I was at the other end of a rant last week. A rant that did not involve me, but was a little heated and I do believe there were fudge-bombs. I don't remember why the ranter was ranting but it was a topic that deserved proper rantification so I stood and listened until the following:
"Bippity-boppity stuff that makes me mad, bleepin' bleep!"
"Mmmhmmm, girrrrl."
"And so such-and-such and diddly doo-wop."
"Preach it sista."
"And she probably had her degree in something stupid like Communication."
"Um, my degree is in Communication."
"Of course it is."
Hilarious.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
It's the sound of love...and angry beavers
It's almost hilarious how loud and chaotic our house is.
Almost.
As in "I would find this hilarious if I wasn't crying from sheer frustration-slash-exhaustion from needing a friggin' minute of silence already".
Equally knee-slapping funny: my house consists of myself, one grown man and a dog.
And possibly a nest of centipedes yet to come out of hibernation.
So between Corey and Oliver I find myself in a never-ending cacophony of ultra-loud talking, licking of one's privates, blaring music, random gibberish and the shaking to death of Christmas Bear. At some point you would think one or both of them would tire and curl up in a ball at the foot of the bed.
No.
That never happens.
There is always a panting head hovering withing five inches of my face at all times, and I am never unaware of Corey's location in our apartment:
"What time is your meeting?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the bedroom.
Or:
"Who was on the phone?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the kitchen.
These days I come home around 10pm and I find all of the questions and gibberish and licking and panting are bottled up and saved just for me in that magical hour of 11 o'clock which I normally devote to, you know, sleeping.
Hi-larious.
But deep down, like way down in there, past my secret love of Hootie and the Blowfish and sleeve tattoos I know this is just how the boys show me I'm missed.
And loved.
And special.
...
...but I really would like my sleep back.
Almost.
As in "I would find this hilarious if I wasn't crying from sheer frustration-slash-exhaustion from needing a friggin' minute of silence already".
Equally knee-slapping funny: my house consists of myself, one grown man and a dog.
And possibly a nest of centipedes yet to come out of hibernation.
So between Corey and Oliver I find myself in a never-ending cacophony of ultra-loud talking, licking of one's privates, blaring music, random gibberish and the shaking to death of Christmas Bear. At some point you would think one or both of them would tire and curl up in a ball at the foot of the bed.
No.
That never happens.
There is always a panting head hovering withing five inches of my face at all times, and I am never unaware of Corey's location in our apartment:
"What time is your meeting?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the bedroom.
Or:
"Who was on the phone?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the kitchen.
These days I come home around 10pm and I find all of the questions and gibberish and licking and panting are bottled up and saved just for me in that magical hour of 11 o'clock which I normally devote to, you know, sleeping.
Hi-larious.
But deep down, like way down in there, past my secret love of Hootie and the Blowfish and sleeve tattoos I know this is just how the boys show me I'm missed.
And loved.
And special.
...
...but I really would like my sleep back.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Colder than a witch's walk-in freezer
Raise your hand if you now have to wear two pairs of pants, long wool socks and no fewer than four shirts even when planning to spend the entire day inside curled up next to your own personal space heater in fear of being exposed to even one second of the bitter cold that lurks outside just waiting to freeze you to your bones.....
Yeah, me too.
Good luck with that.
Yeah, me too.
Good luck with that.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Stacie says: "Love your animals, Please!"
I've put my stamp on this day: it's not going to be good.
I'll make this quick because I'm a total emotional basketcase when it comes tomost certain things.
Like animals.
Oh I love me some animals. And I've had plenty: dogs, fish, a rabbit, a guinea pig, a turtle, some lizards, a couple birds, ducks, ferrets and probably more I'm forgetting.
And when I see even the slightest hint of mistreatment I'm affected.
I saw a guy yell at his puppy for barking and then yank up on his collar while walking in Saratoga Sunday and I had to call Corey in tears. I don't know why I'm like this, but I am. Corey definitely doesn't understand it.
And today is the worst of it: a friend of ours has an appointment this afternoon to put her dog to sleep.
Her perfectly healthy seven year old dog.
Let people know that.
I'll make this quick because I'm a total emotional basketcase when it comes to
Like animals.
Oh I love me some animals. And I've had plenty: dogs, fish, a rabbit, a guinea pig, a turtle, some lizards, a couple birds, ducks, ferrets and probably more I'm forgetting.
And when I see even the slightest hint of mistreatment I'm affected.
I saw a guy yell at his puppy for barking and then yank up on his collar while walking in Saratoga Sunday and I had to call Corey in tears. I don't know why I'm like this, but I am. Corey definitely doesn't understand it.
And today is the worst of it: a friend of ours has an appointment this afternoon to put her dog to sleep.
Her perfectly healthy seven year old dog.
I'm not going for "misery loves company" here, I have a point.
This dog, Dierks Bentley, is a pit bull that lead a much different life before he found his permanent home with our friend. He was abused and mistreated and taught to be aggressive. They were his formative years and so he carried this aggression with him.
Corey and I looked after him not too long ago. He's sweet and loves to play, walk and chase squirrels. His only flaw, besides shredding expensive comforters, is this strong desire to attack other dogs. He got that chance on Sunday. Due to a situation beyond our friend's control Dierks came into contact with a small dog and killed it.
So now he is going to die. This afternoon. I tried as hard as I could to find a better alternative; rehabilitation or placement at a farm far, far, far away from other dogs but what I found is that there are thousands of pit bulls in this same situation just in our region every single week.
And they are put down too.
This is too much for me, people. I hope it is too much for you too.
You don't have to be like Corey and me and have a special blanket so your dog can climb up on the couch because the floor is just not soft enough or make special trips for the treats he really likes. But you should, at the very least, show your animals the respect they deserve as contributing member of your household. Because they do provide in some way; either through companionship, protection or entertainment.
To treat them any other way is cruel and always leads to pain further down the road.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Communication Nightmare
In the middle of an argument on how I'm so mad that Corey never listens to me he interrupts me to say:
"Why don't you just tell me what you're mad at??"
I have. no. words.
"Why don't you just tell me what you're mad at??"
I have. no. words.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
To Snickers, Or Not To Snickers
You know how there are some days you wish you had taken your own advice that morning and hid a Snickers bar in your purse and forced yourself to forget about it so that you could stumble upon it at that magical three o'clock hour where your chocolate/junk craving is at it's worst?
