You'll Get Yours, Henry Higgins . . .

There are so many things that happen in life that just aren't right. For now, I'm talking about work related issues. Working for any kind of corporation really means just selling a portion of your soul for 40 years. To spend more time with them then you do your own families.

And of course, with people, comes the drama. I've written about random work place drama queens. Sometimes known as "helpers". Now I'll be talking about the shit-for-brains.

These wonderful co-workers are full of a lot of hot hair. They talk a lot of smack, thinking they're the bomb. They are the bomb. A stink bomb at that. They will often try to blame others for stuff, or at least make sure the blame isn't all on them. Especially when it is. They tell different people different stories. Eventually they will hang themselves with their lies. Because they are morons.

I have recently found out something that happened at my work place that rightfully pissed me off. It's pissed off a few others. One of my co-workers, a person whom I would consider a friend as well, was recently called a snitch behind their back. They weren't being a snitch. What they did was the right thing to do. If I had seen it, I would have done the same exact thing - told a supervisor.

The reason this person is singled out as the snitch as there was only skeleton crew on staff when the issue arose, so there were only about 4 people in the building. There weren't a lot of people who would have known. However, someone else inadvertently got punished due to the jerkwad who started it all. Because the dickweed said they'd do something for that person and then never did it. So certain things never got done. Certain things that have to get done. Things that got traced back to someone whom people were willing to cover for. Someone who was going to stay off the clock to finish their "boo-boo".

So, because the idiot didn't do their job because they wanted to leave early, they didn't do what they promised, and it came back to haunt them. In the name of my friend, mostly. And now, my friend is being called a snitch, another person got punished when no one thinks they should have, and thus far, shit for brains hasn't been punished. Although, I think it'll happen at some point.

But they are running their mouth, bragging they haven't been in trouble. Dude, let me just say, I've witnessed people doing what you're doing. And I helped get their cheating ass fired. Because it was the right thing to do. So believe me when I say, watch your back asshole. You don't piss off this many people, or hurt others and think you're going to get away with it. Karma is one helluva bitch.

You will get yours, Henry Higgins. You will get yours.

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We have all seen "those" ads. We've all heard "those" ads. Several times. They can be quite disturbing if you're paying attention to the TV or radio. Disturbing more in the fact that society simply doesn't seem to care that "those" ads are everywhere. Society simply accepts them. Is it the openness that society accepts? Or is it simply a matter of society no longer cares?

The ads I refer to are the kind that refer to the enlargement of certain male body parts. Or the ads that refer to clinics that offer liposuction and "laser contouring".

I don't remember how it started, or when really. Possibly with Bob from Enzyte. And then it just went crazy. Maybe it started with Viagra. Who knows?

The ads I'm forced to hear on the radio every night at work state "the results are ah-mazing", "nothing short of a miracle" and that "you're name will not appear on any list" and "our name won't show up on the package". Just call in and you'll get a free sample of some sort of "miracle pill" to make Mr. Dingleberry be 2cm larger.

Besides, anyone else feel a smidge uncomfortable hearing said commercials while standing next to a male co-worker? Or seeing it on the TV? Let's just pretend that commercial didn't just make it to our eardrums.




And men, if you think I'm picking on you, I will say that I don't get breast implants either.

Another ad I'm bombarded with on the radio at work is for a local clinic that offers liposuction and "laser contouring" for your trouble areas. Now, being a woman, I am my own worst critic. And I have several trouble areas. However, I'm not about to run off to a miracle clinic to pay them thousands of dollars to contour me with lasers and suck the (much) unwanted fat out of my body. Their ad says, "If you wake up every morning and aren't happy with what you see" (or some version of that) "then call ".

Hold your horses.

Isn't society trying to tell young girls to love themselves? For who they are? To not conform to the skinny model look?

Then W.T.F., mate? Women are bombarded with images of "perfect" models. While everyone knows they're airbrushed and photo-shopped to perfection, we are shown that they are the "model" for how we should be. Then, we are bombarded with people telling us to love ourselves for who we are and what we look like - even if love-handles are involved. Then we are bombarded with ads from clinics and the like that says if you hate yourself enough we can make you look prettier like those models on the billboards.

But if you start, where do you stop? Once you take care of the original problem areas, you find more. It's a never ending cycle.

How are we supposed to handle hearing all the contradictions out there? Love yourself, but come in here and we contour you with lasers and make you better. Don't starve yourself to look like a model, just come in here and we'll use the lasers to make you look like them.

It's enough to make one's head spin 'round.

In case anyone hasn't noticed, I'm sick of seeing/hearing commercials that tell me to call in to enlarge a body part I don't have, telling me to call a clinic to suck and contour the fat out of my body, and all the like. Including the TV commercials for the "special time" couples need magic pills for. Dude, talk to your doctor, don't just call the 1-800 number on the screen for free samples.

