Strangling myself on a door handle wasn't even CLOSE to the dumbest thing I did this week!

Good afternoon!

This really should be a "Five for Friday" BUT since it's SUNDAY and I can really only think of four things...it's not.

This past week seemed to be, for me, a series of really, wildly unfortunate events, or just terrible choices.  So instead of burying a week of embarrassing, frustrating, and down right goofy moments of my life, what does a good blogger do?  A good blogger blogs!

Sooo, enjoy!


Yes, I can be taken down with a necklace and a door handle.

My grandmother was a big fan of the long necklace and I wear one of hers all the time.  It's not a precious antique or anything like that.  It's just really, really long string of odd shaped pearl-like beads.  I wear it looped twice around my neck, so that one loop is right up at my throat and the other dangles almost to my waist.

One of the things I do at work each day is, at the end of the day, go to the shop and make sure the two back doors are closed and locked.  It's not a difficult thing to do and 99% of the time the doors are closed and locked.  But I do it because in those last five minutes of the day I try and do as much as I can AWAY from my desk so I don't get that last minute phone call that puts me at my desk past quitting time.

This past week I was wearing my double looped necklace while doing this. Now I've worn this necklace to work a million times, without injury, but on this day, on this one day, the bottom look of the necklace caught on the door handle while I was opening and closing the door and checking the lock.  I did not notice it so when I turned to check the other door, I couldn't move and, thanks to the fact that I at first had no idea what was going on, the upper loop of the necklace instantly strangled me.

You'll be happy to know the necklace is in tact, the doors are locked.  As for oxygen loss to my brain, well, who will notice, really?  (Especially after you read the rest of this list.)

And if the necklace and door handle can't finish the job, French fries might.

For quite some time now I've not eaten French fries.  I used to LOVE THEM, but as I age, I find they don't really agree with my digestive tract all that much and, frankly, since I have to limit my caloric intake more and more with each passing year, I'd rather not eat something that doesn't make me happy anymore.

Last week, however, I had a craving for Culver's French Fries, extra crispy.  (If you go to Culvers, you can order them "extra crispy" and they have to double deep fry them.  MMMMmmmmmmmm.)  So I got a small order at lunch and ate them in the parking lot where I eat lunch and take naps along with about a half dozen other office drones from other businesses.  (We don't speak, we nod to each other from our cars and everyone keeps their radio volumes down.)

I then decided to forgo the nap and instead clean out the rubbish from my car.  Somewhere in the up and down motion of cleaning the floor of my car, my body said, "Well if you're just going to toss your stomach contents around, then you may as well have them back."

Yep, I blew chunks in the Culvers parking lot.  More specifically, I blew French fries in the Culvers parking lot.  Unfortunately, it was the same day Peaches and Skippy came down with some sort of stomach bug, so for a brief bit I thought I was actually sick.  But...no...it was just my fat old body telling me that 1)  We are done with the French fries and 2) physical activity immediately after eating is never a good idea.

Oh I'm sorry...I thought the express lane was for 15 ITEMS or less...not three items and your endless personal and financial issues.

Immediately after said barfing episode, I got a text from Peaches requesting white soda and crackers for her stomach ailment.  Since I wanted to distance myself from my soiled parking space, I ran over to the local Pick and Save  (and we all know how I feel about that store) for TWO THINGS!  TWO THINGS!

I figured, two things, and the express lane only has three people in it, I'll be in and out quickly.

WRONG. I chose...poorly.  See, the first woman in line had about 30 items...and was trying to redeem a cash reward from her store card before the reward expired.  (That would be...on that very day.)  She was arguing with the clerk about the amount of the reward. 

The next woman behind her only had two items.  And seven coupons.  And she also, wanted to redeem her cash reward from her store card...again, because those rewards were expiring.  SHE argued with the clerk about how many of her coupons she could use.  (again, this is in the EXPRESS LANE.)

The gent directly in front of me had 8 items.  I counted them because I had so much TIME in line.  He had a store card, which he had out and ready and he was paying with a credit card.  I was overjoyed.

She scanned all his items:  two bags of peanuts, two loaves of bread, three of those HUGE chocolate bars and the BIGGEST bag of sugar the store carried.  He handed her the store card, which took off half his bill, leaving him with about $20 to pay. I had to wonder just how much that huge bag of sugar was...but I didn't have a chance because old guy then said, "Well, you have to take the sugar off, because that's  three more dollars than what I have."

