Budget Hell and other fun.

The black cloud, it has lifted.  The Dreaded Budget is done.  Finito.  Kaput.  Until, that is, my boss calls me to have a “conversation” about the numbers I’ve proposed.  And until I ask him if I can add stuff I forgot.  Oops.  The Dreaded Budget has consumed my time this week.  It also consumed all brain cells available, and guess what got ignored?  Not only this little blog, but my whole computer.  This, people, is serious.  Something that actually keeps me from my computer?  Very rare.

Of course, the Dreaded Budget time coincided with the arrival of my new toy:  a CrackBerry.  My reward for taking on this new job and all it’s assorted responsibilities!  It’s purdy.  And a bit intimidating.  Will have to review the 4300 page manual the IT guy emailed me.  Can’t wait for that.

In completely unrelated news, I had a birthday yesterday.  Nothing significant, just another mid-30s number.  The best part was having three (3!!) people sing Happy Birthday to me.  And the chocolate cake we had at work.  Mmmmm.  Chocolate.

I almost forgot.

Crackbook.  Mmmmm, I do loves me some Crackbook.

This week:

My high school grad date emailed me.   My first thought:  does he still have that (awful-in-retrospect) mullet?  Answer:  no.

Another friend added me to her list.  I ran into her briefly last year, but we didn’t have a chance to chat.  Turns out she’s divorced, which I would never have expected.  Never.

Smoke signals.

Once upon a time, I was a smoker. I know, someone as wholesome and unsullied as moi, smoking? Say it isn’t so.

I was a stupid 16 yr old. What can I say?

When I met D (at 21), we had smoking in common. We smoked in our apartment, everything we owned and wore smelled reeked of it, and we laughed at the idea that one day in the Future we could die from smoking.

Then something changed. In August 2000*, we both started taking a stop-smoking medication. Within 4 days, I had no desire to smoke. Within 2 weeks, I’d quit for good. And D? He didn’t do so well. Here it is, December 2006, and he’s still smoking. He managed to quit briefly last year, and I still harass him about the fact that he restarted. What a dumbass.

On thing by which I am constantly amazed: the man runs out of cigarettes regularly. WTF?! Tonight I took him out to a poker game (16 km round trip)(in the cold & snow) and he dicovered he was smoke-less when we got to the door. I protested about driving home to get them, but in the end I did. He’d had a beer or two, and I couldn’t handle the goddamn whining.

In the decade I spent keeping the tobacco companies in business and polluting my body, I rarely “ran out” of cigarettes. Um, hello? I smoked. It’s not like I had to make a special effort to open the pack and check how many I had. I was always in there, grabbing another one. I still don’t understand this little problem of his. Pay some fucking attention and commit to the habit!

*I am fully aware that I didn’t quit until my oldest son was almost 2 years of age. I am also fully aware of the fact that I am a Bad Mother, in that I smoked (very lightly) while pregnant with him. For the record, he was far from underweight (9lb+) and he’s disgustingly healthy.

The one in which I did not have to lie.

We all get those calls.

The dreaded telemarketers.

Personally, my favourites are the ones that:

a) Answer my polite “hello” with dead air for 5+ seconds. I usually hang up, having realized that the unknown/private/180085745390854 number on the call display is not my dear Aunt Bessie calling to chat.

b) Answer my polite “hello” with an inspired mangling of my last name*. Honestly? I traded up when I married D and took his name. My maiden name was so bad my elementary school principal managed to mispronounce it differently every year for the eight years I attended the school. He was a master. I thought my new(ish) last name was unfuckupable. Not so! (disclaimer: I am very proud of my maiden name and its heritage. It was only bad in the pronunciation sense.)

Some dude from Ipsoswhatsis just called. He was polite, got straight to the point, and didn’t attempt to say my last name. He wanted to talk to someone about driving in BC. Someone between the ages of 16 and 25. I barely contained the joy in my voice when I informed him that nobody in this household meets that criteria. He thanked me and hung up.

I happily told D that I didn’t even have to lie (my usual tactic) to the survey guy.

Then I realized I’m off the hook because? I’m too old.

Takes the shine off my victory. Sigh.

*unrecognizable accent optional.

Truce?

Once again, I need to talk about GBC (Girl Bits Central). I know, I know. Shut UP already!

GBC & I have been getting along for about 4 months now. No more nasty periods, thanks to a happy little white pill every day. But I am tired of remembering to take said pill. I am tired of being hormonally controlled - it doesn’t do nice things for other parts of my married life. So, in a daring move, I’m not going to re-start the pill next week. I hope it goes well.

In other semi-exciting news, I am husbandless for the weekend. He won yet another contest through work, and one of their big suppliers is flying them to LA for 3 days. They leave this morning from Vancouver, and tonight they’ll be watching an NHL game in Anaheim. Tomorrow he has the choice of several places (Disney, etc) to visit, but he’ll probably be at a casino somewhere. Then a big dinner drunken party on Saturday night, and he’s home on Sunday.

