K over at Interstitial Life brought this topic to mind with her recent post on the Facebook/Breastfeeding controversy.
As you’ve all figured out by now, I’m the biggest blabbermouth in the world. Bill says the fastest way to spread a secret is to tell an Oates (my maiden name), although I think he’s primarily motivated by his desire to make snarky comments and get away with it. So my telling my sister that he said she looked like me dressed up as Howdy Doody (because she looks just like me but has red hair and freckles) was kind of a public service thing.
Anyway, I’ve gotten some questions over the past week from folks wanting to know how the new job is going. It’s fine. I’ve never done bookkeeping before, so I’m feeling kind of overwhelmed trying to learn it, but I keep telling myself that if I can write a computerized accounting system, I can figure out how to use one. This pep talk is working great except for my recurring nightmare that the authorities shut down the clinic because the books are so fouled up.
You probably won’t hear much about the clinic here at the Chronicles. It would be a HIPAA violation to share anything about the patients and unethical to share anything about folks who report to me. Occasionally, there will be non-patient, non-employee related things, like this week’s mouse excursion, but mostly stuff I have to keep to myself.
One thing I can say about the clinic, though, is that the culture is radically different from the manufacturing environment I worked in for the past 11 years. This became evident when I overheard a couple of folks talking outside my door the other day.
Person A: My husband is having a colonoscopy today. He threw up the prep solution and had to take it again. He was up all night.
Okay, this is (barely) within the limits of what could be discussed (in a whisper) at Ye Olde Job.
Person B: Yeah, I’ve had loose stools for the past two weeks.
Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.
(Tomorrow: A couple of examples of extreme oversharing in the workplace.)
Friday, January 9, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
In Memoriam
Michael J. (Mickey) Mouse passed away suddenly late Tuesday night following an unfortunate diving accident.
Rest in peace.
(The ladies at the clinic aren’t thrilled, but they admit it wasn’t cool to have a rodent running all over the clinic, leaving tiny brown gifts everywhere.)
*
So, you’re wondering, how did I know that if you give a mouse a swimming pool with a gang plank attached, he would turn it into an opportunity to meet his maker? Ah, thereby hangs a tale….
I learned this on my first IT job, at a local college, from a guy we’ll call Stan.
Stan was really smart, but I’m not sure how much of the real world he ever heard over the sound of his own drummer. He spent his free time constructing windmills powered by the office ventilation system and sundials that were latitude-adjusted to accurately tell the time on sunny days. On Fridays he would bring in a metal detector and go through the couches in the lobbies, extracting lost change. I believe his lifetime high for one foray was $1.28.
There was also a prankster in the office, we’ll call him Tom. Tom’s practical jokes were both merciless and legendary. He once programmed my phone to automatically forward to the office of the college president. Another time he went out to the parking lot at lunch and moved the car of this guy who was foolish enough to leave his keys lying out, so when it was time to go home the guy freaked out, thinking his car had been stolen. I could go on and on, but you get the picture.
Anyway, at some point we noticed that, despite all his tomfoolery, he never played jokes on Stan. One day I asked him why.
“You remember when the Oakwood library had that contest," he said, "to see who could translate the Egyptian hieroglyphics over their entranceway?”
“Sure.” Of course I did – Stan had won that contest.
“Well, Stan figured out the correct translation from this book he had.”
“Okay.”
“Well, a few weeks later I saw he had a book on plutonium bombs.”
I nodded.
“Since then, I don’t fuck with him.”
*
Anyway, one day we discovered a mouse in the computer room. Maintenance set traps, but they came up empty. (Literally – the bait was gone, but the mouse got away.) After a couple of weeks of this, Stan brought in a bucket and taped a wooden ruler to the rim, just like the picture above.
This must have been prior to the hieroglyphics contest, because I remember we all razzed him about it.
Until the next morning, when he quietly disposed of the drowned mouse.