Today is that day.
Today is that day.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Bad Day(s)
This is a grump alert. Girlfriend's gotta keep the blog alive but so far all she can do is whine.
Just kidding, I'm not gonna whine at you.
But I am grumpy. Just so we're clear.
The past week and a half, which I'm sure will seem like candy compared to the next week and a half, hammered me with some serious stress. I have meetings, more meetings and then meetings about meetings. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about getting together to go over the deets, but meeting morning noon and night wipes me out.
Although this crazy schedule has given me some pretty amusing dreams:
Like the one about happy little kitties holding hands and playing in the middle of major highways at rush hour. Dis-turbing. You can imagine what happened when the cars broke up their frolicking....
Cotton stuffing flew everywhere. I know. A total mess.
And then was the dream about walking along a glacier and needing to use the bathroom inside the glacier that was full of stuffed animals and a live gorilla.
This is what mental exhaustion does. It takes too much energy to make a logical dream so my brain just puts together random thoughts floating around in the gray matter.
Why I would have gorillas and kitty-cide anywhere in there is beyond me.
And I don't quite have the time to figure it all out...I've got a date with a dunk tank to schedule.
Just kidding, I'm not gonna whine at you.
But I am grumpy. Just so we're clear.
The past week and a half, which I'm sure will seem like candy compared to the next week and a half, hammered me with some serious stress. I have meetings, more meetings and then meetings about meetings. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about getting together to go over the deets, but meeting morning noon and night wipes me out.
Although this crazy schedule has given me some pretty amusing dreams:
Like the one about happy little kitties holding hands and playing in the middle of major highways at rush hour. Dis-turbing. You can imagine what happened when the cars broke up their frolicking....
Cotton stuffing flew everywhere. I know. A total mess.
And then was the dream about walking along a glacier and needing to use the bathroom inside the glacier that was full of stuffed animals and a live gorilla.
This is what mental exhaustion does. It takes too much energy to make a logical dream so my brain just puts together random thoughts floating around in the gray matter.
Why I would have gorillas and kitty-cide anywhere in there is beyond me.
And I don't quite have the time to figure it all out...I've got a date with a dunk tank to schedule.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Jewelry and math problems
I've mentioned this before, but I feel like diggin' it up again, probably because I'm lacking sympathy...
...kinda like how preggos eat dirt because they need more iron in their diet.
Or worms.
I make jewelry in my spare time. Which at this moment means every spare minute in which I am not at my "real" job or sleeping...or eating, or folding laundry every third week.
It started a few years ago, I stumbled on a fun little craft and decided to give it a try. I've always had my hands in tons of different mediums, so why the heck not shear a few sheep and make cutsie little beads out of their sweaters?
So I snagged a few different colors or wool at my local craft store, messed up a few beads, emailed a professional, learned the right way to do it, learned not to use craft store wool, learned that craft store wool made me itch something fierce, and so on.
Let's not make this a normal Stacie post. Go with the Reader's Digest version today.
Oh dear, I guess I do tend to get carried away with the details.
So let's fast forward to last fall: for some reason I decided to try making money with these little felt thingies. I took 'em to a store near Albany and much to my surprise people bought my stuff! There is a felt ball niche; it's small, but there.
Then I thought, "if a few people in Albany like my goods, why not try a craft fair?" Then I said to myself, I says to myself, I says, "But, not just any dinky little thing in the park where you show up for a few hours and families stroll by on their way to get ice cream, but a real, 30,000 attendees, rules and regulations, entire weekend kind of fair."
What were you thinking?
What was I thinking??
We've paid a quarter of a million dollars in supplies and fees (slight exaggeration, I admit), and my daily quota is to roll 20.6 felt balls (I generally round up, it's not quite that easy to tell when a ball is only .6 felted...) and construct 3.5 pieces.
That sounds reasonable.
Pppppshhhh.
20.6 felt balls...I mean 21 felt balls takes about 45 minutes. And just one of a certain style of necklace takes 3.5 hours. Do the math, friends. That's 3.5 + 3.5 + 3.5 + (3.5x.5) + 45 = STRESS.
And 57.25. But that's not taking into account the minutes and hours thing where you convert the hours to min....never mind, I've lost track of myself again.
(Warning: even more whining ahead)
People, I am tired: I space out on my drive to and from work.
I have no life: the stinkin' sun is shining and all I can do is look at it from my window or while walking my psycho dog.
I am getting sick of felt: I find it on all of my clothes, my furniture, my FOOD.
I want to not whine about something that I used to enjoy!
...sigh.
And that's all I have for you today.
No funny business.
Just pure ranting.
It's like I'm planning a wedding, sheesh.
But just so you know the "wedding" is June 11 and 12, so I should be back to normal after that.
I mean, after I go through a week of decompression. Like the scuba divers do.
Hopefully then I will be able to stay on topic.
...kinda like how preggos eat dirt because they need more iron in their diet.
Or worms.
I make jewelry in my spare time. Which at this moment means every spare minute in which I am not at my "real" job or sleeping...or eating, or folding laundry every third week.
It started a few years ago, I stumbled on a fun little craft and decided to give it a try. I've always had my hands in tons of different mediums, so why the heck not shear a few sheep and make cutsie little beads out of their sweaters?
So I snagged a few different colors or wool at my local craft store, messed up a few beads, emailed a professional, learned the right way to do it, learned not to use craft store wool, learned that craft store wool made me itch something fierce, and so on.
Let's not make this a normal Stacie post. Go with the Reader's Digest version today.
Oh dear, I guess I do tend to get carried away with the details.
So let's fast forward to last fall: for some reason I decided to try making money with these little felt thingies. I took 'em to a store near Albany and much to my surprise people bought my stuff! There is a felt ball niche; it's small, but there.
Then I thought, "if a few people in Albany like my goods, why not try a craft fair?" Then I said to myself, I says to myself, I says, "But, not just any dinky little thing in the park where you show up for a few hours and families stroll by on their way to get ice cream, but a real, 30,000 attendees, rules and regulations, entire weekend kind of fair."
What were you thinking?
What was I thinking??
We've paid a quarter of a million dollars in supplies and fees (slight exaggeration, I admit), and my daily quota is to roll 20.6 felt balls (I generally round up, it's not quite that easy to tell when a ball is only .6 felted...) and construct 3.5 pieces.
