Thursday, September 8, 2011

Green Beans and Toilets

Trying to keep up with two blogs is kicking my ass. I can barely manage one. Oh well. Must keep this one going to preserve my sanity. That and to tell you guys the funny shit that comes out of Papa D's mouth. I mean, I understand getting some words mixed up, but photographic and pornographic? Yeah, I'm still a bit befuddled by that one.

His latest though, is that he was trying to say that K's bro is a chick magnet. Instead, he said, that K's bro is a chick maggot. LOL

Last night at dinner, my grandmother forced me to eat green beans. *shudder* She prepared to dish them onto my plate, asking, "Green beans?" I politely refused, and she comes back with, "Excuse me? You will eat a vegetable." And that's when I realized that those nasty little green things were the only vegetable on the table. She put six green beans on my plate and told me I would eat them. The pasta rice and the grilling tenders covered in BBQ sauce couldn't drown the horrific taste of those nasty little green things. I ate five of them.

I gave the sixth one to the dog.

I was actually concerned that I would get caught. But the dog charged out the back door causing K, Papa D, and K's bro to get up and chase her. I tossed one onto the floor, and then spent ten minutes trying to get the damn dogs attention under the table - discreetly. I finally managed to get her and pointed a finger to the floor and she found the disgusting green bean.

Thank God for dogs, is all I say.

Now, I found this sign above a toilet in a restaurant. I can't remember which one, but yeah, it was only slightly disconcerting. If you have to have signs telling people how to flush toilets, there may be other more serious issues that need to be discussed. Are there too many automatic flushing toilets out there?

Monday, August 15, 2011

I'll never have a husband?

How do you mention to your grandfather that he has offended you or hurt you in some fashion? I mean, without possibly hurting the good relationship you have with him? In my situation, I won't. I shall just let it roll off my shoulders and try to remember his "filter" doesn't work at all like most people's.

Last Friday I went with him on a special delivery - putting a rack in a new location and to fill it with our papers. He'd been driving around northeast California for 3 days picking up ad copy, so I offered to go with him on Friday, since I didn't have to work at Job 3. That way someone besides him knew where the new location was. Plus I was really hoping he'd want someone else (like me) to drive since he'd already been on the road for 3 days. Luck, as it were, was not on my side.

We left around 7 a.m. and stopped in Town to get gas. After we got back on the road, he suddenly panicked that he'd forgotten the bank deposits that he was supposed to take care of later that afternoon when we got back. I looked around the floor between the seats and he told me that they should be in his briefcase. In the backseat. I turned out and realized it was just far enough of my reach to make it difficult, so I told him we could check later when we stopped. Instead of agreeing with me, he instead - while driving - to reach back there to retrieve it. And wound up heading for the other lane. I scolded him . . . okay, I kinda yelled . . . "Not while your driving!" So, I reached back to get it, and it flipped off the backseat and twisted my left wrist. From that moment on, I was not in the best of moods.

Oh, and the bank deposits were in there.

Later when we got to our destination, his friend B was there waiting for us. B is kind enough to keep a few bundles of our paper in his garage and redistribute as our locations in that town become empty. We put our rack in the new location and put papers in it. Took all of 5 minutes. So B and Papa D decide to go to a cafe for some coffee. It was there that my mood got worse.

At some point in the conversation, we began to talk about food. B asked me if I like lamb, and I told him no. Well, that got Papa D going on and on about all the foods I don't like. And then said something - basically the gist was this: I will never have a husband because he won't like putting up with a picky eater.

Slap meet face.

I actually wanted to cry.

For starters, it's none of B's damned business how picky of an eater I am. I've eaten in his presence twice and everyone had burgers.

I admit, I am a pretty picky eater. I will say that I've improved a lot in the last 15 years. Trust me. But, unfortunately, I don't see it changing too much in the present. I don't like being a picky eater; it can be relatively embarrassing when others find out just how much I don't like. For many things, I think it's a texture thing, others it's because I just flat-out don't like the flavor or lack there of. But at 31 years of age, my eating habits are not bound to change much more. My grandparents, well my grandfather, has lectured me a couple of times already that I'm doomed to have medical problems later in life. My grandfather had the fucking balls to tell me two days after my Granddad passed about how poorly my Granddad must have eaten to have wound up a diabetic. (Unfortunately, stupid medical professionals never relayed that message to my Granddad). My Granddad wasn't a poor eater - the older he got the more salt he'd put on his food. He deserved some salt after living through being shot and a plane crash that literally killed him, 3 times.

If I hadn't been sitting on the inside of the booth at the cafe, I would have left the table. I think B saw the lightening flash in my eyes and after Papa D beat a dead horse, the topic was discarded. But my foul mood didn't improve.

The funny that did happen was this: on our way out of town, we were stopped at an intersection. A big ass truck was hauling one big ass 5th wheel. Probably a 45 footer. As it's pulling through the intersection -

Papa D: Wow, that's a really big motor home.

Me: *trying not to laugh* Um, that's what we call a 5th wheel.

Papa D: Because it doesn't have a motor in it, right?

Oh dear.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Toot your own horn much?

I'm all for tooting my own horn once in awhile, but there are people that go too far with it. We all like having recognition for things that we've done; being recognized, thanked, and appreciated for our hard work makes us feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I would say that the average person forgoes most recognition and just plods along.

What is annoying, however, are the folks that have let everyone know everything they did. It was their idea. It was their brain power. It was their planning. It was their actions.

K's brother is a decent example. Every day at lunch and or dinner, I have listen to this alcoholic toot his damn horn. He's got all these great ideas, he does all this hard work. And he'll detail every job, not just list it. That's great. But I'm sick and tired of hearing him talk.

