elfination

Why so fuzzy?
Why?
What makes the cat so fuzzy?
Is it the fuzz?
The fur?
The sweetness of a warm fuzzy cat?
Why so fuzzy?

Cat has fuzz everywhere.
On her fuzzy paws (pat pat pat)
On her fuzzy tummy (smoosh smoosh smoosh)
Coming out of her fuzzy ears (flick flick flick)

What makes the cat so fuzzy?

Why so smooshy?
Why so warm and smooshy and lovey and fuzzy?
What makes the cat so smooshywarm?
Is it the purring?
The fuzz?

There is fuzz everywhere.
On the brush.
On the chairs.
On me.
Soooooo FUZZY. Fuzzy fuzzy fuzzy.
Smooshy fuzzy warm snuggly fuzzy cat.

Such a fuzzy ball of purring sweetness, my kitty.

–Emily

Oh, wait, I forgot.  You don’t know where Massachusetts is, do you?

Yeahhhh.  OK see, a few weeks ago, I got a flyer in my mailbox.  About how some cars had been broken into.  And about how a house was broken into.  And how a seven-felony-conviction-registered-sex-offender lives two streets over.  I honestly don’t think these things are related, but hey, leave it to a fanatic to connect the dots for me.  Said fanatic also said, oh-so-helpfully… “If you notice any suspicious activity, call the Police or Nathan.”

Wait.  So, Nathan’s gonna take calls about suspicous activity at 2 AM?  ROCK THE FUCK ON.  Man, like our own lil’ neighborhood Vigilante.  That’s awesome.  I’m picturing him now.  38, the youngest child of three, a little paunchy, a wife he doesn’t like, two kids, a dog his kids wanted but he hates, and a mortgage in our fine subdevelopment.  And a mommy-he’s-touching-my-personal-space complex. 

A few days ago, we got a flyer on our door that says “NEIGHBORHOOD MEETING!!!”   And just to further discredit Nathan (I’m sure he penned the latter flyer, too, because … I can’t even put my finger on why, it’s just obvious….)  The date is listed as Tuesday, March 21st at 6pm.   He must mean next year, because Tuesday is March 22nd this year.  It listed several keynote speakers, such as the parole officer for one certain ethnically-named seven-felony-convictions guy.  “Please attend,” it said, “your safety and your property values are at stake!!!  Let’s keep child molesters OUT of our neighborhood!!!”  You can tell how much respect I have for this guy’s opinion already.  After all, it’s not like the guy didn’t ALREADY BUY A HOUSE HERE.  Exactly how are we going to “KEEP” child molesters out of our neighborhood? 

Barrett and I agree that we should be responsible and ONE of us should go to this meeting.  I voted for Barrett.  Because I might just open my damn mouth and say something obnoxious like,

“I don’t know if you guys got the memo, but this man has already been tried, convicted, AND sentenced.  By OTHER PEOPLE.  Let’s not reinvent the wheel here.”

or,

“Nathan… why did you feel the need to do this?  Let me guess.  You looked at the police department’s sex offender website.  And you felt wronged somehow by seeing an address a few streets away.  And the thoughts ate at you, didn’t they?  You were posessed by some need beyond yourself, some drive you could not describe or understand.  And in that, you are no different from this man whom you are speaking so ill of.  But for you, there was no way to banish your mental demons than to have a public Isn’t-Nathan-A-Good-Guy meeting.  I mean, far be it from me to take away whatever validation you’re getting out of this public one-upsmanship, but the only reason I am here is because, without an opposing voice, you’d probably simply elect yourself All High King of All the Homeowners Forever And Ever.”

or even,

“OOOOH!!! Wait!! Is THIS the part where we all grab torches and burn the guy’s house down with him inside it?”