That sounds reasonable.
Pppppshhhh.
20.6 felt balls...I mean 21 felt balls takes about 45 minutes. And just one of a certain style of necklace takes 3.5 hours. Do the math, friends. That's 3.5 + 3.5 + 3.5 + (3.5x.5) + 45 = STRESS.
And 57.25. But that's not taking into account the minutes and hours thing where you convert the hours to min....never mind, I've lost track of myself again.
(Warning: even more whining ahead)
People, I am tired: I space out on my drive to and from work.
I have no life: the stinkin' sun is shining and all I can do is look at it from my window or while walking my psycho dog.
I am getting sick of felt: I find it on all of my clothes, my furniture, my FOOD.
I want to not whine about something that I used to enjoy!
...sigh.
And that's all I have for you today.
No funny business.
Just pure ranting.
It's like I'm planning a wedding, sheesh.
But just so you know the "wedding" is June 11 and 12, so I should be back to normal after that.
I mean, after I go through a week of decompression. Like the scuba divers do.
Hopefully then I will be able to stay on topic.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Knock off the Jesus Jokes
Ladies and Gentlemen, quick question for you: being as how we are about 2,000 years removed from the guy who, you know, saved us from eternal damnation, do we really still need to mock Him and make Him the butt of our jokes?
I mean, whether you believe he is who he said he was, is it really necessary to poke fun at anyone who felt so strongly about something they died because of it? At the very least, can't we give him a little bit of credit for being tenacious?
Wow, Stace, where is this coming from??
Yesterday seemed to be the day for Jesus/God parodies on TV shows. Normally I'm not that big of a fan and I'm able to pass by without much of a hissy fit, but now that we are so close to Good Friday and Easter it just seems in bad taste. And that gets my dander up.
And when my dander is up it doesn't go down so easily, at least not without shedding a few choice words.
These are them words.
I just chose to aim them at you because you're here. How nice of me.
Nothing personal. Sometimes a gal just needs to let somebody know something, and puttin' it out on the Internets is a whole lot easier than a personal note to my co-workers, a note to the producer of this show and then that show and the other show, and another one to the person standing on the side of the street and the friend of a friend of a friend of my friend, or...etc, etc.
Because there are just too many people being tacky.
I know not everyone is going to believe what I believe or to the extent I believe it, but folks, I'm not laughing at your Aunt Alma who poops when she sneezes because I'm sure she doesn't like it as much as you don't like smelling it, so the least you can do is lay off my Lord and Savior.
Thanksomuch.
Stacie
I mean, whether you believe he is who he said he was, is it really necessary to poke fun at anyone who felt so strongly about something they died because of it? At the very least, can't we give him a little bit of credit for being tenacious?
Wow, Stace, where is this coming from??
Yesterday seemed to be the day for Jesus/God parodies on TV shows. Normally I'm not that big of a fan and I'm able to pass by without much of a hissy fit, but now that we are so close to Good Friday and Easter it just seems in bad taste. And that gets my dander up.
And when my dander is up it doesn't go down so easily, at least not without shedding a few choice words.
These are them words.
I just chose to aim them at you because you're here. How nice of me.
Nothing personal. Sometimes a gal just needs to let somebody know something, and puttin' it out on the Internets is a whole lot easier than a personal note to my co-workers, a note to the producer of this show and then that show and the other show, and another one to the person standing on the side of the street and the friend of a friend of a friend of my friend, or...etc, etc.
Because there are just too many people being tacky.
I know not everyone is going to believe what I believe or to the extent I believe it, but folks, I'm not laughing at your Aunt Alma who poops when she sneezes because I'm sure she doesn't like it as much as you don't like smelling it, so the least you can do is lay off my Lord and Savior.
Thanksomuch.
Stacie
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Adventures in the Air...port
Oh the joys of traveling.
And by traveling I mean any mode of ground transportation.
Like driving the open road. Taking a train and enjoying the scenery. Or busing across country forming bonds with strangers and singing show tunes to pass the time.
In no way would I put "joy" in the same sentence with "flying."
Especially not now, as I recover from my trip back home from Washington.
Yes, I did make it home.
Yes, I do still have all of the same (plus some) affects I took with me.
But boy did I have some time of it.
...
My journey began Sunday night as I made my way through Seattle's airport. Have you ever attempted this maze? First you have to find the security checkpoint, not easy at 10pm when half of everything is shut down and you wonder if they really would make you walk all the way down the the end of the airport.
They do.
Then, if like me you leave from gate "N" as in Nowhere Near Here, you have to walk down a series of halls, down several flights of stairs and take a train halfway across the tarmac.
Then, if like me, when you leave your wallet at the security checkpoint and are paged over the loudspeaker you have to walk all the way back to the beginning and start again.
This is why you give yourself plenty of time.
Unless you know your head is screwed on straight.
My flight left at 11:30pm. Also known as two hours past my bedtime. I hadn't slept since the night before, and even then it wasn't a sound sleep, so I expected to nod off for at least part of the four hour flight to Washington-Dulles Airport.
Silly dreamer. Of course I didn't sleep. How could I when every bump and wiggle had me convinced the plane was going to break apart in mid air?
No problem, I thought as I landed at 7am, I'll be home by 9:30 and I can sleep then. In my own bed. Snuggled with Oliver-dog.
That was all dependent on whether or not there would be a plane to take me home.
Which there wasn't.
Of course.
I waited at my gate, read my book, and glanced occasionally at the time. By the time we were supposed to depart I noticed we still weren't even on the plane. The lady at the desk told me we were waiting for a plane in Newark.
I assumed we were waiting on the plane to land.
Silly.
We wouldn't find out until, oh, five hours later the darn thing wasn't even scheduled to leave.
By about 10:30am people started to get a little antsy. A few guys hung out at the counter for answers. Nice lady was replaced by mean shorty guy.
"We have no idea when the plane will be here."
(mass grumbling)
"You know, we have people waiting here since FRIDAY."
(louder grumblings, you might call it shouting)
"You will be most likely waiting here all day."
(pitch forks out, torches lit)
"Talk to the hand."
Say wha...?!
Yes, this little guy actually told one angry customer to "talk to the hand." And when angry man's phone started to ring, short man told him to answer the call and leave him alone.
