mom?
Yes?
next time you get in a car accident, i know who you should call.
You do?
yep, you need to call the heavy hitter. he’ll take on the insurance company and get you your money FAST.
All rightee then.
you want the number?
You know what it is, don’t you?
it’s 555-1000
Thank you, Son. I really need to teach you how to mute the commercials.
I’m going to state that ridiculously obvious here: I am not a patient person. Or as I usually say: Patience is a virtue - one I don’t have.
And truly, my impatience is in everything. If I buy a something as a gift for someone, not giving it to them until the appointed date and/or time is just about enough to make me pack my own bags for the funny farm; I can’t stand it. I have an idea in my head for how this room could look better? It is scant moments until I have my tape measure in hand. There have been several times that, had the power been out when he got there, my husband would have come home and tripped over the couch being where the walkway USED to be. Even in conversation, I’m a GET ON WITH IT ALREADY(!!)(!) kind of girl, as my scholarly (read: windbag) husband will attest. (You can feel sorry for both of us there; we’ve both earned it.)
I’ve been more than a little aggravated with my workplace lately. I am lucky in that I truly like a lot of the people that I work with; however, the BS is getting old in what my grandparents called a quick, fast hurry. Hand-in-hand with my impatience is my need to fully understand what is expected of me. I want training. I want to understand my job, my duties, my software, and the tools I am expected to use. I want to understand the rules of the company and the client, and I want to be able to recite them backward and forward in a way that someone else can understand (which, by the way, is part of my job). The reason I want all of that is so that I can function as a highly-trained, intelligent individual within the organization. It is the reason that I am self-employed, working as a subcontractor and paying my own #$%^(*! taxes at a higher rate than sane people. When I am not given this type of information, even after repeatedly asking for it and even fostering ways to make it easier for it to be provided to me (and other in my position), I am left to wonder why. This isn’t my first go-round in this type of position, and I have never been denied this type of information before. Based on other communications, policies, etc., I am left with two overwhelming impressions: Information and training are not being provided because (1) the director doesn’t know what he’s doing in this field and does not recognize how different it is than others and (2) the director wants to micromanage.
The more I think about all of this, the more clear it becomes to me that this isn’t something that is apt to change any time soon. It appears that it has been this way for quite some time and that, barring a supreme act of nature, it’s gonna stay that way. This means that I suddenly find myself in a itchin’ hurry to get the hell outta Dodge.
Which brings me back to patience, and that lack thereof.
I have a resume waiting at another company right now. They’re swamped with new clients and needing help, and their ad came across my desk at the right moment. It’s a company I’ve considered several times over the last few years, but the timing was never right. I think I have a very good shot at contracting with them, and from all I’ve heard, it sounds like it could be an excellent fit for me. Of course, there is still that ‘grass is always greener’ thing, but I’m optimistic because someone I have a lot of respect for couldn’t find a single negative thing to say after having been there for more than a year.
It’s been a week. The ants in my pants are getting antsy. And with every e-mail from the current company that gives one more tidbit of information that directly contradicts something said previously or gives a shred of new information that should/could have been shared in the training that should have happened when I or any of the lackeys below me were hired, the ants give birth to more ants. And they’re all pissed.
Frick. I hate waiting.
what are you lookin’ at, mom?
I was just noticing that my flowers are blooming!
where?
The yellow ones, right there.
wow. how the heck can they be blooming without roll and grow?!?
Without what??
roll and grow
What? roll ? and ? grow ?
[looks at me like I'm obviously an addle-minded twit]
roll.and.grow. you know, just roll out, water, and let nature do the rest!
Wait a minute. Do you mean that thing on TV?
yeah! [with a look that screams: duh!]
You do know that flowers can grow and bloom WITHOUT Roll N Grow, right? What on earth are they teaching you in science class anyway?
i don’t know.
I knew that already.
Ever have one of those moments when you get all up on your high horse about something and you’re so proud of yourself in the moment you’re finished because you really had a right to say everything you just said? A full-on, SO THERE! moment?
And in that next moment: Dear God, I am such a jackass. WHY did I do that???
*frantic hand waving* Me, me, me.