Dude, you are paying with a CREDIT CARD! 

I know that feeling.  I've been there more often than I care to talk about, with credit cards.  BUT, I also know that if you're banging on the ceiling of your limit, you add your totals BEFORE you get in the EXPRESS LINE.

Finally, after the longest 9 minutes of my life...and remember this is the EXPRESS LINE, it was my turn.  I had my two items there, and I put one of those plastic dividers between my two items and the soup the woman behind me was getting.  She said, "Oh, you don't want to pay for my soup?"

Looking back, I may have been a bit short with her when I yelled "NO! I AM NOT PAYING FOR YOU SOUP!"  But hey, I'd just spewed in the parking lot and spent 9 minutes of my life watching three people  (and does it surprise any of you that they were elderly?  Nope, that's how my life goes.) try to argue and adjust things with a Pick and Save clerk like we're at some camel market.

And finally...I get vengeance on Woodman's gas station for making me look uncool.

I like Woodmans' markets.  We just got one here in my home town, but there are some hither and thither around Wisconsin.  Woodmans' markets are low priced and do not take credit cards.  They do take debit cards.  And, they have gas stations.

While visiting my friend Linda this weekend, I realized I needed gas.  I decided that, before we went to breakfast, I would fill up at the Woodmans'.  I'd never gotten gas there before, but I thought I'd give it a try.  I pulled up to the pump and got out.  I realized I hadn't pulled up far enough and there was no way the hose would reach my tank.  So I had to get back in the car, start the car, pull the car forward about a foot, and then stop it again.  Not cool.

THEN the pump said, "PREPAY."  No problem.  I always prepay because I don't like going into the gas station.  I got my debit card and looked for the slot to plug it.  There was none. Nope, they wanted me to PREPAY by going in to the station and paying up front.  Not looking cool at the moment.

So I go to the station, and hand the girl my debit card.  She tells me to go fill up and she'll run the card when I'm done.  I do so and return to the station where she hands me my card and tells me to swipe it.  Which I do.  "Oh you have to wait until I tell you to do it."

I thought you just did. 

Well, no matter, she then says, "Go ahead and I swipe it again.

This time, the machine pretty much explodes.  I mean, there's no explosion, but it shuts down and it shuts down hard.  It starts something she calls a "reboot" and she, clearly, has never in all her years at Woodmans' seen this.  (Note:  She looked all of 17, so it's not like we're talking a vast experience here.)  We wait a few minutes, but here's the thing: when the computer goes into reboot mode, apparently NOTHING ELSE is going to happen in that gas station.  So, to the old gent who gave her his license and then went to pump three, and couldn't get gas?  Yeah, that was me...and I'm sorry, but you're at the receiving end of my wrath from the other day at Pick and Save.

To the woman who came in to prepay and heard clerk child say, "It's going to be a few minutes, I have no idea how long,"  Sorry.  But hey, at least you didn't have to wait in line for twleve minutes...like the guy behind me did.

And to the guy behind me who thought getting gas was going to be a quick little errand, sorry.  But, no, I'm not really, because you were good looking and gave me something to look at while clerk child was trying to say clever things about how long we'd have to wait.  (Hint:  She failed at that.)

So yeah, thanks Woodmans' gas, for helping to perpetuate the world view that I'm super uncool.  Next time, you can mess with some other complete dork who may, or may not, be able to unwittingly shut down your gas operations for twelve solid minutes on a Saturday.

Friends, this is going to be my last blog for the month of November.  Most of you know that I do nanowrimo in November and this year I'm hoping to write almost an entire novel.  Pretty steep stuff, considering I haven't written anything since November started.  So I'll be out until after Thanksgiving.  In the meantime, check out past blogs...because there's no way you've read them ALL, OR, click here to purchase my past novels AND THE FIRST ELSIE BOOK to pass the time until we meet again!

The honeymoon Ended So Quickly After the Lovers Reunited.

Good evening!

So this week has been about Noelle C reuniting with her one true love...Lumbergh.  Lumbergh was out all last week at corporate meetings in a warmer climate.  Poor Noelle C was stuck here with those of us who spend our time NOT worshiping at the altar of Lumbergh.  And Lumbergh, since he's gained quite a bit of confidence that the team here at Stuff, Installed  (It's the name I'm using for the company in the upcoming Elsie W book, so you're going to have to get used to it.) isn't going to set fire to the place or walk out, didn't spend the week checking in by phone or email or text or smoke signal or whatever.

