9.25.2009
9.17.2009
an issue being addressed that really shouldn't need to be addressed . . .
so i have developed quite the pet peeve while working here with my new company. it's not something that has ever been much of an issue at my past jobs, but this job takes my pet peeve to a whole new level. what is it?
**people not flushing the toilet when they're done using it.**
and i'm not talking just about "number one." i mean the whole sha-bang, the whole enchilada, the "number two." so far, i have gone to the bathroom seven times today -- blame all the water i drink (so far three bottles, which is actually less than i typically drink) for the amount of times i use the lavatory, but this is all not the point -- and five of the times i have gone, **i have had to flush behind someone** (and three of those times were for more than just pee and toilet paper).
okay, i guess i didn't have to flush behind them, but i am just that person. no one wants to walk into a bathroom stall and !surprise! there's last night's dinner floating in the toilet, in the form of, well, "number two" (i'm trying to keep this post somewhat clean, despite the nasty topic). and so i irritatedly flush the toilet so that the next person who walks in isn't caught off guard by what i saw.
now i know there is another business that is located here in this strip center, so i can't entirely blame it on my co-workers. but the only other business here is a "daycare" for the mentally handicapped, and anytime one of the clients goes to the bathroom, they are accompanied by a supervisor, whom i always hear tell them to flush the toilet. and that makes it even less acceptable, if they aren't flushing the toilet, because there are two people there who can flush.
i have never left a stall without flushing first, and yet **it seems pretty commonplace here at my job.** i just don't understand it. i hear people in the process of potty-training a child tell that child to "flush the toilet." it's something we all have learned. i work with people WITH DEGREES! with MILITARY EXPERIENCE! you would think they would be able to police up after themselves. i am not the united states and my co-workers are not foreign countries.
**there is no reason that i should be handling their business.**
**people not flushing the toilet when they're done using it.**
and i'm not talking just about "number one." i mean the whole sha-bang, the whole enchilada, the "number two." so far, i have gone to the bathroom seven times today -- blame all the water i drink (so far three bottles, which is actually less than i typically drink) for the amount of times i use the lavatory, but this is all not the point -- and five of the times i have gone, **i have had to flush behind someone** (and three of those times were for more than just pee and toilet paper).
okay, i guess i didn't have to flush behind them, but i am just that person. no one wants to walk into a bathroom stall and !surprise! there's last night's dinner floating in the toilet, in the form of, well, "number two" (i'm trying to keep this post somewhat clean, despite the nasty topic). and so i irritatedly flush the toilet so that the next person who walks in isn't caught off guard by what i saw.
now i know there is another business that is located here in this strip center, so i can't entirely blame it on my co-workers. but the only other business here is a "daycare" for the mentally handicapped, and anytime one of the clients goes to the bathroom, they are accompanied by a supervisor, whom i always hear tell them to flush the toilet. and that makes it even less acceptable, if they aren't flushing the toilet, because there are two people there who can flush.
i have never left a stall without flushing first, and yet **it seems pretty commonplace here at my job.** i just don't understand it. i hear people in the process of potty-training a child tell that child to "flush the toilet." it's something we all have learned. i work with people WITH DEGREES! with MILITARY EXPERIENCE! you would think they would be able to police up after themselves. i am not the united states and my co-workers are not foreign countries.
**there is no reason that i should be handling their business.**
9.16.2009
pink pink, you stink!
so sometimes i am a mean person (surprise, surprise). i never intend to be, but there are **things that happen or outfits that people wear** that bring out the mean-spiritedness in me and i just can't contain myself.
said bad outfit occurred yesterday. and i couldn't resist. he is a co-worker, so i did the courtesy of cropping his head out of the picture. but the rest of this outfit? **too classic not to post.**
notice the salmon-colored pants, the light pink shirt . . . just notice it all. and laugh. cuz sometimes, **i think it's okay to laugh at other people's expense.** it keeps us sane.
and perhaps, **it will make us all think twice** about wearing certain outfits!
said bad outfit occurred yesterday. and i couldn't resist. he is a co-worker, so i did the courtesy of cropping his head out of the picture. but the rest of this outfit? **too classic not to post.**
notice the salmon-colored pants, the light pink shirt . . . just notice it all. and laugh. cuz sometimes, **i think it's okay to laugh at other people's expense.** it keeps us sane.
and perhaps, **it will make us all think twice** about wearing certain outfits!