Anymore, I'm hardly talkative at the table during lunch or dinner. Why? Because K's brother is talking about how fucking awesome he is. I'd almost go so far as to nickname him Captain Awesome, but he really isn't awesome. He's a loser. He just got out of jail for his third DUI and doesn't get paid for any work he does. Why? Because he'll wind up falling off the wagon yet again.

Now, part of me is glad he's back because he can do a lot of work that my grandparents and myself can't do. Sober, he's a decent worker. But either way, he's annoying because he's constantly tooting his own horn.

These kind of people are everywhere. Every job has at least one. It's okay to want to be recognized for your hard work.

But no one likes to hear how fucking awesome everything you do is. Besides, more than likely it's your job anyway, so . . . what's the big deal?

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Just another day, hangin' with my grandfather . . .

I was on the road delivering papers with Papa D this afternoon after Job 3. And as usual, hanging out with my grandfather can be interesting. Someone really ought to get me a digital recorder to take on the road with me, because this shit is priceless. Some of the things that he says, you just roll your eyes, while others make your jaw drop, and other times you just shake your head in wonder. As in, if the DMV knew about his memory, would they have just renewed his license?

As we started to deliver in Town, he mentioned at least three times (in the first 30 minutes), that tomorrow (Friday) we'd be delivering to Fall River and Burney, plus 4 other places.

I politely asked, "Aren't I doing those stops this weekend when I deliver?" (meaning the 4 other places)

He replies with an inhaling hiss, and a face that says, 'I don't think so, Tim', and says, "Well . . . I guess you could . . . I just wanted to get them out before all the events this weekend."

We go through this every month. My guess is that because he did the routes his way for so long, he just doesn't remember the changes that were made when I came to Sticksville. Plus, I had no idea what events he was speaking of for this weekend. There isn't anything big going on this weekend in NorCal . . . at least not our section of it. I let it go.

Later, as we were driving over the pass to get home, he mentions this weekend again.

PD: "Well, I just really want to get these delivered before the 4th."

I was a wee bit confused . . . the 4th? Of July? It's nearly August.

Me: "The 4th?? It's nearly August 1st."

He started laughing, "Oh jeez. Well, there's a thing at Eagle Lake. What is it?"

Me: "Eagle Lake? You mean the BBQ?"

PD: "Yeah, when is that?"

Me: "I don't remember. We can check at home."

Back home, we sat at the kitchen table, telling K about our afternoon delivering. Papa D checked a paper on the table and finds the ad for the BBQ at Eagle Lake - it's September 3rd. He pointed to it and told us, "That BBQ is on September 3rd; I really want to get these delivered before this BBQ this weekend."

K and I look at each other, a bit dumbfounded, and she said, "Honey, it's not even August yet!"

He laughed and said, "Oh jeez."

And the DMV just gave him another license.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Weather Reports

My grandfather kind of gets hung up on the weather report. Now, where we are, we don't have our own local station. Our "local" channels come from towns about 3 hours in any given direction. And all of them are somewhat messed up. At least, for our part of the country. Or so PD thinks. It's not like the weather guys get it right all the time every where else anyway.

This morning I went over to help feed, just like every other day.  There's a cool north breeze blowing making it a very nice morning. Although you still break a sweat pitching hay and the re-loading the hay truck with bales of hay. But there's still a promise of it being a warm day.

After feeding the horses, I climbed onto the back of the feed truck so we could go feed our weaned calves. On our way, he says to that it looks like it will be another warm day. I agreed. Then this conversation ensued:

PD: Did you see the weather report last night or this morning?

Me: No, I haven't.

PD: Well, you know that the reports we get aren't quite right.

Me: Yeah, I know.

PD: I was asking if you saw it to see if the report you saw was any different than what we saw.

Me: (trying not to laugh) Oh, um, I doubt it would be.

I had to turn my head away from the side mirror so that he didn't see me laughing. I just thought it was hilarious that he actually thought the weather report at my house was any different than the report at their house.

It just tickled my funny bone.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Lectures are so last season

Why does it seem that every old person despises any type of curse word?

Yes, I curse. Sometimes it's too much. Sometimes I deem it appropriate.

I do have the right of free speech. So when I say something like, "re-typing my fucking story", and I was really annoyed about something at the time. Like, super annoyed. I don't need some older person commenting on such a thing with "Shame on you for using the f-word, now I need to wash your mouth out with soap".

Because I'm quite sure they've cursed. And I'm sure their kids curse. And quite possibly their grandkids.  I watch my mouth around people I don't know, when I'm at work, around family, and in certain situations or places where it wouldn't be appropriate to say anything worse than "crap".

Besides, I'm pretty sure they're not perfect either. So quit judging. I've already had my grandparents (who are also my employer) censor my other blog. Facebook and this blog won't be censored.

If I'm pissed, you'll know it. If I'm sad, you'll know it. If I'm happy, yep, you'll know it.

Judgers can get off their high horses.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Bachmann and Santorum Can Suck A Fart.

There really ought to be a law that keeps douche-canoes from running for president. Or any political office of any kind. This is why I despise politics - there are too many fucking idiots trying to outdo each other and don't use the brain filter that keeps stupid shit from spewing forth. And the fact that someone, in this day and age, can have such prejudicial feelings and can make such fucked up statements is the front runner Republican candidate for president makes me want to move anywhere but here. Please click here to read the article I'm referring to.

A few days ago, Michelle Gagman Bachmann signed a pledge or vow or whatever the hell you want to call it, that had this in the opening statement:

"Slavery had a disastrous impact on African-American families, yet sadly a child born into slavery in 1860 was more likely to be raised by his mother and father in a two-parent household than was an African-American baby born after the election of the USA's first African-American President."

