Oh I get it...like humor...but different.

Monday, February 28, 2005

Reasons why I have come to love my name

When I was in high school, I, like many other girls, hated my name. It was too bouncy, too perky, to “y”y (pronounced eee-eee). I grew up in an age of Beckys and Cindys and Connies and Debbies and a million other “y” names. I was just another “y.” Besides which, I wasn’t the only Nancy. Even though mine was a small class, there was another Nancy. We were Nancy North and Nancy South. I wished I were a Katherine, an Elizabeth. Something with some dignity, for God’s sake!

But I find, at the ripe old age of *mumble mumble* (It’s there in the side bar, do the math) that I actually like my name. And here is why.

I like Nancy because

1. She is a survivor.
2. She is someone on whom I have always been able to rely.
3. She has a great sense of humor.
4. She is a good mother, daughter, maybe even wife.
5. She is strong. VERY strong.
6. She is capable.
7. She is intelligent. Well, for the most part. :O)
8. She is reliable.
9. She is well organized.
10. She has great attention to detail.
11. She is a fairly neat person without being a neat freak.
12. She is willing to admit she is wrong. Often.
13. She is willing to change.
14. She is fairly low maintenance.
15. She is irreverent and scatological.
16. She is someone I would choose to be my friend.

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That guy

I just got an assignment from my boss that is the equivalent of "Nancy, contact that guy about that thing. He works at that place? He's the one that did that thing? Yeah, contact that guy. And then there are some other guys, too. Contact them. And get some information from them."

That is about the level of direction I expect here. The communication is abysmal. Staff meetings are called about three minutes ahead of time....and my boss comes in, flopping down in a chair, holding her head and complaining about how tired she is and how she can't think. Pretend, woman. Freakin' preTEND that you have some level of professionalism! Or else, keep it a secret. But please, do NOT call me away from my important work (like writing for this blog) to tell me you can't think. I have a mother who will do that for me in my spare time.

And then D., another woman in my department, mumbles something into her hair.

And then Boss, apparently able to translate hair mumbling, agrees.

D: "mumblemumblemumblegigglegigglemumble."
B: "I just can't get organized."
D: "mumblegigglecomplaincomplainmumble."
B: "I don't know what's wrong with me.

The other Nancy and I, pens poised to take notes, are mystified. Why are we here? And, a better question, when will the higher ups figure out that the department is .... well, never mind.

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Thought for the day

"Don't be afraid to take a big step. You can't cross a chasm in two small jumps." - David Lloyd George

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Friday, February 25, 2005

Thought for the day

"Politeness is the art of selecting among one's real thoughts." - Madame de Stael

I love this one. Apparently Madame de Stael is familiar with my inner monologue!

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Thursday, February 24, 2005


Although I have many (fully justified) complaints about my current job, there are at least two things about it that are better than any other place I have ever worked.

1. The supply closet. Sometimes I just stand there in awe and gaze at it. It is like a mini-Staples, a monument to organization and plentitude. It is greatly unlike my most recent job ("Pencil? What do you mean you need a pencil??? We gave you a pencil LAST month!"). My old boss (please, I am telling the truth here) went through people's trash cans and retrieved thrown-away pencil stubs and made the employees continue to use them (Mo, back me up here). There, the "supply closet" was two shelves of a small bookcase. Here, the supply closet is five floor-to-ceiling shelves bulging...and a Staples catalog ever at the ready. And this for a company of fewer than 40 people! I love it. A conversation from yesterday:
"I can't find the router for the computers"
"I have one here, but it's not really very good. I had to tape the connector together. Let's go buy another one."
"Good idea."
Love it.

2. The kitchen. Again, keep in mind, fewer than 40 people here. Two full-size refrigerators - one for employee's lunches, etc., the other for the food the office buys for all to share. Yes. THEY buy US food to share. I never ever, since I worked for my mom and dad, had anything like that. And what do they buy? In the refrigerator, bins full of apples and oranges, three kinds of juice, milk (lactaid and regular), carrots, condiments, butter, cream cheese...in the cabinets, coffee, tea, hot choc mix, cereal, almonds, walnuts, twizzlers for God's sake!, bagels, bananas, oatmeal, pretzels, I can't even think what all. It is the most amazing thing. At my previous job, we had one small refrigerator (with NOTHING for sharing)...and an honor-box of treats to buy (with periodic reminders to pay up or lose the privilege). That boss didn't like his employees eating on the job at all. He would prefer that we "eat your breakfast at home before you come in here! This isn't a restaurant!"

