

2008-07-22T14:52:00.000-07:00

The nightmares are back, and this time it's personal.

These are the nightmares I remember from the past 3 nights. (I'm sure that I don't remember most of my dreams. If this is just a sample of what I go through at night, no wonder I'm a twitching bag of nerves).

Saturday's recipe for disaster mixed together:

- the earliest episodes of "Dexter" (I've read the books, but wasn't prepared for the explicitness of the cable series)
- too many hours playing an addicting match-3 game, "Cradle of Rome"
- too much beer

Resulting dough was baked in the subconscious, and voila! Hypercolorful scenes of an after-hours bar, a growing sense of menace, and dreadful suspense as a group of innocents was simultaneously directed to an office downtown *and* stalked by a mob family down mean streets laid out on a near-grid.

Sunday night, I think my subconscious refused to let anything trickle up to my conscious mind so that I wouldn't go stark raving mad. Maybe that effort is why I barely slept.

Monday night, I dreamed about an urban legend that I think I made up for the purpose of dreaming about it.

You may have heard of some cockamamie date that is designated as the day you start working for yourself instead of the government. (Never mind that taxes primarily pay for services for us. I like having public education, clean streets, a civil service with fairly low corruption [if we ignore the higher levels of the Bush Administration], a concerned police presence, and NOAA.) My brain came up with a day that marked when you stop paying for the financial damages awarded victims (and families of victims) of a lawsuit against the government, stemming from a horrific air travel disaster.

I had to listen to a Robert Stack/Stacy Keach-ish voiceover that began, "There was no Charlie Baumer on the passenger list of Flight 103." I thought it was going to be a "ghost on the flight of DOOM" story, but it turned out that Charlie was an alias of a known passenger who spent hours (hours!) calming the fears of his increasingly worried fellow-passengers until the inevitable crash.

Now, I don't really operate in 3D, but I know that you don't fly a crippled airplane for hours, or fly in dangerous weather for hours, unless there is NOWHERE TO FUCKING LAND. It's not like the situation in a ~~boat~~ ship, in which you may try to make it back to land even if the engine is tottering on the brink. In a plane, you try to reach the ground in a controlled manner ASAP, otherwise you may reach the ground in an uncontrolled manner at a high rate of speed. (It's not the fall that kills, it's the sudden stop at the end.)

Woke up from that one in a total body clench.

Achieved only half-sleep from that moment on, punctuated by a dream about work, of course. I transferred between departments to a situation where I knew some of the people slightly, and they didn't realize that I needed orientation and training. I was immediately given assignments above my head and couldn't even get the necessary supplies. I was scheduled to give a presentation with just a few minutes' notice and told that I had to distribute tiny pens with the project or department logo on them. (Gods forbid that the attendees should have to use their own pens, or be given normal-sized pens that wouldn't cause hand cramp.) No one could give me any of the pens or tell me how to find any. I stumbled on a lobby display by a support department and found a partially filled package of the tiny pens. The pens disappeared (of course) and I asked desperately if I could get more. I was told that the next batch still had to be autoclaved.

What the fuck is my brain doing to me? Am I in Hell?

Glad It's Not My Family

2008-03-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

My best friend told me of a convo with her son as they were out on an errand.

Son: What's BDSM?

Friend: stupefied silence

My friend finally found her voice and asked, "Where did you hear about that?"

Son's reply? "Watching TV with Mawmaw."

I'm so glad that's not my family.

Was There Ever Any Doubt?

2008-02-01T12:04:00.000-08:00

What Be Your Nerd Type? Your Result: Science/Math Nerd (Absolute Insane Laughter as you pour toxic chemicals into a foaming tub of death!) Well, maybe you aren't this extreme, but you're in league with the crazy scientists/mathmeticians of today. Very few people have the talent of math and science is something takes a lot of brains as well. Thank whosever God you worship, or don't worship, so thank no deity whatsoever in your case, for you people! Most of us would have died off without your help.
Literature Nerd
Social Nerd
Drama Nerd
Gamer/Computer Nerd
Musician
Artistic Nerd
Anime Nerd
What Be Your Nerd Type? Quizzes for MySpace

Note: I successfully fixed the HTML in order to get this to publish here. If that doesn't make me a nerd, well, bite me.

Yeah, I Know, He's Just a Kid

2008-01-25T22:11:00.000-08:00

Some highlights of conversations with my son over the past few months:

[My son makes a "look at me!" gesture using both hands, splay-fingered]
Son: What's this called?
Me: "Hello, sailor?"
- - - -
Me: I got rid of one of my alts in that pirate game. The character's name made it sound like she should be wearing leather and spike heels.
Son: And don't forget the fishnet stockings.
- - - -
[While helping load a van with stuuf from our storage unit, my son has just leaned slightly over a piece of furniture with bits of wood extending from it at his waist level and gotten his belt caught]
Son (surprised): Hey, it undid my belt buckle.
Me: It's been alone for a long time.

Fear is Funny if it's Not Yours

2007-12-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

I was helping my daughter with Spanish vocab the other day and she said something I hadn't heard before: "Estoy asustado."

I asked her what it meant. "I'm scared," she replied.

"I learned "Tengo miedo" for that," I said.

She nodded sagely. "They have many ways to say, 'I'm afraid.' The Spanish are a very fearful people."

I imagine that this permeates Spanish culture...

National motto: "I'm scared!" (Alternate: "You d-d-don't s-s-scare me!")

Baby's first sentence: "Mama/Papa, I'm thcared!"

Typical grade-school writing assignment: "What scared me on my summer vacation"

Typical high-school writing assignment: "Ten things that scare me, and why"

Dating-service questionnaire asks, not for turn-ons and turn-offs, but fears, grouped into "really scary," "moderately scary," and "not at all scary"

Typical graduate thesis in liberal arts: "Fear in literature" (or history, or psychology)

Typical graduate thesis in science: "The neurochemical bases of fear"

And, of course, most popular self-help book: "The Gift of Fear"

My Nights are Mysterious

2007-10-21T10:09:00.001-07:00

In lieu of work-related grumbles,* I thought I'd update the nightmare list.

I hit a trifecta the other night, with nightmares about:

work
school
lost luggage

I'm taking bets on the next trio, which I suspect will be:

rape
Nazis
shopping for clothes

* Yes, I finally started my new job back in late May

Processed Swine Time!

2007-05-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

I am still not in my new job because the HR folks have their heads so far up their collective ass that it's a miracle they can get any oxygen whatsoever. So I don't yet have any good weirdness to share about the new job.

I do have this odd coincidence to offer in the meantime:
the death of a swine today,
and
the FDA's "for immediate release" announcement, "USDA Clears Swine for Processing" .

End of This Particular Nightmare

2007-03-07T20:51:00.000-08:00

I have accepted a job in a department that can actually make use of my training, experience, and talents.

Soufflez-moi, Beast!

Return of the Bride of Nightmare

2007-02-22T17:14:00.000-08:00

Last night, while catching up on the sleep I had missed on the two previous nights, I experienced two prize-winning nightmares. Naturally, I consider this kind of stuff blogworthy.