Now, anyone in their right fucking mind and running for political office (in my mind) should have steered clear of anything with such a statement. If I remember right from my history classes, slaves where bought and sold on a regular basis and it was extremely rare for a family to not be separated at any given point - because their master's didn't give a shit. Also, the women were raped on a fairly regular basis - how fucking healthy is that for a child to grow up knowing that their mother is nothing more than some asshole's sex doll? Then I saw this:

"It's not clear whether Bachmann was aware of the slavery passage on the first page."

Um, what jackwagon signs something without reading it? Evidently, both Gagman Bachmann and some other douche nozzle named Rick Santorum signed some document about marriage vows.

"The Marriage Vow - A Declaration of Dependence Upon Marriage and Family,", their campaigns emphasized that the "candidate vow" portion of the pledge that they put their stamps of approval on didn't mention slavery. Instead, it condemned gay marriage, abortion, infidelity and pornography."

Now, if it was purposefully held from that, the whole bit about slavery, then that's one thing. Then the douche-baggery falls onto this Iowa group for witholding vital information from the jackwagon politians. However, while I understand that everyone has their own political view, their own familial views and all that stuff, is it really necessary to flat out say that your condemning homosexuality, abortion, infidelity, and pornography? Not everyone is into porn, I get that. So don't fucking watch it. Most people don't like infedelity (even though it happens a lot), so really, we didn't need to sign some vow about how much we hate it. Abortion is a woman's choice. It's a her choice what she does with her own body, whether or not anyone else agrees with her. I myself could not do it, unless perhaps there were extenuating circumstances, but I cannot tell another woman not to do it. It's her fucking right. Then I saw this at the bottom of the article about Santorum's view on abortion:

"He told the Christian Broadcasting Network that for decades, slavery allowed blacks to be treated like property. He said fetuses are denied the right to life because they are considered property."

I think smoke came out of my ears. For thousands of years across the globe (or what was considered the "globe" thousands of years ago), slaves were considered property. Bought and sold like any other commodity. Eventually people came to their senses and realized that those slaves are, in fact, people, too and perhaps should be treated as such. However, maybe it's just me, but I don't think that people these days think of a fetus as "property". I know I sure as shit don't. Nor does my family. Nor do my friends. While I realize there are women out there that, in a sense, give abortion a bad name by using that as their form of birth control, my bet is that a lot of women actually give it some thought. It's a big decision. I would hope that the average woman would make an educated decision about whether or not she's capable (financially, physically, emotionally, etc.) of raising a child and caring for it. I know women who have had abortions. Do I think any less of them? Nope. Not at all. They simply made a decision based on how their lives were. Some regretted it, or still felt sad about it, but in the end they know they made the right decision at that time. And that, folks, is what really matters.

 While homosexuality is not my preference, again, far be it for me to tell another how to live. If that's what floats your boat and makes you happy, then you have a right to pursue happiness. I cannot understand how people think that gay marriage is ruining the world and is a threat to the institution of marriage. Okay, then how many heterosexual couple make it these days? It's not the gays fault that hetero's divorce 50% of the time. Being gay does not make them bad people. People who love each other and want to share it with their families should have a fucking right to do so.

"She stands by the points that are outlined in the pledge," she said. "Particularly the ones for strong marriage. She's been happily married for 32 years. That's the focus of the pledge."

Should I tell her that my Granny & Granddad were married for 66 years? Kinda blows her 32 years out of the water. Yes, marriage has somewhat become a farce in a sense - as soon as it gets tough, someone files for divorce. It's sad to see so many marriages ending in divorce - I don't care if it's been 6 months or 40 years. It's terrible to see families split up and kids used as chess pieces so that adults can get what they want. But I'll tell you this - Gagman Bachmann signing this pledge isn't going to improve anything. The only way divorce will die down is if people try their absolute hardest to make it work.

If she gets elected, I'm moving to another country and say I'm Canadian. (note to self: find passport) Everyone likes Canadians. Not only that, but I'd be too fucking embarrassed to be from a country that elects such a fucktard. I'm embarrassed that she's a Republican front runner - because I tend to vote Republican. Please don't hold that against me - because I wouldn't vote for her if she were the last politician in the universe. Nor the other douche-canoe.

Sticking a fork in my eye would be preferable. Although I'd really hate for it to come to that. So therefore, these douche nozzles can suck a fart out of my ass.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Photographic or Pornographic?

Old(er) people can be good for a few laughs.

The first time this happened to me I was nearly insulted. By the end of the day, I thought it was fucking hilarious. When it still happens (and yes, it actually has), I just give my grandfather "the look".

Awhile back, as PD and I were delivering papers, a tiny issue arose. He was kind of quizzing me about things he had told me about, like names of mountains or where our next delivery stop was. He praises my memory quite often, because let's face it - mine is 100 times better than his at this point. There are so many times he doesn't remember that he just told me what he's telling me not 5 minutes before. And whenever we're on the road, he says that my memory is wonderful and even a couple times he claims it has saved his life. In reality, it didn't save his life. My memory told him where he had written down someone's name for an article.

Anyway, on this particular delivery day, he starts praising my wonderful memory and then spits out: "It must be nice to have a pornographic memory."

*insert crickets here*
*insert horrified look on my face here*

I couldn't spit a word out. He saw the look on my face and then said, "Photographic? Pornographic? I get those two confused all the time."

All I could do was sputter, "Photographic! Photographic! Photographic!!!"

Now, I'm not saying I do or don't have a pornographic memory. However, that is none of my grandfather's business.

And for a guy who is into photography, you would think that he wouldn't get photograhpic mixed up with pornographic.

But maybe it's just me.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Half-Assed Weekend

I'm sure I cannot possibly be the only one who opens a box to assemble something, and sees the pamphlet that tells you "assembly time: 5 minutes". This is quite possibly one of the biggest fucking lies of all time.