Ah, me. There are definitely some perks about this job. I am glad I took a bit of time to think about this today. It's easy to forget how bad things were at that last job. No place is perfect, ever....it's all relative.

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Tuesday, February 22, 2005

She describes her symptoms as lovingly as one would describe a much-loved pet...over and over and over, the same story. There is a gleam in her eye...a satisfaction. She displays the red rash on her limbs, invites me into the bathroom to see that it is all over her. She is clearly delighted that something is wrong with her that everyone can see, that is real and tangible.
"I am broken out down in my stomach and my intestines. The bottoms of my feet are swollen round. I am broken out under my hair, my scalp hurts."
I do not understand the delight she is taking in this. I am repelled, totally repelled. It is all I can do to hold still.
She shivers. She refuses my offer of a jacket. She eats her chocolate pudding with wildly shaking hands. She refuses my offer of a jacket. She shivers in her chair. She refuses my offer of a jacket. My tongue is beginning to ache from my having to bite it. But it is far more dramatic to sit and shiver than it is to put on a jacket.
"I am broken out down in my stomach and my intestines. The bottoms of my feet are swollen round. I am broken out under my hair, my scalp hurts." She shows me her arms again, her legs. She scratches for effect. She shivers.
I can do this. I check the clock to see how much longer I have to stay. I think about how much I love my father. He is so concerned about her...sending her sympathetic looks, asking her again and again how he can help her, forgetting that he just asked the question five minutes before.
I ask her if she wants to go to the doctor tomorrow. A torrent of words follows, none of which answer the question.
I ask her if she wants to go to the doctor tomorrow. Another torrent of words, no answer.
I ask her again. I finally force her to answer. The torrent of words, I discover, was supposed to convey that she can't get in to see the doctor she needs to see on short notice, and she doesn't want to see the doctor she saw before. The one who said that the cortisone shot she requested wouldn't do any good (but gave it to her anyway) and prescribed a medicine for her that she didn't think she could take (so she didn't).
"I am broken out down in my stomach and my intestines. The bottoms of my feet are swollen round. I am broken out under my hair, my scalp hurts."
I check the clock.
The day before, when I took her to the "this shot won't do any good" doctor, was one of the toughest days of my entire life. Sitting in the doctor's office with her, I repeated the Lord's Prayer over and over and over and over in my mind just to keep from screaming out loud. After I dropped her off and fled toward the safety of my own home, I DID scream. For 15 miles in the car. Then went home and cried for an hour. But then, I had been out of prozac for a week, so it was my fault. I doubled the prozac.
My dad shrugged off have a shoulder broken in three places. My mom is incapacitated by a rash. God help me.

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Friday, February 18, 2005

Lugnuts II: The saga continues

So the lugnuts didn't fit. Who knew that lugnuts could not fit? One would assume that a lugnut is a lugnut. But no.

To backtrack. PU2's dad in Arkansas sent her new wheels and tires for her truck. The tires came UPS. The lugnuts and wheel covers came via PU2's suitcase after her most recent trip to visit her dad.

Yesterday we took the truck to the Goodyear dealer to have the wheels mounted and balanced. No biggie, right? Left a bagful of lugnuts.

Wrong lugnuts. They were too big.

Dennis, the Goodyear man, called PU2 on her cell phone to break the bad news to her. She needed, he informed her, ACORN lugnuts. Did she have any? Could she get any? Yeah, right. She's a 16-year-old girl sitting in her room with no freaking truck, but, hey, she just happens to have some acorn lugnuts here in her jewelry box! Pardon me, sir...have you any acorn lugnuts? No, no...not grey poupon...lugnuts!

No matter. Dennis the Goodyear guy ordered the acorn lugnuts and did all the other work that he discovered needed to be done, to the tune of almost $600. New shocks were only part of the to-do list. Did you know that shocks could leak? Boy, am I ever learning a lot....leaking shocks, acorn lugnuts....

