m “ Daddy, I want Mommy.”
M: “Here I am.”
m: “ I want Daddy.”
Me: “Here I am.”
m: “I want Grandpa.”
Me: “ What a coincidence, he happens to be here now.”
m: “I want grandma.”
Me: “She’s here too.”
m: “I want whomever is not here so I can have something to complain about.”
Me: “Jesus fucking Christ!”
M: “I want Jesus.”
This basically sums up what life is like with two 2 1/2 year old girls. They always want the parent who’s not there. They look for any excuse to scream or piss you off and they sleep about 10 minutes at night before waking up and screaming about the boogie man/ it’s too cold/ I want some water/is Bingo the name of the man or his dog?
"m" is becoming more and more of an artist in spite of me trying to prevent it. Perhaps it’s just a phase. She keeps taking her toys and arranging them into these instillation pieces. You’ll come in the room and all of her dolls are lined up and facing the window. I asked her what she called it and she said they’re people, watching TV out of the window. Wow! Like living with Cindy Sherman. "a" is the queen of imitation. She can hear a song once and sing it back to you (albeit full of la la and yadda yadda for the parts she doesn’t know). "a" is also going through the Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Phase more than "m". Even if mom is holding another kid, a sack full of groceries and a backpack of bowling balls, “a” wants to be picked up too. She will howl and scream as if her parent’s were Michael Jackson and Joan Crawford.
In short, my kids are cute and annoying.
Okay. It’s been a while for blog-gagging. So let’s do a flash back: Got fired, tried to look for another University job, they all want someone with waaaay more dick sucking skills than I’d ever want to do. Hey! Here’s an idea! I’ll sign up for dick sucking lessons. So I look into college courses (regular ones, I don't think they teach dick sucking, except at Texas A&M) But what do I want to do? What do I like to do?…Okay what do I NOT want to do: let’s see: retail, work for the Universities printing department, suck dicks.
I come from a medical family. Perhaps I should see if there’s a special gene in there and pursue a career in something medical related. I mean surely, working at a hospital may suck but at least you can strap on a red cape every now and then and save a couple of lives. I just want something that I can enjoy that’s NOT art. I’ve had it with trying to make a living as an artist. Don’t get me wrong, I still like to do art but I’m tired of being treated like the lowest person on the business totem pole. Artist are always the most abused, fired and underpaid employees. It’s like all bosses think they can replace the artist with someone off the street and heaven for fucking bid if the artist wants to make enough money to start a family, buy a house and live a life that doesn’t consist of getting drunk, eating Ramen noodles and saving your money to buy used records.
I don’t have 11 years for medial school so I look into some kind of assistant program: Here’s one:Phlebotomy. Sticking needles in peoples asses. That’s one right up my alley (or their alleys). If a customer pisses me off at my job? I’m holding a big ass needle! Get ready for the pain train motherfucker! Woooo! Woooo!
They teach a 1 year course at Kaiser so I call them up and they say: Oh yeah, just get all the stuff done on the application and show up at 8 Am on October blah blah blah and no queing!. The application required a long list of things; including TB test, Hep B vaccines, Measles immunization etc… along with a certificate that says you know CPR. CPR? Call Police Really fast?
I take a one day CPR class complete with 3 kinds of dummies to resuscitate: Annie, Andrew and Andy. A man, a woman and kid. What the hell is wrong with that family? Can they not swim? DO they drink pork milkshakes? We had to learn to do chest compressions on them and mouth to mouth using plastic mouth covers, as if we were giving head to prostitutes. The secret to chest compressions I discovered is that you really have to put your weight into it, otherwise you can’t get to the heart. In most cases, if you do it RIGHT you pop right through the joints of the rib cage and cause some damage. Some people in the class barely made the dummies chest rise when they breathed into it and for all of their weakling chest compressions, they’d have a better job bringing a hamster back to life. I passed the course and got my card. Next I got a gazillion blood test and immunization shots. So many, I can probably drink a glass of unfiltered African water and butt fucking a lab monkey. I get everything done a day before the application deadline. I remember the woman said show up at 8Am and no queuing! I know that there are only 14 people allowed in this class so I say, fuck it: There’s the rules and then there’s what people do. I’m gonna show up at 7:30! I get there the next day and there are 30 people already there! Two girls in the front of the line have lawn chairs and had been there since 4 am! As if they were buying concert tickets! M convinces me to stay and wait in line because you never know. Perhaps some people didn’t get all of their shots or really are trying to buy concert tickets and got confused. 8 Am comes around, and then 9. This female security guard tells the people in front how wrong it was for them to show up early. Oh good, I think, is she going to make them go home? No, just a useless finger wagging. Around 30 people line up behind me. At one point the lawn sprinklers cut on, drenching the people in the front of the line. This made me temporarily happy. Finally the doors open and people start going in…and coming out. Huh? What the? One by one, some people would go in and come back out. Their applications were being rejected! They didn’t have their shots or took the wrong CPR course or really were there for concert tickets. M was right. Closer and closer I got. From 26 people in front on me it got down to 10, then 4! Some people were getting accepted but a lot were coming out including the two wet girls who had been there all night! I had this one Indian guy in front of me. I think I heard him say he may have the wrong CPR card: Whoo hoo! Another person got rejected. They had one more slot to fill, the Indian guy went in….......and got accepted. That was it. No more applications will be accepted until the next year. I was one person away from getting into the class! On my angry walk back, I cursed all gods and the world itself. Not only is life unfucking fair but life has a cruel, cruel sense of humor.