Last weekend, while I was in the city delivering papers and visiting my family, I was also shopping. Due to the fact that my home location is so remote that the nearest Gag Wal-mart is over two hours away, I tend to do the majority of my shopping in the city, which is about 3 hours away. I even take a cooler - usually someone else's. Anyway, I had asked my parents to add to their short Costco list of mine an 18" oscillating fan. That sucker was going in my bedroom and my tiny little 12" fan was leaving.

They promptly forgot. Actually, I believe it was my dad who did Costco and therefore, forgot the fan. He did buy me two 36 packs of Diet Pepsi. One was plenty.

So, off I went the next morning to find me a fan. I found one at Target. And it even has a remote . . . which I don't have batteries for. So the remote is pointless until I remember to get some AAA batteries. Whatever.

I got home Monday evening and it seriously took me about an hour just to unload the car and unpack shit. Oy ve. I had a lot of stuff in my car.

That's just the back seat. The pic doesn't include back seat floor boards, the front seat, nor the "trunk" - which was loaded with about 30 or so bundles of papers at the time.

My house was hot when I got home, so getting my fan assembled was a top priority. At first I thought I could multi-task by calling my BFF back and assemble said fan. I couldn't have been more wrong. So I spent about an hour or so on the phone, sitting on the couch . . . sweating . . . staring at the fan trying to will it to assemble itself. The reason I couldn't multi-task was I couldn't pay attention to my BFF's portion of the conversation and comprehend the fucked up diagram that was sitting in front of me.

Now, this isn't the first fan I've put together. I don't remember having trouble putting the smaller ones together. Maybe I've been out of college too long? I'm forgetting the basics?

As soon as I'm off the phone, I'm on that fan like flies on shit. I get everything done and then attempt to put the front grill on. The little side clips don't seem to want to work the way I believe they should. And they give you the tiniest screw and nut to work with. I cannot tell you how many times I had to get down on the floor on all fours with a flashlight to fight the damned things because I kept dropping them.

I finally get the front grill screwed on and attempt the clips some more. Nothing changes. So not counting the hour I was on the phone, that damn fan took me about an hour to put together. Five minutes my ass.

I figure that basically as long as the front grill doesn't fall off in the middle of the night and scare the living shit out of me, then it's all good.

And the fan was worth the $40, and the scavenger hunts. I've been freezing my ass off for a week. It's awesome.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Half-Assed Weekend

People seem to be giving me shit for wanting my swamp cooler to work. I'm not really sure why. Okay, has it gotten to triple digits where I am, no. But that is not the point.

The point is this: at least half the work I do is outside. In the sun. Where it's hot. My house, even with the windows open and fans on isn't the coolest place in the world. Wednesday night, it wouldn't cool off for shit, and slept without my covers until like 4am, when it finally cooled off enough.

I'm sorry, but if I'm sweating while doing nothing then there is an issue. Watching a movie from my perch on the couch really isn't much of a workout in the evening.

So, while I understand it's not in the triple digits just yet where I am, that doesn't mean I'm not doing something in that 85 to 95 degree weather that's making me hot. Or my house, which gets the sun until early evening.

Let me bitch about it people, it's my right.  ;o)

Monday, June 20, 2011

Big fight...

I don't want to seem like I complain a lot about my family or anything, but I just had a shouting match for dessert and I need to get it off my chest. I want to start this by saying that I love my grandfather (the one I work for, PD), and I've been enjoying my time up here working with him.

During dinner this evening, we talked about delivering papers this week. I told him I could help him after work on Thursday afternoon and I could go with him all day on Friday. He then mentioned about having to go to one of the National Parks, which is on the route they gave me to do on weekends. I do my route over two days - which was their idea - so that I could visit with my family. I said something like, "Won't I be doing that on Sunday?" He was like, "Oh, okay." We go through this every month. He's done his routes his way for so long that he has a hard time remembering that I do that part of the route on my way to my parents.

After dinner, K (his wife), went out to feed her bottle calf. During that time, PD realized that if I'm delivering papers on Sunday then I won't be around to help him at his Cattlemen's deal. Which I completely spaced was this coming weekend, and he never asked me if I would help, he just assumed I would. We discussed it, and I told him it was simply a miscommunication between us, and I can tell my family I will see them next month when I deliver. He kept saying, "no, no". Anyway, the gist of this is that he was trying to guilt me into helping him.

Now, this Cattlemen's deal was something he took on against the wishes of K. She has flat out refused to help him, and has told him so for two months. Like I mentioned, he never actually asked me to help him. So, he tells me tonight that if I don't help him, he's screwed. Honestly, it's not my problem. But I didn't say that. So then he comes up with this screwball idea that I should drive down the mountain Saturday evening after work and come back on Sunday so that I don't miss work on the ranch on Monday.

I was kind of thrown for a loop in the anti-logic mobile. I pointed out that I would still be missing a day of ranch work if I was gone Saturday night. He then hollered that they wouldn't do much on Sunday because they'll be over at the fairgrounds for his deal. And that I'm missing days during the week because of my extra days at the Sticksville vet clinic. Yep, thrown for another loop in the anti-logic mobile.

Up to a point I was remaining pretty calm. I just didn't understand why he was suggesting such things because they really weren't making much sense. Around this time K came back in, and of course, was a wee bit confused as to why were fighting. She got the gist of it, and completely took my side. 

So there you have it, 3 adults shouting at each other. Well, it was more like two on one. I despise confrontations of all kinds. I kept trying to understand why he wanted me do go down the hill on Saturday and stay the night, yet not be upset that I'd miss a day on the ranch on Sunday when he'd be upset about me missing it on Monday. Honestly folks, feeding doesn't differ between the days, and the chores are all still the same. Suddenly he's all pissed that I take two days to do my route when it can take him one.

