You know what kind of day you've had when the best part is that your flatulence no longer comes with anything extra.
Ten crackers and holding them down just fine, thank you very much. The 48-hour flu can be broken down thusly:
A.M. hours - up top.
P.M. Hours - down low.
Yay, me.
And Heifer? The work is done. Good Company? I'm working on it. Slowly.
In order to keep myself afloat, once again, you're invited to spend my night with me. It's 10:46 p.m.
Music to read by: Evanescence, Going Under. No particular symbolism, it's just a hell of a song.
First random thought of the evening: If you were there, what would you have done? We had homework here tonight centered around WWII and Stalingrad, the Final Solution, etc. I realized all my kids could have been phenotypical poster children for the Nazis. If you've never read Corrie Ten Boom's Book, In My Father's House, even if you're not of the Christian persuasion, it's an amazing book, and the brave people need heralded.
It kind of started the "I think I would have hidden or helped or resisted, but would I really have?" train of thought. I'd like to think I would. I'd like to think nothing like this would ever happen in our country, but I know it can and could at any point. I hope I would be strong enough. I think about it and I sincerely hope if anything of the sort happens, it would be after my children are out of the house so I don't drag them into it. It would be hard making that kind of decision, knowing the effect it could have on your kids. I'm just being honest, here. There's another book, Blood and Honor, an autobiography of a kid coerced into the Hitler Youth, that has a take on the "I had to" thing. His parents were probably like me, but this kid had the foundation to know right from wrong. It's a very profound book. The cover alone is worth looking at. It's why I first read it when I was a kid.
12:29 a.m. Crackers good, dry marshmallow cereal even better.
12:51 a.m. This woman is way stronger than me:
The doctor says: "Married. Five children. No tobacco. No alcohol." How does she survive the marriage and kids without alcohol and tobacco? Maybe she goes postal in her down time. Maybe she's biding her time until...
Nah. She's actually my mother's age and same demographics, but mine's widowed.
2:38 a.m. When you're tired, achy, and your legs know you've been sitting in one place for too long, a hot bath with Epsom salts and Skin So Soft is really a good idea. I don't exactly love citronella, but the SSS makes it a lot easier to massage your legs and feet. Just sayin'. I had one foot cooler than the other from mashing the foot pedal for work. I don't like that. Now, they match. And they're warm. I feel better than I have in a week. Yes, and the cereal is still in me! I know it sounds pathetic, but you have to understand: I didn't change my desk trash can liner because it was full, but because I might need somewhere to hurl. It's been a very long few days.
4:40 a.m. My husband and I have decided there are enough balls in the US. Ball pythons, that is. Maybe the other way, too, but I'm not into man bashing without good reason. There are ads up for gravid females imported (wild caught) from Africa, and it has to do something to the local environment, thousands upon thousands of snakes, their eggs, their little ones. What are the males there supposed to do? I know that the big rats in the balls' diets are also a food that the natives eat, but...I do think we have to stop importing ball pythons. With all the morph mutations now here, the combination for pretty snakes is astronomical. Ralph Davis calculated it, and when the sun burns out, we'll still not see the end of the combos of ball python morphs. I think this is the first political thing I've done here, and it's for the snakes. Go fig.
6:09 a.m. I'm done with work. I think I'm going to catch up on some of the shows I've missed through the week while my kids get ready to go to school. I can't believe that 10 hours ago I was completely and totally sure I'd end up on the floor, and now I'm ready to tell my lil' darlins that I feel better.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Heifers and balls. Seriously.
Get moving! This is my mantra for today. Codeine notwithstanding, I can't afford to be sick anymore! We need food. Not only that, I took Thursday night off. The Good Company had no problems whatsoever. BC (well, the office person with whom I have butted heads before) had a hissy fit.
Since I started for them, if I needed to, I busted hiney until Thursday to take the day off if I absolutely had to. This time, I had to. I chose to go to an urgent care center on Thursday, because it's the lightest day of the week. I had talked with her (amicably, for a change) the day before, and I never told her I was sick. She didn't tell me how she felt, either, but I digress, and she lashed out in e-mail. I scanned my discharge summary, the Z-Pak package, and e-mailed it, telling her I couldn't scan the codeine bottle, but if she could read chicken scratches, the physician says not to drive while taking codeine.
Heifer.
She told me it's "not acceptable." Heh. That's the same terminology she used back in November. Of course, she was going to inform Ovis Ovis. Yeah. BFD. I beat her to it. Good luck getting Ovis Ovis on the phone, so I e-mailed him to, forwarded him her e-mail, my e-mail reply to her, and a good paragraph for him, too, telling him if he was unhappy, let me know and I could have the equipment on heifer's desk by 3:00 p.m. Monday, finishing the weekend's work, of course. So, we shall see. He told me he's not unhappy with my service, he knows I'm a one-man show, just like he is, and that it's perfectly acceptable to take a day, as long as it doesn't affect patient care. Forty-eight hour turnaround for a person who types reports on what was sent to the lab and already marked in the chart doesn't affect patient care. It never bothered anyone else until heifer took over.