After calming down a week later. We discovered that the same school teaches a radiology class. This one, although allowing a small amount of people, had a more school-like application process, which didn’t allow for cueing up style. But I did have to take some prerequisites: Anatomy, physiology, college level algebra and some other courses as frosting. Kaiser taught their own Anatomy and Physiology class so I signed up for that one. As for the Algebra class. I failed algebra in high school with flaming colors and had to go to summer school. I sighed up for classes at a local College. (Insert bouncy music here) that’s right, I’m an angry 41-year-old man going back to school!
It’s interesting to see what your adult brain can do without the worry about getting laid, your parents divorce or pimples. So far, I’ve done pretty well in both courses. Back in high school I did back flips if I got a 75. Now I get pissed off if I make under a 92.
The classes are polar opposites. The algebra class was filled with 32 students, that talked about nothing but working at the GAP, playing video games and smelling like dirty sneakers and the Anatomy class is mostly older people who are probably already working at the hospital and are tying to get better positions. Of the 32 Algebra class mates they’re about 9 of us left. The rest could not be separated from level 4 of Grand Theft Auto. One particular individual I called Mr. Cake, actually showed up on the first day of class eating a slice of cake! On a plate! Cake I tell you! Where the fuck did he get cake? And why eat it in class? The other drop outs, and I have to say the mot disruptive students were a group of fat Black girls who ate boxes of Wheat Thins, had loud cell phone conversations when the teacher was explaining quadratic equations and if they showed up for class, at all, would come in, get their names on the sign in and then leave, to do what? Why did you sign up for this class? Why are you here? You’re 18 and finally out off the house? More differences: The algebra class is taught by a short handicapped Asian guy who when he gets excited will talk really fast and leave your tiny brain back at the 1+1=2 starting line, the anatomy class is taught by this tall muscularly silver haired bo-hunk professor who, if I were gay…we’ll if I were gay, I wouldn’t be in any of these situations because gay= no kids=no reson to buy house=no reason to take shity art job to get fired from in the first place.
But this is where I am, in school, doing okay in the grades department. In my home life, lots of D's: Depressed a lot, Dealing with screaming 2 1/2 year olds, Doing most of the cooking and cleaning while trying to study and heaven forbid, Do some art to maintain my sanity. M rags on me when ever I do anything that’s not cooking, cleaning, kids and school. It makes me miss having a shitty job. I mean, if I had a job, and I came home and worked on art then they’d be no questioning but being unemployed, it’s like you’re now a shark. If you stand still, you die. An employed person at rest is relaxing, an unemployed person at rest is lazy.
That’s it
E.M
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Fire the sparrow
“Lemme dew it!” This is the official battle cry of the two year old. This is usually proceeded by: “I need help.” The girls are not necessary in the terrible twos as they are the tiring and annoying twos. With constant whining and screaming protest, they try to assert themselves as much as they can. We usually ignore them unless we’re in a hurry and have no interest in waiting for them to put their own shoes on as we are 30 minutes late for something and they still haven’t put their pants on. “m” has become the mistress of speech as she constantly flexes her vocabulary muscles, usually beyond her limited reach. You can hold entire conversations with her even tough you may have to stop her a couple of times to ask: “What?” to which she’ll repeat: “I have big cock.” With a little bit of detective work, you can figure out she meant to say: “I have hiccups.” “a” has become a danger mouse. Climbing up various structures and doing head stands in the crib (which inspire m to do the same). Her freakish agility and acrobatics have convinced me that she might be an X-Man. What’s next? Fire from the eyeballs?
This has been the year of sickness. We have so far survived: Cold, flu, pink eye, stomach flu (throwing up for a full week, what fun!) and recently strep throat. They say that the average kid gets 6 colds per year: Multiply that times two and that means we will be sick12 months per year!
This morning, as we lay in bed, there was a “tweet”. “Is that a bird?” M asked. She got out of bed and ran to the window to see if there was a bird trying to get in or something. A second later, a black feathery flapping shape flew from behind the bed; over my head and around the room. This sent me flying out of the bed in a girly-girl panic, falling onto the floor and dragging the entire bed linen with me. “It’s just a bird.” M said. Obviously taking the role of the “Man”. I ran out of the room to get a broom to shoo the thing out. By the time I got back, M had already got it out and probably had a short conversation worth it:
Bird: “What’s HER problem?”
M: “Oh, he’s just a little stressed, he lost his job.”
Bird: “What a wuss, try spending all night in a bed room, with two cats sleeping in the same room!”
This was true, the cats were in the room with this bird all night and not once did they wake up, meow or try to catch it. Lazy, dishonorable cats.
