TheMommyBlog

Gil just phoned to tell me that the drive on our home computer is fried. Totally fried. All my stuff was on it. And NO it wasn’t backed up, so pleeeeeeaaaase don’t make me feel any shittier about it. All my photos, my will and medical directive files, ALL MY PHOTOS.

I stopped making prints about a year ago, and I was planning to transfer all of the files to the Mac so I could organize them and print from there so that the family albums could be updated. AND NOW THEY’RE ALL GONE.

The good news is that the video was on a separate drive, so we still have that. But right now, Gil is at home, reformatting the stupid thing and reloading the software. Fuckity Doo Dah.

On an up note, my niece sent me these two photos from the Lake Tahoe week, and they are cheering me up something fierce.

P.S. I was just leaving this as a comment, but man you guys are quickdraws, so I’m posting it here: It has already been through all the tech support diagnostics, and today the super-dee-duper senior-level super-admin Empaths worked on it for two hours over the phone lines. They did all they could, and pronounced it dead. 

So I guess most of you think I’m pretty wired, uber-connected, fairly well set up in terms of technology? I thought so too. Only I seem to have painted myself into a ridiculous little corner with all of my nifty little “helpers.”

You see, my husband and I finally decided not to share a computer anymore. We each needed it for so much of our daily operations that we were competing for time and disk space. So, I went out and bought a Mac G5. (pipe down, you in the back).

Still with me? Good. Fast forward to this week. I’ve just taken a whirlwind tour of all my childhood haunts, and of my mother’s childhood haunts, and told my entire extended family that I had all sorts of great photos of the old neighborhood. And now? I can’t get to a single one of them.

Well, campers, I’m off on another plane in the morning, this time to Illinois to see my oldest friend get hitched. I’m taking the kids this time… which reminds me I should call the rental car company to see if they are providing the three car seats I requested. Gah. Am so unprepared for this, it’s scary. Still don’t have outfits for the children, though I have something for myself. I think. I’m sure I don’t have any shoes to wear, and the dress is a bit poochy, but whaddya want? Last time I saw most of these people, I was still in braces and was a gawky, flat-chested tomboy, so how bad could it be?

It’s four p.m. already, and all I have accomplished is a few phone calls and a long birthday lunch at the Left Bank with my officemates. Dum de dum. And then my boss came in and scanned my desk for unfinished items, called out three of them, and wished me a good trip. Yeah, right. Now I will never get out of here in time. I’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out why the University of North Carolina sent me a refund check for seventeen dollars and no other identifying references. It will cost ten times that in my time alone to track that puppy down.

Then, I need to re-run the month-end financials, and yes, it does have to do with the shocking emails I sent my staff last week. Then, I need to code my statements. Oh, and there’s that small matter of the last five months’ worth of expense reports, and the staff performance reviews that were due two weeks ago, and which I swore to me boss would be delivered tonight. Well, my entire staff has gone home already, so I guess I blew that one, huh?

Gah. I need a secretary. And a wife. And a wet nurse. Will somebody come tuck me in, please?

In keeping with the infantile tone and tenor of this post, and since I don’t know if I will be able to check in again before I return next Tuesday, I leave you with some immature humor, a transcript of Robert DeNiro’s SNL Homeland Security bit. The video was hilarious, but is too big to post here. Instead, I’ll just list the names of the suspects so that you can do your patriotic duty and be on the lookout for them:

Well, we all knew it couldn’t last. I was all set to do another “my life is naught but cherries and sunshine and lovely Belgian rain on rooftops” post, but I happened to check my email first. All of that warm happy crappy whooshed out of my head as I stared at the screen in disbelief.

You see, I run a well-oiled department. Actually, to say that I “run” it is a bit of an overstatement. We all know our shit, we all do our work, we all show up when we’re supposed to, and we all pull together when it counts. And there’s icing on this lovely little shortcake: we all like each other.

HOWEVER, when I go out of town, strange things occur. Things come up that no one thinks can be addressed except by me (such as horrendous syntax, but I digress). Co-workers send alarming emails, and they MUST receive the out of office reply asking them to call someone who cares can help them in my absence, but then there is absolutely no follow-up note letting me know that further action has been taken. Therefore, I pick up the email over my morning coffee, and realize that I cannot possibly talk to anyone about it for another eight hours at least. Grrrr.