In the first feature, I was being threatened with exposure by some bureaucratic nitpicker who had discovered errors in my time logs from several years earlier. Facing unemployment and criminal prosecution, and finding that rational argument and bribes would not work with her, I tried to run away. She jumped me. My mother defended me by poking the attacker with a shovel that must have been sharper than either of us thought, because after a while the attacker's head came right off. [Thanks, Mom. If only you had been as assertive while you were alive.] Hilarity ensued as we tried to find a place to hide the head and the rest of the corpse, separately of course. (I remember putting the head into a bucket of cement which was, of course, in the back yard. Nosy neighbor kids tried to observe the goings-on.)

In the second feature, I was a passenger on a cruise ship run by an increasing paranoid and psychotic captain who was being driven madder each day by a bad case of hyperthyroidism. Other passengers and I kept moving from level to level trying to avoid him. As we charged up a flight of stairs that overlooked a central court, we discovered that Cap'n Bananas had removed the half-height wall intended to keep people from falling from the staircase into the atrium, and had replaced it with a single swath of wide, light-blue ribbon.

These are nuthin' compared to the nightmares I used to have. My subconscious isn't half trying.

I'm Running the Catbabble Report!

2007-02-01T20:47:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that I was doing my current job. I had been having difficulty getting all the information I needed from the usual report and had just figured out how to get the whole enchilada by running a report that other people, naturally, weren't familiar with.

As I was trying to show the results to a bored colleague, I realized that I'd bettter make sure I wasn't the only one who knew how to get the information, since I wasn't going to be around the department much longer.

"See?" I told the bored colleague. "It's all here in the Catbabble report."

He turned and walked away. As he let a door close behind him, I ran to the door, pushed it open, and shouted at his retreating figure, "Catbabble report!"

I Can't Hear You, I'm Surrounded by Idiots

2007-02-01T20:44:00.000-08:00

Night before last, I dreamed about trying to do my old job in a roomful of noisy people who were all loudly trying to get my attention or otherwise making my life miserable.

The resources I needed were missing, and I had just scraps of paper to make notes on.

The person giving me an assignment over the phone was elderly, vague, barely coherent, and (yet? of course?) evidently quite entitled to whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted it.

Words May Fail Me, But Blasphemy Never Lets Me Down

2007-01-08T21:57:00.000-08:00

Late on Conspicuous Consumption morning, I finished trimming my War on Christmas tree*, creaked my way to a standing position, and took the dog for a walk in the neighborhood.

We approached the Baptist church on the next block. I stopped in surprise.

There were no vehicles or people in the parking lot. There were no people entering or leaving the several church buildings visible from the street. There were no children in the play area.

Now, let’s stipulate that there exists an organization that promotes the worship of an imaginary being.

Let’s stipulate further that, by virtue of promoting the worship of an imaginary being, the organization operates tax-free and is thus able to
a.) afford a HUGE lot in a semi-pricey suburb,
b.) offer low-cost brainwashing, I mean child care and after-school programs, to local families, and, incidentally,
c.) casually leave politically partisan materials around the premises when it is being used as a secular voting site.

Let’s stipulate that the organization is called, colloquially, a “church.”

The question then follows:

Shouldn’t the cult’s, I mean church’s, adherents be required to populate the property a little bit on the second-holiest day of their year in order to maintain the organization’s godsdamn tax-free, privileged status?

Just asking.

*Special thanks are due Adam Felber, panelist on “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” for the idea of decorating with little gingerbread secular humanists.

In Which I Begin a String of Foul-Mouthed and Often Profane Posts

2007-01-05T20:00:00.000-08:00

It's time to let the innner sailor out, people.

I recently went to a conference at which we, the attendees, were wined and dined in exchange for having our presence, activities, and attention controlled for over 12 hours a day.

The last full day of the conference, two pudgy men in front of me in the lavish lunch line were talking about their disappointment in the food.

"I haven't had a good plate of greens the whole time," griped one.

My thoughts in response (order approximate):

1.) Fuck you.
2.) We had a lovely plate of greens last night to start off dinner on the harbor cruise, so
3.) Fuck you.
4.) We just had a nationwide safety scare about spinach, so
5.) Fuck you.
6.) We've had fresh fruit at every meal and fresh vegetables at every lunch and dinner, so
7.) Fuck you.
8.) The Manchurian accent isn't cute. Shut the fuck up.
Oh, and by the way,
9.) Fuck you.

I'll Be Here All Week

2007-01-03T19:12:00.000-08:00

My spouse and I smelled dog poop, but there was no poop in the dog’s area or anywhere else in the house.

A few days later, my son stalked through the house and mock-bellowed, “Doody! I smell doody!” We searched again, but could find no poop.

We must have a poopergeist.

Dan Savage Much?

2006-12-30T20:14:00.000-08:00

I recently saw an ad for an exercise aid (weighted hula hoop) with a “lifetime no kink guarantee.”

That would be an excellent phrase to use in a singles ad.

Happy New Blog!

2006-12-29T21:14:00.000-08:00

I am getting back to the blog after over 5 months of being too stressed out even to paste text in from my notes on what might be blogworthy.

Stressed? Stressed, you ask? Stressed, I shriek!

The horrible work stress and the family health problems and the dog health problems and the sneering abuse at work and the nightmares and the memory loss and the waking up at night and the gods-awful micromanagement from incompetents at work and the screaming. They've all taken their toll. And did I mention the nightmares and the screaming?

But I'm back, thanks to an effort of will, basic strength of character, and veiled threats from my subscribers.

Does My Daughter Work for the NSA?

2006-07-12T22:11:00.000-07:00

Out of the blue:
Lisa Martin (alias): Mom, can I have your password?
Rachel Beads (alias): For what?
{pause}
Lisa: Never mind.
Thought balloon over Dr. Beads's head: Does my daughter work for the NSA?

{Editor's Note: Yes, I realize that I've been neglecting Dr. Beads' Blog for a long time. As a way of easing back into the usual litany of nightmares and heavily redacted comments about work, I finally published a silly item (below) that was sitting in the edit queue for weeks.}

Back to Our Show

2006-07-10T20:26:00.000-07:00

Woke up with an ear worm in the form of a terrible song that I apparently made up while asleep:

I'm the Kitty
The Baseball Kitty
I'll annoy ya
Then I'll destroy ya

There was a tune as well, which I've forgotten, so now the song is just a menacing chant.

Help Wanted! Help!

2006-05-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

Help Wanted: Engineer

Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work on the unsinkable ship, HMS Titanic.

Successful candidate will:

possess history of productive work in cross-functional teams;

demonstrate aptitude with duct tape;

be willing to act as enabler for incompetent management.

Up the Lazy Blogpath; Up the Lazy, Crazy Blogpath

2006-04-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

Since it's been a hard week, and I've been expending most of my limited creative juices on IMs, I thought I'd provide a transcript of an IM exchange between me and a work friend after we capped off several days' dealing with difficult clients by holding a phone meeting with those clients.