But no matter. Today PU2 picked up the truck (by the way, the truck is named Laylah), and Laylah looks PIMP! So all's well that ends well.

Laylah's new shoekies.

As for the question "What are lugnuts?" (because SOLO in the HOV lane is a full-service educational site)....THESE are lugnuts, numbered in the order in which you are supposed to loosen or tighten them when you change your tire.

I know, I know. For many of you "changing a tire" means scrolling to AAA on your cell phone. I understand. :-)

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Thursday, February 17, 2005

Close call

I just wrote a long, preachy blog entry about love and valentine's day...and then killed it. You may thank me now.

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The more things change

When I was a child (and textbooks were chiseled in stone), the name of the planet Uranis was pronounced YOUR-uh-nuss. When was it decided, and by whom, that it should be pronounced your-ANus? I didn't get that memo. But lookie here, everywhere it is YourANus.

Maybe it's a southern thing. Or an Arkansas thing. Maybe everywhere else in the world it has always been YourANus. Someone really should have let us know in Arkansas.

Venue. I never heard the word "venue," as in "location," until the 1984 Olympics. Suddenly it was venue this, venue that. The swimming venue. The gymnastics venue. Another memo? Pardon me...I must go to my work venue...

Vendor. Same thing. Salesman? Sales rep? No. Vendor. Now keep in mind, I was born and bred in the hometown of WalMart, so if anyone should have heard of vendors, it should have been me. And when I did, it was WalMart that introduced me to the word. But why? When? [BTW, the first words that Bentonville, Arkansas, babies say is "Attention WalMart shoppers...."]

But a more sobering thought....what new words have been introduced that the rest of the world knows about that I don't yet know about? *shiver* I mean, I am in Cali now, so surely I am higher on the memo distribution list than I was when I was in Arkansas....but still....

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Wednesday, February 16, 2005


I have been a BIG fan of Scrubs since day one, and it is still, IMHO, the funniest comedy on tv. But if they EVER do another "JD's sitcom fantasy" sequence," I am going to start watching the WB. It just points out how different Scrubs is from the standard canned-laughter sitcom when you see a sequence like that. Ack. But, as Hubcap pointed out, at least Elliott has a great rack....

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Friday, February 11, 2005


PU2 visited her dad in Arkansas this past weekend. When one's teenage daughter visits the absent parent, one might expect that she would come home with a suitcase full of teddy bears or CD's or the like. Not PU2. No, ma'am. She came back with an industrial-strength baggie full of locking lugnuts and four wheel covers. In her suitcase. I bet the baggage handler at the x-ray machine got a kick out of that..."Earl! Come take a look at THIS! What the hell IS that?"

A couple of weeks before she went to visit her dad, he sent her one wheel via UPS. Her truck (which he provided when she turned sixteen last September) has new tires on it, but he thought she might need to pimp it up a bit. So he sent a wheel for her to "try on" and see if she liked it. Hubcap, PU2 and I hauled out the floor jack to "try it on" and found out that when you replace a 15-incher with a 20-incher, the floor jack isn't really tall enough. No matter. We leaned it in place well enough for her to see how it looked. It met with her approval. The other three will be arriving this week.

I like all of this on many different levels. First of all, I like that PU2 is a smart, capable, responsible person who takes excellent care of her truck and is very hands on with it. I don't want no girlie-girl daughter, thank you very much! I never was one, and I don't want to spawn one. Well, a little bit girlie-girl in some ways, maybe. Her main Christmas presents from me were a jewelry box and a tool set (complete with socket set, hell YEAH). But she is a no-nonsense, take-care-of-herself, strong person. I admire that immensely.

Second, I like that her dad is taking care of her in the automotive department and taking an active, on-going interest in helping her maintain the truck. Good man.

Third, I like it that my "baby" is now driving age. I am not one of those "oh, dear, my baby is all grown up *wringing hands*" moms. I have enjoyed every step of PU2's maturing process, and though I do remember with great fondness the beautiful little blonde babygirl she was, I adore the beautiful young woman she has become even more. I have the greatest admiration for her.