At this point I called Corey and cried. I did not want to be stuck in an airport. I wanted to go home, take a shower, and nap the day away. The worst of it was these airport people couldn't even give us a rough estimate of when we could expect a plane.
Three hours? Five hours? Twenty-four hours??
"We really have no idea."
Fine. More crying in the bathroom.
But first a potty break.
And of course I find the super sensitive automatic toilet.
Of course.
(spoiler alert: i talk about bathroom stuff here, just so you know)
I place the seat cover on the seat and sit. I reach over to grab my phone from my purse and...
FLUSH
Dangit.
Place second seat cover on the seat and...
FLUSH
Not funny, toilet.
Place third seat cover on....
FLUSH
Waterworks. "I just wanna sit down and peeeeee....and I wanna go hooooome."
Place fourth seat cover on the se....
FLUSH
Oh. Em. Gee. This cannot be happening. What do I do? Pee in the sink?
Place fifth seat cover on my butt and sit down.
And I pee.
Then I stand up.
Nothing.
I wave my hand in front of the sensor.
Nothing.
I act like I'm putting a seat cover on.
Nothing.
I Push. The. Button.
FLUSH
By this time I'm hungry. I know, great transition. But that's what happened.
So I ate. I watched other travelers walk down to their gates where they most likely got on planes and flew away.
They didn't know how lucky they were...sigh.
I talked to my parents who were worried about me. Rightly so, I was definitely losing my marbles.
And I considered my options: 1) I could stay at the airport until my plane came, possibly all day and night; 2) I could go to a hotel, sleep, and take the earliest flight out on Tuesday; 3) fly to LaGuardia and then to Albany, and pray my luggage follows.
Fortunately, we were notified at 1:30pm that the plane we were waiting for in Newark had left.
People four gates over must have wondered what all the commotion over at A5 was for.
We were happy. And within two hours we were in the air.
Not long after that I was sitting in Corey's car heading home, where I'm pretty sure he talked to me. By then I'd gone 30 hours without sleep and my mental capacity was limited to functional systems. You know, like breathing, and keeping my heart beating, and not drooling all over myself.
We got home, I took a shower, ate some deviled eggs and tater tots, and went to bed. It was the best 11 hours of sleep I've ever had, and by 7am I was fully recovered.
Physically.
Mentally, however, I have resolved to never, ever fly again.
Until my next vacation.
And by traveling I mean any mode of ground transportation.
Like driving the open road. Taking a train and enjoying the scenery. Or busing across country forming bonds with strangers and singing show tunes to pass the time.
In no way would I put "joy" in the same sentence with "flying."
Especially not now, as I recover from my trip back home from Washington.
Yes, I did make it home.
Yes, I do still have all of the same (plus some) affects I took with me.
But boy did I have some time of it.
...
My journey began Sunday night as I made my way through Seattle's airport. Have you ever attempted this maze? First you have to find the security checkpoint, not easy at 10pm when half of everything is shut down and you wonder if they really would make you walk all the way down the the end of the airport.
They do.
Then, if like me you leave from gate "N" as in Nowhere Near Here, you have to walk down a series of halls, down several flights of stairs and take a train halfway across the tarmac.
Then, if like me, when you leave your wallet at the security checkpoint and are paged over the loudspeaker you have to walk all the way back to the beginning and start again.
This is why you give yourself plenty of time.
Unless you know your head is screwed on straight.
My flight left at 11:30pm. Also known as two hours past my bedtime. I hadn't slept since the night before, and even then it wasn't a sound sleep, so I expected to nod off for at least part of the four hour flight to Washington-Dulles Airport.
Silly dreamer. Of course I didn't sleep. How could I when every bump and wiggle had me convinced the plane was going to break apart in mid air?
No problem, I thought as I landed at 7am, I'll be home by 9:30 and I can sleep then. In my own bed. Snuggled with Oliver-dog.
That was all dependent on whether or not there would be a plane to take me home.
Which there wasn't.
Of course.
I waited at my gate, read my book, and glanced occasionally at the time. By the time we were supposed to depart I noticed we still weren't even on the plane. The lady at the desk told me we were waiting for a plane in Newark.
I assumed we were waiting on the plane to land.
Silly.
We wouldn't find out until, oh, five hours later the darn thing wasn't even scheduled to leave.
By about 10:30am people started to get a little antsy. A few guys hung out at the counter for answers. Nice lady was replaced by mean shorty guy.
"We have no idea when the plane will be here."
(mass grumbling)
"You know, we have people waiting here since FRIDAY."
(louder grumblings, you might call it shouting)
"You will be most likely waiting here all day."
(pitch forks out, torches lit)
"Talk to the hand."
Say wha...?!
Yes, this little guy actually told one angry customer to "talk to the hand." And when angry man's phone started to ring, short man told him to answer the call and leave him alone.
At this point I called Corey and cried. I did not want to be stuck in an airport. I wanted to go home, take a shower, and nap the day away. The worst of it was these airport people couldn't even give us a rough estimate of when we could expect a plane.
Three hours? Five hours? Twenty-four hours??
"We really have no idea."
Fine. More crying in the bathroom.
But first a potty break.
And of course I find the super sensitive automatic toilet.
Of course.
(spoiler alert: i talk about bathroom stuff here, just so you know)
I place the seat cover on the seat and sit. I reach over to grab my phone from my purse and...
FLUSH
Dangit.
Place second seat cover on the seat and...
FLUSH
Not funny, toilet.
Place third seat cover on....
FLUSH
Waterworks. "I just wanna sit down and peeeeee....and I wanna go hooooome."
Place fourth seat cover on the se....
FLUSH
Oh. Em. Gee. This cannot be happening. What do I do? Pee in the sink?
Place fifth seat cover on my butt and sit down.
And I pee.
Then I stand up.
Nothing.
I wave my hand in front of the sensor.
Nothing.
I act like I'm putting a seat cover on.
Nothing.
I Push. The. Button.
FLUSH
By this time I'm hungry. I know, great transition. But that's what happened.
So I ate. I watched other travelers walk down to their gates where they most likely got on planes and flew away.
They didn't know how lucky they were...sigh.
I talked to my parents who were worried about me. Rightly so, I was definitely losing my marbles.
And I considered my options: 1) I could stay at the airport until my plane came, possibly all day and night; 2) I could go to a hotel, sleep, and take the earliest flight out on Tuesday; 3) fly to LaGuardia and then to Albany, and pray my luggage follows.