Sally [alias]: grammatical question: is it clearer or any more clearly?
Sally: I mean "clearer" or "any more clearly"? Am trying to give you kudos
Dr. Rachel Beads [alias]: Context for "clearer" vs "more clearly"? A pedant needs context.
Sally: You did a wonderful job running that meeting. I don't think the issues could have been addressed any clearly.
Rachel: Why, THANK you, Sally! {mwah!}
Sally: that last sentence needs fixin'
Rachel: "I don't think the issues could have been addressed any more clearly."
Rachel: "Rachel needs a large drink, clearly."
Sally: sorry, you have to edit your own kudos
Rachel: "My next drink must be clearer. That last one was nearly opaque."
Sally: hmmm
Sally: work on that please
Rachel: Something tentacular is trying to climb out of my drink.
Sally: oh god, no. [Demonically irritating manager] is in your drink too?
Rachel: Yes, feel free to send kudos to [my immediate manager], and to [demonically irritating manager].
Rachel: OMG
Sally: [Demonically irritating manager]'s f'g everywhere
Rachel: BACK! BACK! arggggg
Rachel: glrkljlslllglllellelellhbhlkbklbnm,nmnn,sfmnm,,,,
Rachel: glug
Sally: LOL
Sally: please try to stop gagging
Rachel: drowning, not gagging
Sally: oh no
Rachel: I just want to crawl into bed (or to the bead table) and forget about frigging [application that customers complain about instead of fixing their workflow] for a few days.
Sally: yes, I truly understand
Sally: I got a heartwarming email from [generally irritating manager] today
Rachel: Chain mail? Oh, email. Sorry, had a vision of her wearing a metal visor and swinging a mace.
Sally: she said after being on a number of “issues calls” w/ me, she's gotten some real insight into just how hellish my job is
Rachel: Gee whillickers
Sally: LOL
Sally: I NEVER imagined that kind of nice note from her
Rachel: She must be mellowing in her old age.
Sally: she concluded it with more niceness
Rachel: Wow. Did she ask you to come to her church?
Sally: lol
Sally: Church of ?
Rachel: Whatever church extends its noodly appendage to her.
Rachel: Just got your kudos [in email]. Thanks, Sally!
Sally: lol
Sally: you're welcome
Rachel: I just got the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster gospel book from [bookseller] today!
Rachel: I will share the Good Word (and the al dente pasta) on your return.
Sally: lol
Sally: ok
Rachel: So, I THINK we're okay until the next disaster.
Sally: yeah, that's how the [work with bothersome customer] goes
Sally: I hate them
Rachel: Thar she blows!
Sally: lol
Rachel: It's a [bothersome customer] WHALE! For any other customer, it would be a guppy.
Sally: I was fighting back some responses [during the meeting]
Rachel: Yeah, me toooooo.
Sally: You were very good
Rachel: Thank you! Did you like how I said that the [ridiculous workaround for a problem that they had misidentified as a technical issue instead of user error] was no longer needed, instead of never f'g needed in the first place?
Sally: lol, yes. Very clever
Rachel: I really felt my voice getting higher and higher as the meeting went on. Good thing it didn't go past 30 min or I would have had all the neighborhood dogs howling.
Rachel: Well, Have a soooper time off, Sally.
Sally: It went unnoticed
Rachel: squeak
Sally: Thanks, Rachel. :-)
Sally: See you on Monday
Rachel: Yes......where's that flask?
Rachel: So are we going offsite next month?
Rachel: I sure hope so.
Sally: not in your pocket?
Rachel: No pockets in this damned dress.
Sally: Yes, let's do the Japanese place on [major street in urban center]?
Rachel: Have to bead a special carrybag.
Sally: Ta Ke Sushi
Rachel: Gi Me Sake?
Sally: very good
Sally: you'll have to wait, Rachel
Rachel: Lo Tso Sake
Rachel: Sa Ke Now Pliz
Sally: There's a place in [nearbly town] that does tastings
Rachel: Good thing we both type quickly
Rachel: Tastings? Oooohhhhhh....
Rachel: oooooooooooooo
Rachel: oooooOOOOOOOoooo
Sally: yes, I can't remember the name, but it's right near [street] by [one of the many Interstate freeways in the area]
Rachel {Googling}: [name of sake company]
Sally: Yeah, think so
Sally: I'll have to check when I drive by tonight
Rachel: Drive-by sake tasting? cool
Sally: wow
Rachel: Can I have that in a go-cup please? Domo arigato.
Sally: lol
Rachel: Aaaawwlllll gone. More sake, please.
Rachel: Domo
Rachel: More, please
Rachel: I'm getting hysterical. Gotta go so I can breathe into a paper bag, and so you can get out.
Sally: ok ttyl
Rachel: byeeee
Sally: bye

Gender Treason

2006-04-23T15:59:00.000-07:00

My blood pressure has gone up another twenty points with the media swirl over yet another self-serving, hypocritical book by Caitlin Flanagan.

Puddly-ump summers ago, my dear friend's beloved spouse was one of a group of teachers who participated in a National Endowment for the Humanities program in London. Caitlin Flanagan was also in the group. My friend's spouse recently told me that he's surprised that CF has become a paid writer. He was not positively impressed by her writing then, felt that she used the program as a way to visit family members in the U.K. inexpensively, and mostly remembers her lack of participation and her complaints about the class. She didn't even manage to finish -- she left early, claiming illness in the family. What a waste of skin and oxygen, let alone taxpayers' money.

Caitlin Flanagan can kiss my humanitarian, gender-equitable aspirations.

Some Call It Sleep, I Call It A Horror Movie

2006-04-15T18:53:00.000-07:00

Complex, horrifying nightmares R us.

I dreamed that I lived next door to a vicious, child-abusing pervert. He knew that I was trying to get the police to pay attention to him. When I arrived home one day, another next-door neighbor, President Bush, ignored my agitation over evidence that the perv neighbor had broken into my house.

"Cuh-mone, cuh-mone, it'll be awl raht," Chimp said, waving me up the path to his house.

From his house, it was obvious that someone had broken into my house and put up bizarre posters on the inside of the windows. The perv neighbor had done this to make it clear that he could get to me any time he wanted.

But damned Chimp couldn't care less.

Bush, you ineffective, jelly-brained mush-mouth, you!
{shakes fist in frustration}

Hush, Hush, Sweet Mushmouth

2006-04-10T18:30:00.000-07:00

I'll be glad when I've finished listening to yet another book by William Faulkner.

Last time I was fixin' to, I mean getting ready to do laundry, this is what came into my head when I was about to grab the wrong laundry basket:

"No, that-air's the cleeen beey'n."

The other day, my husband gave me an autographed copy of the latest book by one of my favorite comic authors.

I thought, "Sho', that'll be some val-yuh-bull in forty year."

Back to Our Irregularly Scheduled Inanity

2006-03-20T18:56:00.000-08:00

People, this is just Godsdamn bizarre.

And I'm not sure what to make of the subheading.

Feel free to discuss among yourselves.

- - - - -

More posts on my highly energy-sapping dreams are on the way. Don't despair.

Blogging for Int'l Women's Day, and Blog for Choice Day

2006-03-08T08:20:00.000-08:00

This is International Women's Day, and Blog for Choice Day.

I hereby declare that I blog, and live, for:

Human rights
Truth
Justice
Peace
Love
Fun
Intelligent discourse
Beads
Good books
Music
Food

Further, I declare that I will no longer tolerate:

Intolerance (quite a conundrum there, eh?)
Condescension
Control freaks
Men who deny the right of women to feel any damn way we please
Men who, by word or action, claim that they should have a say (or even the only say) in a woman's use of contraception or abortion
Men who, by word or action, claim that maternity leave is a vacation
Democrats who pressure women to push reproductive choice to the back burner
Men who, by word or action, claim that the effects of sexism on them (men) outweigh the effects on actual women
Men who lie
Men who cheat
Men who leave
Men who skip out on child support
Men who use physical force, or the threat of physical force, against women or children
Men who use and/or portray women as sex toys, idiots, and/or household appliances
Women who use and/or portray men as sugar daddies and/or bumbling fools
Anyone who claims that stripping, prostitution, etc., is a woman's free and "empowering" choice
Anyone who claims that there is no longer significant discrimation against women, as women, here in the United States
Men who excuse oppression and terrorization of women in other countries as "cultural"
Religious fanatics
Men who have children with more than two women
Women who voluntarily have children with more than two men
Women in positions of authority who act like assholes
Women who, by word or action, support any of the above men

I retain the right to revise this list as I see fit.
He dicho.