Oh yeah, did I mention I got fired? Well, technically they laid me off but the way they did it means they don’t have to hire me again. That’s right after 5 years of bullshit and threatening me, they found a way to fire someone who’s doing a decent job, never calls in sick and won’t just quit. They knew they couldn’t do it without a good reason, like punching another employee or masturbating in the coffee machine, punching a person whose masturbating in the coffee machine or punching a person while masturbating in the coffee machine: Note to employees, don’t drink the coffee! They knew that they couldn’t fire me, so what do they do? They destroy my job. They eliminated my job position saying that there was no work for me to do (lie). They listed me as a cameraman even tough I’ve been doing nothing but typesetting for the last two years. But on paper, my title still says cameraman so they say there’s no jobs for a cameraman because there’s no more camera. Therefore we have to lay you off. BUT there will never be a camera so there’s no job to go back to! Which means I’m actually fired. They say I have 1 month until I’m out, take me away immediately away from my computer to prevent me from sending out that virus I created that makes your face melt off like in Indiana Jones and stick me in the warehouse in the back to do…filing?
I - am - freaking - out!
After a while, my fear turned into joy. After 5 years of eating bullshit with a red-hot fork, while someone tells me that a loser worker I am, I’m finally free! Free!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Some employees actually told me how they wished it were them so they could finally have a motivating excuse to get out of there. And that’s how I felt (feel) like life could see me eating more flaming hot bullshit with an aged rusty fork, for the next 15 years, at which point they fire me, right before retirement! So it’s good that this happened while I still have most of my teeth and don’t need adult diapers.
I had no interest in doing filing for my last month there. I remember, long ago the incompetent assistant manager saying how they had an account with an online training company and if I wanted to, I could schedule some time and take some classes. Motherfucker, I never took lunch, how the fuck could I take online training. But wait, I thought (after apologizing for calling him a motherfucker) I have all the time in the world now. Okay, I say. I’m signing up for those online classes, NOW motherfucker! And oh yeah, since you took me away from my computer, I need to be somewhere with a computer. Perhaps the other campus, near the bay or near Golden Gate park. And that’s what I did. I started spending my days learning new computer classes at other locations where the neighborhoods were not filled with crack/heroin addicts. Where you didn’t have to constantly avoid the human turds land mines. Where, on hot days, the streets don’t smell like boiled piss and you have a view of the Oakland bridge or Golden Gate park instead a cock roach taco stand, discount salmonella food store or front row seats to: la Cirque du Clochard*
Because I have no job to go back to, I’m basically starting from scratch. I’ve talked to many departments and people whose job it is to deal with lay off workers. One told me I could apply for jobs within my union category that I’m qualified for and can get first dibs on them. Jobs which have nothing to do with typesetting or even art: Senior Editor, Firefighter (it’s true), Computer IT Specialist, Submarine Captain, Jedi Knight level II. I mean how stupid, I’m only Jedi Assistant level.
Getting back to the giant bird that attacked me this morning…okay it was a tiny sparrow–but still. I looked up ‘sparrow in the house’ in superstition and came up with: There will be a death of someone in the house soon. Oh…great on top of everything else I have a medieval curse in my house. We do have an 18-year-old cat so I’m hoping if it’s true...Well, you know. But that day, when I went to clean the porn screensavers off of my computer and get that virus sent, The Ass Manager told me to see them when I was done. Oh great, what else can they do to me, official going away ball kicking? When I was done and people’s faces at the other computers started melting off, I went to see the incompetent assist manager and this awful Asian woman who’d steal the pencils out of a blind beggar’s cup for a job promotion. They gave me my last check and made me turn in my badge and keys. I can tell you, nothing finalizes a firing more than that. It took all of my strength and anxiety training to prevent from fainting on the sidewalk outside (that and if you touch the sidewalk in the Mission District, you get dissentary). Like I had been reduced to a civilian or once had super powers and had been kryptonited. I felt…dead? Ah, so hopefully that’s what the sparrow was all about. It seems with all change, something old must die. My job is dead and good riddance but it’s tough adjusting to life after a long abusive relationship. We all know that Dar-lene needs to leave her wife-beating NASCAR luv’n husband, Mullethead and their shot gun shack trailer park paradise. But where the hell can Dar-lene and her 80 kids go on her skill level? We both have the same chance of being a Jedi Knight. Then again, there’s always school.
Time to find Master Yoda.
That’s it
EM
*Clochard [klo-shar] n tramp
This has been the year of sickness. We have so far survived: Cold, flu, pink eye, stomach flu (throwing up for a full week, what fun!) and recently strep throat. They say that the average kid gets 6 colds per year: Multiply that times two and that means we will be sick12 months per year!
This morning, as we lay in bed, there was a “tweet”. “Is that a bird?” M asked. She got out of bed and ran to the window to see if there was a bird trying to get in or something. A second later, a black feathery flapping shape flew from behind the bed; over my head and around the room. This sent me flying out of the bed in a girly-girl panic, falling onto the floor and dragging the entire bed linen with me. “It’s just a bird.” M said. Obviously taking the role of the “Man”. I ran out of the room to get a broom to shoo the thing out. By the time I got back, M had already got it out and probably had a short conversation worth it:
Bird: “What’s HER problem?”
M: “Oh, he’s just a little stressed, he lost his job.”
Bird: “What a wuss, try spending all night in a bed room, with two cats sleeping in the same room!”