Nooo, clearly I shouldn’t go to a public meeting of this sort if I want to keep MY house standing.  I don’t know the man in question.  Nor do I want to.  I am not his friend, nor will I ever be.  But I can live and let live, you know?  I mean, let’s get serious here.  I have a security system on the house, and I set it when I’m home alone.  If I have children, I won’t let them play in his yard.  I won’t go jogging late at night.  SURE I feel somewhat wary because there is a repeat-offender living within a half-mile of my domicile.  But I’m not going to call a fucking neighborhood meeting about it.  To be fair, there were other speakers listed. Judy (the builder), who’s going to talk about turning the reins over to a Homeowner’s Association, A city chamber member, and a police officer who will talk about establishing a neighborhood watch will all be there. But the focus was really on the paroled guy.

I guess it’s the difference between situational awareness and herd-mentality.   Do you know why animals form herds?  It’s not just for companionship and ease of mate selection.  It improves each animal’s chances of NOT getting eaten if they’re all in a big group. The other animals don’t fight the intruder on behalf of the old sick one that gets bitten… they run like fuckin’ HELL and thank their lucky stars that the predator wasn’t hungrier or stronger or faster. 

I just think that if people have all this miraculous sentience, we should be able to, you know, look out for ourselves.  This all wraps around to an essay entitled “I only believe in ME”, which is very anti-God, but that’s another chapter.   I just don’t want to be part of the herd.

Is there something wrong with me here?  Am I being utterly naive?  Isn’t there just as much chance of the guy next door to me abusing his children or his wife, or of the guy two doors the other way secretly fantasizing about little boys?  Or both?  Yeah, yeah, Bassil whatever.  We know who he is.  We can avoid him.  Next we teach our children that it’s not so much the CONVICTED child-molesters of the world that we need to watch out for, it’s weird “uncle” Louie and his next-door neighbor. 

YES, sure, we need to keep our seven-year-olds safe from Evil Predators Who Might Lurk At the Bus Stop.  Children have only developing situational awareness, and thus should be looked after.  I’ve seen too many four-year-olds walk SMACK into the edge of a table without changing course that I’m comfortable looking out for other people’s kids.  But how about frank discussions with the 14-year-olds about using condoms? We need to keep THEM safe, too, and not from Evil Predators, but rather other kids their own age.    I’m just not comfortable being somehow required to look after other adults, who should be able to look after themselves.

Plus, I have better things to do with my life than peer out the curtains at other people’s lives, and I should freaking HOPE they have better things to do than peer at mine.

On Sunday, Barrett got a call from one “Kirk”, who lives less than a block away from us.  Seems that Kirk was about to put up Lost Dog signs when he saw our Found Dog signs and realized that his Sasha had been found. 

Kirk was able to identify that this little dog had hip dysplasia and she’d had seizures since she was a pup.  Barrett advised Kirk to pick the dog up at the animal hospital.

I am led to understand that the animal hospital did charge Kirk for Sasha’s stay.  That is good.

Barrett had contacted multiple pet adoption services, only to be told that this dog was unadoptable.  Even the rescue league for older pets said the dog will not be adopted.  We could either keep her ourselves or take her to an animal shelter where she might be euthanized after 3 days.  Nobody wants a 10-year-old dog with seizures.  Barrett is now thinking in terms of doing some sort of community service regarding animals…maybe volunteering at Petco/petsmart to hold/walk some of the dogs/cats up for adoption.

I’m thinking the following:  We found Sasha on Saturday.  I spent several hours trying to find her home, trying to make her comfortable, and trying to get her medical treatment.  Sasha had to spend the night (and most of the next day) at the animal hospital.  Had she had a tag, I could have simply taken her to her home.  Even if she’d been microchipped, I could have contacted the owner that night and advised him to get her.  But no.  She was not chipped, she was not tagged.  I spent hours of my time trying to get her taken care of, something that not everyone would have done.  And Sasha spent a full day away from her home, unmedicated, away from the one person who DID care enough about her to keep her.

There is a moral to this story.

Freaking TAG YOUR PET people. 

–Em

Let me tell you about this little dog I found.