So here's to lugnuts. Babygirl, you are the best!

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Thursday, February 10, 2005

You can't make me

I refuse to work today. One has to have standards, boundaries. I worked yesterday. I will work tomorrow. Hell, I even have to work Saturday, for God's own sake. But today, I am staging a sit-in at my desk.

I have been catching up on blog reading, exchanging nonsense emails with friends from the "Carnivale" boards, looking at the photoshop threads on Fark.com...anything to keep from actually accomplishing anything. I don't want to brag, but I am doing a VERY good job.

I look at it this way. Yesterday I took BOTH my parents to the doctor. At one time. It involved a wheel chair and a walker and a caregiver and me....and a 30-minute drive one way. And it involved a 45-minute "complete physical" for CrankyMom, an exam I sat in on. I think I deserve a day off. In fact, I may be too traumatized to work for some time to come.

I think I am going to buy myself some long-term-care insurance.

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Monday, February 07, 2005


Do you know what happens when you come in to work at 6 a.m.? Your tummy thinks it is lunchtime at 10:30. I don't think I will argue with it. It has no clock, no watch. How can it be expected to understand?

Had a weekend getaway with Hubcap this past weekend. To say it was welcome and needed is an understatement. And the closest I will get to a Sergei-like post is to say that I need a chiropractor or SOMEthing for my back. Ai chihuahua. But it was worth it.

My comments on the Superbowl.
Way to go Eagles. You gave them a run for it. I do love a good even game.
Way to go Pats. Dynasty time.
Brad Pitt in a beer commercial? WTF? Why? The guy gets a bazillion dollars a movie and he is doing commercials???????????
Budweiser commercials rock. Love the donkey.
Howie Long. That guy is handsome.
Paul McCartney. Well done, Sir Paul. Nice show. Nice ribbon graphics thingies too. Very Fremont Street Experience. You may have aged a bit in the face, but the voice is the same. I hardly missed the boobies.
The digital camera/MP3 player combo by Olympus. You scored one sale--my son, PU1.
Of course, I missed an hour of the game, turning to HBO east to watch Carnivale. Priorities, kiddies. Priorities.

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Friday, February 04, 2005

Rice: Attack on Iran 'not on the agenda'

Does anyone find this to be so blase as to be offensive? Let's see. What's on my agenda for today. Stop by the dry cleaners. Arrange for dog boarding. Attack Iran. No, wait. Strike that. That's not on the agenda


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Thursday, February 03, 2005

Thought du Jour

"The unexamined life is not worth living." - Socrates

I would argue with this. I would say "the unexamined life is all I have the energy to live." Let someone who is younger and has more energy examine his life. I am content right now to be able to make it through the day and hit the pillow still in one piece.

Examining one's life is a function of age, and it is inversely proportional. The older one gets, the less one examines and "feels." I think about the days when I used to write poetry, deep, thoughtful, feeling poetry. I can barely even recall those feelings. It all seems pretty silly now. I should have been living life, not examining it, not analyzing it.

Ah, well. I sound like Kathy Bates in (I think it was) Fried Green Tomatoes..."I'm older, and I have better insurance."

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Tuesday, February 01, 2005


I'm a terrible blogger. I swear, I am so substandard. I can barely manage a post a week. Drivel, nonsense, and chaff, oh my!

Let's see.

Hubcap is away on a business trip for the week. We have plans for a "getaway" next weekend, our first extended time alone, just the two of us, in some time. I have been spending a lot of my "free" time with my mom and dad (dad is still recuperating), and Hubcap is missing me. It's nice to be missed. It's great that he cares enough to miss me. And it's going to be terrific to get a couple of days and a night away to reconnect. My brother is coming in to do parental duty. Thanks, Bubba. You are saving my ass.

PU2 has finished up the semester with a bang...racking up credits like crazy. At this rate, she will be graduating early. Way to go, kiddo....

Work sucks. A lot. I have applied for something else. Please to send good thoughts my way about that....

Ummmm...."Carnivale" is back on, thank God. Love that weirdass show. My Jeep is going in for saftey recall-related work tomorrow.

That's it. That's all I have.

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