Driving Ms., Make That Dr., Beady

2006-02-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

I was driving my daughter to an extracurricular activity in the part of town that's lousy with retirement homes.

An aged driver was not only going 10 mph below the limit in the left-hand lane, but drifting into the neighboring lane as I tried to get past.

I asked my daughter, "When I can't drive safely any more, please take my keys away."

She replied, "I can drive you then. That'll be in, what -- two or three years?"

Polyglot, PO'd

2006-02-25T23:19:00.000-08:00

My daughter read me some aphorisms in various languages.

When she got to one in German, I couldn't understand some of the words.*

I asked her for the translation, which was "You should serve understanding and wisdom."

I replied, "I serve people who couldn't do my job if you held a gun to their heads."

- - - - - - - -

*But I did correct her pronunciation. Pardon me -- gotta polish my "Head Girl" badge.

Serve With a Side Order of Pretzels

2006-02-11T22:35:00.000-08:00

“Foods to serve during the Super Bowl?”

Forget that.

I’d like to serve these meatballs, made to the original recipe, at the White House.

2006-01-28T19:56:00.000-08:00

I’ve been having those gosh-darned school dreams again.

In the most recent one, I was moving into off-campus housing that looked to be a boarding house rather than a apartment or regular shared home. Unfortunately, I had misplaced my copy of the many house rules, and the other residents were running around in start-of-term panic and didn’t stop long enough to answer my questions.

However, I did get a brief look at a list of house rules, printed on a large piece of white cardboard or foamboard, that was propped on a couch. I learned that:

1.) This was a secure house, with guards (!) just inside the front door at night.
2.) Nevertheless, residents needing to visit the restroom at night were advised to call a guard, who would act as escort.
3.) Calling the guard to provide protection for a visit to a restroom far out of the guard’s way (i.e., on a residential floor) would result in assessment of a fee. (Either that, or visiting the restroom nearest the guard would result in a fee. I’m a bit fuzzy on this point.)

Clearly, this house was a scarier place than I’d expected. However,

4.) Residents were not to be alarmed by the sounds of the owners/guards making their rounds at 4 am.

After settling into my shared room on the second floor, I heard someone on the first floor calling for help. Though I was afraid that I might be breaking the rules by venturing out of my room after dark, I ran to the top of the stairs. An avalanche of wallboard and other building materials had slid down the stairs and knocked down a man, dressed in coveralls, who was now a few feet from the foot of the stairs. In my effort to reach him so I could help him get free, I half-slid down the now somewhat stabilized mass of stuff on the stairs. I worried that I’d be disciplined for coming to the man’s aid.

Gentle readers, was this a school dream, or a parable about terrorism, the Patriot Act, and the NSA?

Librarians with Attitude

2006-01-10T09:41:00.000-08:00

The car with a license plate holder reading

"I'm a librarian

and I will shush your ass"

probably belongs to someone who enjoys

The Laughing Librarian.

At least, I hope it does.

Where are they? Anyone?

2006-01-06T08:48:00.000-08:00

We had huge storms back to back over the weekend, and there's just one thing I want to know:

Where are the worms?

Digression:
A few years ago, I was taking my kids to daycare (David) and school (Lisa). I stopped on the way so I could return some books to the library.

When I got out of the car in the library parking lot, I found myself in the middle of a worm convention. I had to step very carefully between the biggest terrestrial worms I'd even seen.

When I got back to the car, I said, not entirely in jest, "Let's get out of here. The parking lot is full of big worms."

After we'd gone a block or two, David asked, "Are they following us?"

Gotta...do...that...thing

2005-12-24T14:05:00.000-08:00

Friends, I am sick. In fact, this is my fourth full day being sick.

So sick I can barely think about beads. (Now that's sick.)

I must have had a fever for the past few days, because I've spent several hours each night suffering from twitches, repetitive and bothersome dream fragments, and general sleep disruptions.

For your thank-Gods-it's-not-me reading pleasure, I present –
The Dr. Beads (alias) Fever Experience!

{twitch}

gotta do that

gotta

do

do

that

that

gotta...do...

that...

what's it called...

that...

gotta

do

{twitch}

COUGH

whimper

ah, Gods, why does everything hurt? it shouldn't hurt when my arm hairs rise

whimper

{twitch}

get up to get pain and fever medication?

whimper

no...can't figure out how to get out of bed

whimper

{twitch}

not feeling feverish, so why having hallucinations?

large fairy sitting on top shelf and fanning his wings is a good one for sure

wings the product of an adjustable lamp's body

plus semi-darkness

plus bad eyesight

{twitch}

no, that's not a hallucination, that's an illusion...that's...

that's…

COUGH

{twitch/scratch/twitch/scratch}

jeez, am I allergic to echinacea?

{scratch/twitch/scratch/twitch/scratch}

spent too much time yesterday watching Black Adder over David’s (alias) shoulder

same actor...played Dr. Samuel Johnson and Russian villain in James Bond movie?

Hagrid is Jewish?!? wtf?! where did that come from?

COUGH

get up and take cough medicine?

COUGH

no

COUGH

too much work

COUGH

coughing will stop soon

COUGH

{twitch}

COUGH

COUGH

COUGH

Will someone please put the cap back on the stupid, please

2005-12-20T13:04:00.000-08:00

Scene: Parking lot during the ho-ho-holiday season. Lot is occupied by many cars and one glowering person who is dressed like a member of the RCMP and holding a clipboard.

Action: Mr. Martin (alias) parks car, goes to ATM (leaving Dr. Beads [alias] and young 'uns in vehicle), and returns within two minutes.

Dialogue (implied): Parking lot monitor approaches as Mr. Martin re-enters car, and asks him whether a car several parking spaces over is his.

Mr. Martin responds in the negative.

Dr. Beads is rendered nearly speechless.

Got Whiteboard?

2005-12-09T07:27:00.000-08:00

Dr. Littlebro (alias) sent me an e-mail thread about a work metric.
The e-mail included a variety of equations.
The terms of the equations required text definitions.
The text definitions involved Boolean logic.

Not only were different equations being used, but different text definitions and different logical operators were being juggled by several contributors (?) to the e-mail thread.

I couldn't make sense of it.

I replied:

"Dude. This is too complex in text form for my poor, beadraggled brain.

It's like one of those puzzles in which you have to assign seats at the dinner table for Sally, Terri, Billy, Chester, Irma, and Raul:

Sally and Terri won't sit together because each suspects the other of cheating with Irma.

Billy wants to sit next to Sally because he likes to look down her shirt.

Chester has to sit at the corner of the table so he can bolt for the door in case he has a panic attack.

Irma must not under any circumstances sit next to Billy because she'll attack him with the salad fork if she catches him looking down her shirt again.