He’s in sunny California, and I’m stuck in the getting-whiter-by-the-day North. Bah.

And no, Betty, those snow tires are NOT on yet. Shaddup.

Ups and downs.

Rastis has forgiven me. I woke up at 4-something this morning to find him purring next to me. He’s no longer hiding under the bed, which is a huge leap into normal behaviour for him. He’s napping contentedly next to me as I type. The stitches look a bit freaky, but all will be well in a couple of weeks. It took me until tonight to remember that the vet mentioned he’d also be shaved, and that does explained the extra freakiness going on.

A side-effect of this whole episode? Jackson is deathly afraid of Rastis. He’s so scared he asked to have his door closed tonight. This is serious. I guess I’ll just have to keep talking about how Rastis isn’t going to hurt him, and his eye isn’t scary, and hope for the best. I think things might be better when he’s all healed. Until then, Jack doesn’t want Ratty in his room (one of his favourite places to nap, night or day) at all.

Today was one of those weird days. My birthday, yes, but that didn’t stop the bullshit. Mom took me for lunch, my desk was a nightmare of paperwork, and I yelled at someone who tried to lecture me (don’t tell me how to do my job, beyotch).

Lucky for me, swim class was tonight, and I’m nice and relaxed. Grey’s was good, CSI is freaking me out (can you say bad for Las Vegas tourism? Ack), and ER is up next.

Happy Birthday to me!

Wednesday ramblings….

Just because I feel like rambling.

Rastis (henceforth to be known as the One-Eyed King of the House or Arrrr, Ratty) is home. His de-eyeballing enucleation went well. Why is that not de-nucleation? Wait. Sounds more like someone giving up their nuclear (or is that nucular, har) arms or something. Enucleation it is. He’s stoned. Ok, if I’m to be accurate, he’s still out of it on the sedation drugs. He’s all wonky-walking, and when he hears my voice he’s confused as to which way to run. Yes, run. I’m officially the Bitch Who Done Lost Him His Eye. Sigh. I cannot win. He’s got some scary looking stitches going on, and they don’t come out for 14 days. Gack. Oh, and it turns out D was serious about the eye patch thing. Dumbass. They sew the eyelid shut. Duh. Like he’d come back with some freaky-ass hole where the eye was. Ick. I can’t feed him until later, and he needs to continue on the antibiotics for another 12 days. Fun times chez Refinnej, I tell ya.

Someone drove 1.5 hours to see Wrinkles today, and have her dog meet him. She wasn’t sure if it was the right fit, so she buggered off to see a friend. Haven’t heard from her yet. Whatev. Nice lady, if a little odd. If this doesn’t work out, I think we’ll end up giving him (or his info) to the Shar Pei rescue society. Let’s see if they can find him a home.

It’s fricking karate night. Bah. I have to go make the children something for dinner, then schlep Austin’s skinny butt to the school. Double bah. I hate Wednesday nights because of this. It’s 20km round-trip, and it annoys me. Especially in the winter. But. He loves karate, so I do it. Am going to see if D will either pick up or drop off tonight.

Jack’s dental appointment today was horrible. He had a tooth die (for no apparent reason) early last year, and we went to a pediatric dentist to have it removed. Not a fun day, watching my almost 3-yr-old get sedated and taken into the sound-proof treatment area to have his baby molar pulled. Not fun at all. Only slighty better than the appointment the year before, during which they told me the (same) tooth was fine, the abscess thingy had been cut out to be biopsied, and here’s your son, the one bleeding profusely from the mouth. Anyhoo, I digress. After last year’s tooth extraction, they put in a spacer. Gotta keep the 2-yr molar from shimmy-shaking into the wrong spot, thereby fucking up the Grand Tooth Scheme that is occuring (as I type!) in my son’s small mouth. The little shit pulled it off on Sunday. Gahhh! Today he learned that pulling his spacer off was a Really. Bad. Idea. Oh, yeah. It took three tries to get a new impression for the new spacer that our dentist will install. THREE. With a screaming, crocodile-tear-producing four year old. I’m sure the other patients thought we were killing him or something. They used the smallest possible tray, and the goopy stuff didn’t take that long to set, but my god, it felt like hours. I bribed him with a Timmy’s smile cookie - treat for the kid, AND good for charity. Woo.

I’m going to be older tomorrow. I usually love my birthday, but the past couple of months have been so stressful that the nicest present possible would be for everyone to fuck off for the day and let me sleep. With my one-eyed cat. The one that needs convincing I still love his furry butt. Unfortunately, tomorrow signals the end to my five days off. The same five days that were supposed to help me recharge, and have left me exhausted instead. I can’t handle this vacation time bullshit. Getting too old. The bonus about aging? Lunch (free) with my mom tomorrow, and dinner at the cabin Friday night. Woot! Friday night includes the children remaining at the cabin, sans moi. Even better. And Saturday? An all-day birthday party, to which they have both been invited. The weekend is looking up.