I’ve been meaning to write about the car accident I was involved in a couple of weeks ago, but I just haven’t had the energy. Why? Because I’ve been expending all of that energy dealing with the mental, emotional, and tangible fall-out from it, including the fact that my car is sitting useless and battered in a body shop that I’ve never even seen in person while no one is taking responsibility for getting it fixed or paying for the rental car I’m driving at $25/day (and brother, I’m here to tell you that I don’t have $25/day to be giving away - ever, but particularly right now since the IRS wants $$ out of me in 12 days). As I was the hit-ee in said vehicular onslaught, I’m dealing with the other driver’s insurance company to attempt to get something done. Yeah. I’m not sure what planet my sad little brain was on when I thought they’d actually be straightforward and do, ya know, what they’re supposed to do, AKA The Right Thing, but I was obviously delusional that day.
I just left a reasonably nasty (for me) message on the claim adjuster’s voicemail, the jerk who won’t bother to return my call, has been rude to my rental car office, has been a complete assclown to my body shop, and who has the estimate for my repairs sitting on his desk for no less than 2-1/2 days now but has known about the whole damn thing for the entire 2 weeks. I made threats to send my insurance company after him. I used the word lawyer (I slay myself… let’s remember that I don’t have the $ for the rental car). I told him that he was rude AND unprofessional. I’m such a badass. *groan* I somehow imagine him getting the message and laughing himself all the way to the vending machine for his celebratory M&Ms.
The very short version of the accident is that it was pouring rain in a “somebody build an Ark” fashion, and as I was bringing the kids home from school (one mine, one not mine), the other driver (by her statement) tapped her brakes to change lanes and suddenly was careening into a hard spin that would have been 100% impossible for almost any vehicle to make at that sharp of a degree without the benefit of hydroplaning—a benefit she had in spades. In what is, without a single doubt, the very best bit of driving I have ever done in my life (and I’ve had some good moments), my addled brain managed to process the potential outcomes of my possibilities and, from there on, took over with eerily calm almost-instinctual maneuvering. I didn’t slow. I sped up. I drove as hard as I could FOR the median, knowing that I might rub it but that, even if I did, it was the only way to keep the gargantuan barge of a vehicle from hitting my car directly at my son’s door. If I was lucky, we wouldn’t be hit at all and maybe I’d just lose my driver’s side mirror. I wasn’t lucky.
I’ve been in a couple of accidents in my lifetime, only two as the driver — one deemed 50% my fault (I pulled out in front of him, believing his turn signal - foolish, inexperienced driver that I was) and one 100% not my fault (rear-ended on a busy freeway in stopped traffic). Incidentally, they happened within 7 days of each other. But, I’ve been a passenger in several others; I did grow up in the Midwest after all, and lo and behold, ice changes things for anything with wheels. I can solidly state that I have never been in a vehicle that has been hit as hard as mine was in this accident, a combination of the ginormous assault vehicle, 55 mph starting speed, and the momentum of both when combined with hydroplaning. We 360′d in the middle lane of a very busy freeway in the middle of town — both vehicles — and somehow, neither of us hit anyone else. A miracle, nothing short of.
Anyway, the boys dealt with it well, the other mother was able to pick them up within about 30 minutes, my car was towed, my husband picked me up and brought me home, and I was finally able to lose my composure after we’d pulled into the garage and turned the car off. You see, that processing that happened in my mind? I was right. When I looked at the damage to my car, I was hit directly at the rear passenger side wheel/gas tank door area. And when you looked closer, you could see the small margin of the rear passenger door that was abnormally bent. The door behind which my son was sitting.
In light of that, fine, so I made a stupid phone call today. Two weeks ago, I may have saved my son’s life.
I am a badass.
Today is World Autism Awareness Day.
…in case you live in a bubble without internet, television, or radio access and haven’t already heard.
Of course, I say that, but yet I’m irritated to hell and back that Google didn’t alter its homepage image today in recognition. ??? Because there was never a logo that begged more for a puzzle piece, so how does that work?
The concept of this day (and really, week) is great, and more power to everyone involved in raising awareness throughout the world. Incidentally, I hope we’re raising awareness about more than nonverbal autism; I know that CNN has a wonderful article written by an Aspergian someone on their staff. I also hope we’re doing more than bitching about vaccines and raving about gluten-free diets. Yes, those are important issues, but they aren’t the only issues.
Have you noticed that anything talking about Autism Awareness seems to end up being the same few things over and over again? If you’re a parent of an autistic child, I assure you, you’ve noticed. Currently the winners are:
Things I don’t see anyone talking about:
CNN has dedicated a huge amount of their day’s programming to autism, which is fantastic, truly. It would be even more fantastic if it hadn’t inspired someone to call me repeatedly to tell me that it was on and that I should watch it. I’m pretty sure it would be deemed incredibly rude of me to reply, “In case you hadn’t noticed? I’m Aware. With a capital A. YOU watch it. Call your friends and tell THEM to watch it. Please, scream it from the highest rooftop. But me? I’m covered.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go spend some time with my autistic son, whose programming is dedicated to raising my Awareness 24/7/365.