(Which, by the way, is just a gross way to start your day. I don't recommend it. The toilets at the clinic have frequent issues, so I didn't want to give him the goldfish treatment. Turns out I'm not any crazier about dead mice than I am live ones, so I'm standing there shuddering, teeth clenched to keep from screaming, as I use the paint stirrer to keep him from plopping into the john. Ugh.)
Rest in peace.
(The ladies at the clinic aren’t thrilled, but they admit it wasn’t cool to have a rodent running all over the clinic, leaving tiny brown gifts everywhere.)
*
So, you’re wondering, how did I know that if you give a mouse a swimming pool with a gang plank attached, he would turn it into an opportunity to meet his maker? Ah, thereby hangs a tale….
I learned this on my first IT job, at a local college, from a guy we’ll call Stan.
Stan was really smart, but I’m not sure how much of the real world he ever heard over the sound of his own drummer. He spent his free time constructing windmills powered by the office ventilation system and sundials that were latitude-adjusted to accurately tell the time on sunny days. On Fridays he would bring in a metal detector and go through the couches in the lobbies, extracting lost change. I believe his lifetime high for one foray was $1.28.
There was also a prankster in the office, we’ll call him Tom. Tom’s practical jokes were both merciless and legendary. He once programmed my phone to automatically forward to the office of the college president. Another time he went out to the parking lot at lunch and moved the car of this guy who was foolish enough to leave his keys lying out, so when it was time to go home the guy freaked out, thinking his car had been stolen. I could go on and on, but you get the picture.
Anyway, at some point we noticed that, despite all his tomfoolery, he never played jokes on Stan. One day I asked him why.
“You remember when the Oakwood library had that contest," he said, "to see who could translate the Egyptian hieroglyphics over their entranceway?”
“Sure.” Of course I did – Stan had won that contest.
“Well, Stan figured out the correct translation from this book he had.”
“Okay.”
“Well, a few weeks later I saw he had a book on plutonium bombs.”
I nodded.
“Since then, I don’t fuck with him.”
*
Anyway, one day we discovered a mouse in the computer room. Maintenance set traps, but they came up empty. (Literally – the bait was gone, but the mouse got away.) After a couple of weeks of this, Stan brought in a bucket and taped a wooden ruler to the rim, just like the picture above.
This must have been prior to the hieroglyphics contest, because I remember we all razzed him about it.
Until the next morning, when he quietly disposed of the drowned mouse.
(Which, by the way, is just a gross way to start your day. I don't recommend it. The toilets at the clinic have frequent issues, so I didn't want to give him the goldfish treatment. Turns out I'm not any crazier about dead mice than I am live ones, so I'm standing there shuddering, teeth clenched to keep from screaming, as I use the paint stirrer to keep him from plopping into the john. Ugh.)
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Old Joke #3
This is in honor of Dan J., who recently de-lurked and left a comment. Dan was my boss at my former job, and would have saved me from being laid off if he hadn’t been shit-canned, too. He is a runner, and I always wanted to tell him this joke, but it seemed a little inappropriate for the office.
A guy is out jogging very early one morning when he realizes he has to take a dump. He looks around for a public building, or a gas station, but he’s in a residential neighborhood. He runs for a few more minutes, but the urge just grows stronger. Then he spots a thick cluster of bushes. He considers running on past, but the need is just too great. Stepping behind the shrubbery, he shucks down his shorts and squats.
As he finishes, but before he can pull up his running shorts, the worst happens. An old lady appears beside the bushes and stands there, staring at him without speaking.
Embarrassed, he says, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
The old lady smiles coyly.
“I’ve been a widow for many years. Would you mind,” she blushes, “if I just touch one of your testicles?”
The man is taken aback, but he’s not really in a position to refuse. “Okay.”
Reaching out, she gently cradles his left testicle between her fingers and thumb for a brief moment.
As he starts to pull up his shorts, he realizes she’s still staring fixedly at him.
“Would you mind,” she says, blushing even more deeply, “if I touched your other testicle?”
Reluctantly, he agrees and she softly squeezes his right testicle.