This was true, the cats were in the room with this bird all night and not once did they wake up, meow or try to catch it. Lazy, dishonorable cats.
Oh yeah, did I mention I got fired? Well, technically they laid me off but the way they did it means they don’t have to hire me again. That’s right after 5 years of bullshit and threatening me, they found a way to fire someone who’s doing a decent job, never calls in sick and won’t just quit. They knew they couldn’t do it without a good reason, like punching another employee or masturbating in the coffee machine, punching a person whose masturbating in the coffee machine or punching a person while masturbating in the coffee machine: Note to employees, don’t drink the coffee! They knew that they couldn’t fire me, so what do they do? They destroy my job. They eliminated my job position saying that there was no work for me to do (lie). They listed me as a cameraman even tough I’ve been doing nothing but typesetting for the last two years. But on paper, my title still says cameraman so they say there’s no jobs for a cameraman because there’s no more camera. Therefore we have to lay you off. BUT there will never be a camera so there’s no job to go back to! Which means I’m actually fired. They say I have 1 month until I’m out, take me away immediately away from my computer to prevent me from sending out that virus I created that makes your face melt off like in Indiana Jones and stick me in the warehouse in the back to do…filing?
I - am - freaking - out!
After a while, my fear turned into joy. After 5 years of eating bullshit with a red-hot fork, while someone tells me that a loser worker I am, I’m finally free! Free!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Some employees actually told me how they wished it were them so they could finally have a motivating excuse to get out of there. And that’s how I felt (feel) like life could see me eating more flaming hot bullshit with an aged rusty fork, for the next 15 years, at which point they fire me, right before retirement! So it’s good that this happened while I still have most of my teeth and don’t need adult diapers.
I had no interest in doing filing for my last month there. I remember, long ago the incompetent assistant manager saying how they had an account with an online training company and if I wanted to, I could schedule some time and take some classes. Motherfucker, I never took lunch, how the fuck could I take online training. But wait, I thought (after apologizing for calling him a motherfucker) I have all the time in the world now. Okay, I say. I’m signing up for those online classes, NOW motherfucker! And oh yeah, since you took me away from my computer, I need to be somewhere with a computer. Perhaps the other campus, near the bay or near Golden Gate park. And that’s what I did. I started spending my days learning new computer classes at other locations where the neighborhoods were not filled with crack/heroin addicts. Where you didn’t have to constantly avoid the human turds land mines. Where, on hot days, the streets don’t smell like boiled piss and you have a view of the Oakland bridge or Golden Gate park instead a cock roach taco stand, discount salmonella food store or front row seats to: la Cirque du Clochard*
Because I have no job to go back to, I’m basically starting from scratch. I’ve talked to many departments and people whose job it is to deal with lay off workers. One told me I could apply for jobs within my union category that I’m qualified for and can get first dibs on them. Jobs which have nothing to do with typesetting or even art: Senior Editor, Firefighter (it’s true), Computer IT Specialist, Submarine Captain, Jedi Knight level II. I mean how stupid, I’m only Jedi Assistant level.
Getting back to the giant bird that attacked me this morning…okay it was a tiny sparrow–but still. I looked up ‘sparrow in the house’ in superstition and came up with: There will be a death of someone in the house soon. Oh…great on top of everything else I have a medieval curse in my house. We do have an 18-year-old cat so I’m hoping if it’s true...Well, you know. But that day, when I went to clean the porn screensavers off of my computer and get that virus sent, The Ass Manager told me to see them when I was done. Oh great, what else can they do to me, official going away ball kicking? When I was done and people’s faces at the other computers started melting off, I went to see the incompetent assist manager and this awful Asian woman who’d steal the pencils out of a blind beggar’s cup for a job promotion. They gave me my last check and made me turn in my badge and keys. I can tell you, nothing finalizes a firing more than that. It took all of my strength and anxiety training to prevent from fainting on the sidewalk outside (that and if you touch the sidewalk in the Mission District, you get dissentary). Like I had been reduced to a civilian or once had super powers and had been kryptonited. I felt…dead? Ah, so hopefully that’s what the sparrow was all about. It seems with all change, something old must die. My job is dead and good riddance but it’s tough adjusting to life after a long abusive relationship. We all know that Dar-lene needs to leave her wife-beating NASCAR luv’n husband, Mullethead and their shot gun shack trailer park paradise. But where the hell can Dar-lene and her 80 kids go on her skill level? We both have the same chance of being a Jedi Knight. Then again, there’s always school.
Time to find Master Yoda.
That’s it
EM
*Clochard [klo-shar] n tramp
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Do it yourself Vasectomies 101
The girls are angels to Arrrgh! Put that down! In spite of the toddler attitudes, you also have the beginning of real empathy for others. They’ll give you a little hug or kiss when you least suspect it. On the downside, they’re giving all of their best material to Grandma and their child care provider. They’re little freak’n angels when Grandma’s around, they never fight when they comb their hair or put them down for bed and we hear tales of politeness and super cuteness. By the time we get them, they just want to pretend you’re feeding them live worms, instead of dinner. Or bedtime is some sort of code for medieval torture. Speaking of tourture, there is nothing worst than twins toddlers with colds especially when they do them one after the other so the complaining, lack of sleep and cries of: “Nose!” (Indication that they want you to get out of bed and blow their noses at 4 AM) last for 14 days instead of 7. And then, you get your cold!