I’m a Gmail user. I was a fairly early Gmail user, having been invited by a much bigger nerd friend who was a really early Gmail user. Since becoming a Gmail user, I’ve been really happy with the service, though I think their organizational system sucks. I’m all for outdoing anything Microsoft, believe me (*nyeeet, nerrrt, vyyyrrrt, vrrraaat…..Bill Gates is the devil….nyeeet, nerrrt), but they missed the mark on that starring crap and having to label every message that meets the inbox. I’ve felt that I could announce my association with Gmail in a positive light and promote their service.
Right up until yesterday, when Gmail made me a liar by association.
I’m not a saint. I’ve lied about calls I’ve never made. I’ve fibbed about what time I left the house or that I must have been outside when the phone rang. Heck, what the hell, I may possibly (but not certainly) have even fudged the date on the postage machine a time or two (you can’t prove it!). So, I can certainly understand the possible problem of not having forgotten to send an important e-mail to someone by a crucial deadline.
But seriously, the CustomTime feature that Gmail just added now brings every important e-mail sent by every Gmail user under suspicion. Did he really send that when he said he did? Did it really get caught in a server blackout on my end when there was a storm in my city or did he use the Gmail CustomTime feature to make me think he didn’t miss that deadline?
Unbelievable, Gmail. You act like you’re trying to help your business clients by providing them the opportunity to whitewash, all while using your other hand to smear mud on the ones who weren’t stuffing $1 bills in some dancer’s G-string when they were supposed to be sending that quote to the client.
Do me a favor? Don’t do me anymore favors unless you’re going to send a week’s worth of those $1 bills my way.
*That’s a record playing backwards, in case you didn’t know.
**Remember Mikey from the Life cereal commercial? He’s dead. Pop Rocks and Coke. Haven’t you heard?
***Ozzy Osbourne has eaten a bat a day for the last 30 years.
****Paris Hilton is having Lindsay Lohan’s lovechild. Pass it on.
*(5) Yes, I’m so lame that I can’t come up with my own April Fool’s and had to climb on Gmail’s. But I had ya goin, didn’t I?
Yeah, okay. Who thought I’d actually finish the photos by the end of the month? Let’s see a show of hands….
Anyone with your hand up? You need to read me more; you would have known better.
It is definitely not off my radar, but I have to admit that my taxes are currently absorbing what is left of my sanity — and I haven’t even started them yet.
But Dys, you have a month left! No, no actually, I have 10 days.
My kid goes to a fabulous, wonderful, I can’t say enough good things about it but someday I’ll write a blog where I try, super school. Said super school is private and, therefore, requires a tuition payment larger than our mortgage payment. Now, it’s the best money ever spent, BUT it’s still a frickin’ boatload o’ dough. Thus, we file an application with them for financial aid. The application requires a copy of our taxes. The application is due on March 24.
You see the issue.
So, my entire goal this week is to get my laptop into the shop to be repaired because, yes, last year’s taxes are on there, which I have to have to do this year’s taxes, and then to get my freakin’ taxes finished and still have hair left on my head. And hopefully to remember to shower once or twice in the process. I’m self-employed, so taxes are not a matter of adding up what we paid versus what we owed and mailing in the form/check. No, there are deductions to be taken and receipts to be found.
Yes, found. Did I mention that I have ADD? The majority of those receipts (I do attempt an effort, after all) are in piles of papers that conveniently reside throughout every corner of our house (I’m sorry, honey, truly sorry!) and in boxes and in tubs and in baskets and on countertops and on desks and …. you get the idea.
I once watched an organizational show (har dee har har - if you have enough money to spend, you too can be organized! foooooor about 15 minutes….) where the ‘professional’ actually had the audacity to say that the client was a ‘surface abuser’ and that meant that the professional was going to minimize the number of surfaces the client had available to abuse, thereby supposedly forcing her to put things away instead of pile.
Excuse me. Are you going to remove my floor too?
Yeah, then forget it, Sister. That’s not going to accomplish your goal, and if I’m paying you that kind of money, you’d damn sure better bring more game than that.