By now he’s starting to enjoy himself, so he’s not too upset when, after glancing down in embarrassment, she gazes shyly into his eyes and says, “Would you mind if I just touch both of them at the same time?”
“Sure,” he says. “Go ahead.”
The old lady takes his left testicle in her left hand and his right testicle in her right hand,. Slamming them together with every word, she yells:
“DON’T…EVER…SHIT…IN…MY…YARD…AGAIN!”
A guy is out jogging very early one morning when he realizes he has to take a dump. He looks around for a public building, or a gas station, but he’s in a residential neighborhood. He runs for a few more minutes, but the urge just grows stronger. Then he spots a thick cluster of bushes. He considers running on past, but the need is just too great. Stepping behind the shrubbery, he shucks down his shorts and squats.
As he finishes, but before he can pull up his running shorts, the worst happens. An old lady appears beside the bushes and stands there, staring at him without speaking.
Embarrassed, he says, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
The old lady smiles coyly.
“I’ve been a widow for many years. Would you mind,” she blushes, “if I just touch one of your testicles?”
The man is taken aback, but he’s not really in a position to refuse. “Okay.”
Reaching out, she gently cradles his left testicle between her fingers and thumb for a brief moment.
As he starts to pull up his shorts, he realizes she’s still staring fixedly at him.
“Would you mind,” she says, blushing even more deeply, “if I touched your other testicle?”
Reluctantly, he agrees and she softly squeezes his right testicle.
By now he’s starting to enjoy himself, so he’s not too upset when, after glancing down in embarrassment, she gazes shyly into his eyes and says, “Would you mind if I just touch both of them at the same time?”
“Sure,” he says. “Go ahead.”
The old lady takes his left testicle in her left hand and his right testicle in her right hand,. Slamming them together with every word, she yells:
“DON’T…EVER…SHIT…IN…MY…YARD…AGAIN!”
Monday, January 5, 2009
Of Mice and (Wo)men
I started my new job today and I just want to rail at the injustice of the universe for a moment.
Because there was a MOUSE in the clinic! He ran in the front door last Tuesday (it's an automatic door that closes very slowly to give handicapped patients plenty of time to get in) and apparently he managed to find enough food to hang out for the past week.
And when I suggested bringing in a trap and squashing his little head, I started to realize that, even though I've always been the bleeding heart liberal everywhere I've worked in the past, a new day has dawned.
Because every single one of the women I worked with chorused, "No! You can't do that!"
So I won't.
However, if I were to set a pail of water, with a cunningly contrived little gangplank, I mean diving board, in the kitchen, it wouldn't be my fault if he found out he couldn't swim.....
Because there was a MOUSE in the clinic! He ran in the front door last Tuesday (it's an automatic door that closes very slowly to give handicapped patients plenty of time to get in) and apparently he managed to find enough food to hang out for the past week.
And when I suggested bringing in a trap and squashing his little head, I started to realize that, even though I've always been the bleeding heart liberal everywhere I've worked in the past, a new day has dawned.
Because every single one of the women I worked with chorused, "No! You can't do that!"
So I won't.
However, if I were to set a pail of water, with a cunningly contrived little gangplank, I mean diving board, in the kitchen, it wouldn't be my fault if he found out he couldn't swim.....
10 True Things
This is the exercise required to earn the "Honest Scrap" award given to me by Comedy Goddess. After reading Ian's (Idiot Stew) list, I decided not to even compete in the funny category, so all you're getting are true statements.
1) I’ve been married 3 times. The first, at age 18, for 13 years. Then again at age 33 for 6 years. And now for 11 years. God knows why Bill was willing to give this a shot, but it seems to work.
2) I am spatially challenged. I cannot stand in my basement and tell you what room is overhead. I can look out the basement window, see what’s out there and figure out what upstairs room offers the same vista, but to just know – doesn’t happen.
3) When I was in the fifth grade, I read that William Shakespeare had the best vocabulary in the history of English and I resolved to exceed him. By the time I was in high school and heard Howard Cosell announce a football game and realized how annoying it is when people use words others don’t understand, the damage was done.