This is where I started to get really pissed off. First off, as I stated above, my route was given to me by them. They told me to do it two days, so that I could visit family. I stated as such to him this evening and he says that he hadn't be privy to that decision. Folks, he was sitting next to me at the dinner table when it was decided. I did not ask for my route, nor did I ask to take two days to do it. It was their decision. Notice I said "their", as in, it was a joint decision by both grandparents. Now, PD used to do that route in two days. Until his health got worse and he could no longer stay nights away from home. Then he altered his routes such so that he could do my route in one day (which is a 10 hour day if you do it in one day).

K hollered back at him that my route had been "the plan" for quite awhile, and that she's sorry if he forgot that he was a part of that (his memory isn't very good anymore). Then he shouts, "Then one or both of you need to help me!" K flat out told him that she had told him not to do this deal, that they didn't have time for it, and that she had been telling him for weeks that she refused to help out. And she threw in that he shouldn't have expected either one of us to help him. He then shouts, "Well, I just want to let you know that you both have really let me down!"

How the fuck have we let him down? K had been telling him she wouldn't help, and he hadn't forgotten that part. He somehow had it in his head that I had agreed to help him, and when I told him he hadn't asked me to do so, he then tried to guilt me into it - which, for the record, I did not appreciate. In his anger and/or forgetfulness, he throws out how angry he that I take two days to do my route and that I can just go down the mountain to visit family and he will do my route. Which makes no sense - if I'm going to be down there, why wouldn't I deliver papers as usual?

He then went to his office to sulk and be pissy. K walked me out to my car. She told me not to be upset, and that I will do my route as planned - that nothing has changed.

How can I not be upset? Above all else, I don't want to be a disappointment to my grandparents. I tried to remain calm and tried to understand why he wanted all these things changed and why he was suddenly upset about stuff. I felt like he criticizing me, that I can't do the route in one day, but he can. I didn't understand how missing Sunday ranch work was okay, but Monday wasn't - when the schedule and chores are all the same. I'm hoping all of this was just because he was angry over the whole thing about me not helping him at the deal. It's not my fault he didn't ask me or verify that I was to help him. I didn't even know when it was, let alone that I was helping.

I'm a bit concerned about tomorrow morning. It will be just me and him feeding while K is in Town. I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want this to become a wedge between us. I just don't understand where all his anger and disappointment came from.

Sunday, June 19, 2011


Most of you know why I haven't posted on this blog for awhile. If you don't know, my Granddad passed away two weeks ago. He was an amazing man. Oddly enough, he actually died three other times in 1949 - he was pronounced dead three times after a plane crash. He was told he would never walk again, yet he did. He chased after three kids with a wooden leg. He worked hard every day of his life. He refused Disability until my dad (his youngest kid) was through with college. He passed away on June 9, with all of his immediate family at his side - his wife of more than 65 years, his three children, a daughter-in-law (my mom), and his two grandchildren. He died on the eve of the anniversary of his plane crash - 62 years. More than 100 people showed up for his service on the 16th. He was loved, respected, and admired by so many people.

Now, all seriousness aside, I must discuss family. Not the mushy stuff of perfect families, because let's be real - they only exist in Hollywood. I love my family, don't get me wrong. But like every family, there are members that "a little goes a long way".

My dad's sister flew in from Georgia the day before the passing. She only flies out to visit every couple years. I love her dearly, and I know she didn't used to be this way, but the woman sucks the air out of a room. She's utterly depressing. And annoying. I understand that she suffers from headaches (it runs in the family), and fibromyalgia. But there's a line, and she crossed it a long time ago. She made a point of telling us how expensive her plane ticket was to get out here. (Really? You're going to make that an issue when your dad is dying?) At one point she changed from real clothes to a long t-shirt dress/pajama thing, making the statement, "Wow, I've never been in real clothes that long." (insert crickets) Her and her husband didn't offer to help do anything. I really do mean anything. My parents got food and drinks for the wake, had about $300 worth of gas between hospital and home, cleaned house for Granny and did her laundry and ironing, found enough tables and chairs to set around the house for the wake. Not to mention helping Granny with the mortuary and the minister. My aunt, uncle, and cousin did nothing. My cousin did a few random things, but really, they were of no help. They mostly sat and watched everyone else work.

My dad's sister-in-law, his brother's wife, was a bitch. No other way to say it. We all know she didn't much care for her husband's parents, especially Granddad. She got all pissy because she was wearing a really nice pair of greyish/black jeans but my dad and another uncle (from above paragraph) were wearing slacks and uncle was wearing a tie. Really? I saw people at the service in extremely casual attire. I saw people all fancied up. As long as you're not in pajama's these days, we don't really give a shit. One morning, she woke up at 4am and marched out to the living room - where Granny and my cousin were sleeping. (Granny sleeps in her recliner because her back hurts her less than if she sleeps in her bed anymore). My aunt turns on the light in the kitchen, loudly makes a pot of coffee and ruins her Weight Watchers diet by munching on a bag of brownies that were left over from the wake. When both my cousin and Granny sit up when the light wakes them up, she actually put her finger to her lip in the "ssshhhh let's be quiet" sign. And she got all upset when she was told by my dad's brother how early they'd be leaving to go home, because she wouldn't be able to do her TJ Maxx run. (shakes head)

My cousin . . . she's a sweetheart, but lives in a delusional world. Weirdly enough she talks more like a valley girl than a girl who was raised her whole life in Georgia. She's a smart cookie, but is clueless about reality. I was spoiled rotten as a kid, but she really has been spoiled rotten. Her parents are always referred to as Mommy and Daddy. Before you ask, she's 21. She kind of has the attitude that it really is all about her. Her parents give her money and pay her college tuition, and she herself does not have a job. She had one with her church as a greeter or something. When that ended, I asked if she'd be looking for another job soon, and she said, "It's not like I needed the job." Hmmmm.  In the real world, you can't put babysitting on your resume. Job recruiters like to see work history. She thinks it will all fall into her lap after grad school. Who knows, maybe it will; maybe she'll be one of those really lucky college grads. Now, I'm not jealous that I couldn't have that kind of life when I was in college, but it just irks me because I went to school with kids like that, and it just pissed me off. I worked hard and I'm proud of my job history and my employers have always liked what they saw. And in each case it was that previous job history that got me the job.

