Heifers, Forever Young, and my personal book of the dead

Being confrontational wears me out.

Dealing with liars wears me out.

Trying to keep things on an even keel while being threatened really wears me out.

In e-mail, Heifer keeps saying she's talked to Ovis Ovis about my "excuses" for skipping work, which include a house fire and a trip to an urgent care center where I was given cough syrup with codeine and antibiotics. She's ignored the solid 3+ months where the work has been finished nightly for the surgical center, and the solid 6+ months that the work had been done before that (she said she started in October and therefore wouldn't know my supposed track record).
Having heard nothing, and really having the desire to end this entirely by turning in the machine I use to call the surgical center, I called Ovis Ovis...

who has heard nothing else. He was, in fact, surprised I called with a problem. The doctors and the office manager who Heifer swore were so mad have told him nothing. I listened to said doctors two nights in a row, who left no message on the tank. One hummed to me as is his usual habit when he has very good days.

The inmates are running the asylum.

I hate it. As much as I hate it, I told Ovis Ovis I'd keep typing for him until he figured out what exactly was going on. By that, I meant for him seeing the final e-mail I sent where I indicated that, if Heifer knew someone who could take my place, have her go for it. Right (I am) or wrong (I'm not), I can't deal with this kind of stress. I just can't.

She accused me of lying, so I scanned the documentation from the trip to the urgent care. She said she didn't even look at them, and that "they're not important to me." The surgical center, apparently, isn't a high priority for me, though. Um, okay. I guess I should work through the next house fire and have the kids prop me up and keep me in steady supply of codeine cough syrup so that my words will be at least three syllables longer from all the typos. Transcription isn't for typing monkeys. It requires some thought. Whenever anyone tells me how much they want to try it, and do I hire, I say (because I'm such a passive-aggressive nonconfrontational pathetic loser):

"Do you know what an esophagogastroduodenoscopy is? If so, can you tell me the anatomic landmarks of the alimentary canal and its usual termination point?"

They're done by then. They've figured out it's just not typing what doctors say. There's a thought process involved here. I've never had anyone get past that the two times I've used it. Before, it was hemming and hawing and deferring to other people, which is not right, either, so that's direct. It's honest.

Book of the Dead Entry to my father: I still don't know if I'm going to post a b-day message to you on the fluffy blog. Probably not. So, here goes:

Fourteen years ago today, you drove me home from being the girls' pianist/accompanist for their solo and ensemble contest. We didn't know her demographics yet, but our Sunny girl rode with us in the car, nearly at her due date. I remember so clearly:

"Hey, I know. Let's go find a really bumpy road," you joked.

Why? It was your birthday. It was funny. Sorry about waiting until your son's birthday to do the deed.

There are so many things I'd like to ask you. How did you push it for 2½ years? I swear, it's just a stupid job where they're threatening my honesty, and I'm about to come unglued. How could you put on a bright face for those years you were dying and keep going? What would you do now? Do you take it as a sign from God to change careers? You'd put it all in God's hands, I know, or wait for Mom to give you her opinion. Transcription isn't all I have. I qualify for four different research positions at a local university, but I like it here at home. Going back to nursing is another option, and so is getting my web builder certificate, which sounds like fun.

I don't know, Dad. I just don't know. Life seemed a lot simpler back 14 years ago, when the joke caught me by surprise because you didn't approve of me having my second kid at 22, and didn't like my life choices at all. I really had no education at that time, quite happily scraping by as a waitress. I do remember you holding my hand, though, when she came and had to spend so much time in NICU. I have a hard time watching Hunt for Red October, because that's the one we saw together at the theater and we watched again while I tried to rest up with the baby now out of danger so long ago.

Another Indiana Jones movie is coming out, and you're not here. I remember the time where all we could discuss without a fight was old cars and movies. You should be here. I should be making plans to go see it to incorporate you, too. Maybe I'll borrow the fedora we bought you one year for your birthday and wear it to the show, just to have something of you there.
I love you. If anyone was savvy enough to get into blogs, it would be you. Please read mine. Read the other one, too. You'll like me better there.

No, definitely not blogging a birthday message to you right now but God knows I miss you. Ask Him.

Book of the Dead Entry to my grandmother: Today, 8 years ago, we buried you. My husband refuses to carry a casket ever since yours, and there were a lot of opportunities. You began what became a horrible parade of loss for us. Dad never recovered. Coincidentally, that was the first day I ever took off for the surgical center. I know; not funny, but I still remember how beautiful you looked and how gorgeous your flowers were, and little Dude not understanding why you slept so well with all the people coming to see you, but he knew they were there to see you, took them by the hand, and led them up to pay their respects. Your house sits empty now, your husband in assisted living, diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and all us still missing you, great and classy lady that you were. I keep the things taken from your house in boxes, mystified by some of the articles. I don't know where they all came from, but there was symbolism behind everything you did, so I just wish you were here to ask. I miss you, too. Talk to Dad and then ask God for verification. He likes the two of you.

Book of the Pathetic Living entry for me: I didn't get this blogged in time. I got hit with the flu. Please tell me why I've never learned to barf without it coming through my nose. At least the date was apropos. Misery loves company, and lots of it.

Oh, and Heifer? I typed all the stuff on the tank.