You know, that video on Road Rash in a Tutu reminds me of a story. Unfortunately, it's not my story. For anyone who reads Pirate with a Permission Slip, let's all goad Strings into regailing us with his tale of the kilt check at National - or as I like to call it, the rubber chicken award story.
Goad. Goad. Goad.
Friday, June 29, 2007
April's Law
Courtesy of Angela Shelton, I was made aware of a movement called April's Law. According to the April's Law website, "We are attempting to form a bill that will be put in into law we wish to call APRIL'S LAW! Named after a victim whose perpetrator stalked children over the Internet after being inspired by legal sites that encourage pedophiles to have sex with children.
This new law will make all web sites that promote paedophilia and display children or child like sexual images on the Internet ILLEGAL. These sites only promote crimes against children!
"lil" Deb general has asked if anyone who is a SURVIVERS OF CHILD RAPE OR VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ABUSE ON THE INTERNET , would be willing to share their testimony for this campaign ?
If you are or know anyone who would please contact Lil Deb general on April Laws page. Or email her at aprilslaw@yahoo.com or xfilet@aol.com.
These sites need to be STOPPED."
There is also a video from Petra Luna here which gives a little more information on what the law is about.
And here is a direct link to the April's Law Federal Petition Portion for more information on April's Law.
C'mon everybody! Let's get the word out on this!
This new law will make all web sites that promote paedophilia and display children or child like sexual images on the Internet ILLEGAL. These sites only promote crimes against children!
"lil" Deb general has asked if anyone who is a SURVIVERS OF CHILD RAPE OR VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ABUSE ON THE INTERNET , would be willing to share their testimony for this campaign ?
If you are or know anyone who would please contact Lil Deb general on April Laws page. Or email her at aprilslaw@yahoo.com or xfilet@aol.com.
These sites need to be STOPPED."
There is also a video from Petra Luna here which gives a little more information on what the law is about.
And here is a direct link to the April's Law Federal Petition Portion for more information on April's Law.
C'mon everybody! Let's get the word out on this!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
The Cadaver Calculator
$3605.00
Now I know. And knowing is half the battle. The sad part is, I think my cadaver is worth more than I am being alive.
Mingle2 - Online Dating
Now I know. And knowing is half the battle. The sad part is, I think my cadaver is worth more than I am being alive.
Humor for the workplace
I didn't write this, but this is funny....
DRESS CODE:
It is advised that you come to work dressed according to your salary.
If we see you wearing $350 Prada sneakers & carrying a $600 Gucci bag we assume you are doing well financially and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress poorly, you need to learn to manage your money better, so that you may buy nicer clothes and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress in-between, you are right where you need to be and therefore you do not need a raise.
SICK DAYS:
We will no longer accept a doctor statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.
SURGERY:
Operations are now banned. As long as you are an employee here, you need all your organs. You should not consider removing anything. We hired you intact. To have something removed constitutes a breach of employment.
PERSONAL DAYS:
Each employee will receive 104 personal days a year. They are called Saturday & Sunday.
VACATION DAYS:
All employees will take their vacation at the same time every year. The vacation days are as follows: Jan. 1, July 4 & Dec. 25
BEREAVEMENT LEAVE:
This is no excuse for missing work. There is nothing you can do for dead friends, relatives or coworkers. Every effort should be made to have non-employees attend to the arrangements. In rare cases where employee involvement is necessary, the funeral should be scheduled in the late afternoon. We will be glad to allow you to work through your lunch hour and subsequently leave one hour early, provided your share of the work is done enough.
ABSENCE DUE TO YOUR OWN DEATH:
This will be accepted as an excuse. However, we require at least two weeks notice as it is your duty to train your own replacement.
RESTROOM USE:
Entirely too much time is being spent in the restroom. In the future, we will follow the practice of going in alphabetical Order. For instance, all employees whose names begin with `A` will go From 8:00 to 8:20, employees whose names begin with `B` will go from 8:20 to 8:40 and so on.