9.13.2009
frank, jr.
so if you know my father, you know that he is just about the clumsiest guy ever . . . tied with three of my brothers. those three are all just about as clumsy as he is. however, his girls are all equally as clumsy (including me). we may not all look like ol' frankie one eye (as we like to call him since he lost his right eye to cancer and had it removed), but **we all inherited his clumsy gene.**
and before he comments on this note and says he's not clumsy, let me just give you **a rundown of some of his most famous "moments" :**
-- fell down concrete stairs playing santa claus at church and broke his ankle. ended up in the emergency room in full santa garb.
-- kicked a watermelon once on accident. the rind ended up wedging itself between his toe and his toenail. he had to have surgery to have it removed.
-- dropped a frozen pork roast on his foot and broke his ankle. twice.
-- had corrective surgery on his nose to fix his deviated septum; something ends up happening that i can't remember and he runs into a guy or something and his corrective surgery? done for nothing. guy breaks his nose and dad again has a deviated septum.
-- was sitting on the bench of a picnic table; picnic table ends up flipping over and he falls into a fire, burning his hand.
-- is standing inside a small pop-up trailer that my brother failed to mount properly, while preparing his bed for the night; trailer flips on one end and my father falls and gets trapped inside the trailer until my brothers come to his rescue.
-- middle of vietnam war : dad is walking in the dark in his barracks, kicks a bunk bed and breaks his toe (i think it was a toe; it might've been his foot); he likes to tell the story that had they been under attack at that very moment, he would've received a purple heart for his injury.
-- is getting out of the cab of a semi tow truck. misses the step, falls out of the tow truck. stands up, bloody from head to toe, thanks the man for the ride in the tow truck, shuts the door and goes inside the house.
pretty sure that my list can go on and on, but as you can see . . . my point is proven. **my daddy is, by far, one of the clumsiest men i know and now, prolly one of the clumsiest men you know.** so why am i talking about this today? cuz unfortunately, as mentioned previously, i am my father's daughter.
i run into walls constantly. and it's not like i am walking in the dark or in an unfamiliar place. i am typically walking from the living room to my bedroom, via the kitchen. for some reason, whenever i take that corner from the kitchen to my bedroom, **nine times out of ten, i run into the wall.** and i have the bruises to prove it. funny thing is, i have had conversations with my brothers and sisters and they all do the same thing. that one time out of ten that i miss the wall? it's cuz i have to consciously think, "i will not run into that wall" when i am walking by it. my brothers and sisters do the same thing.
once, at dinner, daddy noticed some of my bruises and asked what i did. i told him **my beau beats me.** my beau looked mortified (mind you, this was still fairly new into the relationship). my daddy laughed and asked me what really happened. he knows me too well. turns out, i could only tell him what happened with one of the bruises. the other twelve? not sure where those came from, but undoubtedly, they were from a wall or a desk corner or something of that nature.
last weekend, my beau and i spent the better part of it cleaning and organizing. at one point, he leaves the bedroom to put something away. what do i do? **walk by the bed and kick it,** stubbing my toe to the point that i was pretty sure i broke it (and it's still sore, by the way). of course i screamed and said a few expletives and my beau comes running in. he asks me what happened, am i okay and i just tell him i'm fine. again, he asks what happens, but i refuse to tell him, stating that he makes fun of me and calls me "frank, jr" whenever i hurt myself. he shakes his head, turns and exits the room, leaving me there to rub my toe and wipe tears out of my eyes.
i would go ahead and list all of my latest debaucles but quite honestly, i can't remember how i got most of my bruises. i do remember that i once stepped off the front porch at my parents' house, landing half on the sidewalk, and half in a hole. **twisted my ankle and ended up tearing all the ligaments on the top of my foot.**i still have a bad ankle from that. and once you hurt an ankle in the pritchard family, you always hurt that same ankle.
last night **which brings me to the whole reasoning behind this post** i was putting things away in my room. i happen to have a full-length mirror resting against one of the walls in my bedroom cuz i haven't yet hung it on said wall. let me preface all this with the fact that a couple of times that this mirror has been moved from my room to other places and then put back against the wall in my room for various reasons, i have managed to chip off one of the corners of the mirror, basically leaving a sharp, jagged edge (see picture below).