Poor Noelle C. He did send one email...and he sent it to everyone, not just her, and it read, "Hope everything is running smoothly there.  Thanks for all you do."

My response, "All is fine, we haven't set fire to the building."

Noelle C fretted for two solid days as to what to send in response to this heartfelt email  (that someone else probably wrote since Lumbergh rarely says thanks for anything.  Ever.)  I don't know what she finally did send, but I can tell you this:  She asked me for ideas on what to say.  In response to an email.  From her boss.  That he sent to everyone.

I told her to say something clever like, "I hope the weather is good."

Anyway, so Monday she was reunited with him.  And oh, how the lovers missed each other!

Well, actually, she missed him.  He...well he didn't miss her.  And here's why:

Remember when Elsie W worked here and she started every day out coming in late and then arguing with him for half an hour  and then cooking herself something and then eating it so that by the time she dialed the phone for the first time she'd been on the clock for an hour?

Well, Noelle C has rather a similar pattern.  She strolls in ten minutes early, but she's cheering, literally shouting cheerfully, and JINGLING HER KEYS.  Every day. Now this would not be a problem if I weren't on the PHONE WITH CUSTOMERS.  By the time she arrives to work my day is almost...almost half done.  And she can't hear how loud she is because she won't do anything about her hearing so she comes in like a varsity cheerleader with her keys jingling and shouting, "HI SARAH HOW ARE YOU?  HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING?"

Only in a more sing-song sort of sickly sweet voice.

Then, in a voice only dogs, Lumbergh, and I can hear, she reaches a new octave and greets Lumbergh.   And when her voice gets higher, she sounds like a little girl.  A little pants wetting girl jingling her keys and simpering in front of her boss.

And then she spends no less than fifteen immediate minutes in his office going over the tiniest details of her job and how she performed it the previous day.  (She makes phone calls.  That's all she does.  There's no skill to it.  I do it all the time.  The only requirement is that you don't curse at the customers and you don't blow your brains out due to boredom.)  After that, when she's gotten either the praise she was digging for or the scolding she aches to get, she spends no less than half an hour sitting at her desk chanting something to herself just loud enough to annoy me but not loud enough to actually reach Lumbergh's ears so he can't hear the gigantic can of crazy he opened with the simplest word.  And then, well , then she'll announce loudly because again SHE CAN'T HEAR THE VOLUME OF HER OWN VOICE that she has to "potty."  (Seriously...she's 56.  "Potty" is a word that should be banned from her vocabulary unless she's talking to a child under the age of 3.)  And she'll tell us multiple times, because she has to tell every person in the office exactly where she's going and what she's doing.

So she potties....and that takes about fifteen minutes, which means, by the time she's done her first phone call, she's been on the clock for almost an hour.

Now, multiply that by four, the number of days a week I have to witness this and then multiply it by 54, the degrees the intensity grew for Monday's cathartic reunion. 

That took almost 90 minutes.  And then there was another chat in his office every hour on the hour for ten minutes.  By the time I got back from lunch Lumbergh was tearing his hair out...well, he would have been if he had any hair to tear out. 

All he wanted to do was talk about the great seminars he'd been to.  I know how that is.  You get back from a conference all energized and rarin' to go and then you realize you work with a whackadoo.  Anyway, she was in his office at one point and he said something about a personality seminar and she said, and I am not making this up:

"So did you find out what kind of man you are? I know what kind of man you are.  You are a strong man.  You are an organized man.  You are a man who tries very hard."

I missed the rest.  i was busy gagging into my garbage can.

But by the end of Tuesday, after two days of worship just one step short of ceremonial feet washing, Lumbergh was at his wits' end with her and ceased communications with both of us.

I don't care.  I thrive on working alone.  Noelle C on the other hand thought we were in some sort of competition.  A competition for Lumbergh's love.  And the only rules were MAKE A LOT OF PHONE CALLS.

Hey, no problem.  I do my job.  I was perfectly happy to not be drawn into her web of whackadoodle.  And Lumbergh liked the peace and quiet. 

Noelle C, however, was not so happy and the minute he left for the night tonight, she let me have it.  For half an hour.

"He used to give me things to do. Now he gives you everything to do and all I'm supposed to do is make phone calls.  I asked him about it and he got angry at me."