If you`re unable to go at your allotted time, it will be necessary to wait until the next day when your turn comes again. In extreme emergencies, employees may swap their time with a coworker. Both employees` supervisors must approve this exchange in writing. In addition, there is now a strict 3-minute time limit in the stalls. At the end of Three minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper roll will retract, the stall door will open and a picture will be taken. After your second offense, your picture will be posted on the company bulletin board under the "Chronic Offenders" category.
LUNCH BREAK:
Skinny people get 30 minutes for lunch as they need to eat more so that they can look healthy.
Normal size people get 15 minutes for lunch to get a balanced meal to maintain their average figure.
Fat people get 5 minutes for lunch, because that`s all the time needed to drink a Slim Fast and take a diet pill.
Thank you for your loyalty to our company. We are here to provide a positive employment experience. Therefore, all questions, comments, concerns, complaints, frustrations, irritations, aggravations, insinuations, allegations, accusations, contemplations, consternation and input should be directed elsewhere.
Have a nice week.
Management
DRESS CODE:
It is advised that you come to work dressed according to your salary.
If we see you wearing $350 Prada sneakers & carrying a $600 Gucci bag we assume you are doing well financially and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress poorly, you need to learn to manage your money better, so that you may buy nicer clothes and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress in-between, you are right where you need to be and therefore you do not need a raise.
SICK DAYS:
We will no longer accept a doctor statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.
SURGERY:
Operations are now banned. As long as you are an employee here, you need all your organs. You should not consider removing anything. We hired you intact. To have something removed constitutes a breach of employment.
PERSONAL DAYS:
Each employee will receive 104 personal days a year. They are called Saturday & Sunday.
VACATION DAYS:
All employees will take their vacation at the same time every year. The vacation days are as follows: Jan. 1, July 4 & Dec. 25
BEREAVEMENT LEAVE:
This is no excuse for missing work. There is nothing you can do for dead friends, relatives or coworkers. Every effort should be made to have non-employees attend to the arrangements. In rare cases where employee involvement is necessary, the funeral should be scheduled in the late afternoon. We will be glad to allow you to work through your lunch hour and subsequently leave one hour early, provided your share of the work is done enough.
ABSENCE DUE TO YOUR OWN DEATH:
This will be accepted as an excuse. However, we require at least two weeks notice as it is your duty to train your own replacement.
RESTROOM USE:
Entirely too much time is being spent in the restroom. In the future, we will follow the practice of going in alphabetical Order. For instance, all employees whose names begin with `A` will go From 8:00 to 8:20, employees whose names begin with `B` will go from 8:20 to 8:40 and so on.
If you`re unable to go at your allotted time, it will be necessary to wait until the next day when your turn comes again. In extreme emergencies, employees may swap their time with a coworker. Both employees` supervisors must approve this exchange in writing. In addition, there is now a strict 3-minute time limit in the stalls. At the end of Three minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper roll will retract, the stall door will open and a picture will be taken. After your second offense, your picture will be posted on the company bulletin board under the "Chronic Offenders" category.
LUNCH BREAK:
Skinny people get 30 minutes for lunch as they need to eat more so that they can look healthy.
Normal size people get 15 minutes for lunch to get a balanced meal to maintain their average figure.
Fat people get 5 minutes for lunch, because that`s all the time needed to drink a Slim Fast and take a diet pill.
Thank you for your loyalty to our company. We are here to provide a positive employment experience. Therefore, all questions, comments, concerns, complaints, frustrations, irritations, aggravations, insinuations, allegations, accusations, contemplations, consternation and input should be directed elsewhere.
Have a nice week.
Management
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Strangeness in my household
Last night I went out to the garage to talk to my husband. From the deep, dark recesses of the garage, I hear, "My mom told me not to eat the yellow snow, but I didn't believe her. It tastes like lemonade."
I glance back, and see my roommate reclining in a lounging camp chair in the darkness. I shake my head and attempt to go back to my conversation with my husband.
"She also said not to eat the little brown pellets on the ground." He continued.
Giggling, I try to ignore him.
"They were crunchy."
I lost it.
This is the type of strangeness I deal with on a daily basis folks.