I adore my family, we are fairly close and I enjoy getting to see them. But a little goes a long way with some of them. I'm glad my aunt was able to fly in with enough time to say good-bye to her dad. I'm glad my cousin drove down after her last final of the term so she could say good-bye to our Granddad. I'm glad my uncle flew out for the funeral.

But sometimes, I just wonder where their heads are. Ya know?

Monday, May 30, 2011

Mortified, party of one.

I mentioned in a previous post about how Papa D embarrassed the hell out of me a couple months ago. In fact, I was actually asked by him to delete this story from my other blog. I laugh about it now, what happened. Well, I actually laughed while I was being embarrassed because I really couldn't do much else.

I hadn't been up here long when my grandparents started thinking of guys they knew that they might believe to be worthy for me to meet. My grandfather was stuck on one particular person, who works for a company that advertises with us.

One day, Papa D and I were out picking up ad copy we stopped by this place. When we pick up ad copy, we tend to visit. Actually, let me rephrase that: Papa D visits. A lot. We were told, at this particular place, to speak to a specific person, whom I will simply call him "Guy". We had been to this place once before where I had met everyone there. So, we sat down at Guy's desk and he and Papa D started talking.

And Papa D starts with this: "You know I've been trying to get my granddaughter here to go on a date with you."

I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the floor. I'm also quite sure I was as red as a lobster. Guy and I kind of laughed it off, but I knew I was highly embarrassed and I'm pretty sure he was as well. And Papa D didn't stop there. Oh no. Throughout our time there he tossed in things like, "You know my granddaughter now works at the vet's office on Saturdays, you two should go to lunch."

I'm pretty sure the words shut the fuck up crossed my mind. Apparently my grandfather doesn't have telepathic abilities, so he didn't get my message. All I could do was laugh it off, although I was so embarrassed I actually had tears in my eyes. And it wasn't like I could easily go anywhere. I know he meant well, and he really had no intention of embarrassing me, or Guy. When I told K at dinner what had transpired, she just looked at Papa D and said, "Not cool, honey, not cool."

The next time I saw Guy was about a couple weeks later, and it was obvious we were both still highly embarrassed. We could barely talk to each other let alone look at each other. It took about a month, but the embarrassment seems to have waned. I, however, am still mortified.

Actually, I now have a running joke going with my mom when we're in Town picking up ad copy or delivering papers. I text her and tell her how many times I've passed this particular business. All I have to do is text "6x" and she knows what I'm referring to. And when Papa D and I get out of the car to go into this business, he says, "Let's go see your boyfriend."

hangs head.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

This isn't a BBQ, it's a BAR.

Some of you might recognize this post from my other blog. This just has some details about the guy. I didn't want to write them over there in case one or both of them read it.

On Sunday I met a guy that one of my friends wanted me to meet. We had actually been supposed to have met a couple weeks ago, but my "wingman" got sick and backed out. Not to mention I found out that one of my grandmother's was in the hospital with heart problems (she's doing better now).

Anyway, so the idea was to have a BBQ.

Sunday rolls around and I don't have a single detail about said BBQ. Nothing. Not until sometime Sunday afternoon. And none of the texts mentioned a BBQ.

Wingman  told me that this guy was out golfing all day so he could meet us anytime. Where? Wingman finally says that we are going to meet at a bar. Hmmm. That doesn't sound very BBQ-ish. She told me she'd text me when she was heading out - when her babysitter showed up. Oookay. Bars are not my favorite place, simply because I don't care for drinking. I like a few drinks, but I drink so damn slow that they're warm by the time I'm done. I've never much cared for alcohol, and I've had some odd "hit-on" experiences at this particular bar, so I don't always really want to go there.

I wound up watching the Giants/A's game with my mom. It went into extra innings and when she texted me that she was heading to the bar, I texted back that I was in the middle of a ball game and would leave when it was done. (How bad is that?! lol) Finally the game ended in the 11th inning with the Giants barely snagging the win. Love my Giants.

I got to the bar and the guy wasn't there yet. So my friend and I chatted until he got there. He showed up in shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops, and a baseball cap. He hugs my friend, and she introduces us, and he says, "Hi!"

And there it was. Staring me in the face. I know it's a picky little thing, and really I shouldn't judge. But I still can't quite get over it. He has a black (aka rotten) tooth. He was a really nice guy, but all I see is that black tooth, not his face. Is that horrible? Is that wrong?

After a few drinks, we went out to dinner (me, Wingman, guy, and some other guy). Don't worry, Wingman was sober and was our driver. We promptly got called obnoxious by some lady with a an at-ti-tude. Apparently she wasn't fond of people laughing in her vicinity. And really, we weren't that loud, but the restaurant was pretty empty so we kinda echoed and whatnot. However, it wasn't filled with dirty words or inappropriate conversation. It was just some fucking laughter.

Then I had to choke down the worse burrito ever. Seriously. The shredded beef had no flavor whatsoever, and it was just dry. It came with no sides - no beans and no rice. Seriously? No amount of salsa and sour cream made it any better. I will never go to that restaurant ever again.

Wanna know what's really bad?

The other guy that went to dinner with us? He was more attractive to me. Partly because he didn't have any black teeth, but also because he filled out his Wranglers quite nicely.

I'm going to go wallow in shame.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

And these are the days of my life . . . .

I really think I need a tape recorder going while driving around with my grandfather. No. Seriously.