Raul wants to sit next to either Chester or Billy so he can talk about his new sports car and pick up macho points.

This type of puzzle can only be solved visually, e.g. by using a chart.
Got a white board handy?"

Check Your Calendars

2005-12-07T08:50:00.000-08:00

Happy Pearl Harbor Day!

Love,

Neocon Fascists

Make Mine Marionberry

2005-12-05T20:47:00.000-08:00

It's the first snowcone day of the season! I had to scrape a goodly amount of frost off my car glass before I could head out into the world of commerce this morning.

Imagine My Disappointment...

2005-11-26T20:09:00.000-08:00

...to find that www.wtf.org is the home of the World Taekwondo Federation.

I'm in Here Somewhere...Bring a Sticky Roller If You Drop By

2005-11-24T11:05:00.000-08:00

Note to self:

Don't change clothes immediately before brushing the dog.

Now I'm covered with fur, and it's not even my fur.

Soup, Conglomerate-Style

2005-11-23T17:08:00.000-08:00

The URL www.soup.com leads you to the Web page for Knorr, which is owned by (gasp) Unilever.

This is just wrong, on so many levels.

You Got to Have Friends...

2005-11-18T18:54:00.000-08:00

...who tell you the weird stuff that happens at work.

My best female friend recently had to make an all-day business trip with her boss, who, the way my friend tells it, had her mouth running on ramming speed all day.

Add in the fact that the boss is a rather prissy woman who wastes no opportunity to refer to herself and her many (usually ancient) accomplishments, and who always seizes the opportunity to shift attention away from others who are less self-promoting and, in some cases, are right then being thanked or congratulated for accomplishing an important professional or personal goal), and it's not a pretty picture.

My friend summed it up:
"It was like being in a lifeboat with Howdy Doody."

Oh, You Doesn't HAS to Call Me Dr. Beads...

2005-11-16T18:49:00.000-08:00

In a different store, with the same stupid policy of addressing customers as if they were lifelong buddies of the cashier....

The cashier had just finished ringing up my purchases, and another employee had just finished putting them into my cart. The cashier turned to the person who'd been helping him and said, "Thanks, sir," while handing me my receipt.

He became embarrassed and apologized, explaining that he had been speaking to the other employee, and hadn't actually been calling me "sir."

I replied, "It's okay. You can call me 'sir,' or 'Captain,' as long as you don't try calling me by my husband's last name."

They call me...DOCTOR Beads

2005-10-30T13:26:00.000-08:00

At Safeway, it's hit or miss whether they call me by my last name (as shown on my credit card and at the bottom of the receipt), or by my husband's last name (associated with our discount card). They have to call you by name, as if they know you. The official reason has to do with improving the shopping experience (right), but I think it's really to give would-be stalkers in line behind you a head start.

The other day, after waiting overly long in the express line (don't they know that lots of people shop on weekend afternoons?), my purchases were finally rung up, and the clerk said, "Thank you, Mrs. Martin." I was in one of my moods, so I said, not unkindly, "It's Dr. Beads, actually." He replied, with a grim look, "Well, I'm a reverend, but you can call me Bob."

Fine, Bob, fine. But you're not my customer, and by the way, I'm not only authorized to perform marriages, I can make most of the bride's jewelry and accessories. That's why they call me...DOCTOR Beads.

2005-10-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

I'm not the only one having weird dreams.

This just in from my good buddy Dr. Littlebro (alias):

"We were working for the government providing [professional services at which we're especially adept] for the CIA and we uncovered a secret plot to do away with officials and we received a parade in our honor and then George Jr. shook my hand and bent over to kiss your cheek and you turned around and mooned him.
He laughed and said, "Now that's not something I wouldn't mind to kiss," you became a huge celebrity and starred on all the talk shows and then began filing in for Oprah with Dr Phil."

No response yet to my question about what the hell Dr. Littlebro (alias) ate before bedtime.

Anyway, Dr. Phil? Puh-leeze.

2005-10-12T17:27:00.000-07:00

OK, I'll tell you what's up with all the college reunion dreams.

I attended my 25-year undergrad reunion last Fall, and had something asymptotic to a blast, to my great surprise, the 10-year reunion having been a washout for me.

I think the reunion dreams provide my sleeping brain with an economical way to combine all the anxieties of work dreams and school dreams since, in the reunion dreams, I'm all grown up and have grownup worries and responsibilities in the setting of school.

Chow Line

2005-09-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

My son asked me what people in the military eat. I told him that it probably depended on whether the squad or whatever was on the move and/or in an unsafe place, vs in a stable position in a safe location. Depending on the situation, they might eat basically canned food (formerly K Rations and the like, now MREs), or they might have a regular camp kitchen set up.

Then something waved to me from my memory. "My father told me that he liked the food in the Navy."

My son's reply: "I like the food in prison. [Pause.] You can just drop me off near San Quentin. My parole agent will take it from there."

Alumnaaaiiieeeeee!!

2005-09-24T15:16:00.000-07:00

The crisis appears to be over, at least for the moment. My dreams have been downgraded from FUBAR to SNAFU.

Recent dreams have revolved around the usual nonsense -- a college reunion (at which I received much unwanted attention from someone who was my classmate in a different school of higherlearning), work ('nuff said), and guest appearances by my late mother.

REM Rebound

2005-09-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

OK, the true crime stuff is over. I can't stand it any more.

After last night's wakey-wakey time (from about 3:30 to whenever), I fell asleep briefly and dreamed that:

a.) there were many wild rats and mice in the garage,

b.) there were also several feral cats in the garage (menacing me instead of the rodents),

c.) the dog ran away to certain death,

d.) a plague hit the planet, causing many young children to grow fur overnight, and

e.) as a result of d.), my furless son, though older than the furry kidlings, was in danger of kidnapping.

Maybe warm milk with honey would help (me, not her)?

2005-09-20T20:04:00.000-07:00

I've been on a "true crime" reading binge.

The result is that, when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep, I worry about Beth Short*, instead of work or health or finances.

- - - -
* Elizabeth Ann Short, aka the "Black Dahlia," tortured, murdered, bisected, and dumped in Los Angeles in 1947.

Got a (French) Quarter?

2005-09-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

I found a quarter in the laundry. It's very tarnished, almost as if it had been sitting in polluted water.

It's a Louisiana state quarter.

I Got Your End Times Right Here

2005-09-03T21:37:00.000-07:00

Rehnquist is dead.

You want end times?

I got your end times right here.

There Will Be No Body Count in N.O.

2005-09-03T21:13:00.000-07:00

There will be no body count in New Orleans.

The Repugs/Retardicans/Fucktardicans will claim a public health risk and will have the entire area bulldozed or burned.

They dismantled the parts of government that actually serve and protect the citizens regardless of power or money, and the result is that a city that was 2/3 black (and largely poor) was the victim of a preventable disaster of Old Testament proportions.

The fucktards who claim to love Jesus Christ, yet don't follow his teachings, let it happen. Made it happen. It wasn't the revenge of the God of the Old Testament. It was the result of a smirk and a prayer to the gods of old-boyism and cronyism and oil money.

There will be no final counting of the bodies of the old, the young, the sick, the desperate, who drowned in their lower-floor apartments.

The survivors are being shipped to Republican strongholds.

What a coup for redistricting.

Too bad I don't really believe in a Hell or other forms of divine retribution.