Ahem.... I guess I'm rubbing off...
I glance back, and see my roommate reclining in a lounging camp chair in the darkness. I shake my head and attempt to go back to my conversation with my husband.
"She also said not to eat the little brown pellets on the ground." He continued.
Giggling, I try to ignore him.
"They were crunchy."
I lost it.
This is the type of strangeness I deal with on a daily basis folks.
Ahem.... I guess I'm rubbing off...
Monday, June 18, 2007
Happy Father's Day
Every Father's Day I'm stumped at what to buy my father. It usually ends up being a shirt and often some strange thing I found that will amuse him. (I get my personality from my father.) It never seems quite adequate, though.
Monetarily, I don't make nearly enough money, of course. But that's not what I'm referring to. Growing up, I might not have realized it at the time, my father was a great dad.
The best example I can find for that, or the one that usually immediately springs to mind, is a time when my mother was talking to someone about something that happened when my brother and I were kids. She mentioned - off-handedly - that we were poor. This took me entirely by surprise. Us? Poor?
Thinking back on it, I remember having to do without quite a bit. I know my father spent an unhealthy amount of time being laid off (not his fault, mind you). I remember wearing hand-me-downs and rummage sale clothes and never (or at least hardly ever) finding any sort of "name brand" on anything I owned. But "poor"?
When I recall my childhood, I don't think of us as being poor. My parents lovingly provided a roof over our heads, gave us three square meals a day, and gave us as many hugs as we could handle. I never cared for name brands. I'd rather go fishing with my dad than have a pair of Tommy Hilfiger pants.
Heh.... fishing.... I'm firmly convinced that my father never really liked fishing. We'd take a couple of poles to a local creek and sit there for a few hours. All I ever caught were suckers and carp. Maybe, once in a blue moon, I'd catch a blue gill, but that was about it. I can't recall a time since my childhood that my dad has ever gone fishing by himself or even with his 'buddies'. Of course, I could be wrong on that point. However, my father knew what fishing was really about - spending time with your kids.
My father did a lot of things with us when we were kids. On a nice summer night, he and I would go for a walk. I think I still have the scar on my knee from the time he tripped and fell on me while playing kickball with us kids in the back yard. He built my brother and I a tree-house - an honest-to-goodness treehouse! - in our back yard. When the usefulness of his old shed had run out, he helped us turn it into a fort. He helped us raise bunnies, a pigeon, gerbils, fish, and dogs (not usually all at the same time). Heck, I remember one year sitting in our basement watching as an incubator full of chicken eggs started hatching. Or going down to a local field early in the season to find caterpillers and collect them so we could watch them turn into butterflies. Let me just say, to a little girl, a monarch butterfly airing out it's wings for the first time on her finger is magical.
I was not poor. Oh no. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
And so, to my father, and every other father out there, Happy Father's Day. And Daddy, I'll always be your little girl.
Monetarily, I don't make nearly enough money, of course. But that's not what I'm referring to. Growing up, I might not have realized it at the time, my father was a great dad.
The best example I can find for that, or the one that usually immediately springs to mind, is a time when my mother was talking to someone about something that happened when my brother and I were kids. She mentioned - off-handedly - that we were poor. This took me entirely by surprise. Us? Poor?
Thinking back on it, I remember having to do without quite a bit. I know my father spent an unhealthy amount of time being laid off (not his fault, mind you). I remember wearing hand-me-downs and rummage sale clothes and never (or at least hardly ever) finding any sort of "name brand" on anything I owned. But "poor"?
When I recall my childhood, I don't think of us as being poor. My parents lovingly provided a roof over our heads, gave us three square meals a day, and gave us as many hugs as we could handle. I never cared for name brands. I'd rather go fishing with my dad than have a pair of Tommy Hilfiger pants.
Heh.... fishing.... I'm firmly convinced that my father never really liked fishing. We'd take a couple of poles to a local creek and sit there for a few hours. All I ever caught were suckers and carp. Maybe, once in a blue moon, I'd catch a blue gill, but that was about it. I can't recall a time since my childhood that my dad has ever gone fishing by himself or even with his 'buddies'. Of course, I could be wrong on that point. However, my father knew what fishing was really about - spending time with your kids.