So, about two or three weeks ago, one of my friends told me she wanted me to meet someone. Apparently her and another friend had been talking about this for awhile. Our first attempted meet up a couple weeks ago went bust as I when I arrived in town I first found our that one of my grandmother's was in the hospital for heart stuff, and secondly that my wingman was sick. I've been texting the guy off and on for awhile and he seems cool. We're supposed to meet up at a BBQ this Sunday at my friend's place.

Anyways, I had told my grandparents about it, and K was cool with it and wanted to know what I knew, which was basically nil. Name, Age, and job was all I had. Papa D seemed ambivalent.

This morning, while driving to Town to deliver papers, I got the talk. You know, the relationship talk. I was a wee bit taken aback, a wee bit annoyed, and nearly insulted that he felt he should have this discussion with me at the ripe old age of 31. I am no stranger to relationships.

PD: You know, since you've moved up here, I think I've developed fatherly concerns for you.

(Not a big leap since you are my grandfather and all)

PD: I'm a little concerned about your friends setting you up on this date. I think it's a little fast.

Me: What do you mean? (as in, how is meeting a person moving too fast?!)

PD: I'm just concerned about this guy. I never had a relationship with someone that I didn't already know for a long time.

Me: Well, I trust my friends. They wouldn't knowingly set me up with a bad guy. Besides, they just want me to meet the guy. I may never see him again after this.

PD: Oh oh, you do, okay. I'm just saying that I've never had a relationship with someone that I didn't already know for a long time.

(it's no mistake that being mentioned twice. lol)

PD: Well, I'm going to give you some relationship advice . . . (and he goes into this story of how he meet each of his wives, and how long he'd known them before marrying them, or even asking them on a date. meanwhile, I'm rolling my eyes and mouthing "are you fucking kidding me?" thankful that I was alone in the front seat and he was sitting behind me in the back seat).

Me: uh huh . . . yeah . . . mmhmmm . . . (all during his story so he knew I was listening)

PD: . . . . But I am concerned partly because I know what guys want. (and he starts chuckling)

Me: (speechless for a moment) Um, I know what guys want, too. Men really aren't that hard to figure out.

PD: I kinda feel like I'm having a conversation with my 14 year old daughter. I thought maybe I shouldn't say anything because you aren't 14, you're 31.

(yeah, I'm thinking you shouldn't have really said anything)

I eventually put it out of my head until I was finally home alone after delivering papers. I can sort of see that he may not necessarily trust my friends because he doesn't know them. Perhaps because one of them is a bartender. Who knows. But doesn't he trust me?

I know he worries about me, and has concerns about me meeting strangers. Apparently he forgot all about my attempts with internet dating in the big city, which was kind of a crock. And besides, he fucking embarrassed the shit out of me about a month or so ago trying to set me up with a guy. (That was a post I was forced to delete on my other blog, so I will re-post the story over here another day). So what is the big difference in him doing it versus my friends?

I know he was trying to look out for me, so I wasn't mad. Annoyed? A little. I know he will always worry about me, like my parents do. However, I am a big girl, I know what men want, and trust me . . . they don't get it easily from me. (insert evil laugh here)

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

You know you're in a laid back vet clinic when . . .

. . . a technician eats her breakfast while bullshitting with the vet while he's spaying a cat. And neither of them noticed me taking the picture. I'm pretty sure they thought I was texting. (insert evil laugh here)

And that's the vet that hired me. He's into fist bumping. lol

Monday, May 16, 2011

Things Papa D Says . . .

Sometimes I wonder about the things Papa D says to me while driving. Parts of the country that we drive around I grew up in as a little girl, so I know where things are.  Certain restaurants, hotels, stores, etc. I also know the mountain passes, such as Eskimo Hill, which is very popular for sledders in winter. It's also popular for winter car wrecks.

The town I grew up in is Old Station, just a couple hundred people live there year-round. You blink you miss it, but it's where I grew up. There is one tiny general store in town, Rim Rock Ranch, where I used to get ice cream with my babysitters in summer.

I tell you all of this so you understand my shock when I tell you what Papa D said and/or asked. I think in his old age, that he forgets where I grew up.

One day, as were driving into Old Station to drop some papers off at Rim Rock Ranch, he says, "Now, there's a tiny little general store here in town, Rim Rock Ranch -" I stopped him by simply saying, "Oh I remember it - I used to get ice cream there in summer." His response? "Oh, you know it?" I find it a little humorous and sad that he doesn't remember that I lived there, especially seeing as how he got my parents to buy one of the restaurants in town and that's why we moved there.

During that same drive, as we're driving up Eskimo Hill - nearing the summit actually, he asks, "Do you know where Eskimo Hill is?" I nearly burst out laughing, but instead pointed out the window and said, "We're on it." He then says, "Oh oh, you know, then." Yes, I know, I grew up driving this road. When I texted this conversation to my mom she couldn't stop laughing for the rest of the day.

Just silly things. I know he's gotten more forgetful over the years, and tells the same stories several times. Par for the course of getting older.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Half-Assed Weekend

I'm moving my Half-Assed Weekend posts here - which of course was started by the all powerful Simple Dude.

I'm a little pooped to blog, but I'll give it a shot. Hence the whole half-assed thing. I know that ranching is an every day job. But on top of the ranching, I help my grandparents with their publication. And on top of that, I now work 4 days a week for the local vet. Granted it's only about 20-ish hours, but that's 20-ish hours a week I'm can't be on the ranch or working on the publication. I'm fucking exhausted. I swear I nearly fell asleep at the desk today at the clinic. No amount of caffeine helped.