So, instead of the post I had planned to write about the lazy day spent entirely in the garden in our swimsuits, reading, laughing, having lunch, chatting, and doing each others’ toenails and fingernails, I give you the emails I sent to my staff today.

Jesus H. Christ in a sidecar.

Plan: Get up early, gather paperwork for underwriter, and fax it in.
Reality: Manage to locate retirement account statement, but only because it came in yesterday’s mail. Fail to locate a single bank statement less than 5 months old. Over the space of twenty minutes, try a succession of three different fax numbers for the lender. Finally get the traditinoal fax number to accept my paltry offering. Curse you, eFax, curse you.

Plan: Have privacy to call mediator before eye doctor appointment.
Reality: Spend morning yelling at children to get out of my chair, stop putting their fingers and toes inside the DVD/VCR player that has to go back to the repair shop again, and letting husband interrupt for just one more thing and then he’ll be out of my hair, as he is leaving to run errands now that the babysitter is here. Settle back into loan/mediator routine. Field call from husband who has run out of gas and now needs to be rescued.

Plan: Grab jerrycan of gas from shed and drive to meet husband.
Reality: Negotiate kisses from the brood, drive car around to back gate, open shed, stare into darkness. Remove wheelbarrow. Remove spreader. Walk in and wheel huge tool caddy-thingy out as well. Peer into darkness. Wave away cobwebs. Reach in and around lawnmower, grab jerrycan, haul it out, and kick shed door shut. Leave all equipment out on the lawn. Toss jerrycan into trunk. Drive until husband is spotted at side of road. Screech to a halt. Pop trunk. Wait until it bangs shut again. Peel out.

Plan: Pop into Eye doctor’s for routine annual checkup.
Reality: Leave $400 lighter, after replacing lost prescrition sunglasses and getting new lenses for current frames.

Plan: Arrive at office and call mediator to try to understand spousal support and child support scenarios.
Reality: Learn that none of the assumptions that underpin the calculations apply to us. Listen in stunned silence. Weep.

Plan: Spend rest of afternoon doing what I am paid to do.
Reality: Sit in stunned silence. Weep.

Plan: Blog. Repeat as necessary.
Reality: Sit in stunned silence. Weep.

So I received a call this afternoon from my lender’s underwriter on the status of my refinance application… and I swear to you that she delivered the following news to me in a complete deadpan:

Our appraisal came in at twelvehundredy coconuts, so we can lend a maximum of eighthundredy coconuts at 5.75%.

My current balance is fivehundredy coconuts and the rate is 4.25%. So, if I fork over four thousand dollars in closing costs, they will cheerfully raise my rate a point and a half and give me three hundredy coconuts three hundred dollars cash out. Sure, that’s more than the annual pay raise I just got, but somehow it doesn’t feel like enough.

She informed me of all of this without cracking a smile. I had to point out the obvious disadvantages of accepting their offer, to which she responded, “Oh, yeah.” I yanked the application.

You’d think that when you call a lender and say you need to refinance to buy someone out of your house that they might think I need more than three hundred clams.

I will be out of the office tomorrow, getting fitted for a barrel and suspenders…

P.S. When you write a massive check to the lawyer to help you mediate the division of property? Make sure the check doesn’t bounce or it will totally ruin your day.

P.P.S. Lest you stay up late fretting over my financial well-being, Gil did loans for the first several years of our relationship, so I know the business backwards and forwards. I have already locked the rate on a good loan with a former colleague who now does loans right across the street. I’m in good hands, if totally fricking broke.

Bessie: cutting off power and water to the first floor starting Monday, hope no one will miss it
Elsie: emptying fridge and first aid supplies
Elsie: sodas being sold to finance premium coffee blend at HQ
Bessie: no one on the first floor needs food or water now that library has moved, (they’re like real people)
Elsie: trough being nailed to outside of building
Elsie: for water and slop
Bessie: trough for bathroom functions?
Elsie: no, ditches will be dug for that
Elsie: catering will be by twice weekly to slop building’s occupants
Elsie: with cast-offs from management committee breakfast
Bessie: we’ll issue high water boots for 2nd floor dwellers who pass thru your area
Bessie: (btw: I have the wall street journal up here, not folding it, not bringing it back, so it will be well used)
Elsie: after the command performance by staff at the mgmt committee meet and greet, they will be asked to replace their bagels, untouched, on the serving trays so as to stretch the slop enough to last until next month

I have been thinking of writing a mini-novella or a short play about a ficticious woman who works for a ficticious company and has a difficult week. It’s rough, but that’s part of the appeal…

Me: [jump, clench, stiffen]
Dentist: “Do you hate me yet?”
Me: “Ohhhh, no.”
Dentist: “Are you getting there, though?”
Me: “Ohhhh, yes.”