so what do i do? walk too close to the wall and the said mirror and slice open my "pinky" toe. i can't say that the cut wasn't bad enough for stitches, but since i have no medical insurance, i knew that that wasn't happening. **three bandaids and five bloodied tissues later,** my toe stops bleeding enough for me to put a bandaid on it that i don't have to take off ten minutes later due to the fact that it's blood-soaked and no longer effective at stopping the bleeding. and i can't help but laugh at myself and to silently thank my daddy in my head for those clumsy genes.
and so now, **whenever my beau calls me frank, jr., i just laugh it off.** i might as well quit denying my fate and realize that should i ever have to have kids one day, they'll prolly end up with the same clumsy gene, and their significant others will call them "holly, jr." at least i have someone else to blame for my genes.
**i'm not sure where my daddy gets his from.**
and before he comments on this note and says he's not clumsy, let me just give you **a rundown of some of his most famous "moments" :**
-- fell down concrete stairs playing santa claus at church and broke his ankle. ended up in the emergency room in full santa garb.
-- kicked a watermelon once on accident. the rind ended up wedging itself between his toe and his toenail. he had to have surgery to have it removed.
-- dropped a frozen pork roast on his foot and broke his ankle. twice.
-- had corrective surgery on his nose to fix his deviated septum; something ends up happening that i can't remember and he runs into a guy or something and his corrective surgery? done for nothing. guy breaks his nose and dad again has a deviated septum.
-- was sitting on the bench of a picnic table; picnic table ends up flipping over and he falls into a fire, burning his hand.
-- is standing inside a small pop-up trailer that my brother failed to mount properly, while preparing his bed for the night; trailer flips on one end and my father falls and gets trapped inside the trailer until my brothers come to his rescue.
-- middle of vietnam war : dad is walking in the dark in his barracks, kicks a bunk bed and breaks his toe (i think it was a toe; it might've been his foot); he likes to tell the story that had they been under attack at that very moment, he would've received a purple heart for his injury.
-- is getting out of the cab of a semi tow truck. misses the step, falls out of the tow truck. stands up, bloody from head to toe, thanks the man for the ride in the tow truck, shuts the door and goes inside the house.
pretty sure that my list can go on and on, but as you can see . . . my point is proven. **my daddy is, by far, one of the clumsiest men i know and now, prolly one of the clumsiest men you know.** so why am i talking about this today? cuz unfortunately, as mentioned previously, i am my father's daughter.
i run into walls constantly. and it's not like i am walking in the dark or in an unfamiliar place. i am typically walking from the living room to my bedroom, via the kitchen. for some reason, whenever i take that corner from the kitchen to my bedroom, **nine times out of ten, i run into the wall.** and i have the bruises to prove it. funny thing is, i have had conversations with my brothers and sisters and they all do the same thing. that one time out of ten that i miss the wall? it's cuz i have to consciously think, "i will not run into that wall" when i am walking by it. my brothers and sisters do the same thing.
once, at dinner, daddy noticed some of my bruises and asked what i did. i told him **my beau beats me.** my beau looked mortified (mind you, this was still fairly new into the relationship). my daddy laughed and asked me what really happened. he knows me too well. turns out, i could only tell him what happened with one of the bruises. the other twelve? not sure where those came from, but undoubtedly, they were from a wall or a desk corner or something of that nature.
last weekend, my beau and i spent the better part of it cleaning and organizing. at one point, he leaves the bedroom to put something away. what do i do? **walk by the bed and kick it,** stubbing my toe to the point that i was pretty sure i broke it (and it's still sore, by the way). of course i screamed and said a few expletives and my beau comes running in. he asks me what happened, am i okay and i just tell him i'm fine. again, he asks what happens, but i refuse to tell him, stating that he makes fun of me and calls me "frank, jr" whenever i hurt myself. he shakes his head, turns and exits the room, leaving me there to rub my toe and wipe tears out of my eyes.