My grandmother is generally very nice and gives me a day off now and then so I can just rest. My grandfather always says the same thing, "Well, we don't get days off". My grandfather wouldn't know what to do with a day off. The man has worked every day of his life since high school. Even when he married K, they ran to Reno, got married, and drove back to calving season. No honeymoon. No vacations. If I won the lottery and presented him and K with an all-expenses-paid trip to Tahiti, my grandfather would look at me like I was an alien. K, however, wouldn't even need to pack, she'd be running to meet that plane.

And now that the weather is nicer, we've been able to get dirty ranch work done. Heavy lifting, irrigating, and the grossest water troughs to clean ever. *shudders* I'm not afraid of the work, I would just love the opportunity to sleep 12 hours and spend the day in my pj's watching movies.

But, since my grandfather's gout has flared up making it nearly impossible for him to do any work, I doubt I'll be getting any real time off.

The term "just keep swimming" enters my head . . .

Saturday, May 7, 2011

A day of driving with Papa D

My grandfather, Papa D, is not the world's best driver. He's probably not the worst, either, but he's still no picnic. He's in his early 70s and has one eye. And he gets distracted kind of easily. Okay, really easily.

Case in point - just last week, he nearly ran the van into a ditch. Granted it was a tiny ditch that we could have gotten out of, but that's really besides the point.

Last week was our week to run around for four days across Northern California to pick up ad copy from our advertisers. One would think in the 21st Century that everything would be done electronically. Nope. Not in this household. Papa D runs out and talks to a good 1/2 of our advertisers on a monthly basis regarding their ads. Then he'll spend forever chatting with each one of them (but that's a post for another day).

Last Wednesday, on our way to one of the many small towns up here, he needed to pull off to use the bathroom. There's a little glorified port-a-potty provided by the Forest Service at one point and he's frequented it before. He gets back in the van to show me a picture of the bathroom as it was apparently a disaster. I guess he thought I gave a shit what the inside of the bathroom looked like. They're never pretty.
As per his usual, he puts the van in motion on a tiny dirt road and then puts on his seat belt, which pisses me off that he waits until he's driving. Then, he starts looking around for the bottle of antibacterial wipes that was rolling around on the floorboards. I look up from my phone and we're half way in a fucking ditch. I shouted "STOP!" He promptly swerved the van back onto the dirt road, and as the van is swerving all over this road, he tells me, "I'm just looking for the wipes, this one is empty".

The "empty" one wasn't empty - it was new, and the wipes hadn't been pushed through the opening yet. I was rather pissed and annoyed when I finally blurted out, "Just stop and I will get them for you!" The van lurched to a stop and I opened the new container of wipes.

I know he'll never remember to put his seat belt on before he puts the van in motion. But you would think that when he has a person in the passenger seat, that he might ask them to get something for him instead of doing it himself while driving. Common sense, right? It kinda makes me wonder how he never wrecked all those years driving alone.

I survived the rest of the day, although I was a wee bit tense and wound up with a headache. Thank God for Excedrin.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Why I'm Here . . .

This is to be my anonymous blog. Hopefully. Those that read this and follow my other blog, which I shall not name here, are now sworn to secrecy. This, of course, includes those that might know me in real life. It's an oath that has been signed in blood. Is this blog as anonymous as it could be? In all reality, probably not. But I will be careful who I tell in real life about this one. For those that may follow my other blog, I will still post there.

Here is why I've decided I needed a second, (slightly) more anonymous blog:

1. I have been censored by my employers, my grandparents. I love them dearly and didn't want to start any issues, so when my grandfather finally told me point blank that there could be no cussing at all, and I had to be extremely careful of what I might say about clients of ours or just people in the area in general because I might offend someone who is very religious, I just said, "okay". This all came about because I wrote a post about a funny story, albeit embarrassing for me, that included information (as anonymous as I could make it) about a client. My grandfather saw this post and called me to take it down. I understood his reasoning and therefore did not argue with him. The next morning I was lectured, which only aggravated me. My friends and family told me to argue "free speech", but after a couple days when I calmed down, I realized it's not a free speech issue. It's a representation issue.

2. My entire family knows about my other blog. While I'm glad they do, and I love their feedback, it's gotten to the point that I can't write what I want. Not that I will use this blog to bad mouth my family, because that's not what's going to happen. I want to be able to tell you funny stories that happen to me while working away in Sticksville. The way I want to tell them. Being censored makes it harder for me to use my emotions to help tell the story. I also cannot complain a whole lot in my other blog. My grandparents are doing so much for me, I don't want them to think me ungrateful. Because I couldn't be more grateful. However, we have our differences, and as much as I love them, I will still have a few complaints.

3. Taking offense. During my lecture from my grandfather, I was told that many folks here are quite religious, and may take offense if they happen across my other blog. What would they take offense at? My cussing. While some posts are completely clean, others could quite possibly make a sailor blush. My simple thoughts were, "if you don't like it, don't fucking read it". Simple as that. However, that wasn't good enough for my grandfather. Especially since he's taken offense to my cussing on my blog since before I moved up here. My other simple thought was, "the odds of someone from up here happening across my blog and knowing me and who I'm talking about are pretty slim". That also wasn't good enough.

There have been several posts I've had in my head, and couldn't write them because my grandparents read my blog. I'm actually more surprised he didn't just tell me I couldn't blog anymore. Although, I'm pretty sure I would have said, "fuck that" and stomped off to have my tantrum elsewhere. However, since I am an adult, I shouldn't have tantrums. In front of other people.

Anyway, I hope you will join me on my journey. If I've managed to snag you from my real life or my other blog to follow this one, I ask that you don't mention my other "blog name" or my "profile name" on here. I've tried to keep things as similar as possible, but I really want to try to keep this one more anonymous. I appreciate your compliance. I'm not out to hurt anyone or offend anyone. I can't just stop blogging - I'm addicted. But I want to share my experiences my way, and not in a censored version.

Thanks, and much blog love!