Both squabs can count to 3 (when they want) and they’ll repeat the most difficult to say things back at you. Like I said: “It was a nice day, huh guys? It’s nice outside.” Then I heard them both say: “It’s nice outside.”
“a” can catch a ball and “m” can throw it pretty well so I guess I’m on my way to that female softball team.
"Please put that candy in your anus."
"What?" Says J, This woman I really hate at work. She's going around offering people candy on Valentines Day
"Please put that candy in your anus." I repeat in my head, imaging that her next question would be: "What did you say?" To which I would say: "Oh, I'm sorry, I tried to use the polite version. I meant to say; you can shove your candy up your ass, sideways."
"No thanks." I really say. I really have no need for blood spiking, fake chocolate sugar bombs. Just what a pre-diabetic needs.
In order to combat my Pre-DB I’ve signed up for three free classes at the hospital: Pre Diabetes and You (as opposed to who else? Pre Diabetes and that bastard that lives across the hall from you?), Stress management and coping with Anxiety. You notice that most classes are stress reduction. I could have signed up for Baseball Bat Swinging in a Crowded Room or Do it yourself Vasectomies, but I chose stress reduction instead.
When I got there, the anxiety class was empty except for two people—a married couple from New York. He was the one with the most problems. He was stressed because he couldn't find a job and he worked a block away from the Twin Towers during the big hoo-ha. He witnessed the planes crash as well as seeing people jump to their death. What a crybaby! In my day planes crashed into buildings every day and it wasn't a Sunday unless you saw at least 5 people jump to their death!
We waited for a few minutes until this chick shows up, “Is this the Anxiety class?” She yelled, throwing a handful of lit firecrackers into the room. She seemed puzzled that only three people showed up. She goes to the class next door and discovers the rest of the class had gone into the wrong room. After cattle prodding them into the right class, she announces that there seems to be some missing literature. Off she goes to Xerox™ the info, leaving us waiting in the anxiety class, alone! With the sound of wolves in the background! I'm surprised no one died. 12 years later, she comes back and the class starts. She tells us that this is an “info only” class, not a seminar type thing, in other words: Go waste your tears somewhere else or she’ll point and laugh at you. But she does ask why we're here, so of course there's a little bit of gut spilling. Besides couple #911, there's the woman who literally can't remember her childhood (Oh, if only I can forget the time I stood up in 1st grade to adjust the bulging cloth of my pants which to the rest of the class looked like I was standing up to do a Michael Jackson crotch grab!), There was the usual: My job sucks the crap out of an elephants ass, people like me and my personal favorite, Just a week after a female postal worker went nuts and gunned down 5 employee's, a female postal worker who's so stressed by her boss, she once went to the hospital because she thought she was having a heart attack.
The class was mostly: What is anxiety? What causes it? Why Mel Brook's High Anxiety is so fucking funny etc…
The next class was Pre Diabetes and You...Yes you! This class was packed, which is a testament to the fine people at McDonalds and Nintendo for creating a race of fat, inactive couch monkeys. I learned a lot about diet and just how misinformed other people are. One guy’s Dr. told him he couldn’t eat fruit anymore. That’s a good idea! You should go on the curvy scurvy diet plan! When the instructor heard that the guy only drank water for breakfast, he left the room for a few minutes and then came back. My theory was, he went to go pummel the Dr. for giving stupid advice. Upon not finding him, he found his office and hid a bucket of raw shrimp in the air ducts. There was only one guy around my age, the rest were old to very old. One was a blind woman. Talk about double suck. You have diabetes from all of that food you’ve never seen. Like getting VD from a Playboy. My next class will be a six weeks long one on stress reduction. I heard they’d be lots of blowjobs, no wait that’s at the Learning Annex.
So, even after all that stress reduction training, my life continues to throw ape feces at me. At work they dragged us all into a meeting in order to threaten me with being fired if we didn’t get our accuracy up. It’s amazing that they can take my job which use to take 3 people and expect me to be accurate, fast, underpaid and happy at the same time. They actually expect me to not only do my job, but proof read it as well. Now, I’ll do what I can but I was told, even in high school that you should never proof read your own work. I mean really, I look at hundreds of jobs everyday. Give me a break. But alas, either they’ll get it or I’ll be fired.
In the outside world, I was walking to the station and came across a little old Chinese lady, laid out on the sidewalk. This White guy is with her and is on the cell phone talking to someone, I thought it was 911 but apparently he’s talking to the woman’s nursing home, with her phone. Guh? Hello! First step, administer first aid. If you need to call for help, and there are millions of people walking by, get them to call. Not that I know what the hell I’m doing. I stop and tried to remember about concussions. I check her pupils for dilation, asked her if she knew where she lived, the date and to get her head off the hard sidewalk, I took my jacket off and made a pillow for her. When I lifted her head I noticed she had a lump the size of a baseball on the back of her head. Meanwhile, as we’re helping her, people are walking by, A MUNI bus rolls by, and no one stops! Finally a bicyclist stops and he knows as much as I do. The guy on the phone says the old lady was getting on a bus, slipped and feel back. It was then that I realized: “Hey, wait! The bus is gone!” The driver and a busload of people watched a little old lady fall on her ass and drove on!!!! And people say New Yorkers are rude. My Ass! Luckily a fire dept. truck thingy with 3 EMTs happens to be passing by. They get out and do their mojo while I stood around as useful as a bible at an orgy.