My father did a lot of things with us when we were kids. On a nice summer night, he and I would go for a walk. I think I still have the scar on my knee from the time he tripped and fell on me while playing kickball with us kids in the back yard. He built my brother and I a tree-house - an honest-to-goodness treehouse! - in our back yard. When the usefulness of his old shed had run out, he helped us turn it into a fort. He helped us raise bunnies, a pigeon, gerbils, fish, and dogs (not usually all at the same time). Heck, I remember one year sitting in our basement watching as an incubator full of chicken eggs started hatching. Or going down to a local field early in the season to find caterpillers and collect them so we could watch them turn into butterflies. Let me just say, to a little girl, a monarch butterfly airing out it's wings for the first time on her finger is magical.
I was not poor. Oh no. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
And so, to my father, and every other father out there, Happy Father's Day. And Daddy, I'll always be your little girl.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Colossal Death Robot Test
I love www.rumandmonkey.com.....
Which Colossal Death Robot Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
You are Gigantor!
Born in 1963, You are possibly the original colossal death robot, being one of the patriarchs of the current crop, and definitely an advocate of old-skool enemy-bashing. Why use a clumsy particle weapon when you can create supernovas just by flexing your arms? Your one minor weakness is that you are entirely dominated by some kid with a remote contol - still, don't let it get you down. You can sink a nuclear submarine with jazz music.
Which Colossal Death Robot Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
You are Gigantor!
Born in 1963, You are possibly the original colossal death robot, being one of the patriarchs of the current crop, and definitely an advocate of old-skool enemy-bashing. Why use a clumsy particle weapon when you can create supernovas just by flexing your arms? Your one minor weakness is that you are entirely dominated by some kid with a remote contol - still, don't let it get you down. You can sink a nuclear submarine with jazz music.
Okay, we all knew I was good, but.....
You are The High Priestess
Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.
The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluxuation, particularily when it comes to your moods.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.
Stethoscope Solidarity
An incident with my husband and doctors brought to mind the following story and, if you will, lesson. If you are a healthcare professional, this is not meant to undermine you or offend you. If you're a good doctor, in fact, it shouldn't.
My ex-husband and I were trying to have a child (of course, at the time, he wasn't my ex-husband). Anyway, we ran into difficulties and I ended up seeing a lot of my ob/gyn (who I'll refer to as Dr. Og). Dr. Og ran a bunch of tests and finally came up with an answer. He told me, in not so nice of terms, that I was simply too fat to have a child. He also told me that in order for me to conceive, I needed to "get my blood sugars under control."
Now, I can see why some doctors get the God Complex. It's from people like me. Or should I say, people like me at the time. I went home from that doctor visit bawling my eyes out. I couldn't understand why people much heavier than me were able to conceive, but I couldn't because I was too fat. I also immediately scheduled an appointment to see a diabetes specialist (via reference from my ob/gyn).
I still remember sitting in the doctor's office for my diabetes appointment. I remember the confusion. I remember the doctor coming in, my chart in his hands and a very confused look on his face. He looked at me and said, "What can I do for you today?"
I responded (the panic had not yet receeded from my last appointment with Dr. Og), "I'm here to get my blood sugars under control."
The doctor looked back down at my chart, still open in his hands, and said, "I'll be right back." He left the room for a minute or two. When he came back, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm taking a look at your blood tests and I'm not seeing a problem here."
I tell him that Dr. Og had said that I had to get my blood sugars under control. Then the diabetes doctor did something he wasn't supposed to do (according to him, anyway), but I'll never forget. He sat down with me and went through every single lab I had ever had in that facility. He showed me, without a shadow of a doubt, that I did not, in fact, have to "get my blood sugars under control." The highest score I had in an entire 5 year timeframe was 119. Once. 119 once, and I have to get my blood sugars under control.