Just give me Happy Cow commercials and anything else that's funny and stop making me listen to enlargement and fat sucking/contouring commercials. I beg you.

Psycho Roomie, Part XIV: The Initials

Before we had even moved in together, Suzi had us sit down with her mother to go over house rules. And other random stupid stuff. I'm not kidding, her mother was there. Please read this if you haven't already. In that post, I mention our sit-down meeting regarding our living together and how we'd work things out. Things like, sharing condiments and such. The three of us agreed to share such things and whoever used the last of it would buy more. Sounded fair enough.

A few months later, I borrowed a couple packets of her hot chocolate as I was out, with every intention of buying her more. I got bitch slapped twice - once by opening up the cupboard the day I bought her more to find a box with her mother's handwriting that said "Suzi's Hot Chocolate!", and "Suzi Only!" all over the damn box; and the second time by Suzi giving me a box of her hot chocolate in my stocking for Christmas. If you don't believe me and have yet to read about this, please go here.

I bring this old posts up, because of the sheer bitchiness and stupidity of this girl. All the agreements that were made, out the window. I'm not sure why we bothered with the pre-move-in-meeting at all, actually. Possibly to just waste a few hours of mine and Betty's time. Because we had so much freaking spare time being full-time college kids with near full-time jobs.

Sometime in the spring, April or May, I noticed a change in the kitchen. It was subtle, but it still made me think, "This chic is fucking insane."

One day, I was in the kitchen (not sure why, but I'm sure I had a good solid reason), and I happened to see Suzi's bananas. She bought a bunch of bananas each time she was in the grocery store. She wouldn't just tear off one or two, she'd buy a big ol' bunch. It was a rare day that she actually ate a banana. Nine times out of ten, those pretty green/yellow bananas turned brown. Sometimes black before she threw them out. Complete. Waste. Of. Money. I had to stop what I was doing, and actually slide the banana basket towards me to inspect said bananas. I wasn't dreaming. She had actually written her initials on the damn bananas.



Now, let me say this: I never once ate one of her bananas. They are not my favorite fruit. I will eat them, but I don't really care for them. Never really have. I don't like banana flavored things, either. So, it was safe to say, that unless someone held a freaking gun to my head at that point I wasn't going to eat one of her bananas. And before you ask, this was months after the hot chocolate incident (that was before Christmas).

So why was she suddenly writing her initials on the fruit?

I haven't the foggiest idea. Hell could freeze over before I could even come up with something remotely credible. I mean, besides the obvious fact that she was fucking psychotic.

I went about my business. I never mentioned the banana thing to her. In the next week or two, I started noticing her initials on other things. Like her butter. Her mayonnaise. And other random shit. I was slightly dumbfounded and had no idea what prompted this. I mean, how could it be the whole hot chocolate thing considering that had been like 5 months prior to all this happening? Delayed reaction perhaps? Doubtful.

Also, I have to mention why she had her own butter and mayo. She used the squeezable jar of mayo - which isn't a big deal, but I equate that to like, camping or BBQ style mayo. It's easy and accessible when you have lots of people that need mayo. As for the butter, it was blue. I shit you not. You think that stuff is invented for kids? Hell no. It's invented for psychotic idiots who think blue butter is cool. Personally I find it disgusting and treated it like it was the plague. I like my butter normal and yellow please. Thank you. I mean, it looked disgusting in the bottle (oh yeah it was squeezable, too), but it looked wrong on toast. I shudder just thinking about it.

Anyway, so I start finding her initials on all sorts of things. Things in the fridge and things in the cupboards. So I play along. I start initialing my shit. My ketchup, mustard, mayo - you name it, I initialed it. Hey, she started it.

Finally, on a week when her boy-toy Joey was visiting she said something. I walked into the kitchen for something and they were sitting at the dining table, eating. She said something like, "So, are we not sharing stuff anymore?" Seriously?! I simply replied by saying that I had noticed her initials on a lot of items, so I took that as my cue that we suddenly weren't sharing anymore. Her argument? The ever so childish "Nuh-uh". I mentioned the bananas and several other items that still bore her initials - clear as day. Whatever she said was complete and utter bullshit, and I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Not my problem."

You know what happens to crazy people when you stop playing along with them? You piss them off. It's fucking fantastic. It was at this time that I stopped playing as nice as I had been. I didn't go out of my way to piss her off, it just happened. I got tired of saying, "Oh I'm sorry, I misunderstood." There were no more "misunderstandings". I called her on her shit and she didn't like it. I would tell her if she could think of another solution then fine, otherwise fuck off.

And you know what?