Barrett and I were driving home after doing some errands, and as we drove past the golf course we live near, I saw a brown blur start running toward the road.  By all the fur, I decided it must be some kind of little animal, honked, stopped.  The dog ran into the MIDDLE of the road and ran STRAIGHT TOWARD MY CAR.  (??)  Clearly, not a bright animal.  I stop the car, open the door, and the dog runs right up to me, smiling, and wagging its curly little tail.  The dog is TINY.  It’s about 5 hefty pounds of Pomeranian.  All smiles and thrilled to see me.  Of COURSE no collar.  Jeez.  This can’t be easy.  Barrett wasn’t pleased with me doing anything except avoid the dog…. of course I scooped the dog up and got back in the car.  (Barrett was VERY displeased with this also.)  “Honey, this dog isn’t smart enough to stay away from cars,” I said.  “It’ll get hit.  I’ll find its owner in a few minutes.”

We were less than a block from home.  I left the dog in the garage (she wanted to come straight into the house, but we wouldn’t let her), found a collar and a leash, and went off to find which house this dog belongs to.  On my way out, I see some neighbors out walking their dog.  I ask, “Do you know this dog?” and the husband, Tony, thinks he does.  He hops in the car and we head off to find the house the dog belongs to.

After a lot of driving around, asking young children (who know these things), and peering unashamedly into people’s backyards (all while watching this little Pom’s reaction to other dogs) we could not locate an owner for the dog.  I left a note on one house, (although their neighbor said this little nice doggy couldn’t POSSIBLY be their dog, because their dog was a nasty little runt and mean…) and went home with the dog (dropping Tony off at his house) and put the dog in our backyard with a bowl of water.  Barrett was unthrilled about this development, also.  Kismet kept looking out the window with this utter disbelief on her face.  “What the FUCK is that THING?” she kept asking.

I called Animal Control. They aren’t in on Saturdays, but will be back on Monday… I left details about the dog with the police dispatcher. (”Really sweet little dog,” I said. “Looks a little older, has white on her chin, like she’s aging.  Pumpkin-colored.”)  I explained I’m home on Tuesday… just call me first thing Tuesday morning.   I decided to give the dog some food.  She turned down dry catfood, but inhaled a pouch of WET catfood.  And I mean, inhaled.  A whole pouch disappeared in under 2 minutes.  We broke out the digital camera to take a few pictures of this little dog and make flyers.   The dog struck a pose.  (Seriously.)  Clearly she’s familiar with cameras.  I went back outside to check on her again, and found her splayed out on the deck, shaking dramatically, eyes bulging out, limbs twitching and stretched out.  Couldn’t stand or move her legs when I tried to right her.  (Damn.) 

OK so this cute little yapdog has seizures, too.  Grrrreeeaaaaaat.  I call our regular vet, explain, and the vet offers to see the dog for free and see what we can do.  I rush to the vet’s office (dog still in mid-seizure), and the vet is in awe.  “HOW did this dog ever run up to you?”  We decide it’s probably a combination of epilepsy and stress… and Pomeranians are high on the list of epileptic little doggies.  Not that you’d ever suspect that, right?  After all, being so damn spastic has to have a drawback somewhere.  The vet explains, “Tiiiiiiny little skull.  Even smaller brain.”   (I can agree with that assessment.)  Dr. George decides the dog is somewhere over 10 years old, maybe older.  Early-stage cataracts. Epilepsy. Bad knees, probably some arthritis. Terrible rot in her teeth. 

The vet calls in a favor from the animal hospital and they agree to take the dog, for free, and keep her under observation until Monday.  (I have to pick her up Monday afternoon.)  No problem.  I rush the dog to the animal hospital.  And the dog is all goofy smiles and prancing, cute lil’ tail all curled up.  “I swear she was having a really bad seizure,” I told the vet.  “For like 20 minutes. I swear.  Dr. George saw it.” 

Meanwhile, the owner of the house that I left a note on called and said this isn’t her Pom.  Her Pom is safe-and-sound in her kennel… and there went my one good lead.  Barrett made flyers, I called a few rescue leagues, and am hoping that the one league that deals mainly in older pet placement will call us back.

Considering the medical condition of the dog and the speed at which she inhaled food, Barrett and I think she was probably dumped by someone who didn’t have money for a vet for an epileptic old pomeranian.  The dog seems like the kind of animal someone might get for their children (I mean, who doesn’t love a Pom puppy… especially when they continue to look like a puppy all their lives?) but didn’t have the responsible knowledge that this breed is often beset by seizures.