Fortunately, we were notified at 1:30pm that the plane we were waiting for in Newark had left.
People four gates over must have wondered what all the commotion over at A5 was for.
We were happy. And within two hours we were in the air.
Not long after that I was sitting in Corey's car heading home, where I'm pretty sure he talked to me. By then I'd gone 30 hours without sleep and my mental capacity was limited to functional systems. You know, like breathing, and keeping my heart beating, and not drooling all over myself.
We got home, I took a shower, ate some deviled eggs and tater tots, and went to bed. It was the best 11 hours of sleep I've ever had, and by 7am I was fully recovered.
Physically.
Mentally, however, I have resolved to never, ever fly again.
Until my next vacation.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Weekend Wrap Up, Or Maybe Not
Snow.
That's it. That's all I want to talk about.
I've taken offense to this recent weather development. Just when we start to hit the 50 degree mark, a brief reminder that spring is on its way, we get dumped on with a billion inches of snow.
Remember, I love snow. Love, love, love it. In December. And January. But eventually, as with peanut butter on an English muffin every single day, I get sick of it. Really stinkin' sick.
It takes me 15 minutes to get dressed just to let the dog out to do his business. And I have to wear two pairs of pants at all times. Don't even get me started on the frump-factor of said pants, they score off the charts, my co-workers can verify.
And I slip and slide wherever I go. Walking the dog, walking to my car, standing in the driveway. When I'm struggling to regain footing I put my panic face on, which is a very contorted version of my own. With the face comes an inside-voice scream/holler/"whhooooeeeeaaaooowww!"
It's embarrassing, to say the least.
I need spring to be here.
**sigh**
That's it. That's all I want to talk about.
I've taken offense to this recent weather development. Just when we start to hit the 50 degree mark, a brief reminder that spring is on its way, we get dumped on with a billion inches of snow.
Remember, I love snow. Love, love, love it. In December. And January. But eventually, as with peanut butter on an English muffin every single day, I get sick of it. Really stinkin' sick.
It takes me 15 minutes to get dressed just to let the dog out to do his business. And I have to wear two pairs of pants at all times. Don't even get me started on the frump-factor of said pants, they score off the charts, my co-workers can verify.
And I slip and slide wherever I go. Walking the dog, walking to my car, standing in the driveway. When I'm struggling to regain footing I put my panic face on, which is a very contorted version of my own. With the face comes an inside-voice scream/holler/"whhooooeeeeaaaooowww!"
It's embarrassing, to say the least.
I need spring to be here.
**sigh**
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Owning vs. Renting: The Debate Continues
Warning: Don't read this if you are eating/planning to eat in the very near future oatmeal or a bean burrito.
...
With our very own house and our very own yard, Corey and I can let the dog out in two stinkin' feet of snow, let him do his business, then leave the frozen turds there as long as we want without having to worry about busy-body neighbors running to our landlord and forcing him to send a "just so you know, you have to pick up your poop" letter in the mail.
I won't have to bundle up in my snow pants and boots, grab a shovel to chip away at poo-rocks, letting the handle hit me in the face when the tip hits a particularly stubborn chunk.
This is all hypothetical, of course.
But wouldn't that be nice?
...
With our very own house and our very own yard, Corey and I can let the dog out in two stinkin' feet of snow, let him do his business, then leave the frozen turds there as long as we want without having to worry about busy-body neighbors running to our landlord and forcing him to send a "just so you know, you have to pick up your poop" letter in the mail.
I won't have to bundle up in my snow pants and boots, grab a shovel to chip away at poo-rocks, letting the handle hit me in the face when the tip hits a particularly stubborn chunk.
This is all hypothetical, of course.
But wouldn't that be nice?
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday can take a flyin' leap...
Boy am glad that day's over.
Over and done and gone forever.
Although it started with such promise....
...at 2am when Corey's coughing kept me awake until 3am and then a Lifetime movie kept me awake until 6am and then I had to get up for work at 7am.
Such promise.
It only really got rough once I got into the office. The NYS Senator's office where I take residents' complaints and turn them into sunshine.
And try to get them their unemployment.
So I'm in the office. I find out the maniac whose been honking his horn in the parking lot is Corey trying to get my attention. He's sitting there in his pajamas and slippers waving like a lunatic in my general direction. He had run out of the house behind me once he realized he left his cell phone in my car and desperately needed it.
Whoopsie.
Then I took a call and was yelled at by a constituent: apparently, my boss does not like children and would like to see harm come to them. This is, of course, the same boss who is mother to six and grandmother to 13.
Then I was hung up on.
Then I spent almost an hour listening to the saddest story of the week while watching a man cry.
(Girlfriends, can we say a hopeless, dejected man is one of the sadder things around?)
Then I balled to Corey on the phone while warming up my lunch. The events of the day were, as they say, the camel that came and sat right on my face.
...
The straw that the camel found in its ear....?
...
I realized that maybe it's time to find a new job, to move on.
Then realized that I have no idea what I would move on to.
And then I ate a buncha chocolate.
For serious. I had, like, twelve Hershey kisses with almonds and some Reese's PB cups leftover from Christmas. Because what's a girl to do who has a piece of paper that reads, "Congratulations, you have a degree in talkin' good"? And what's a girl to do who has ruled out all of the possible fields in which the skill of "talkin' good" would be applicable?
But that is neither here, nor there.
But really it is here. And I have no idea what that saying means.
Luckily, the bad stops here. I came home to footie pajamas. And Corey, probably fearing a still-sobbing mess, prepared a meal fit for an almost-sobbing-mess: a burger covered in chili, cheese and mustard, chocolate ice cream with homemade raspberry sauce, and cookies with milk. I snuggled up with the dog and fell asleep at 9pm.
I'm still expecting to find the same problems at work, the same issues I don't want to have to deal with anymore, and the same brick wall with the words "What's Next?" written all over in graffiti.
...not amateur Schenectady graffiti, more like the work of NYC subway tunnel artists.
But eventually things will change. I'll know where I'm going. And that dang camel will be able to find the piece of straw in the haystack.
Over and done and gone forever.
Although it started with such promise....
...at 2am when Corey's coughing kept me awake until 3am and then a Lifetime movie kept me awake until 6am and then I had to get up for work at 7am.
Such promise.
It only really got rough once I got into the office. The NYS Senator's office where I take residents' complaints and turn them into sunshine.