Reboot that Wig

2005-08-22T12:05:00.000-07:00

My hair guy (hi, hair guy!) told me about a line of hair dyes that he no longer uses.

"It doesn't hold onto the hair well, but it's indelible on linoleum," he said.

We agreed that it must be from Microsoft's haircare branch.

Farwell to All That

2005-08-18T20:40:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a two-day business trip to Southern California.

In a weird way, I enjoy these trips, in part because they make me appreciate the area where I live (Northern California) so much more.

Air is not supposed to be gray and thick.

I know, I know, my preference for Northern California ignores the many cultural advantages of Southern California.

Like the chance to choose among five In-n-Out Burgers during a moderate commute.

Or the mile after mile of shopping malls near the freeways, and the mile after mile of housing developments farther back.

And the wonderful choice among Target, Mervyn's, and (gasp) Mall*Wart! Within a few blocks of one another!

Don't Shoot, I'm Driving a Compact Car!

2005-08-17T18:38:00.000-07:00

This evening, on the streets of a Southern California town that shall remain nameless, I saw two, count 'em, two Hummers. A mini-convoy, if you will.

O.M.F.G.

I was tempted to throw up my hands and shout, "Don't shoot! I look vaguely ethnic, that's true, but I'm driving a compact car! Waste all the gas you want! I can spare you some!"

The Moving Corgi Barks and, Having Barked, Moves On

2005-08-06T14:15:00.000-07:00

My son and I were waiting in line at the local pet food/supply store with the family dog, so that I could buy heartworm preventive for the pooch.

Our crazy dog made good use of his time by barking and lunging at every other dog that came within 10 feet. I shortened the leash, but he kept trying to lunge on a limited basis.

After a while, I said to my son, "Dog-Beast (alias) isn't barking now."

David (alis) replied, "I don't think he's getting enough oxygen to bark."

Paranoia May Destroy Ya

2005-07-27T23:51:00.000-07:00

I've been getting fresh fuel for my paranoia.

I was tailgated by an elderly couple in a car sporting an extra (demon-red) license plate below the regular one. The car had its left-hand turn signal on for no reason, too.

After I escaped from the clutches of the elderly tailgaters-cum-demonic-license plate-holders, I was nearly bashed into by a car driver by another elderly man. That car sported a special veteran's license plate. The driver didn't react to my repeated blasts on the horn after I slammed on the brake.

A few days later, while I was stuck in local commute traffic, a youngish man in a nearby gas guzzler called out in a gringo (i.e., non-ethnic) accent, "Oy, vaay. Locks and bay-gulls. Oh vaaaay." Then he peeled out in a right-hand turn, honking his horn. My daughter claims the honking was for a woman, walking nearby, who was wearing a bikini top.

Jeebus! Is it time to remove the Gefilte fish emblem from my car, as well as the liberal bumper stickers and the Darwin fish?

Forkin’ the Bird!

2005-07-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

This is oddly compelling.

At first, I tried to hold my pinky- and fore-fingers down with my thumb. That was just plain awkward, and slightly painful, like finger yoga for the newbie.

They Can't Take That Away From Me

2005-07-15T23:58:00.000-07:00

I have been very stressed, unhappy, and angry about delays and poor communication from our remodeling contractor.

A new blow fell when it turned out that the contractor hadn't contacted the store that sold the tile my spouse had picked out many weeks ago, so it would probably take six weeks for the tile to come in.

The rope fell on our necks when the contractor's office manager called to tell us that the tile my spouse had picked out would cost thousands more than we'd budgeted for.

The trap door started to come loose under our manacled feet when we went to two tile stores together (my spouse went to another store solo), and checked several tile stores on-line, only to find that it's almost impossible to get cost information for a particular tile, let alone project cost estimates, unless you sit down with an employee with an attitude who's working on commission.

Branding irons came into play when I realized that, even if we could get price information on specific tiles we liked, we still wouldn't know whether we were within a reasonable price range for the entire project.

I ground my teeth, and I slammed a door. Later on, I cried.

Do you know what I did then? Do ya? Do ya?

I spent close to three hours measuring the living hell out of the bathrooms, determining likely square footage and linear footage of various types of tile, and creating a spreadsheet we can use to making our own damn project cost estimates.

Assuming we can wring tile pricing information out of someone at a tile store soon, that is.

Gee, I Didn't Think It Was All THAT Funny

2005-07-14T21:56:00.000-07:00

Scene: Car. Spouse is driving. Kids are in back seat, and haven’t yet started pinching and elbowing and taunting each other (probably because we’re only a block and a half from the driveway).

Daughter Lisa (alias): David* and I look a lot alike.

Spouse: Gee, I wonder why.

Dr. Rachel Beads (alias; not in the best mood): Especially since you’re both adopted.

Spouse laughs at what I’ve just said, to my great surprise.
_____
*Son David (alias)

Smells Like National Socialist Spirit

2005-07-04T09:51:00.000-07:00

The last part of this had me laughing so hard I cried.

My daughter suggests that the idea calls for a music video – old, smug, rich, white guys acting and talking like gangstas.

With no disrespect meant to Matthew (of Defective Yeti), I think Dick Cheney fits the image better than John McCain.

I Expected Linus's Brother to Have More Sense Than This

2005-06-30T21:06:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm naive, but I expected Linus's brother to have more sense than this.

Living the Porpoiseful* Life

2005-06-28T20:09:00.000-07:00

I just wish my mother had taught me anything half as useful as these mothers routinely do.

Seriously, though, I welcome our new cetacean overlords.

______

*OK, OK, they're dolphins. Don't have a sea cow.

Need a Job?

2005-06-14T18:26:00.000-07:00

You can be Deep Throat II!

This job posting is too full of gems to quote them out of context. Read it and laugh, then weep.

HR Death March

2005-06-03T20:11:00.000-07:00

I had a dream that can only be described as an “HR* death march.” Coworkers and I were on a plane in the company of an overly peppy manager, who insisted on telling us, repeatedly, how great the required HR program we were flying to was going to be. (The rest of us knew that it would be time-wasting and soul-crushing. We've had experience.)

In a nearby seat, a coworker faced the manager and said, in a deep, sorrowful voice, “I am trapped on a plane with you. On a plane that serves alcohol every fifty-one minutes.”

In the film version, this coworker will be played by Alan Rickman.

*HR = Human Resources

Dancing in the Streets!

2005-05-31T21:08:00.000-07:00

While walking around the city where I work, I was recently treated to the following performance art:

A rustbucket car, parked with all its doors open, the radio blasting…cool jazz!

A nondescript car, with curbside doors open, the radio blasting…rap lyrics performed over a 100%-stolen music track (the “Hill Street Blues” theme)!

A woman, walking in the opposite direction to me, wearing headphones, singing a pop song…loudly and off-key!

I’m going to put on a velvet cape and walk through the area, belting out old show tunes. With a nod to Trevor, everyone’s favorite hedgehog, I am one stylin’ musical artiste!

Car Wars -- Revenge of the Pithed

2005-05-28T20:07:00.000-07:00

Long before I gave up on trying to find sense in the auto rental business, I made phone reservations for a car with manual transmission. (Feel free to throw popcorn at the screen now.)

I showed up at the rental agency, ready to roll up the highway. I went through the volumes of paperwork (declining the optional and overpriced collision insurance), then took the keys and went out to the lot, where I found – wait for it – a car with automatic transmission.