Barrett read up online, and said that the seizures are uncomfortable for the dog, but not life-threatening, and not considered to be painful.  They can’t swallow their tongues or anything like that. It’s just a whole-body muscle spasm.  This makes me feel better.  Barrett also found that treatment for seizures like this isn’t really necessary just nice.  Something that you can do if you have plenty of money and only want the best for the dog. 

Well, great.  Anyway, this story isn’t over.  And maybe some little 10-year-old pumpkin-colored Pomeranian will find a home that wants her.

–Em

PS: Not that it matters, but I think of the dog as “Terre” (Tara).

Short for Pomme de Terre Douce.

Sweet potato.

–Em

In other news….

My amazing manager, whose image should be worshipped, whose wonderful countenance should be engraved upon marble and set on pedestals in my house… has gotten my vacation approved.

Oh yeah baby I’M GOING TO MYRTLE BEACH!!! 

*oh yeah* *oh yeah* *oh yeah*….. (doing the cabbage patch)

My manager, Tony, is the absolute freakin’ BEST.  After I got talked down at by one of the other managers (Ralston), Tony took my vacation form and fixed everything. 

Ralston is a jackass.  Who called me “honey”.   (LISSIN HERE BITCH, just because you’re GAY doesn’t mean you can call me HONEY or talk to me like I’m TWO.)

Incidentally, after Ralston was such a dick to me, I went back to him with my most professional face on and said, “Ralston, I came to you with a question.  I asked the question because I did not understand something.  I AM YOUR CUSTOMER, and when you said, ‘Honey, you need to be quiet and LISTEN to what I’m saying because I already explained it three times,’ it made me feel belittled, hurt, and very angry.  You spoke to me like my MOTHER might have spoken to me.  When I got back on the phone and had to explain something to a customer a few times, I felt terrible.  Here I am, giving a customer my absolute attention and care, and I didn’t even get that from a MANAGER here.  Maybe you aren’t the person I needed to ask.  Maybe you’ve explained this to someone else.  But I DID come to you, and as your customer, I should have been treated with more patience and respect.  Sometimes things need to be explained a different way to be understood properly, and if I am belittled BY A MANAGER when I ask a question about something I do not understand, what kind of workplace is this?  I deserve to have every Team Lead, every manager, and every representative of this company treat me with AS MUCH RESPECT as I give our CUSTOMERS on the phone, and I did not receive that treatment from you.”

Granted, Ralston doesn’t fucking GET IT.  He complained again that he’d explained it to me and if I couldn’t understand it that’s not his problem.. . . something about he couldn’t be bothered with people who come to him with preconceived notions about whatever, etc… I refrained admirably from hitting him.

“I understand it now, but do not judge my intellect based on partial information that I was given by other people who directed me to you.  I was led to an incomplete understanding, and when you began to explain, I thought I understood it.  However, you said something that was DIFFERENT from what I had PREVIOUSLY been told by TEAM LEADERS.  That is where I required clarification.  Ralston, this is Technical Support, and I’d wager HALF of the calls I get are not my problem.  The other half of the calls require re-explaining things that customers don’t understand.  Things that customers were only given partial information about from other departments then transferred.  If I said to ANY customer what you said to me, I would be fired on the spot.  I ALSO deserve to not be spoken to in that manner.”

He said something like, “I’m sorry if I ….”  … (um not if but when but close enough I guess.)  Then he said something about how I SHOULD be able to come to him with this kind of thing, if he offended me, then I should be able to tell him that…. (well, don’t fucking pout and think that I went over your head.  I ain’t runnin’ to mommy, I’m telling you off first.) …… then he said something about how he was sorry he didn’t have more patience with letting me tell my “little story about what you were told”.   (Oh…. Fuck you, asswipe…. I didn’t come to you to tell you “a little story”, I came to you with a fucking legitimate question.)

“I just would like us to get past our previous superficial misunderstanding,” I explained. “This is a big company and I do have desires to move up within it.  I may work directly for you in the future, and I do not want there to be bad blood between us.”  