I don't know about her, but I had no trouble sleeping at night. ;o)

Wait . . . is it spring again already? Oh . . . fall pollen season? Got it.

For some reason, I don't remember the parking lot at work being covered in green last November. Each morning I've gotten off work, it's been worse, until it looked like someone just poured a ton of green powder on the parking lot.

I barely remember the ground getting this green during the spring!

Are you EFFING kidding me???

The other morning, as I was nursing my headache getting home from another long night at work, I noticed something. Walking from my car to my apartment, I stopped, stared, and shook my head.

I noticed that my new next door neighbors (they moved in maybe 4-6 months ago) had decided to put up their Christmas lights. On freaking November 2nd.

So, as I'm cursing under my breath, I thought, "maybe they won't turn them on until after Thanksgiving . . ."

And I walked out of my apartment last night to go to my car to go to work and noticed this:

Seriously?! Apparently they just couldn't wait for Halloween to be over because that means it's Christmas! I think they're forgetting that there's one more major holiday before Christmas. We like to call it, THANKSGIVING.

Any bets on how long they'll leave them up? I'm going for February 1st.

Dear Headache & Eczema: DIE.

I don't necessarily hate a lot of things in life. Or people. I mean, truly hate. However, there are a couple things that could - in my humble opinion - take a flying leap. Those two things would be headaches and eczema. Seriously. Die horrible deaths. Die die die. Die.

I woke up last night with a headache. Not a massive one, just enough for me to know it's there. Like my downstairs neighbor playing their music loud enough on weekends that I just barely hear/feel the bass from their stereo. In my world, if I wake up with a headache, I will have the hardest time getting rid of it. I could suck down enough Excedrin to kill a horse and it still wouldn't have much affect on me.

I don't typically get a lot of headaches. When I do, I tend to get them in succession. I don't get migraines; however, I've had several that were probably a few throbs of pain away from being a migraine. Many times, I know that mine are caused from possibly sleeping funky - as I can feel "stiff" in my neck a little and my headache just plain refuses to leave. (Jackass) Other times I know that it's stress induced - kind of like the knot that is now permanently situated on my right shoulder blade. In those situations (stress), Excedrin knocks it out lickity-split, but I'm also sure that a game of Whack-a-Mole of the people that cause said stress would be quite beneficial. Not to mention therapeutic. And just plain fun. (insert evil laugh here)



The other thing that is bothering me lately, is eczema. This shit sucks. If you are lucky enough to not have it, let me tell you about it. It's like hives but worse. Yeah. Hives go away. Eczema just keeps popping up - like a really bad game of Whack-a-Mole in reverse. In this game, you are the mole that keeps getting whacked by the eczema. You get a little patch of tiny raised bumps, that are often times filled with little bits of fluid. And it itches like a (insert plethora of dirty words here). Soooo not kidding. It can be related to stress. The first time it found me I was more stressed than Psycho Suzi studying for the GRE.

Some days I wake up to find that I have scratched a patch of skin raw while sleeping. Why? Because it itched dammit! And I sleep soundly enough that anything short of a nuclear bomb barely rouses me. Just ask my alarm clock. It can go off for an hour sometimes before I finally turn the stupid thing off.

What's the worst part about eczema, you may ask? It doesn't care where it pops up. If you catch my drift. It doesn't discriminate at all. One day, its on your hand. A couple days later is on a finger. A few days later, you find it on your shin. Then you find a patch on your tummy. After that, you find it on your shoulder. After that, you find some on your toes. Then it starts getting mean. Again, I hope you catch my drift. There are places it shouldn't even consider going. Sometimes it's because you can't fucking reach those places and that's just playing dirty (like that perfect spot right between the shoulder blades). Other times it's because it's, ahem, personal.

Currently, I have little patches popping up on my hands. I blame my job for this. Because we handle animal specimens (like serum tubes, blood tubes, fecal jars, urine jars, etc.) I wear gloves to keep that nasty shit off my hands. However, it runs hot enough in the lab anymore that my hands start sweating within 20 minutes, and then I get "glove sweat". Which is one of the grosses things ever. After awhile, I can't take it any longer, so I take off the gloves and rinse my hands with cold water and get new gloves. Repeat this process about half a dozen times in a shift. I do not wear latex gloves as I found out rather quickly that I have a slight aversion to it. So I wear the latex-free gloves. After 6 years, I'm not sure they're enough anymore.

So, to headaches and eczema: die you little fuckers. DIE.

Psycho Roomie, Part XIII: Suzi and Vet School

I still shudder to think of the possibility of this girl being a veterinarian. Typically, that's a smart person thing. Like, not just book smart, but common sense smart. Of which Suzi is not. I think I may have already proved that with stories about the air conditioner or the cereal box. She was fairly book smart, but the common sense part needed some (a lot) of work.