When I saw those guys in action, I couldn’t help but think, sure they have some suck ass days: A head coming off, intestines unraveling like a yanked roll of toilet paper, blood that goes Whoosh! But at least at the end of the day they say:” I did no harm today and I helped save the world. That’s what I want from a job. Imagine having a shitty job you loved?
That’s it.
EM
Both squabs can count to 3 (when they want) and they’ll repeat the most difficult to say things back at you. Like I said: “It was a nice day, huh guys? It’s nice outside.” Then I heard them both say: “It’s nice outside.”
“a” can catch a ball and “m” can throw it pretty well so I guess I’m on my way to that female softball team.
"Please put that candy in your anus."
"What?" Says J, This woman I really hate at work. She's going around offering people candy on Valentines Day
"Please put that candy in your anus." I repeat in my head, imaging that her next question would be: "What did you say?" To which I would say: "Oh, I'm sorry, I tried to use the polite version. I meant to say; you can shove your candy up your ass, sideways."
"No thanks." I really say. I really have no need for blood spiking, fake chocolate sugar bombs. Just what a pre-diabetic needs.
In order to combat my Pre-DB I’ve signed up for three free classes at the hospital: Pre Diabetes and You (as opposed to who else? Pre Diabetes and that bastard that lives across the hall from you?), Stress management and coping with Anxiety. You notice that most classes are stress reduction. I could have signed up for Baseball Bat Swinging in a Crowded Room or Do it yourself Vasectomies, but I chose stress reduction instead.
When I got there, the anxiety class was empty except for two people—a married couple from New York. He was the one with the most problems. He was stressed because he couldn't find a job and he worked a block away from the Twin Towers during the big hoo-ha. He witnessed the planes crash as well as seeing people jump to their death. What a crybaby! In my day planes crashed into buildings every day and it wasn't a Sunday unless you saw at least 5 people jump to their death!
We waited for a few minutes until this chick shows up, “Is this the Anxiety class?” She yelled, throwing a handful of lit firecrackers into the room. She seemed puzzled that only three people showed up. She goes to the class next door and discovers the rest of the class had gone into the wrong room. After cattle prodding them into the right class, she announces that there seems to be some missing literature. Off she goes to Xerox™ the info, leaving us waiting in the anxiety class, alone! With the sound of wolves in the background! I'm surprised no one died. 12 years later, she comes back and the class starts. She tells us that this is an “info only” class, not a seminar type thing, in other words: Go waste your tears somewhere else or she’ll point and laugh at you. But she does ask why we're here, so of course there's a little bit of gut spilling. Besides couple #911, there's the woman who literally can't remember her childhood (Oh, if only I can forget the time I stood up in 1st grade to adjust the bulging cloth of my pants which to the rest of the class looked like I was standing up to do a Michael Jackson crotch grab!), There was the usual: My job sucks the crap out of an elephants ass, people like me and my personal favorite, Just a week after a female postal worker went nuts and gunned down 5 employee's, a female postal worker who's so stressed by her boss, she once went to the hospital because she thought she was having a heart attack.
The class was mostly: What is anxiety? What causes it? Why Mel Brook's High Anxiety is so fucking funny etc…
The next class was Pre Diabetes and You...Yes you! This class was packed, which is a testament to the fine people at McDonalds and Nintendo for creating a race of fat, inactive couch monkeys. I learned a lot about diet and just how misinformed other people are. One guy’s Dr. told him he couldn’t eat fruit anymore. That’s a good idea! You should go on the curvy scurvy diet plan! When the instructor heard that the guy only drank water for breakfast, he left the room for a few minutes and then came back. My theory was, he went to go pummel the Dr. for giving stupid advice. Upon not finding him, he found his office and hid a bucket of raw shrimp in the air ducts. There was only one guy around my age, the rest were old to very old. One was a blind woman. Talk about double suck. You have diabetes from all of that food you’ve never seen. Like getting VD from a Playboy. My next class will be a six weeks long one on stress reduction. I heard they’d be lots of blowjobs, no wait that’s at the Learning Annex.
So, even after all that stress reduction training, my life continues to throw ape feces at me. At work they dragged us all into a meeting in order to threaten me with being fired if we didn’t get our accuracy up. It’s amazing that they can take my job which use to take 3 people and expect me to be accurate, fast, underpaid and happy at the same time. They actually expect me to not only do my job, but proof read it as well. Now, I’ll do what I can but I was told, even in high school that you should never proof read your own work. I mean really, I look at hundreds of jobs everyday. Give me a break. But alas, either they’ll get it or I’ll be fired.
