Idiot Parade

There are dogs outside our window that howl every night, usually around ten. They got an early start tonight, and I want to howl right along with them.

As a customer, I consider myself pretty easy to deal with. I never raise my voice when dealing with someone on the phone. I do everything I can to be straight-forward, but also pleasant. I have seen people handle customer services reps by yelling at them for hours and getting frustrated to the point of blood vessels popping, and I have decided that this is not a method I wish to use. It gets things done, admittedly, but I don’t like yelling, and if the person on the other end of the phone can help me, I’d rather have them do so because I made their day a little better, not a whole lot worse.

I say this first because, damnit, there have so many times lately where I’ve wanted to reach through the phone and strangle people because they apparently incapable of doing something simple, like, oh I don’t know, THEIR JOBS.

J’s AF recruiter is currently on the top of my list. Bring me this paperwork, and you can take the test. Okay, awesome, we bring the paperwork. Oh, now we need something else. Done. Now more. We do that too, every time we come in we need something else to prove that my boyfriend should be able to join, even though the last twenty-four things were supposed to be THE LAST THING we needed to hand over before he takes his ASVAB.

Here’s an idea: as a military recruiter, maybe you should make a list of EVERYTHING A PERSON COULD EVER POSSIBLY NEED TO JOIN THE MILITARY. Then you can hand people that list and be like, hey, take a look, get all these things, come back, and we’ll be good. That seems like it would be more convenient for everyone involved, unlike this dance we’ve been doing FOR MONTHS.

It might be a photo finish for The Biggest Pain In My Ass contest, though. Because, my dear Internet, there is this company, you see, a horrid and awful company that has come into our lives and prances around in our misery and frustration like a gleeful troll. Not a pretty troll with a gemstone in it’s bellybutton, oh no, but the kind of troll that drools and eats boogers and smells a bit like the dead goats that it keeps under it’s rotting bridge.

This company was supposed to be helpful, and we believed it. There was this thing we needed to do so that my boy could walk and move like a normal human being, and the company said YES! OF COURSE! DO THESE MIRACULOUS THINGS AND WE WILL TAKE CARE OF IT!

Oooh, but this company is tricksy, and after we did aforementioned miraculous things, the company cackled Bwahaha, you fools! You did not fill out and send us the magical form, so you must give us a million dollars dipped in a calf’s blood and the soul of your first born child to pay for the procedures!

It was at this point we asked, durrr, what magical form? Oh, the magical form that was supposed to be sent. The one that was never sent. Not from the company, not from J’s workplace that recommended the miraculous treatments in the first place. No one had seen this form, ever, not even a little. Nor could it be found on you, sweet Internet. This magical form is very elusive.

So J, being the proactive guy that he is, called this company. Of course we will mail you the form!, they promised. You will get it by the end of the week!

End of week. No form.

Another call. Still polite, but a bit more firm. They’ll call back.

No call back.

Again. Yes! Oh, we are so sorry! The form, the form of hope and wonder, it will be in your mail box by Friday at the latest!

That was a little over two weeks ago.

Monday, I will be calling. And I will demand, calmly, to speak to someone in a position of power. I will explain this all over again, and explain that the form will either a) be mailed first class and in our box by THE VERY NEXT DAY, or b)emailed or faxed while I am on the line. If nothing comes of that, there will be a complaint, a loud and biting one, because here’s the thing: I don’t like being rude. I don’t like causing problems. But there are only so many times when you are allowed to brush someone off and give them the shaft. You work in customer service. I am a customer. SERVE ME.

And now I have to slowly pull myself together. J will be home from work soon-ish, and only one of us is allowed to go batshit insane at a time.

Dinner tonight: still unsure. Could be tuna salad, could be chili, but it’ll be something smaller. We’re trying to keep big meals before eight.

This post has been brought to you by the letters H and yperbole.

There have been quite a few days lately where I just feel like I’m doing everything wrong. Every now and again, I find myself wondering if I’ll get better at being a girlfriend. I say things without thinking, and it has really begun to show me what a selfish person I can be. That was never a word I thought I’d use to describe myself. Being an only child, though, I got used to having a lot of things done my way, on my schedule. I’d like to say that I always do the best that I can, but frankly, sometimes that isn’t true, and I get mean and snappy. I don’t know how to fix this; the only thing I can think to do is take stock of the stupid things I did yesterday and make a point to not do those stupid things today. If I do new stupid things….well, that’s what tomorrow is for, I suppose.

J has been wonderful about everything. As big of a pain in the ass as I can be, he is an equally big sweethart. We both have our moments, but we do the best we can to be patient and understanding with each other, and we never say anything that we’d regret later. Can’t really ask for more than that.

Aside from those hiccups, things are going well. I’m still out of work, which is the main cause of my stress, but my CBEST scores will be available on Tuesday and I’m hoping that I’ll be able to find work as a substitute. I have a couple backup plans, but nothing that I like nearly as much. Though, if we’re talking about what I like, I’d much prefer to stay at home like I have been, taking care of the house and the cooking. I’ve been cooking dinner just about every night, and I absolutely adore it. I’ve recently discovered that I have my father’s knack for improvisation in the kitchen. This is usually out of necessity–how is it that I go shopping once a week, but there are still never enough ingredients for a single dish? Oh well. Tonight, vodka-poached salmon and sweet potato fries.

I know it’s been a while, but I hope someone is still out there, reading all my nonsense.

When chopping jalapeños, cover your mouth with a damp cloth, much like you would in a very smokey room. It will keep the jalapeño fumes from sneaking inside your throat and choking you from the inside out as it refuses to die, like an awful old aunt that no one likes but has a ton of money and lives to be a hundred and five, the old bitch.

No, I don’t actually have an aunt like that. All my awful ones are dirt poor.

No, I don’t have awful aunts at all. I’m very fond of all my parents’ siblings. They can take a joke.

Frozen yogurt with strawberries

X-Files marathons

Having tea when I wake up

Having tea right before bedtime

Shuffleboard

Playing Gears of War with J, even though I suck at it

Carmina Burana

Having my hair braided

Walking through the front door and being greeted by a cat, a dog, and a J.