I sat there confused, dumbfounded. Was this doctor telling me Dr. Og was WRONG?!? The doctor then excused himself again, muttering to himself and staring at my chart the whole time. He went to find Dr. Og. When he returned, I finally saw how strong stethoscope solidarity could be.
Standing before me was a doctor who had not only told me, but SHOWN me that a) I was wasting my money by seeing him and b) Dr. Og didn't know the first thing about reading blood sugar levels. And he told me, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else." and proceeded to show me what needed to be done to control blood sugars through exercise and diet. Dr. Og was WRONG. He knew it and I knew it. But he couldn't admit it. And when he said those words, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else.", I could see him almost physically forcing those words from his mouth.
Needless to say, that appointment changed me. I realized that you couldn't rely on your doctor to give you all of the information you need. I realized that you had to take your own healthcare into your own hands. I realized that sometimes, doctors need to be questioned. I realized that a fancy diploma doesn't always mean you know better. And I also realized that even if a doctor knows another doctor was dead wrong, he STILL won't actually admit it.
Bottom line, I switched my ob/gyn. I told everyone I knew what had happened and warned other women against my former doctor. I read up on my symptoms and found out that I was right, according to actual blood tests. I began to trust myself, my intuitions, my body, before simply blindly accepting what a doctor says. I began to realize that doctors were NOT God, that they were human, and could make mistakes just like any other human.
It still irks me to this day, though, that that diabetes doctor, even with all the evidence in front of him, could NOT say, "Your doctor was wrong." No, he could only make excuses for him.
Do NOT get me wrong. I am not saying that no doctor out there knows what he (or she) is talking about. In fact, I believe a majority of them are very good. What I'm saying is do not be afraid to question your physician in the interest of better healthcare. If the physician is a good one, they won't mind. After all, it IS your body.
My ex-husband and I were trying to have a child (of course, at the time, he wasn't my ex-husband). Anyway, we ran into difficulties and I ended up seeing a lot of my ob/gyn (who I'll refer to as Dr. Og). Dr. Og ran a bunch of tests and finally came up with an answer. He told me, in not so nice of terms, that I was simply too fat to have a child. He also told me that in order for me to conceive, I needed to "get my blood sugars under control."
Now, I can see why some doctors get the God Complex. It's from people like me. Or should I say, people like me at the time. I went home from that doctor visit bawling my eyes out. I couldn't understand why people much heavier than me were able to conceive, but I couldn't because I was too fat. I also immediately scheduled an appointment to see a diabetes specialist (via reference from my ob/gyn).
I still remember sitting in the doctor's office for my diabetes appointment. I remember the confusion. I remember the doctor coming in, my chart in his hands and a very confused look on his face. He looked at me and said, "What can I do for you today?"
I responded (the panic had not yet receeded from my last appointment with Dr. Og), "I'm here to get my blood sugars under control."
The doctor looked back down at my chart, still open in his hands, and said, "I'll be right back." He left the room for a minute or two. When he came back, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm taking a look at your blood tests and I'm not seeing a problem here."
I tell him that Dr. Og had said that I had to get my blood sugars under control. Then the diabetes doctor did something he wasn't supposed to do (according to him, anyway), but I'll never forget. He sat down with me and went through every single lab I had ever had in that facility. He showed me, without a shadow of a doubt, that I did not, in fact, have to "get my blood sugars under control." The highest score I had in an entire 5 year timeframe was 119. Once. 119 once, and I have to get my blood sugars under control.
I sat there confused, dumbfounded. Was this doctor telling me Dr. Og was WRONG?!? The doctor then excused himself again, muttering to himself and staring at my chart the whole time. He went to find Dr. Og. When he returned, I finally saw how strong stethoscope solidarity could be.
Standing before me was a doctor who had not only told me, but SHOWN me that a) I was wasting my money by seeing him and b) Dr. Og didn't know the first thing about reading blood sugar levels. And he told me, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else." and proceeded to show me what needed to be done to control blood sugars through exercise and diet. Dr. Og was WRONG. He knew it and I knew it. But he couldn't admit it. And when he said those words, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else.", I could see him almost physically forcing those words from his mouth.