In the outside world, I was walking to the station and came across a little old Chinese lady, laid out on the sidewalk. This White guy is with her and is on the cell phone talking to someone, I thought it was 911 but apparently he’s talking to the woman’s nursing home, with her phone. Guh? Hello! First step, administer first aid. If you need to call for help, and there are millions of people walking by, get them to call. Not that I know what the hell I’m doing. I stop and tried to remember about concussions. I check her pupils for dilation, asked her if she knew where she lived, the date and to get her head off the hard sidewalk, I took my jacket off and made a pillow for her. When I lifted her head I noticed she had a lump the size of a baseball on the back of her head. Meanwhile, as we’re helping her, people are walking by, A MUNI bus rolls by, and no one stops! Finally a bicyclist stops and he knows as much as I do. The guy on the phone says the old lady was getting on a bus, slipped and feel back. It was then that I realized: “Hey, wait! The bus is gone!” The driver and a busload of people watched a little old lady fall on her ass and drove on!!!! And people say New Yorkers are rude. My Ass! Luckily a fire dept. truck thingy with 3 EMTs happens to be passing by. They get out and do their mojo while I stood around as useful as a bible at an orgy.
When I saw those guys in action, I couldn’t help but think, sure they have some suck ass days: A head coming off, intestines unraveling like a yanked roll of toilet paper, blood that goes Whoosh! But at least at the end of the day they say:” I did no harm today and I helped save the world. That’s what I want from a job. Imagine having a shitty job you loved?
That’s it.
EM
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
The Sugar Monster
I haven't slept trough the night in about 2 months. What happen to that time when all parents say: " "Don't worry, by the time they're a year, they'll be sleeping trough the night?" Bullshit!!! These two can't go one night without letting out a house awakening wail. Even if they don't actually get up, they have to let out a complaint against whatever nightmare or social troubling thoughts are running trough their heads.
The more they learn to talk, the more they talk back. They must know over 100 words by now and understand 100s more. The word "no!" has become more negative instead of informative. They rarely know what they want, but they know what they don't want. They're not even two yet and they're already moving into the terrible part.
At Christmas time we hung out with Grandma's husband's family. The girls now have a step cousin, a little boy around their age. After seeing him in action, rampaging around grandma's antiques and imagining what my life would be like with two boys instead of girls, I have a feeling we're dealing with two little Palestines instead of two Iraq's. To those parents of boys, I salute you.
Life is a series of deaths. When you loose your virginity, when your first child exits the womb and as I experienced recently, you find out that you have an potentially deadly disease which can lead to heart attacks, blindness, amputations and kidney problems.
My years of eating Butterfingers and Mountain Dew for breakfast have finally caught up with me. My deceased Mom and her brother left a nice little genetic gift for me this year. Type 2 Diabetes. This hit me like a death because A) I don't smoke B) I drink moderately C) I'm not over weight in the least and D) I'm not old.
Even the doctor was surprised that my glucose came up in the diabetes range. "It can't be!" I said scarfing a cinnamon pecan roll. Apparently it's not as much the sugar thing as it was the stress. Gee? What can I be stressed about. Could it be the fact that I'm trying to balance 6 highly demanding relationships (job, partner, twin a, twin b, twin a and b together, twin a, b and partner together) and make everyone happy?.
Being a masochist, after dealing with that devastating news, I decided to go to the dentist to find out if that filling I made out of gum and tin foil was good enough for the hole in my gum. After she slapped me several times, she said I needed the works: Root canal #4, 1 filling, 1 crown and a partridge in a pear treeeee. I go back for the filling and right in the middle of shots in the roof of the mouth, teeth scraping and digging a hook realllly close to my nerves, she says: "It's too much to clean away, You need a root canal!" She sticks a temporary filling on me and throws me out the window onto the streets, still numb on drugs. What the fuck? I say. I climb back in through the window and demand she send me to an expert, right now! Okay that part didn't happen but I was pretty adamant about not leaving until she set me up with a person who could do what she cant do, ASAP. Few days later I see Dr. Fancy. He uses über drugs on me, had a 2 sided list of movies to watch while they yank out your fangs and it went a lot smoother than getting my teeth cleaned. Here's an idea: CAN WE PLEASE HAVE THE HARDER DRUGS, AND VIDEO PLAYER, DR. FANCY USED DURING THE OTHER STUFF???
There's still more work to do and will extend until next year because the fuck'n insurance won't cover all of it in one year.
Both experiences make me really mad at my parents, Yes, even my deceased mother (oh, oh. Freudian alert) I'm basically mad that my parents never told me, as I'm going to tell my kids. #1 if you take care of your teeth, you could save enough money to go on a kick ass drug ladened trip to Ibiza, twice and still have enough for an computer and a hand job in a seedy strip club. Okay maybe I'll leave out the computer part. And also in our family, there is a ticking time bomb of yummy diseases coming your way from both sides so If you smoke I will kick you in the ass so hard, you'll taste shit for a week, exercise is not a hobby, and party your ass off with Willy Wonka but when you approach 40, drop-kick his ass into that chocolate fountain and lay off the sweets. I mean seriously my parent's never talked to me about health, AND MY DAD"S A GODDAMN DOCTOR!!!!!!