(And you had better take note, biznatch, that I will stand up for myself, even to you.  Especially to you.  You shall not tread one toe over this line.)

I am just proud of putting that much more titanium in my spine.  :)  Because I was shaking all over when I was done telling Ralston off.  And it turns out that there was a team leader, Matt, standing behind me who heard a good part of what I said.   HAH!!  Don’t let it be thought that I don’t have integrity and balls like steel grapefruits.

And after all that hard work and growth and assertion of boundaries, I was rewarded with my vacation being approved.  Thank GOD.  Because I was gonna call out sick anyway. 

–Em

So, I go online to check my cellphone bill….

OK some background, in a nutshell.  AT&T sends me a flyer “WOO!! Call CANADA!!”

I call them and say, “Ok… I wanna call Canada, add a line, make it local to Berea, KY, and get text messages, and a free phone please.”   I then send said phone to Amy so that she can use the phone to call Benet.

All is good.  I check my balance online, and find that I seem to owe like $55.  I’ve been sending payment every week, if I owe anything it should be like… you know… $5.  Not more.  So I poke through the information and find that every single call to Canada from Amy’s phone is being charged out at $.20 per minute…adding up to about $53.   I call.  Clearly AT&T and I need to chat a bit.

I got a lovely representative who super-helpfully fixed everything.  I explained I was told that by adding “North America Calling” to my plan, we could call Canada for no extra charge.  And believe you me, $9.99 per month for North America Calling is better by far than $53.00.  She sees notes (YAY!! NOTES!!) where indeed the previous rep DID say that $9.99 per month covers both phones.  AAAhhhh, it turns out that $9.99 per month only covers ONE phone… so she switches the calling plan to Amy’s cell and takes it off mine.  And credits me the $53.00. *whew*.  Then we tackle the text-messaging, which ALSO only covers one phone at a time (mine) and Amy was charged.  So I add 100 text messages ($5) to Amy’s plan and drop my plan to 25 ($2).  And credits me again for extra text messages. 

OHHHHH, the beauty of a good customer service rep.  *whew*.  Now I owe them $.75.  That’s more like it.

–Em

Why does my garage floor say “FUCK U” on it?

Why do my feet hurt so bad after my day off?

Why is Kismet’s liquid Amoxicillin bubble-gum flavored?

Why is my mother so crazy?

Why is Barrett’s mom so sane?

Why did I dream about bicycling long distances down Rt. 91 to meet up with my mother at some central location?  (WTF??)

Seriously, why does my garage floor say “FUCK U” on it? 

Why can’t I have the Face of Jesus or the Virgin Mary instead of “FUCK U”?  I mean, the house would be worth millions.  As it is, I can picture a bunch of goth punks making pilgrimages to my garage.  That is amusing.

Why did some moron at the drug company think that cats would enjoy bubble-gum flavored medicine?

So yesterday, Barrett comes home, happens to view the catbox, and comments that Kismet seems to have some digestion issues. She’s had, er, “Loose, unformed, or liquid stools”. Yeah. That makes it sound better than “olive-green poopsquirts”.

Anyway, this morning, the cat begins acting very odd. She starts meowing QUITE a lot. Pacing. Hiding. Pawing at corners. And eventually, she lets loose with another….. “Loose, unformed, or liquid stool” of substantially bad odor in the corner of the dining room.

Barrett’s a good sport about this, and he hadn’t taken his shower yet, so it was all working out. While I was gagging loudly and calling the vet, Barrett scooped up what could be scooped and cleaned the rest. “Come on in at 1:00,” the vet said, “and bring a stool sample.”

I assured her we have plenty of that.

The cat seemed somewhat relieved but within 15 minutes was pacing and meowing and pawing again. We shoved her in the bathroom with her box and shut the door. I call the vet back. “Can I just bring her in? She’s going again and I’m afraid she’ll dehydrate.”

So I take the cat in. And leave her there. The poor cat. I return for her at 1:00 and chat with the doctor. The cat has an acute infection of Clostridium bacteria. “It was really good that you brought her in so quickly,” the vet said, “because, left untreated, this can be fatal.”