I returned to the rental office and objected. It turned out that all the agents thought that the location of the transmission control stick thingy (between the two front seats) meant that it was a manual transmission (as in “four on the floor”). In fact, the agency had no cars with manual transmission.

I objected again, with the rationale that I was not accustomed to driving an automatic, and that I’d be at higher risk for a collision with such a car.

The agent looked me in the eye and said, “Well, then, are you sure you don’t want the collision insurance?”

Driving While Peering Through Beaded Curtains? Not Me!

2005-05-25T19:06:00.000-07:00

It’s illegal to drive when your view out the windshield is obscured by crap, I mean paraphernalia, right? I have vague memories (what other kind do I have any more?) of a page in the DMV handbook, featuring a drawing of fuzzy dice with the circle-and-diagonal-line symbol (the universal “no”) printed over them.

Then why don’t drivers get pulled over when they’ve hampered their own ability to see outside the car by festooning their rearview mirrors with leis, graduation tassels, air fresheners, religious medallions, and even crystal dangles that can flash light right in their eyes (or the eyes of other drivers)?

You Want to Major in WHAT?!?

2005-05-23T18:05:00.000-07:00

I recently heard part of a radio discussion whose participants included a woman identifying herself as an academic in hip-hop. That is, she isn’t just someone who enjoys hip-hop or feels that hip-hop is a valid form of art and communication, and, as far as I could tell, she isn't a musician or lyricist or singer. She studies hip-hop and teaches about hip-hop. (Don’t start on that “those who can’t, teach” canard, please.)

The discussion naturally touched on issues of exploitation and sexism, particularly in hip-hop videos. She started a sentence, veered off, stumbled, and finally said something along the lines of “Yes, not all the images are good, but we should be more accepting of ‘stripper culture.’”

People, what the hell is "stripper culture"?

Culture is a framework in which you live in the world, have dealings with other people, and raise your kids. It’s something you pass on to your kids for them to use and pass on. You could say that people are culture’s way of insuring the continued existence and development of culture, in the same way you could say that people are gametes’ way of insuring the continued existence and spread of gametes.

Arguments about safety and values aside, stripping is a job, and it may be a lifestyle, but it ain’t a culture.

Whatever that woman teaches, I don’t want anyone’s kids studying.

Pennsylvania Six, Five Refills

2005-05-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

I almost dialed my pharmacy’s refill line instead of my spouse’s cell phone.

Does that mean my meds need adjusting?

OK, I DO Need New Glasses

2005-05-19T19:17:00.000-07:00

While waiting in the cashier's line at Trader Joe's, I looked over at a display of juices and juice drinks.

I read "Rum Paradise" on a bottle label. That couldn't be right. I blinked and pushed my glasses up my nose.

It was "Pink Lemonade."

OK, so the display was just a few feet from the hard liquor. Still.

Wait! I Didn't Sign the Informed Consent Form!

2005-05-17T15:20:00.000-07:00

I dreamed that I was going undercover to blow the lid off a spa that specialized in bait-and-switch tactics. I entered the spa expecting to be pressured to buy expensive cosmetics, dietary supplements, and spa treatments in place of the advertised specials.

In the dream, I woke up two days later to find that they'd removed half of the ring finger on my right hand to harvest material for an unwanted nasal reconstruction. And no, I've never even considered a nose job.

Where's Francis, the Talking Mule, When You Need Him?

2005-05-15T15:23:00.000-07:00

My son and husband were discussing mules. The always-humorous nicknames "ass" and "jackass" found their way into the conversation.

I offered my opinion that "ass" and "jackass" refer to a donkey, not to a mule, and mentioned that a mule is the offspring of a donkey and a horse.

Son David (alias) asked, "So, if a boy mule is a jackass, what do you call a girl mule?"

I replied, "'Ma'am.'"

Son David (alias) threw a pillow into my face. Repeatedly.

This Pope Business is Going Too Far

2005-05-13T08:52:00.000-07:00

I drove my daughter to pubilc transit this morning. She put makeup on during the ride.

Lisa (alias): Thank God for concealer.

Dr. Beads (alias): You're going religious on me over cosmetics?!?

The Mob's Greatest Hits!

2005-05-01T13:13:00.000-07:00

Coming soon...to a nightmare near you!

GASP as bullets whistle past your ears!

THRILL as an intrepid undercover agent becomes the first female apprentice to the craftman who has a Mob contract...for fine, handcrafted furniture!

WRITHE as you try desperately to escape the awful dream that just won't let you go, even if you wake up and then go back to sleep!

GRIND YOUR TEETH in frustration as a television pseudojournalist interferes with your attempts to shoot at Mob murderers!

WHIMPER as you become an overheated mummy in the tangled blanket!

BLINK IN CONFUSION as you try to separate the vibrant, violent images of the night from the safe reality of the new day!

SIGH as your family members ask you, yet again, why you can't get the hell out of bed at a reasonable time on the weekend!

TMI

2005-04-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

I think I have terminal PMS.

Oh, don't worry. I'm not actually going to die from it.

Someone else might, though.

All Together: Money!

2005-04-29T07:57:00.000-07:00

An ATM near my workplace now offers three single-key options for draining money from my account:

$20

$40

and

$100

Given the neighborhood, I think that last option should be labeled "bling-bling."

Maybe My Glasses Aren't OK

2005-04-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

My eyes and brain regularly play practical jokes on me. They enjoy observing my double-takes as I try to figure out whether that street sign, billboard, package, etc. really says that bizarre thing that I first thought it said.

You probably don't want to know what I thought the parking-structure sign had printed on it, but it actually read "Pedestrian Entrance."

Antiques Roadshow

2005-04-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

I was driving my son on an errand. Again.

At an intersection near our house, I pointed out a Jaguar.

My son commented, "And there's a vintage 1918 Republican inside! I understand these are worth millions now!"

I was able to continue driving, but with difficulty.

OK, Where is S/He, Then?

2005-04-24T19:29:00.000-07:00

The dream voice said, menacingly, "Bewaaare. The one you ssseeeek iss not heeere."

Beats "These are not the 'droids you're looking for," IMHO, but where the hell isss the one I am ssseeeekingg, then?

My Glasses are OK, Believe it or Not

2005-04-22T20:22:00.000-07:00

This just in from the San Jose Mercury News, re the Wendy's brouhaha:

"[San Jose Police Chief] Davis also thanked all the agencies involved in the month-long inquiry into Las Vegas resident Anna Ayala's claim that she found a finger tip in a bowl of child purchased at a Wendy's restaurant in South San Jose."

My reactions:
OK, so what was the problem? Wouldn't you expect to find a finger in a bowl of child? It's one of the best parts.

Maybe when she said "supersize me," she expected to get a bowl full of fingers. (She should have ordered the finger bowl in that case.)

P.S. The typo was corrected by the time I posted this, doggone it.

Bring it on!

2005-04-20T07:46:00.000-07:00

I was driving my son to a store. I saw a couple walking a dog.

I said, "There's a cute dog. Hey, it's a boxer."

From the back seat, my son said, quietly, confidently:

"I could take him."

Cranky? I'll Show You Cranky

2005-04-15T18:08:00.000-07:00

This is one mother who wasn't afraid to fight when they tried to pull the plug on her babies!