And try to get them their unemployment.
So I'm in the office. I find out the maniac whose been honking his horn in the parking lot is Corey trying to get my attention. He's sitting there in his pajamas and slippers waving like a lunatic in my general direction. He had run out of the house behind me once he realized he left his cell phone in my car and desperately needed it.
Whoopsie.
Then I took a call and was yelled at by a constituent: apparently, my boss does not like children and would like to see harm come to them. This is, of course, the same boss who is mother to six and grandmother to 13.
Then I was hung up on.
Then I spent almost an hour listening to the saddest story of the week while watching a man cry.
(Girlfriends, can we say a hopeless, dejected man is one of the sadder things around?)
Then I balled to Corey on the phone while warming up my lunch. The events of the day were, as they say, the camel that came and sat right on my face.
...
The straw that the camel found in its ear....?
...
I realized that maybe it's time to find a new job, to move on.
Then realized that I have no idea what I would move on to.
And then I ate a buncha chocolate.
For serious. I had, like, twelve Hershey kisses with almonds and some Reese's PB cups leftover from Christmas. Because what's a girl to do who has a piece of paper that reads, "Congratulations, you have a degree in talkin' good"? And what's a girl to do who has ruled out all of the possible fields in which the skill of "talkin' good" would be applicable?
But that is neither here, nor there.
But really it is here. And I have no idea what that saying means.
Luckily, the bad stops here. I came home to footie pajamas. And Corey, probably fearing a still-sobbing mess, prepared a meal fit for an almost-sobbing-mess: a burger covered in chili, cheese and mustard, chocolate ice cream with homemade raspberry sauce, and cookies with milk. I snuggled up with the dog and fell asleep at 9pm.
I'm still expecting to find the same problems at work, the same issues I don't want to have to deal with anymore, and the same brick wall with the words "What's Next?" written all over in graffiti.
...not amateur Schenectady graffiti, more like the work of NYC subway tunnel artists.
But eventually things will change. I'll know where I'm going. And that dang camel will be able to find the piece of straw in the haystack.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Light at the End of a Dirty Tunnel
The end is near, folks.
Yes, I am talking about THE end...of our messy neighbors. Can I get a woop-woop, raise the roof, fist bump with a fireworks ending?
easy killer
The end of election day marked the end of our neighbors' employment. The end of their occupation of the space attached to the kitchen. And the (unfortunate) end of entertaining conversations such as:
"Hello, this is Josh. I am a volunteer for Congressman Murphy's campaign. It is important that blah, blah, blah. Can we count on your vote?.....Hello?......uh, hello??"
The kind dears, however, left us with a small parting gift. Piles of rotting trash and the smell of death.
I called our landlord and left him a message letting him know we can't breathe without gagging. If he responds as quickly as he did when our heat wasn't working I'm sure we'll see an end to this mess by Monday.
Phew! Because a day later than that and the maggots writhing through the deli meat might start attracting rats.
I have no words. Just dry heaves.
Fortunately, they left us with 4x4 inches of refrigerator space in which one of us can store our lunch, so that was nice.
And because we still have to use this dirty, stinky space, I figured they owe us. So I took their Reese's peanut butter cups. And their Snickers bars.
And their laptops.
Just kidding!
I left the Snickers.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Why I am the Best Person You Know
Every Wednesday afternoon that I'm not otherwise preoccupied with work projects (read: every Wednesday afternoon), I volunteer at the art museum down the street from my office.
Now, this ain't your grandmama's museum, it's actually home to some Rembrandt, Picasso, and Degas, and has brought major exhibits from NYC and abroad. Up in these parts we reckin' that's a big deal.
I won't delve into the snobbery of the place that kept our local soup kitchen from relocating to the neighborhood; a neighborhood that already houses drug dealers, the much less fortunate, and your typical riff-raff. No, no, I definitely won't go there.
So anyway, I spend my Wednesdays doing random chores and projects the Director of Marketing doesn't have time to do herself. Like research, stuffing envelopes, more research, making copies, research a little more, etc. It's not what I would call making the world a better place,but I get to be surrounded by the art I love with people who love it just as much.
Now, getting to the part where I am awesome and you are so fortunate to know (of) me....
Yesterday I make my way down the street at my usual time, yet this time with a slight hesitation. The woman I work with emailed me the day before to say she was going to be out of town and would leave me a letter to "prep". I emailed her back:
"No problem....now what does that mean?"
I may have used a little more tact in my original wording.
This project was to be one of such a scale I have never attempted before, especially without her there.
I had to mail letters.
No, not just mail them, I had to find their recipients, merge them, print them, and label them. All on equipment I have never used for that purpose. Yes, Excel is Excel and Word is Word, I had no issues there, but which printer is hooked up to which computer? and where do you put the letterhead? and how does it need to be oriented? and where are envelopes? labels?
The first time I almost put my fist through a cubicle wall I was struggling to print a test letter.
"Hey Sarah, is this sucker supposed to take 15 minutes to print?"
"Uhhh....no."
"Dangit."
"Try it again."
....
"Nothing."
All the while, the person sitting in the office across from me says nothing as I struggle of the computer I am sitting at not being connected to the main printer.
Sarah: "Hey so-and-so, is this computer connected to the printer?"
Ms. Unhelpful: "No."
She was also responsible for number three almost-outburst when I discovered none of the printers were hooked up to that computer.
Number two (not that number two) occurred as I went out in search of the person who was to sign the letters I finally was able to print. I walked around the building looking for her, no luck. I went to her office and the door was shut so I stood there and listened for a minute, movement.
Score! Something is going right!
I knocked on the door and turned the handle to find the executive director sitting at his desk.
"Uhhh...."
"Can I help you?"
He was annoyed. As he should've been, I walked in the back door of his office.
...
Finally, two hours and four un-ladylike words later, I finished printing and labeling all 16 letters. And in half of that time, I realized, I could have hand written every single one of them and been on my way to yoga pants and fuzzy slippers. That's when I bit my lip and got the heck outta there.
With every intention to go back next week and do more of the same. For Free.
Now, this ain't your grandmama's museum, it's actually home to some Rembrandt, Picasso, and Degas, and has brought major exhibits from NYC and abroad. Up in these parts we reckin' that's a big deal.