Backorder.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if one could just order up new body parts when your originals aren’t performing as expected? The first thing I would get is a new right shoulder/neck. The one I have is not making life easy right now. I thought it was the DaycareDrama causing the huge knot of tension - that’s likely what started it - but discovered last night that lying in one bad position on the couch is going to fuck things up. Badly. I woke up on said couch at 2:30 this morning. I believe I looked like I was about 80 years old, painfully making my way to bed.

That lasted 10 minutes. Not one position worked. I finally took two muscle relaxants and a magic bag (heating pad thing) to bed. I slept, but I woke up with 500 lb limbs - the aftereffects of the drugs. Bleh.

The second thing I would order is a new right ankle. Until April’s sprain, my ankles were strong workhorses. The right one has been royally fucked up ever since. The sprain healed fine, except for a bulgy big that I don’t think was quite that bulgy before. Now it seems that my funny ankle-favouring walk, perfected over the three months it took to heal, has caused my arch to begin to fall. This has segued into a need for arch supports on a daily basis. The alternative is a horribly swollen inside ankle, including pain all the way up my leg to my knee.

Fun times.

I refuse to pay $375 for the custom-made orthotics, like my doctor wants me to. Nuh-uh. The $20 Dr. Scholl’s work GREAT.

Is it bad that I’ll shell out mucho dinero for the faboo Dys0n vaccum, but not for my feet? Gah. My priorities are fucked. What can I say?

I might also order a new right thumb. I bruised (broke?) it this morning and it’s quite uncomfortable. Nah, it can’t be broken. I can still bend it.

What would you order up, if you had the chance?

Not a fan of the rollercoaster.

This month has sucked ass. Yes, I realize it’s only the 16th. It’s still sucked. Badly.

But! However!

The DaycareDrama is winding down. The Instigator has been presented with a written offer. Said offer includes a release, confidentiality agreement, and shutthefuckup* clause. Now the Instigator merely has to agree, sign and take the damn money.

Losing a foster dog is horrible. Finding him within 3 hours is fabulous. Some cranky old battleaxe called our SPCA hotline a few days ago, and informed us that she had a dog and a cat she could no longer keep. Where should she drop them off? Um. Wha?! No shelter, almost-full fosters. You do the math. At least try to find a home. She owned a dog for 6 years, a cat for almost as long, and her solution? Put them down. I ended up with Wrinkles (photo below) this afternnoon. At the first opportunity, he bolted. Lucky for me, he went next door and hid in my neighbour’s house. Of course, it took Dave 3 hours to figure that out. I’m just happy he’s back!

The big u/s for GBC is on Tuesday. I’m taking the day off and driving to the SemiBigCity an hour north. Maybe I’ll even do a little shopping. The kids are going to need H’ween costumes.

Movie-watching this weekend. Last night was Mrs. Henderson Presents (always like Judi Dench, good movie!) and tonight is Friends With Money. I feel like a bad friend, but I don’t really even want to go to D1’s house to watch the movie. I’d much rather stay home. I can’t, since I’ve been avoiding this movie night for a while. Sigh.

Wrinkles is a shar pei/terrier mix, and only looks like a shar pei when he does this worried-old-man quizzical expression. It’s cute.

*So not what it’s called, but it’s what I asked the lawyer for. Hee hee.

Good drugs.

I just took a happy little white pill.*

In less than 30 minutes, I’ll be too fucking stoned to notice the large knot that has settled - permanently? - in my right shoulder. I think it’s stress. I also think that a nice back rub from my husband would work. Just have to pry him away from the other computer.

What am I saying? When the pill kicks in, I will be unable to move without great effort. The massage will have to wait.

Friday was a slightly better day than Thursday. Thanks to the amazing technology of Call Display, I was even able to avoid phone calls I didn’t wish to answer. The Instigator tried to fake me out, calling on her cell, then with the number blocked, then on her cell over & over & over & over (she figured out the # of rings before voicemail, she’s THAT smart) & over & over. I did not answer.

Fuck her. I told her we’d call when we had an answer. There was no “call me” in there.

Today? Meh. Austin had a friend over, and we had to be out the door before 9 am, to see the eye doctor. A needs new glasses, but his eyes aren’t regressing at all. (history: some kind of -opia, aka lazy eye; remedied by patching his eye throughout Kindergarten; also, he has an astigmatism, as does J) I baked a kitty litter cake for tomorrow’s SPCA event (it’s pretty wild, and not made of actual kitty litter) and ran away went into town to run some errands alone. It’s been a lazy day, really. Tomorrow, not so much.

*no worries, it’s merely an OTC back/neck pain relief med