4) I am afraid of mice. As in, stand-on-a-chair-and-shriek afraid.
5) I am not afraid of snakes, although I wouldn't wear one as an accessory.
6) I am 2/3 of the way through my third read-through of the Bible. This makes it impossible for me to take everything in it literally. I plan to continue re-reading it, in different translations, as long as I live.
7) Although I made a fair living at it for 33 years, I was never especially good with computers. A few years ago, people on my former team held a party and burned one of my programs in the fireplace because it was so difficult to maintain. As far as I know, there was no straw figure of me in there with the greenbar.
8) My SAT scores were high enough to qualify me for Mensa. I did not join as I figured the last thing I needed was to pal around with other socially-challenged people. (For all I know, Condaleeza Rice and Madeline Albright may chair their local chapters, but the Mensa folks I've known over the years belonged in an Asperger's support group.)
9) I drink bottled water at home. This is because I live less than a mile from an old landfill that was never completely cleaned up, and from a petroleum depot. I’m a freak about recycling the bottles, but it’s still not something I feel great about. However, I’d feel even worse about dying with a third hand sprouting from the top of my head.
10) I’ve wanted to write since I was old enough to hold a pencil. In the second grade, when Mrs. Young had us draw what we wanted to be when we grew up, my picture showed a woman in a flowing blue dress, seated at a typewriter. This blog is the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on.
1) I’ve been married 3 times. The first, at age 18, for 13 years. Then again at age 33 for 6 years. And now for 11 years. God knows why Bill was willing to give this a shot, but it seems to work.
2) I am spatially challenged. I cannot stand in my basement and tell you what room is overhead. I can look out the basement window, see what’s out there and figure out what upstairs room offers the same vista, but to just know – doesn’t happen.
3) When I was in the fifth grade, I read that William Shakespeare had the best vocabulary in the history of English and I resolved to exceed him. By the time I was in high school and heard Howard Cosell announce a football game and realized how annoying it is when people use words others don’t understand, the damage was done.
4) I am afraid of mice. As in, stand-on-a-chair-and-shriek afraid.
5) I am not afraid of snakes, although I wouldn't wear one as an accessory.
6) I am 2/3 of the way through my third read-through of the Bible. This makes it impossible for me to take everything in it literally. I plan to continue re-reading it, in different translations, as long as I live.
7) Although I made a fair living at it for 33 years, I was never especially good with computers. A few years ago, people on my former team held a party and burned one of my programs in the fireplace because it was so difficult to maintain. As far as I know, there was no straw figure of me in there with the greenbar.
8) My SAT scores were high enough to qualify me for Mensa. I did not join as I figured the last thing I needed was to pal around with other socially-challenged people. (For all I know, Condaleeza Rice and Madeline Albright may chair their local chapters, but the Mensa folks I've known over the years belonged in an Asperger's support group.)
9) I drink bottled water at home. This is because I live less than a mile from an old landfill that was never completely cleaned up, and from a petroleum depot. I’m a freak about recycling the bottles, but it’s still not something I feel great about. However, I’d feel even worse about dying with a third hand sprouting from the top of my head.
10) I’ve wanted to write since I was old enough to hold a pencil. In the second grade, when Mrs. Young had us draw what we wanted to be when we grew up, my picture showed a woman in a flowing blue dress, seated at a typewriter. This blog is the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
At the Sound of the Beep
On Wednesday of the first week I was laid off, I heard a noise, a slow, measured beeeep that reiterated four times. The first time it happened, I ignored it, figuring it was a utility truck outside backing up.
About fifteen minutes later, though, it sounded again. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Along about the third beep, I jumped up, forsaking my keyboard, and went on safari, but by the time I reached the kitchen, it had stopped.
Fifteen minutes passed and there it was again. This time, I leapt to my feet and raced through the kitchen to the smoke detector. Nope, it wasn’t the smoke detector. By the fourth beep, I was rounding the kitchen counters (which are edged with foam tubes, so that I don’t eviscerate, I mean, so the grandkids don’t brain themselves. Thank God). I threw open the basement door as the last beep sounded. Dammit.