Folks, let's try and see this from Lumbergh's perspective. He's a married guy.  He's a polar opposite from Noelle C in every possible way.  And the one thing he wants in the office is for people to do their jobs without having to be coaxed, monitored, instructed, and guided every step of the way.

I'm betting he got angry because, well, this isn't the first time Noelle C has berated him for giving me more attention.  I've tried explaining to her that her job is to make phone calls because she's good at that. My job is to do everything else because she's a whackadoo who tends to screw things up because she either doesn't hear everything or the multiple voices that must be harmonizing in her brain don't shut up long enough for her to focus on anything other than dialing the phone.

In short, what I'm sure Lumbergh heard, was this:

"YOU LOVE SARAH MORE THAN YOU LOVE ME!  WHY????????????????"

Now, according to Noelle C, she's going to ignore him until he loves her...I mean until he gives her more responsibilities in the office. 

It's going to be a long week.

There's no point in cutting into your vacation time if you vomit on yourself at work and it's 3 PM.

WARNING!  Today's blog is a little gross.  If you have a strong gag reflex or a weak stomach...DO NOT READ!  However, if you have an overdeveloped sense of schadenfreude, and you LOVE to see other people suffer, read on, and enjoy!

Like most Americans, I don't like using my vacation time for something that's not fun.  Which means, like most Americans, I go to work when I'm not feeling, shall we say, my very perkiest.

I could tell you stories about vomiting at work, in fact, the rough draft of this blog was all about the times I've barfed at work and then gone home.  But those instances are the behavior of a normal person.  I took protecting my vacation time (I have enough saved right now to take of December if I want to.  But, since I'm a control freak at work and since Bossman doesn't like covering for me for more than an afternoon, I probably won't.) to a whole new and disturbing level yesterday.

I've been battling the after effects of some weird summer cold for the last several weeks.  What started as a sore throat developed into laryngitis and then a chest cold and is now dying down as a giant flem wad in my throat.  Said flem wad gives me coughing fits a couple of times a day.  Painful, (I've pulled all my back muscles from the coughing) but certainly not a reason to take vacation time.

Yesterday I was on the phone with a customer.  I took a drink of water, and a tiny drop went down the wrong pipe.  I started coughing a little, you know how that goes.   Now add the Evil Flemwad to the mix.  I started coughing uncontrollably.  Fortunately for me, my customer didn't want to continue the conversation with a coughing beast.

Free of the phone, my coughing fit took on a whole new energy and soon I had a little verp in my mouth.  (You know what verp is...vomit burp.  Come on, I'm not the only one who knows that term.)  Well, I have two things in my office for which I'm thankful:  1)  Caller ID so I can screen my calls and ignore the ones I know are going to be annoying and 2)  A really great, completely trustworthy Dora the Explorer wastebasket.

I let fly into the basket.  Now, once you're done barking, you know how ever orifice on your head is running some sort of fluid?  Yeah, snot, tears, some earwax I think...anyway, I was so fluidy that I couldn't breath which led to gagging which lead to ...you know.  This time, blinded by tears, I couldn't reach for the basket fast enough.

Have you ever tried catching vomit in your hands, only you know there's way too much and your hands aren't going to actually hold it all?

Well, this second bout passed only now I'm sort of covered in the acidy remnants of lunch.  This is when I make it down to the bathroom.  (The third thing I'm thankful for?  A completely empty third floor.  Makes it so much less humiliating to carry a Dora the Explorer basket full of upchuck to the bathroom .)  Once in the bathroom, another coughing fit hit me.  I'm smart enough to know that you don't kneel before the toilet in this bathroom.  The cleaning lady believes that if she pours the bowl cleaner into the bowl, but doesn't actually touch the toilet with a brush or some sort of scrubber, the toilet is still clean.  So the sink got the glory this time. 

Fun Fact:  Apparently tomatoes, when on a veggie sub sandwhich, take more than three hours to completely digest.

Another fun fact:  Trying to ease a vomit inducing cough with a Halls throat lozenge does not ease the cough.  It just makes your already burning throat feel more en fuego.

Back at my office, cleaned up, (though really, can you truly get vomit off your clothes without the use of a washing machine?)  and exhausted, I toyed with the idea of going home early.  Then I looked at the clock.  It was three PM.  Quitting time is at 4. 

Not really worth cutting into my saved vacation time.

Right?