I note that the father-to-be had been "removed from her tank for crankiness" and subsequently died.

This has all the makings of a good tabloid story.

Random Act of Kindness, or Evil Conspiracy?

2005-04-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

There was a single rose near my front door.

Several feet away, there was dog stuff.

Thank Goodness for Multitasking

2005-04-06T15:58:00.000-07:00

If not for multitasking, I would have died of boredom alternating with confusion well before the end of my two-hour conference call today.

I have almost nothing to do with the "new and improved" process that the call was about, so I was hoping to come away feeling better informed after the call.

As it turned out, comments and criticisms came in fast and furious from many call participants who actually knew what the hell the call was about. This led me to feel even less informed than I did before the call.

Socks are a Few of My Favorite Things

2005-04-02T13:44:00.000-08:00

My sister and I sat in her (now also my) accountant's office as he worked with the tax data about our mother's estate.

I looked down. "Nice socks," I told my sister.

The next day, we were cleaning the old house in preparation for renting it out. I looked down. "Nice socks," I told my sister.

Have I mentioned that the accountant looks like J.E.B. Stuart, the Confederate General?

I didn't get a chance to look at his socks, though.

Happines is Not...

2005-04-01T18:03:00.000-08:00

...dreaming about being coached what to say to police about supposedly false accusations of terrible abuse, with me as victim, and realizing mid-dream that the abuse actually happened (in the context of the dream), to a much more horrible and damaging degree than the police knew about.

Not With a Bang, But a Sunburn

2005-03-30T19:42:00.000-08:00

I dreamed that the world was coming to an end.

Our response was to set out to buy as much sunscreen as we could find.

2005-03-28T06:55:00.000-08:00

In my dream, a much younger and cuter version of your truly had just begun a flirtation with a cute guy. While I was visiting his apartment (which was also inhabited by two roomies, one male and one female), he took a phone call that seemed to discomfit him. Putting the handset to his chest, he told me that the call was from a woman he’d gone out with in the past. She wanted him to go with her to a nighttime party at the Bay Hotel.

“Isn’t that in a bad part of town?” I asked. He confirmed that it was. He said, “I don’t really want to go, because…she drinks too much, and then I have to take her home, and I’m not sure I can rely on a taxi for her…” Plainly, he didn’t want to have to take the woman home because he didn’t want to be alone with a drunken and possibly amorous ex. He wanted to be alone with me.

“Tell her you’ll be deeply involved in something else,” I said in a low voice.

[Pause for cinematic lip clinch.]

I arrived for a visit some time later and found his female roomie running toward to the kitchen, screaming, her chest covered with knife wounds. He followed, murderous, his own chest bloodied on the surface.

Next came the informal (!) hearing, at which he wasn’t even in handcuffs. His lawyer tried to prove that his client wasn’t in the apartment at the time of the attack, despite the fact that I’d seen him and the victim moments afterward.

I gave the lawyer the one-finger salute. It felt good.

It puzzles me, the way people expect me to get work done after such an experience.

Now That I Know about This

2005-03-25T06:47:00.000-08:00

I wish I didn’t.

Waiting for an Asteroid to Wipe Out the SUVs

2005-03-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

I witnessed a low-speed collision in a parking lot today. A woman backed her Chevy Suburban into the side of a passing sports car (perhaps a Mazda Miata) while attempting to leave a parking space. I had heard a car horn honk moments before the collision, but I don’t know the source. However, I do know that the sports car didn’t just appear out of nowhere and race past the backing up behemoth.

I have mixed feelings about who was at fault. On the one hand, as someone who drives a compact, I try to be verrry careful when driving near huge cars whose drivers show any inclination to back up, since size and momentum favor the huge cars, and my back would sue me if I in any way contributed to its being injured again. On the other hand, the driver of an auto as big as a T. rex needs to have very good neck flexibility and excellent sideview mirror technique, and must be careful not to run over the furry little mammals.

A few minutes after the collision, I saw the SUV driver, again trying to back up, give the right of way to cars about 10 feet away. The mammals might evolve into lawyers, after all.

Color My World

2005-03-21T07:02:00.000-08:00

Lisa (alias for daughter): Look at that guy with the pink bike!
Dr. Rachel Beads (alias): It’s not pink, it’s…violet.
Lisa: It’s not violet.
Rachel: Fuchsia, then.
Lisa: OK. [pause] A combination of fuchsia and hot pink.

Elementary, My Dear

2005-03-19T18:04:00.000-08:00

I dreamed that I was married to Sherlock Holmes. It was pretty cool, despite the age difference.

Shortly after I woke up, I drove past the local Planned Parenthood clinic, made eye contact with the sole protester, and gave her the finger. It felt good.

Don’t come near me

2005-03-18T19:01:00.000-08:00

Just don’t.

Just Give Me the Meds at a $5 Co-Pay and No One Gets Hurt

2005-03-14T06:50:00.000-08:00

I went to the local chain pharmacy to pick up refills on medications for myself and my spouse. As the pharmacy clerk ran the several pieces of pharmacy paperwork past the UPC code reader, I saw an unexpectedly large number flash by on the cash register readout.

“Wait,” I said. “One of those prices seemed too high.”

She checked, and up came the absurd figure of $71.35.

“That’s not right,” I said. “Which one was that for?”

“Drugtopia,” she stated, giving the brand name for a medication that recently became available in a generic form.

“But that’s available as a generic form now, and I’ve gotten it in here as a generic before,” I informed her.

She looked blanker than a fresh prescription pad.

“This happened before.” I informed her, staying remarkably calm. “Drugtopia is available in generic form, and Caifornia law requires that you fill the prescription with the generic unless the prescriber or the patient requests the brand-name. Can you please put something in my file stating that I want the generic?”

She checked the computer and said, “It’s the same for generic and brand-name. It’s the same co-pay.”

“But I paid $5 before, and $71.35 isn’t a co-pay.”

“It’s the same. That’s what the computer says. The same co-pay.”

“But that clearly isn’t a co-pay amount.”

“I’ll have someone else check.”

“Thank you.” (Closing eyes, massaging face, with fingertips, fantasizing about leaping over the counter.)

Several minutes pass, then: “It’s $5 for the generic. We’ll take care of that now.”

Twenty minutes later, I have my medication, in generic form, for $5. Thinking to save time on this transaction, I proffer a twenty instead of running my credit card through the machine on the counter. After the clerk starts to whimper about having an unsatisfactory supply of change, I dig in my bag again and come up with a $5 bill.

When I get home, I see that the receipt shows a price of $62 or so for drugolol (generic form of Drugtopia), so I still don’t know how the hell the clerk came up with the information that generic would cost the same as brand-name.

(The pharmacy in question also routinely neglects to provide patients with mandated counseling on new or changed prescription medications. Having a clerk ask, “Do you have any questions for the pharmacist”? is not the same as having the clerk say, “The pharmacist will speak briefly with you about this medication now.”)

National healthcare now!

“M” is for the Memories She Gave Me

2005-03-13T11:46:00.000-08:00

The second punchline to my nightmare about my mother coming back to life:

I got on the phone to my sister and asked, in urgent tones, “She’s dead, right? Did I miss something?”

2005-03-07T19:35:00.000-08:00

My friend Charlotte (alias) told me that her daughter had asked, "Am I doomed to have the same breakfast every day"?
I suggested that Charlotte introduce her to the refrigerator of doom.