I won't delve into the snobbery of the place that kept our local soup kitchen from relocating to the neighborhood; a neighborhood that already houses drug dealers, the much less fortunate, and your typical riff-raff. No, no, I definitely won't go there.
So anyway, I spend my Wednesdays doing random chores and projects the Director of Marketing doesn't have time to do herself. Like research, stuffing envelopes, more research, making copies, research a little more, etc. It's not what I would call making the world a better place,but I get to be surrounded by the art I love with people who love it just as much.
Now, getting to the part where I am awesome and you are so fortunate to know (of) me....
Yesterday I make my way down the street at my usual time, yet this time with a slight hesitation. The woman I work with emailed me the day before to say she was going to be out of town and would leave me a letter to "prep". I emailed her back:
"No problem....now what does that mean?"
I may have used a little more tact in my original wording.
This project was to be one of such a scale I have never attempted before, especially without her there.
I had to mail letters.
No, not just mail them, I had to find their recipients, merge them, print them, and label them. All on equipment I have never used for that purpose. Yes, Excel is Excel and Word is Word, I had no issues there, but which printer is hooked up to which computer? and where do you put the letterhead? and how does it need to be oriented? and where are envelopes? labels?
The first time I almost put my fist through a cubicle wall I was struggling to print a test letter.
"Hey Sarah, is this sucker supposed to take 15 minutes to print?"
"Uhhh....no."
"Dangit."
"Try it again."
....
"Nothing."
All the while, the person sitting in the office across from me says nothing as I struggle of the computer I am sitting at not being connected to the main printer.
Sarah: "Hey so-and-so, is this computer connected to the printer?"
Ms. Unhelpful: "No."
She was also responsible for number three almost-outburst when I discovered none of the printers were hooked up to that computer.
Number two (not that number two) occurred as I went out in search of the person who was to sign the letters I finally was able to print. I walked around the building looking for her, no luck. I went to her office and the door was shut so I stood there and listened for a minute, movement.
Score! Something is going right!
I knocked on the door and turned the handle to find the executive director sitting at his desk.
"Uhhh...."
"Can I help you?"
He was annoyed. As he should've been, I walked in the back door of his office.
...
Finally, two hours and four un-ladylike words later, I finished printing and labeling all 16 letters. And in half of that time, I realized, I could have hand written every single one of them and been on my way to yoga pants and fuzzy slippers. That's when I bit my lip and got the heck outta there.
With every intention to go back next week and do more of the same. For Free.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Concerned Viewer
Dear Hallmark Channel Executives,
First let me say I do appreciate the Matlock movie marathon aired Sunday night. I now have enough of my favorite aged attorney saved on my DVR to last me through next week. I haven't yet seen which episodes were recorded, but I really hope one of them is the beach one. You know, where Ben's daughter goes on vacation and one of her friends gets killed by the other friend. It's my favorite.
But getting down to business, I do have a very grave concern regarding your programming: you're senior-targeted advertisers are scaring the crap out of me. I understand the elderly population makes up a majority of your audience, thus influencing advertising, but if I have to watch the Little House on the Prairie mom tell me one more time how hard it is for her to get in and out of the tub, I just might have to forgo Matlock altogether.
What's the big deal, you ask?
I am 28 years old. And unfamiliar with the labors of the aging process. I did not know I will have to get a door installed on my bathtub because I won't be able to lift my leg a foot and a half to step in. Or that only AARP can help cover the enormous medical bills Medicare won't. I was shocked to find out I will lose my hearing and will need the Six Million Dollar Man's radical new hearing aid, but delighted to know I can get a power scooter for free.
Wilford Brimely tells me I'm going to get diabetes, and what's this business about falling and not being able to get up?
I didn't want to know I am going to lose all control of my hearing, my bladder, my blood sugar and the muscles in my legs, so to cope I filed that information away in my stuff-that-happens-to-other-people category. But this product hit too close to home, the last straw, if you will:
The girls shown in this commercial resemble me in the very near future. (If you wish to view it yourself please click here.) Am I to assume I will grow wings in my 30s? Because the lady telling me how to keep them tucked into what looks like your choice of black or ivory sausage casings does not specify. Should I avoid muscle development in that area to avoid "roomy" skin once I discontinue all physical activity and my muscles atrophy? Again, no direction in the commercial.
I do not expect you, Mr. and Ms. Big-Wig, to answer my questions. All I am asking is for a little consideration for the three of us under 30 in your viewing audience when it comes to advertising.
Might I suggest soliciting a Cookie Crisp or Polly Pocket commercial to balance things out?
Thank you for your time,
A Concerned Almost Thirty-Something
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Pet Peeves and Arm Fat
I hate whispering.
It is definitely on my Top 10 list of Most Annoying Things In The World, along with power outages during my Thursday night TV time and the If I Had A Million Dollars song.
And sometimes Corey. But he already knows this. Because it's his goal.
I hate it because it's so obviously subtle.
...
I think I just canceled out...um.
So what I mean is when you whisper to someone you're letting everyone else know that they are not privy to your business. I may be a serial over-thinker, but this says, "The person I am whispering to is more important, aka better than you, and can know my secret stuff."
And in my own paranoid world it also means, "I wanted to tell this person, who is better than you, remember, something that I can't say out loud because it is about how you look ridiculous in those leggings."
The fact that I don't know what the offending whisperers are saying leads me to think the worst:
"It's my hair, isn't it?"
"Did I forget to brush my teeth??"
"Is my skirt tucked into my underwear again?!?"
I may have an overactive imagination. And I think everyone talks about me...
...for some reason.
How is arm fat related to this post, you ask?
It isn't.
I just got the email below from my BFF around the same time as a whispering incident that set off thisrant post.
"i noticed this tiny little faint line just below my bicep and above my inner elbow crease. at first i thought it was a scar and that maybe i had scratched myself. but then i did a couple of bicep curls and saw that it was in fact - a fat crease! AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
She followed her (very detailed) description with an accurate depiction of said arm fat crease:
It is definitely on my Top 10 list of Most Annoying Things In The World, along with power outages during my Thursday night TV time and the If I Had A Million Dollars song.
And sometimes Corey. But he already knows this. Because it's his goal.
I hate it because it's so obviously subtle.
...
I think I just canceled out...um.
So what I mean is when you whisper to someone you're letting everyone else know that they are not privy to your business. I may be a serial over-thinker, but this says, "The person I am whispering to is more important, aka better than you, and can know my secret stuff."