Okay. Whatever. The offer for resignation still stands. I'll probably ask her if she has anyone else in mind and, if so, contact her/him. Because I've been with them so long, I do their work at a charity rate anyway, just because I can type for them quickly and end up making as much for them as anyone else. I have always enjoyed typing for them; the doctors there are so easily understood and nice to start the workday with or end with, I know what they expect, and so on. It's not so much of a refuge anymore. I don't think people understand that I'd rather have less pay than more stress. I like money, but I don't like making myself crazy to get it, especially when I have more than one job to rely on. ::shrugging:: I think I'm most angry of being accused of lying about being sick in the first place. I'm fairly easygoing, but I have a lot of pride in three areas: Intelligence, integrity, and dedication. When any of those three are questioned or challenged, I lose it.
So, the end result? Two days' worth of work only 2 pages longer than what I normally churn out on other nights of the week. She went ballistic over nothing.
Okay. I did laugh today, though. Really. See following IM log:
Me: would you want to escape with me and go get food?
Him: i'm debating my balls rite now
Me: the kids think that's quite funny
(NOTE: He always IMs me and doesn't think about what the kids might see, and someone's in here every five minutes during the day.)
Him: yea
Him: if i wanna have some new projects for fall
Me: okay, go play with your balls
Him: if i buy this summer..be for next winter
Him: 2009/2010
Me: boy, that's a long time to be playing with your balls
Me: :)
I guess we could use a priest to bless his balls. Again, we shall see.
My stalker caught me today, too. She was quite pleasant. I like surface chitchat and slow typists. IMs are such a wonderful things! I can do so many things while waiting for someone to type what they want. My older two kids, however, are typing demons. I bought Mavis Beacon and away they went, #1 more so than #2, but it's hard to tell her true speed since he's always got the computer, chatting with other gamers through the online game as well as five to ten IMs going, sometimes counting mine. Please tell him that's why I'm so mad that he also had $50 in text messages at 0.15 apiece. Yup, I sucked his soul and he is now mine--and so is his cell phone. He asked me what he was going to do if he had an emergency at school. I told him, apparently, a lot of his friends have cell phones. Borrow one. Two phone lines, three IMs/e-mail accounts, two cell phones--WTH does he need texting for???
Since I started for them, if I needed to, I busted hiney until Thursday to take the day off if I absolutely had to. This time, I had to. I chose to go to an urgent care center on Thursday, because it's the lightest day of the week. I had talked with her (amicably, for a change) the day before, and I never told her I was sick. She didn't tell me how she felt, either, but I digress, and she lashed out in e-mail. I scanned my discharge summary, the Z-Pak package, and e-mailed it, telling her I couldn't scan the codeine bottle, but if she could read chicken scratches, the physician says not to drive while taking codeine.
Heifer.
She told me it's "not acceptable." Heh. That's the same terminology she used back in November. Of course, she was going to inform Ovis Ovis. Yeah. BFD. I beat her to it. Good luck getting Ovis Ovis on the phone, so I e-mailed him to, forwarded him her e-mail, my e-mail reply to her, and a good paragraph for him, too, telling him if he was unhappy, let me know and I could have the equipment on heifer's desk by 3:00 p.m. Monday, finishing the weekend's work, of course. So, we shall see. He told me he's not unhappy with my service, he knows I'm a one-man show, just like he is, and that it's perfectly acceptable to take a day, as long as it doesn't affect patient care. Forty-eight hour turnaround for a person who types reports on what was sent to the lab and already marked in the chart doesn't affect patient care. It never bothered anyone else until heifer took over.
Okay. Whatever. The offer for resignation still stands. I'll probably ask her if she has anyone else in mind and, if so, contact her/him. Because I've been with them so long, I do their work at a charity rate anyway, just because I can type for them quickly and end up making as much for them as anyone else. I have always enjoyed typing for them; the doctors there are so easily understood and nice to start the workday with or end with, I know what they expect, and so on. It's not so much of a refuge anymore. I don't think people understand that I'd rather have less pay than more stress. I like money, but I don't like making myself crazy to get it, especially when I have more than one job to rely on. ::shrugging:: I think I'm most angry of being accused of lying about being sick in the first place. I'm fairly easygoing, but I have a lot of pride in three areas: Intelligence, integrity, and dedication. When any of those three are questioned or challenged, I lose it.
So, the end result? Two days' worth of work only 2 pages longer than what I normally churn out on other nights of the week. She went ballistic over nothing.
Okay. I did laugh today, though. Really. See following IM log:
Me: would you want to escape with me and go get food?
Him: i'm debating my balls rite now
Me: the kids think that's quite funny
(NOTE: He always IMs me and doesn't think about what the kids might see, and someone's in here every five minutes during the day.)
Him: yea
Him: if i wanna have some new projects for fall
Me: okay, go play with your balls
Him: if i buy this summer..be for next winter
Him: 2009/2010
Me: boy, that's a long time to be playing with your balls
Me: :)
I guess we could use a priest to bless his balls. Again, we shall see.
My stalker caught me today, too. She was quite pleasant. I like surface chitchat and slow typists. IMs are such a wonderful things! I can do so many things while waiting for someone to type what they want. My older two kids, however, are typing demons. I bought Mavis Beacon and away they went, #1 more so than #2, but it's hard to tell her true speed since he's always got the computer, chatting with other gamers through the online game as well as five to ten IMs going, sometimes counting mine. Please tell him that's why I'm so mad that he also had $50 in text messages at 0.15 apiece. Yup, I sucked his soul and he is now mine--and so is his cell phone. He asked me what he was going to do if he had an emergency at school. I told him, apparently, a lot of his friends have cell phones. Borrow one. Two phone lines, three IMs/e-mail accounts, two cell phones--WTH does he need texting for???
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