Needless to say, that appointment changed me. I realized that you couldn't rely on your doctor to give you all of the information you need. I realized that you had to take your own healthcare into your own hands. I realized that sometimes, doctors need to be questioned. I realized that a fancy diploma doesn't always mean you know better. And I also realized that even if a doctor knows another doctor was dead wrong, he STILL won't actually admit it.
Bottom line, I switched my ob/gyn. I told everyone I knew what had happened and warned other women against my former doctor. I read up on my symptoms and found out that I was right, according to actual blood tests. I began to trust myself, my intuitions, my body, before simply blindly accepting what a doctor says. I began to realize that doctors were NOT God, that they were human, and could make mistakes just like any other human.
It still irks me to this day, though, that that diabetes doctor, even with all the evidence in front of him, could NOT say, "Your doctor was wrong." No, he could only make excuses for him.
Do NOT get me wrong. I am not saying that no doctor out there knows what he (or she) is talking about. In fact, I believe a majority of them are very good. What I'm saying is do not be afraid to question your physician in the interest of better healthcare. If the physician is a good one, they won't mind. After all, it IS your body.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The Hoff
So I get a call tonight from my friend, A.R. (name altered to protect the inebriated) asking me, "What the heck is the deal with David Hasselhoff?" She goes on, ranting, if you will, for about 10 minutes. She even goes so far as to suggest doing an informal phone interview to random people ("I should do a *67 and just start calling people.") asking them if they like David Hasselhoff and if they answer "yes," asking them why. "What," she finally screams, the culmination of the rant, "is so f***ing great about David-freaking-Hasselhoff?!"
I calmly reply, "Honey, I have no idea." She then informs me that I need to write a blog about David Hasselhoff and ask any would-be readers what they think of him and why is he so d*** great.
I finally get off the phone with her and my husband says to me, "What was that about?" I tell him, "She wants to know what's so freakin' great about David Hasselhoff." My husband, somehow straight-faced, responds, "He's just so hunky." Then, just as I'm catching my breath from the giggling, he continues, "If he were 50 years younger, he'd be on the cover of Teen Beat." At this point, I'm reaching for a tissue to wipe the Sprite out of my nose. Leave it to my husband to time his commentary perfectly.
So, dear Reader, your input please. What is so freaking great about David Hasselhoff? A.R. will be eagerly awaiting your response.
I calmly reply, "Honey, I have no idea." She then informs me that I need to write a blog about David Hasselhoff and ask any would-be readers what they think of him and why is he so d*** great.
I finally get off the phone with her and my husband says to me, "What was that about?" I tell him, "She wants to know what's so freakin' great about David Hasselhoff." My husband, somehow straight-faced, responds, "He's just so hunky." Then, just as I'm catching my breath from the giggling, he continues, "If he were 50 years younger, he'd be on the cover of Teen Beat." At this point, I'm reaching for a tissue to wipe the Sprite out of my nose. Leave it to my husband to time his commentary perfectly.
So, dear Reader, your input please. What is so freaking great about David Hasselhoff? A.R. will be eagerly awaiting your response.
Gimme a JOB!!!
I miss working. I really do. I don't know what I'd do without BACA keeping me busy. I've had a few interviews in the past week or two and the last one really had me thinking. They told me that they had a concern about my last few jobs only lasting a few months. Temporary jobs. Seriously, not my fault.
So here's a question for y'all.... Is it better to just stay unemployed or take a job that you know will only last for a few months? Frankly, I'd rather work than be unemployed. But it seems to be affecting my ability to get a REAL job.
*sigh* Damned if I do and damned if I don't apparently.
So if anyone reading this blog knows of anyone looking for an administrative assistant, receptionist, office assistant, office manager, human resources assistant, accounting clerk, etc., PLEASE let me know. Part-time, full-time, first, second or third shift. I don't care. I need to work.
Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier if I had a really bad work ethic. I mean, this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't care about working or not. Money matters aside, working helps me feel like I'm contributing to society. Plus I seriously enjoy what I do for a living. Yes, I'm the freak that loves filing.