Next iteration, I headed straight for the basement, clattering down the wooden stairs, to determine that it was not the lower level smoke alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector. I was heading back to the first floor as this round ended.
A quarter of an hour passed and I sprinted for the second floor, but still no dice.
And that was it. No more beeps.
The next week, the same thing occurred. I ran all over looking for the source, without success. But I’m not trained in Six Sigma methods for Process Improvement and Kepner-Tregoe Problem-Solving techniques for nothing. I made a note on my desk blotter: this time it occurred on Tuesday, starting at 8:15 a.m.
For the next five weeks, I repeated this exercise, looking for a source, a pattern, something that would tell me how I to eliminate this annoyance which was interfering so grievously with my writing. I told Bill about it, but it never happened when he was home. He changed out all the smoke detector batteries, but within a few days, it was back.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, it recurred.
Excitedly, I ran into the living room. “That’s it!” I shouted. “That’s the noise.”
He meandered into the kitchen, listened for a moment and said, “It’s the dishwasher, you idiot. It’s telling you it’s done.”
Idiot?
Fortunately, as well as being grounded in Problem Solving and Troubleshooting, I’m fluent in Husbandese, and know this actually translates into “my beloved wife, center of beauty and intelligence for the universe.”
Because no one is dumb enough to talk like that to the person who prepares his food.
About fifteen minutes later, though, it sounded again. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. Along about the third beep, I jumped up, forsaking my keyboard, and went on safari, but by the time I reached the kitchen, it had stopped.
Fifteen minutes passed and there it was again. This time, I leapt to my feet and raced through the kitchen to the smoke detector. Nope, it wasn’t the smoke detector. By the fourth beep, I was rounding the kitchen counters (which are edged with foam tubes, so that I don’t eviscerate, I mean, so the grandkids don’t brain themselves. Thank God). I threw open the basement door as the last beep sounded. Dammit.
Next iteration, I headed straight for the basement, clattering down the wooden stairs, to determine that it was not the lower level smoke alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector. I was heading back to the first floor as this round ended.
A quarter of an hour passed and I sprinted for the second floor, but still no dice.
And that was it. No more beeps.
The next week, the same thing occurred. I ran all over looking for the source, without success. But I’m not trained in Six Sigma methods for Process Improvement and Kepner-Tregoe Problem-Solving techniques for nothing. I made a note on my desk blotter: this time it occurred on Tuesday, starting at 8:15 a.m.
For the next five weeks, I repeated this exercise, looking for a source, a pattern, something that would tell me how I to eliminate this annoyance which was interfering so grievously with my writing. I told Bill about it, but it never happened when he was home. He changed out all the smoke detector batteries, but within a few days, it was back.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, it recurred.
Excitedly, I ran into the living room. “That’s it!” I shouted. “That’s the noise.”
He meandered into the kitchen, listened for a moment and said, “It’s the dishwasher, you idiot. It’s telling you it’s done.”
Idiot?
Fortunately, as well as being grounded in Problem Solving and Troubleshooting, I’m fluent in Husbandese, and know this actually translates into “my beloved wife, center of beauty and intelligence for the universe.”
Because no one is dumb enough to talk like that to the person who prepares his food.
Friday, January 2, 2009
A Hoy There, Mateys!
Ta-da! I won my first blog award, A Hoy! (This is probably old hat to many of you, but it’s my first award, so I’m very excited. )
It was given to me by Radagast, who was actually my first follower, too, way back in September, when I started this. It was he who first made me realize that blogging is more than just putting your thoughts on (electronic) paper – they actually go out into the world, and people read them, and engage with you. For a writer who’s used to working without an audience, that was heady stuff indeed.
I’d like to re-award (like re-gifting, but without the risk of social embarrassment) to everyone in my blogroll. After all, that’s why you’re in my blogroll –- because I enjoy your blogs so much. However, the Hoy by-laws prevent me from passing to more than three blogs that are already in my blogroll, though, so I’m going to shoot for diversity of content.