So now I'm on old-man drugs. My doctor says even tough it's not the type 3 diabetes (insulin shots etc..) I have to start on them, now. Three pills per day. Aspirin, a cholesterol drug and my personal favorite, one that lowers your blood pressure. I love that one, it's like drinking a glass of wine in the morning. I feel like Dean Martin.
Why didn't my parents just tell me the truth? I already plan to tell my kids:
One day you will fall in love, and they will break your heart and it will hurt but unfortunately this will only be puppy love. Later on, the real thing will hit and they will break your heart and you'll want to die and kill at the same time.
One day, you will have really bad sex and it will probably involve alcohol.
One day, the police will be involved in your life somehow.
One day you will vote for 5 presidential candidates and they'll all loose.
One day, you'll have a kid and you'll wonder what the fuck your parent's were complaining about because you won't have twins.
My point is. You need to share with your kids all the horrible shit that needs to be red flagged otherwise what are you protecting them from?
That's it!
EM
The more they learn to talk, the more they talk back. They must know over 100 words by now and understand 100s more. The word "no!" has become more negative instead of informative. They rarely know what they want, but they know what they don't want. They're not even two yet and they're already moving into the terrible part.
At Christmas time we hung out with Grandma's husband's family. The girls now have a step cousin, a little boy around their age. After seeing him in action, rampaging around grandma's antiques and imagining what my life would be like with two boys instead of girls, I have a feeling we're dealing with two little Palestines instead of two Iraq's. To those parents of boys, I salute you.
Life is a series of deaths. When you loose your virginity, when your first child exits the womb and as I experienced recently, you find out that you have an potentially deadly disease which can lead to heart attacks, blindness, amputations and kidney problems.
My years of eating Butterfingers and Mountain Dew for breakfast have finally caught up with me. My deceased Mom and her brother left a nice little genetic gift for me this year. Type 2 Diabetes. This hit me like a death because A) I don't smoke B) I drink moderately C) I'm not over weight in the least and D) I'm not old.
Even the doctor was surprised that my glucose came up in the diabetes range. "It can't be!" I said scarfing a cinnamon pecan roll. Apparently it's not as much the sugar thing as it was the stress. Gee? What can I be stressed about. Could it be the fact that I'm trying to balance 6 highly demanding relationships (job, partner, twin a, twin b, twin a and b together, twin a, b and partner together) and make everyone happy?.
Being a masochist, after dealing with that devastating news, I decided to go to the dentist to find out if that filling I made out of gum and tin foil was good enough for the hole in my gum. After she slapped me several times, she said I needed the works: Root canal #4, 1 filling, 1 crown and a partridge in a pear treeeee. I go back for the filling and right in the middle of shots in the roof of the mouth, teeth scraping and digging a hook realllly close to my nerves, she says: "It's too much to clean away, You need a root canal!" She sticks a temporary filling on me and throws me out the window onto the streets, still numb on drugs. What the fuck? I say. I climb back in through the window and demand she send me to an expert, right now! Okay that part didn't happen but I was pretty adamant about not leaving until she set me up with a person who could do what she cant do, ASAP. Few days later I see Dr. Fancy. He uses über drugs on me, had a 2 sided list of movies to watch while they yank out your fangs and it went a lot smoother than getting my teeth cleaned. Here's an idea: CAN WE PLEASE HAVE THE HARDER DRUGS, AND VIDEO PLAYER, DR. FANCY USED DURING THE OTHER STUFF???
There's still more work to do and will extend until next year because the fuck'n insurance won't cover all of it in one year.
Both experiences make me really mad at my parents, Yes, even my deceased mother (oh, oh. Freudian alert) I'm basically mad that my parents never told me, as I'm going to tell my kids. #1 if you take care of your teeth, you could save enough money to go on a kick ass drug ladened trip to Ibiza, twice and still have enough for an computer and a hand job in a seedy strip club. Okay maybe I'll leave out the computer part. And also in our family, there is a ticking time bomb of yummy diseases coming your way from both sides so If you smoke I will kick you in the ass so hard, you'll taste shit for a week, exercise is not a hobby, and party your ass off with Willy Wonka but when you approach 40, drop-kick his ass into that chocolate fountain and lay off the sweets. I mean seriously my parent's never talked to me about health, AND MY DAD"S A GODDAMN DOCTOR!!!!!!
So now I'm on old-man drugs. My doctor says even tough it's not the type 3 diabetes (insulin shots etc..) I have to start on them, now. Three pills per day. Aspirin, a cholesterol drug and my personal favorite, one that lowers your blood pressure. I love that one, it's like drinking a glass of wine in the morning. I feel like Dean Martin.
Why didn't my parents just tell me the truth? I already plan to tell my kids:
One day you will fall in love, and they will break your heart and it will hurt but unfortunately this will only be puppy love. Later on, the real thing will hit and they will break your heart and you'll want to die and kill at the same time.
One day, you will have really bad sex and it will probably involve alcohol.
One day, the police will be involved in your life somehow.
One day you will vote for 5 presidential candidates and they'll all loose.
One day, you'll have a kid and you'll wonder what the fuck your parent's were complaining about because you won't have twins.
My point is. You need to share with your kids all the horrible shit that needs to be red flagged otherwise what are you protecting them from?
That's it!
EM
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