So if anyone has any advice on how to handle huge employment gaps (due to a crappy job market, not for a lack of trying) plus short-term jobs, please.... have at it.
Anyways... Off to scour JobNet again.... Wish me luck!
So here's a question for y'all.... Is it better to just stay unemployed or take a job that you know will only last for a few months? Frankly, I'd rather work than be unemployed. But it seems to be affecting my ability to get a REAL job.
*sigh* Damned if I do and damned if I don't apparently.
So if anyone reading this blog knows of anyone looking for an administrative assistant, receptionist, office assistant, office manager, human resources assistant, accounting clerk, etc., PLEASE let me know. Part-time, full-time, first, second or third shift. I don't care. I need to work.
Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier if I had a really bad work ethic. I mean, this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't care about working or not. Money matters aside, working helps me feel like I'm contributing to society. Plus I seriously enjoy what I do for a living. Yes, I'm the freak that loves filing.
So if anyone has any advice on how to handle huge employment gaps (due to a crappy job market, not for a lack of trying) plus short-term jobs, please.... have at it.
Anyways... Off to scour JobNet again.... Wish me luck!
My Husband for Sainthood
I think my husband should be submitted for sainthood.
I have been quite ill lately which, for the sake of the squeemish and the "tmi" crew, I will simply state that my illness has resulted in my husband being unable to touch me in any form or fashion without major pain on my part. Let's just say he can't even grab my ass these days. This has been going on for at least three weeks now. And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have been extremely cranky (okay, downright bitchy). And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have spent a majority of my time bedridden which results in a) him having to wait on me hand and foot and b) me not being able to do anything constructive around the house. And still he loves me.
I am, in essence, the giant festering boil on his ass and he still loves me. Either my husband needs to be granted sainthood or put in the mental ward. There are some who would argue either way. :P
I just want to let anyone know who reads this that if you find someone willing to take care of you, willing to see you at your worst, and still comes out of it somehow enjoying your company (be it spouse, significant other or simply a friend), cherish that person and let them know you do.
Which reminds me, I think all of my friends should be granted sainthood too. Not only do they have to deal with me, but most of them have had to deal with my husband as well. (Hey, I said he still loved me. I didn't say he liked the situation.)
This could just be the hormones talking, but..... I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!!
Someone get me some ice cream.
I have been quite ill lately which, for the sake of the squeemish and the "tmi" crew, I will simply state that my illness has resulted in my husband being unable to touch me in any form or fashion without major pain on my part. Let's just say he can't even grab my ass these days. This has been going on for at least three weeks now. And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have been extremely cranky (okay, downright bitchy). And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have spent a majority of my time bedridden which results in a) him having to wait on me hand and foot and b) me not being able to do anything constructive around the house. And still he loves me.
I am, in essence, the giant festering boil on his ass and he still loves me. Either my husband needs to be granted sainthood or put in the mental ward. There are some who would argue either way. :P
I just want to let anyone know who reads this that if you find someone willing to take care of you, willing to see you at your worst, and still comes out of it somehow enjoying your company (be it spouse, significant other or simply a friend), cherish that person and let them know you do.
Which reminds me, I think all of my friends should be granted sainthood too. Not only do they have to deal with me, but most of them have had to deal with my husband as well. (Hey, I said he still loved me. I didn't say he liked the situation.)
This could just be the hormones talking, but..... I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!!
Someone get me some ice cream.
Pancakes
I like pancakes. No, scratch that. I LOVE pancakes. I love pancakes so much I've developed a song. And a dance. It appears to be spreading.
The other night, my roommate called and left me a voice mail where he sang the pancake song. When I called him back, he said he just had to cuz he was sitting at Country Kitchen with a giant stack of pancakes before him.
But I'll bet he didn't do the dance.
*sigh* Oh, the effects of pancakes.
The other night, my roommate called and left me a voice mail where he sang the pancake song. When I called him back, he said he just had to cuz he was sitting at Country Kitchen with a giant stack of pancakes before him.
But I'll bet he didn't do the dance.
*sigh* Oh, the effects of pancakes.
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