My choices for passing this on are:
1) K (Interstitial Life) – because she’s hysterically funny. Pick a post, any post, and I guarantee you’ll laugh.
2) Connie (Far Side of Fifty) – because she posts such gorgeous photos and she tells stories of the America I remember growing up in, and regret that my grandkids will never know.
3) Buffalo Dick (Opinions and Rectums, We All Got One) -– because he’s funny, and he cooks beautiful food and sometimes the blogosphere gets a little girly and he breaks that up. With an ice axe.
4) Rachel (Rachel’s Ramblings) -- because her posts always show me something I've never seen before, or thougt about before, or somehow make me think.
5) Chef E (The Behind the Wheel Chef, et. al.) – because there’s a lot of variety in her 6 blogs. If you can’t find something to your taste in one, you will find it in another.
Rules for Making an Award
1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award based upon any criteria - for example, the quality of the commentary, wit, humour, artwork, overall design, value to you of the information being provided, and so on.
2. The awarding blogger should choose at least two blogs not on his or her own blogroll, the purpose being to encourage variety of reading matter, and to have the person making the award think about what they like to see and read.
3. Your five choices must be published in a dedicated post on your own blog. This post must contain the name of the author (which may be their logon name), and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone. This post should contain brief details of what attracted you to the blog. Details may also be posted in the comments section of "What is a Hoy?"
4. In the same dedicated post, each winner has to show the award and acknowledge the blog that has given him or her the award.
5. Both those awarding and receiving A Hoy must show the link to A Hoy blog, so that everyone will know the origin of this award.
6. When publishing details of the blogs to which you have made your awards, these rules must be published for recipients to follow.
It was given to me by Radagast, who was actually my first follower, too, way back in September, when I started this. It was he who first made me realize that blogging is more than just putting your thoughts on (electronic) paper – they actually go out into the world, and people read them, and engage with you. For a writer who’s used to working without an audience, that was heady stuff indeed.
I’d like to re-award (like re-gifting, but without the risk of social embarrassment) to everyone in my blogroll. After all, that’s why you’re in my blogroll –- because I enjoy your blogs so much. However, the Hoy by-laws prevent me from passing to more than three blogs that are already in my blogroll, though, so I’m going to shoot for diversity of content.
My choices for passing this on are:
1) K (Interstitial Life) – because she’s hysterically funny. Pick a post, any post, and I guarantee you’ll laugh.
2) Connie (Far Side of Fifty) – because she posts such gorgeous photos and she tells stories of the America I remember growing up in, and regret that my grandkids will never know.
3) Buffalo Dick (Opinions and Rectums, We All Got One) -– because he’s funny, and he cooks beautiful food and sometimes the blogosphere gets a little girly and he breaks that up. With an ice axe.
4) Rachel (Rachel’s Ramblings) -- because her posts always show me something I've never seen before, or thougt about before, or somehow make me think.
5) Chef E (The Behind the Wheel Chef, et. al.) – because there’s a lot of variety in her 6 blogs. If you can’t find something to your taste in one, you will find it in another.
Rules for Making an Award
1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award based upon any criteria - for example, the quality of the commentary, wit, humour, artwork, overall design, value to you of the information being provided, and so on.
2. The awarding blogger should choose at least two blogs not on his or her own blogroll, the purpose being to encourage variety of reading matter, and to have the person making the award think about what they like to see and read.
3. Your five choices must be published in a dedicated post on your own blog. This post must contain the name of the author (which may be their logon name), and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone. This post should contain brief details of what attracted you to the blog. Details may also be posted in the comments section of "What is a Hoy?"
4. In the same dedicated post, each winner has to show the award and acknowledge the blog that has given him or her the award.
5. Both those awarding and receiving A Hoy must show the link to A Hoy blog, so that everyone will know the origin of this award.
6. When publishing details of the blogs to which you have made your awards, these rules must be published for recipients to follow.
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