Hi everyone, this meeting of the Shit Club is called to order. I just had my annual performance review, and I will give you a tiny clue as to how it went: as I’m now at the top of my pay range, I got one dollar for each letter in this post (not including the title).

Ohhhh, so grumpy, I am. I came home to rioting children and an empty fridge. A rollicking debate about the relative merits of sit-down meals, well-stocked fridges, and regular dinnertimes ensued. I won’t post the results here because, predictably, there weren’t any, so Gil went off to get dinner from McDonald’s.

The rioting soon crescendoed with a round of screaming, accompanied by high-pitched fluting. This was occasionally punctuated by thuds, crashes, and taunts of, “Daphne, I hurted your baby again!”

I made a break for the DVD player in our bedroom, rearranged the bedclothes for optimal viewing comfort, and… Good Christ, why is there a piece of ham on my pillow?? Aaaarrrgggghhhh.

*Pop* goes the cork on a fresh bottle of wine. While I was still staring out the kitchen window, taking deep breaths, Logan started asking some burning questions.

Logan: “Mom, can we ever go fishing for salmon and see the bears?”
Me: “Whoa, whoa, I don’t think we’ll want to be hanging out with bears, Logan. Besides, the places where bears and salmon live together are very far and not so easy to go to.”
Logan: “Well, why can’t we ever go to Alaska? We can go to Hawaii!”
Me: “Hon, we’ve never been to Hawaii, and just because we can go, it doesn’t mean we should go. It’s very far and very expensive.”
Logan: “But it’s the United States!”
Me: “Yes, but it’s still five hours away by plane.”
Logan: “It’s near the McNeil river. Do you know where that is?”
Me: “I could find it on a map, sure.”
Logan: “I think I know why it’s called the McNeil river. It’s because that’s where the bears go for their meals.”
Me: “Um, it’s not a McMeal river, it’s named after a man named McNeil.”
Logan: “How do you know?”
*pause*
Me: “Well, it sure would be nice for your dad to take you fishing anyway!”
Logan: “Yes! But we have to be careful about the salmon sharks!”
Me: “Indeed.”

I’ve been sitting on this IM exchange for a little while because I was stuck for a way to sanitize it, but it makes me laugh so hard each time I read it that I finally decided to just post it.

A friend and I had been chatting about something that didn’t come through at work, and at the same time, I got a shitty request from a colleague. Coincidentally, we had also been riffing about a certain group of people, but in fairness, I’ll not use the group’s name.

For lack of a suitable alternative, I’ll use a completely unrelated term, a word I picked up from a useful site called Silly Words:

yipaa n. extreme insult which is true

So, just work with me here, mmmkay?

OK, people, if you do not know for a solid, spectacular fact that a woman is having a baby, do NOT comment on or inquire about her pregnancy.

Think about it. Everyone is built differently, and everyone dresses, walks, and postures in a unique fashion. Unless she is showing off ultrasound pictures or inviting to you feel the baby move, SHUT THE HELL UP.

For real, dude. The second you leave the room, we will shred you, and we’ll never, ever forget it. You will forever be marked as clueless and insensitive, and the poor non-pregnant lady will not be able to wear that particular, unfortunate outfit again.

Got it? Good.

Is that what you call it when you find yourself with an abundance of apathy? I had two wardrobe malfunctions today, and neither fazed me quite as much as I suspect they should have done…

First, the not-being-able-to-dress-myself bit. Of allll the many items I could have selected from my vast wardrobe of Garanimal-type Separates for Adults, I chose the comfy red cords with the broken zipper. They never fail to crap out and gap when I need to be somewhere important, but I chose them to wear them anyway to my big meeting, as I felt it vastly more important to be comfy and rosy and snuggly than modest. Sue me for choosing my clothing like some people choose sleeping bags.

I know a smart lady like me
whose fine lovely children count three.
She tries to be fair,
but is pulling her hair,
and can’t possibly make every fucking person in her life happy with the choices she makes, so just get off my back already!!!