Getting into vet school is really hard. For those that don't know, vet school is typically twice as difficult as medical school to get into. Just like medical school, you have tons of prerequisite courses you have to take, just to prove you can handle tough classes. Everyone who applies has taken the same classes and has pretty much the same GPA. The thing that sets you apart in vet school is how many hours you put into working with animals - like vet clinics, animal rescue groups, humane societies, etc. Plus any other extra curricular activities you can think of. Oh, and also, which part of veterinary medicine you'd like to practice.

At the time Suzi was applying, large animal vets were in demand. The trick was that even if you didn't want to deal with large animals, you could say that you wanted it to be your focus and you could change your focus later, once admitted. The large animal vets are probably still in demand. Suzi actually wanted to work with small animals and "pocket pets". Pocket Pets are the small furry critters, like hamsters and rats. Pocket Pet vets also tend to see a lot of exotic animals, as well.

Vet schools require an applicant to work so many hours under a veterinarian. Some students do it through volunteering, others work as kennel or reception. Most vets and technicians are happy to let potential vet students observe surgeries, or teach them restraint procedures, medicating pets, among several other things.

Suzi basically did the bare minimum required hours. And she bitched about the whole time. She worked as a kennel tech for a vet clinic in Chico. She constantly complained about how she was treated there, and how some other girl who started after her got promoted to reception before her. My first thought was the other girl had a brain.

I took what Suzi said with a grain of salt. I've done the kennel work, and yes, it can suck. Especially if you have a mean boss who wants to make your life a living Hell. However, I knew other people from school that worked in that clinic and I never really heard bad things about them. Except from Suzi. It was all bad when it came from Suzi's lips.

Suzi did internship credits for her hours at the clinic, basically it was an easy A. At the end of your hours, your boss reviews your work - fills out a form and everything. The student also has to make a poster for the Ag Department, and I think you had a write a paper. I don't remember her poster, I think I blocked it out.

I do, however, remember something from the review. She had left if out on the dining table, in plain sight, so it wasn't like I was spying or anything. I thumbed through it and found this one line that stuck with me: "Needs more common sense when making routine decisions."

It was a good thing she wasn't home, because I about died from laughter. This all fit the stories I heard from classmates that worked with her. Apparently, she constantly had to be told what to do. She constantly asked what she had to do. It's pretty straight forward for a kennel tech. Pick up the kennels and litter boxes, keep up with the laundry and dishes, feed the animals, medicate those that you're allowed to, help keep exam rooms clean, and if you're lucky, help the receptionists file back patient files. It's not a glorious position. It's a very dirty one. And many times very stinky.
Suzi apparently thought she was above all that, and she told me so on several occasions. I nearly went blue in the face trying to explain this to her. I apparently don't learn well from my mistakes - you can't win with crazy. The thing is, is that all vets started out as a kennel attendant at some point. You have to earn your way up. Prove yourself. If you can't remember the kennel attendants duties on your own, they'll never promote your stupid ass. But because she was "Pre-Vet" she thought she was above all of this. Being a vet is typically a dirty job. The bigger the animal, the bigger then mess. They all start out by cleaning the mess up.

Applications are due in the fall. And they make you wait until March (at the earliest) or April to hear from them to see if you got in, or if you'll be taking filler classes for another year. I don't remember how many schools Suzi applied to, it was 3 or 4 I think. I know she applied to UC Davis, Colorado State, and I can't remember where else. Come spring, I find out from her that she got rejected from all she applied to. It's not shocking. Most first year applicants don't get in. Even if they're 5 times better qualified than Suzi. It's just a part of the weeding process. Suzi was very depressed about this, because, "now what would she do with her life?"

This coming from a girl, who I shit you not, was counting on her so-called "learning disability" to get her into vet school. Apparently there isn't a name for her learning disability, because she has several traits of several disabilities. The biggest contributor? Stupidity.

Did she apply again the next year? Doubtful, but it's possible. From what I've heard from Betty over the years, it would appear that Suzi never made it to vet school. So, for all of us who have pets - we can breathe a sigh of relief. She did for awhile, want to be a paramedic. My first thought was I didn't want to live in any state in which she held that profession. But from what I've heard, she works at one of the local clinics for the hospital in Chico (like one of the people walk-ins). Would you believe Betty (the third girl that Suzi practically forced out of our apartment) had her has the gal who took her into a room and took her vitals? I told Betty that if it had been me, I would have stormed out and demand that someone else work with me, just because of the history that's there.

But yes. She didn't get into vet school. I don't believe she's an actual nurse, probably not even an LVN or a CNA. More than likely, she's a Medical Assistant.

I really hope I never have to see a doctor in Chico. Ever. Suzi might be there.