If you need me, I’ll be on the floor - looking for my receipts.
Just a tidbit for anyone considering running from their bills: You never know when your dirty laundry will end up in someone else’s house.
6 p.m. yesterday - phone rings…
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Ms. Dyskinesia?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Ms. D, this is Horrified-sounding-I’ve-only-been-at-this-job-for-a-week Smith with Ford Motor Credit. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to get a message to your neighbors, Dick & Jane Johnson?”
“Ummm, except that I don’t have any idea who they are….”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It says here that they live at AddressNumberAcrossTheStreet?”
“Oh, so that’s their names, huh? They’re fairly new to the neighborhood. I’m a total hermit, but sure, I have seen their physical forms more than once so I do know they exist. So, what can I do ya for?”
“Well, I need to get a message to them to call me at this number. Would you be willing to deliver that message? I mean, I understand if you wouldn’t be comfortable doing that if you don’t know them.”
“Oh, no problem. I live for nothing more than delivering bad news to total strangers that I’ve seen arguing on their lawn like a couple of psychos. Gimme the number, and I’ll get it right to them!”
She did.
I didn’t.
And you know why I didn’t? Because if I have to hear you screaming obscenities at each other as you load the car for your vacation (while your 12-year-old daughter is SITTING ON THE STEPS listening to your idiot selves), I’m not doing you any damn favors anytime soon.
Besides, what’s more fun that watching the repo guy come steal your neighbors’ truck in the middle of the night?
My husband and I were discussing a dilemma of mine this evening, something that involves some serious expectations that someone else is thrusting upon me, and those expectations include the word, “guaranteed,” as in I need to be the one guaranteeing that I will do something in particular.
And just how well do we imagine that’s going over with me? Yeah, about like that.
Finally, on my last utterance of “guarantee,” my husband started laughing at the face I was making because he could see my head nearing the point where it spontaneous combusts, at the mere thought of the word.
”Well, damn it, I can’t help it. I just don’t even want to SAY the damn word — I’d rather lick haggis.”
That, my friends, is strength of conviction!
You’re saying it to yourself already aren’t you?
…doing something again and again, expecting a different result.
Yep, that’s the one.
You’d think I’d learn. After all, as I always say, “Hell, you can teach a monkey to…” Hmm, of course, now that I think about it, I wonder if you can teach a monkey to STOP doing something. I’m sure that you could do it with physically painful stimuli but what about emotionally painful?
You see, I have done the same thing over and over and over and over — regrettably, even after I knew that I was doing it and what it has wrought me in my lifetime. I’m sure that we all do it; I’m certainly not special in this aspect of my tortured psyche by any means. But, ya know, it’s my blog, so I get to bitch about my stuff. If you’d like me to bitch about yours, I’d be happy to do that, and for your convenience, I accept PayPal.
I’m an only child. I have a tendency to, how to put this nicely, “attempt to overachieve,” with some obvious, pathetic need to get something rewarding back out of it from someone else. It’s a pervasive theme: work, love, friendships - you name it. What am I searching for? Was I not held enough as a kid? Is there a tiny spot in my brain that just functions as a damn black hole for emotional reassurance? Do I really need someone else to tell me I’m good enough? Honestly, for that last one, I don’t think that’s true anymore. BUT, there’s something still happening there, and boy is it just pissing me right the hell off. (Btw, dear, that was the abbreviation I couldn’t remember and just down did: FRTHO.)
I think, on some level at least, part of what it boils down to is that I want to be appreciated. Therefore, I put myself out there in ways that I’m not even asked to, repeatedly. After a while, appreciation ends up turning into expectation on the part of the recipient, which I have to admit only seems a natural, albeit still faulty, course of events, and then suddenly, I’ve spent all morning working on something very special for someone I really care about, who is supposed to REALLY care about me, and while I was asked for help, I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty, giving up my work time to complete it to the point of “just right.” And do I get so much as a damn thank you out of it? No. In point of fact, by the end of the conversation, the person was so irritated about something having nothing to do with me that a real “Goodbye” wasn’t even muttered before the click.
In short? I am a moron.
I know that I should be thinking differently about this. I know that I should be saying to myself that the person in question is truly the one with the issue; I mean, how inconsiderate can you get, right? But, no, while I know all of that, it only serves to make me feel the bigger fool - because I know better.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
Fool me for my whole damn life without me managing to stand up and do anything about it? I’m an idiot.
…and I once wondered why I might have issues with trust.
Damn it.
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