Half of me would like to take credit for being a good parent … the other half of me says, “How could I possibly NOT know something was wrong? She practically pooped in Barrett’s shoes!” After all, the books say to watch for abrupt changes in behavior, and she certainly did that this morning.

The vet put the cat on a course of antibiotics, in a 250-milligram pill form, as well as a liquid form. One mL of liquid twice a day, one pill once a day. The vet explains that the pill is 1) fairly large, 2) uncoated, and 3) utterly unpalatable. (Grrreeaaaaaaaaat.) He gives me a syringe-looking tool to shoot pills into the back of Kismet’s throat. He has me hold Kismet down while he loaded the “pill popper” with antibiotics, smeared EasyCheez all over the pill, and administered the drug. It looks easy enough. (He gave me extra pills, though.) Kismet licked her chops a bit, savoring the EasyCheez. “When you get her home, in about an hour,” the vet said, “She may get a little indigestion from the antibiotic. This is normal. She may burp a little. If she gets any reflux she’ll taste the pill, and ……. well people call me and ask why their cat is running through the house foaming at the mouth. . . it’s just the taste of the pill, that’s all. It’ll make her drool and maybe run around. Don’t worry about it.”

No problem. I’ve tasted some DAMN bad pills before, namely Prednisone, and I understand the sentiment and behavior. (I suggested that the doctor try crunching down a 5-mg prednisone tablet and gain some sympathy for the dogs he gives it to.) The doc assures me that Kismet will feel better tomorrow, that he gave her an injection to calm her stomach and lower the inflammation in her intestines, so she should be more willing to use her litterbox.

I hop in the car, call my mother to tell her that cats can get a bacterial infection similar to Botulism, and drive home with the cat meowing constantly. I released the cat at home, chatted with my mother a bit, then see the cat run full-tilt past me, drool pouring out of her mouth. This has to be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, all things considered. I gave my mom a play-by-play as Kismet streaked through the house, leaping and twisting in the air, flying over the couch, slobbering like a Saint Bernard, with long silvery strings of drool flying in the wind behind her. No kidding, the vet described the behavior exactly. It was so impressive. I called the vet’s office back and thanked them for helping Kismet and for telling me what she might do once she had that pill digested. I walked calmly around behind her, mopping up puddles of cat-spit and laughing. Poor cat. I feel a little bad about laughing, but it is the best medicine.

I think this whole parenting thing might be OK. Kismet and I have a little routine going. She sits in the window calmly and breathes the fresh air coming in until she doesn’t feel well. Then she meows and starts pacing, whereupon I pick her up and get her into the bathroom and shut the door. I check on her and let her out 10 minutes later and clean up wherever she happened to relieve herself. She’s been pretty consistent about the bathtub and the catbox - not the floor or the throw-rugs, so that’s a good thing. We’ve done this about 4 times now.

I sure hope she’s feeling better by the time I have to go back to work on Thursday. My manager probably will not accept “but my cat had gastroenteritis” as a good medical excuse.

So there I am, innocently taking calls, when I get this particular mystery:

“The show that’s listed in the guide isn’t on. It happens on all the movie channels. This Devo receiver is no good.” He goes on to explain that when he tries to use the “Devo” receiver to then find the movie in question, it’s nowhere to be found. The Devo says it’s not on within the next two weeks. (I can hear a Tivo in the background crying for help.)

Now, I could only think the following: “whip it good. It’s a fuckin’ TIVO not a Devo.” I wish we could ask the receiver directly what their side of the story is.

Whatever.

I ask if the problem is just with the Tivo unit or is it with the other receiver, too? The customer confirms it’s only a problem with the Tivo unit.

I try to figure out the issue. Seems that this particular subscriber has a printed guide. That we didn’t send him. But nevermind that. I digress. The printed guide does clearly state the name of our company on the front of it. I probe a bit more. “Like, can you find an example right now,” I ask him, “something that’s on now that’s different from the guide?”