And in my own paranoid world it also means, "I wanted to tell this person, who is better than you, remember, something that I can't say out loud because it is about how you look ridiculous in those leggings."
The fact that I don't know what the offending whisperers are saying leads me to think the worst:
"It's my hair, isn't it?"
"Did I forget to brush my teeth??"
"Is my skirt tucked into my underwear again?!?"
I may have an overactive imagination. And I think everyone talks about me...
...for some reason.
How is arm fat related to this post, you ask?
It isn't.
I just got the email below from my BFF around the same time as a whispering incident that set off this
"i noticed this tiny little faint line just below my bicep and above my inner elbow crease. at first i thought it was a scar and that maybe i had scratched myself. but then i did a couple of bicep curls and saw that it was in fact - a fat crease! AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
She followed her (very detailed) description with an accurate depiction of said arm fat crease:
I may or may not have peed my pants a little.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Lady Business
Fellas, you may want to use this Internet time to check the scores of the game or the weather forecast or brush up on your Italian...or just check those scores.
The following is a topic for the ladies.
Why alienate my (three) readers, you ask?
Because there are just some things that need to be said. Er, typed.
And there are just some things with which only a select group, say those who have ovaries, can empathize.
There we go. I think that just knocked off the last of the lingering gentlemen.
Gentlemen...hehe. There was a lady I worked with who would ask me about my "gentleman friend." Cute old people.
But I digress.
Hey ladies, preferably those who have a scientific knowledge of the human anatomy and hormones and chemical stuff, why is it I thought I was going to die if I didn't eat that package of peanut M&M's, all the while knowing I would die from the pain of eating said M&M's?
I went back and forth for awhile: do I eat them and curl up in the fetal position and moan for an hour swearing to scoop out my insides with a rusty spoon? or do I skip them and think of nothing but chocolate covered peanuts in a hard candy shell for the rest of the day?
Obviously, I chose the former, regretting my decision instantly. The only comfort came in knowing I would have been equally miserable in choosing to forsake the treat.
So back to my question, why?? Why does this chocolate have such a hold on us?!
(I say "us" loosely because I know there are a few of you out there who are able to turn your noses up at a Godiva truffle like it's a chocolate covered doodie, however, to you I say "pity, pity.")
It's a love/hate relationship.
Today I hate it.
But I still ate two chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.
The following is a topic for the ladies.
Why alienate my (three) readers, you ask?
Because there are just some things that need to be said. Er, typed.
And there are just some things with which only a select group, say those who have ovaries, can empathize.
There we go. I think that just knocked off the last of the lingering gentlemen.
Gentlemen...hehe. There was a lady I worked with who would ask me about my "gentleman friend." Cute old people.
But I digress.
Hey ladies, preferably those who have a scientific knowledge of the human anatomy and hormones and chemical stuff, why is it I thought I was going to die if I didn't eat that package of peanut M&M's, all the while knowing I would die from the pain of eating said M&M's?
I went back and forth for awhile: do I eat them and curl up in the fetal position and moan for an hour swearing to scoop out my insides with a rusty spoon? or do I skip them and think of nothing but chocolate covered peanuts in a hard candy shell for the rest of the day?
Obviously, I chose the former, regretting my decision instantly. The only comfort came in knowing I would have been equally miserable in choosing to forsake the treat.
So back to my question, why?? Why does this chocolate have such a hold on us?!
(I say "us" loosely because I know there are a few of you out there who are able to turn your noses up at a Godiva truffle like it's a chocolate covered doodie, however, to you I say "pity, pity.")
It's a love/hate relationship.
Today I hate it.
But I still ate two chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Don't Mess, Or I'll Do Nothing
Happy Thursday. Happy last day to get my junk together before I am tied up for two whole days.
Happy, indeed.
Today might be the day I lay the smack down on a certain someone who pushes me to the very edge of my tolerance threshold every single day.
First, do people still use that phrase? Lay the smack down?
Second, no it is not Corey.
Third, yes I am just blowing smoke. Of course I won't actually say anything because that would mean confronting this certain someone and Lord knows that is not something at which I excel.
Dang my inhibitions.
Dang 'em all.
So here I will sit. All day. Listening to political ranting.
Wish me luck.
Happy, indeed.
Today might be the day I lay the smack down on a certain someone who pushes me to the very edge of my tolerance threshold every single day.
First, do people still use that phrase? Lay the smack down?
Second, no it is not Corey.
Third, yes I am just blowing smoke. Of course I won't actually say anything because that would mean confronting this certain someone and Lord knows that is not something at which I excel.
Dang my inhibitions.
Dang 'em all.
So here I will sit. All day. Listening to political ranting.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
38 going on 7
Corey. Is. A. Brat.
That boy pushes my buttons and loves it.
"Hey. Hey, we've got a 504."
"Hhhrrmmppphh."
This is what I sound like when I've been woken up in the middle of the night (10:30pm).
"Let's go! (pulling down covers) We've got a 504!"
First, a "504" is Corey's way of saying there are sirens going off somewhere and he needs to find out what's going on. The numbers are completely arbitrary. He has no idea what they mean.
Second, I am a bear when woken up. You do not want to be the one who breaks my REM cycle because I will literally bite a finger off. My darling husband knows this, but takes the risk anyway. Apparently, I am hilarious when I yell in sleep-talk mode.
"Come on!"
"Hmmm??"
"Come on! It's a 504!!"
"I'm not chasing dang police cars with you!!!"
(snicker snicker)
"Good niiiiight."
Brat.
That boy pushes my buttons and loves it.
"Hey. Hey, we've got a 504."
"Hhhrrmmppphh."
This is what I sound like when I've been woken up in the middle of the night (10:30pm).
"Let's go! (pulling down covers) We've got a 504!"
First, a "504" is Corey's way of saying there are sirens going off somewhere and he needs to find out what's going on. The numbers are completely arbitrary. He has no idea what they mean.
Second, I am a bear when woken up. You do not want to be the one who breaks my REM cycle because I will literally bite a finger off. My darling husband knows this, but takes the risk anyway. Apparently, I am hilarious when I yell in sleep-talk mode.
"Come on!"
"Hmmm??"
"Come on! It's a 504!!"
"I'm not chasing dang police cars with you!!!"
(snicker snicker)
"Good niiiiight."
Brat.
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