He explains that Fox Movie Channel says it’s showing Titanic. On the Third. At Ten O’Clock AM. But it’s not. It’s showing The Barbarian and the Geisha.

I note down this response, promise to go check it out personally, and head off to find a Tivo and a printed Guide.

I discover that both the printed Guide and the Tivo agree that The Barbarian and the Geisha is on Fox Movie Channel.

I flip through the guide some … maybe he’s looking at 10 PM? Maybe the wrong channel? Maybe the wrong time zone? …. noooo, Titanic isn’t listed at all. I ask the Tivo, “Titanic?” Tivo says, “No way.”

I return to the phone prepared to ask the customer if he’s smoking crack or if his doctor has prescribed something even better. In a nice way. I decide on a good tact: “Sir? Thanks so much for holding. Both our Tivo here and our printed guide indicate that the movie that’s on FMC is correct. May I ask …. What does the cover of your guide look like?”

I asked these questions while noting that the first-level of tech support had transferred the guy, so it must be either a problem that’s very complex or a problem that simply defies common sense.

It’s the latter, of course.

“That guy who hosted the awards show,” he replies. “Rock or something.”

“Chris Rock?”

“Yeah.”

Care to guess?

I mean, it could be that there’s something drastically wrong with the guide, and it’s off by two weeks. Except I haven’t heard from anyone else, and the guide’s been out for a week or so. And the copy I found was fine.

Or it could be that he’s not actually using a guide from our company, and is using a channel list that’s for, say, cable. . . or “another satellite company”. Although I did check about seventeen times on that. “And you said it DOES SAY [our company name] on the front cover?” Yes, he confirmed seventeen times, it does.

No, the problem in question was even more sinister, even more vile, even more mindboggling than either of those.

He was looking at February’s guide. ( >.< )

"Sir? What month does it say on the top of the guide?"

"February."

I waited for inspiration to dawn on him, but it didn't. I found it wasn't so much that he was looking at the wrong guide.

He thought it was February, and argued with me when I told him it's March now.

"It's MARCH third???"

"Yes, sir. March third." I didn't add, "2005." But I wanted to.

"So," he asks, "I shouldn't use this directory?"

>.<

And all I can think is, “Use it all you freakin’ want. Just not to tell what’s on TV.”

But I politely suggested recycling it. Because I’m a sweetheart on the phone

I found another spider yesterday.  It was fairly small - maybe the legspan of a penny - all very dark brown with a light tan patch on both its cephalothorax and abdomen.  It was definitely a wolf spider, and by the size of the spinnerettes, I’d say it was a female.   I was about to step on the scale and I saw a blur go skittering over to try to hide under a bit of the wall molding.  I yelled “BLAAHHHH”, the spider tried to squush herself into the crevice further (it wasn’t working), and Barrett came in wondering what the problem was.  “Just get me a glass and a piece of paper,” I ordered.

I tried to take a picture of said spider, but my digital camera has a little problem with focusing on stuff like that.  All the pictures I got were blurry to some extent, although at least one of them DID show the coloration of the beastie.

It looked mostly like this:

And I just spent 20 minutes searching Google Images to find that picture.

Here’s the thing about spiders.  I’m fascinated by them.  Utterly.  Completely.  I can’t handle killing them, either.   I really can’t.  I feel too awful about killing spiders.  I take them outside.  But I’m totally freaked out by them, too.  (Thus the “BLAAAHHH!!”)  It weirds Barrett out also because I’ll be cool-as-a-cucumber and oh-so-calm about capturing a spider, poking it a little, photographing it, but then it’ll scurry out of its jar (as this one did last night) and I’ll lose my composure.  (”AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!”)  Then I calmly catch the thing again and the process starts all over.   Since I’m typically so cool about catching them, when I lose it, Barrett fears the worst.  Did it bite me?  Did it gnaw my arm off?  Did it bite the cat?  Do we need to go to the ER?  911?   Then there’s the rational person in Barrett that speaks up and says, “For God’s sake stop trying to take pictures of it and just let the goddamn thing go if you can’t step on it.”

Anyway.  I have to go to work because it’s Thursday/Monday so I’ll post more on this later.