i would go ahead and list all of my latest debaucles but quite honestly, i can't remember how i got most of my bruises. i do remember that i once stepped off the front porch at my parents' house, landing half on the sidewalk, and half in a hole. **twisted my ankle and ended up tearing all the ligaments on the top of my foot.**i still have a bad ankle from that. and once you hurt an ankle in the pritchard family, you always hurt that same ankle.
last night **which brings me to the whole reasoning behind this post** i was putting things away in my room. i happen to have a full-length mirror resting against one of the walls in my bedroom cuz i haven't yet hung it on said wall. let me preface all this with the fact that a couple of times that this mirror has been moved from my room to other places and then put back against the wall in my room for various reasons, i have managed to chip off one of the corners of the mirror, basically leaving a sharp, jagged edge (see picture below).
so what do i do? walk too close to the wall and the said mirror and slice open my "pinky" toe. i can't say that the cut wasn't bad enough for stitches, but since i have no medical insurance, i knew that that wasn't happening. **three bandaids and five bloodied tissues later,** my toe stops bleeding enough for me to put a bandaid on it that i don't have to take off ten minutes later due to the fact that it's blood-soaked and no longer effective at stopping the bleeding. and i can't help but laugh at myself and to silently thank my daddy in my head for those clumsy genes.
and so now, **whenever my beau calls me frank, jr., i just laugh it off.** i might as well quit denying my fate and realize that should i ever have to have kids one day, they'll prolly end up with the same clumsy gene, and their significant others will call them "holly, jr." at least i have someone else to blame for my genes.
**i'm not sure where my daddy gets his from.**
9.09.2009
do you think the surgeon general smokes?
so on my way to work yesterday, i passed a very pretty girl driving a very pretty car. i happened to notice her cuz she almost hit me as i was passing her on the highway. when i looked over to shake my fist at her, i realized the reasoning of her subpar driving: she was texting with one hand and flicking her cigarette out the tiny crack of her window with the other. and you know, i wasn't even mad about the texting or the whole no-hands-on-the-wheel bit.
**i was upset about the cigarette.**
like i said, the girl was pretty. long flowing hair, dark complexion. i didn't get to gaze into her eyes or anything like that so i can't tell you what color her eyes were, but i thought that she was very attractive. until i saw that cigarette. that took away the prettiness and it was replaced with an image of an old wrinkled lady with a hacking cough, choking up a lung while sucking on her oxygen and cigarette alternately.
**not a very pretty site, huh?**
i can remember being in the ninth grade and playing soccer with a girl who, for the sake of this blog, i will call "jane doe." one day, while we were changing for practice, jane doe realized she had forgotten an extra practice shirt. because i had worn a t-shirt to school that day, i gave her my intended practice shirt, wore the same one i had on already, and we went out to practice. a couple of days later, we were again in the locker room getting ready to change and she mentioned that she had brought my shirt back, freshly washed the night prior by her mother. she pulls the shirt out of her bag, presses it to her face, and takes a long sniff and tells me how wonderfully clean it smelled, like fresh flowers or something. she throws it to me and tells me to smell. i lift the shirt to my nose and take a huge whiff . . . and **smell nothing but stale cigarette smoke.**
of course, i don't wanna hurt jane doe's feelings, so i lie to her and tell her how flowery it does smell as i stifle a cough and try to hold in the tears that have quickly formed in the corner of each eye. and because she has made such a big deal about how great this shirt smells, another girls grabs the shirt out of my hand and presses it to her nose. **and she isn't so nice.**
"EEEEEW!" i remember her screeching. "that doesn't smell flowery! that smells like cigarettes!" and she throws the shirt back at me. jane doe looks at me as if her feelings are hurt, and i shrug my shoulders, throw the shirt in my dirty clothes bag and locker and quickly run out to the practice field.
i don't really have a point to this blog, other than to say that i think smoking is dithguthting. i have a few friends who still do it and they all know my opinion. i am one of those people who makes a HUGE deal when someone lights up in front of me. i cough, i act like i can't breathe -- in general, **i make them feel bad** for doing it. i don't do it to insult anyone or to offend any smokers out there, however. i just prefer to breathe fresher air than a cloud of cigarette smoke allows. and okay, okay -- i guess i have to admit here that frankly, i kind of like being an ass sometimes.
**so sue me.**
**i was upset about the cigarette.**
like i said, the girl was pretty. long flowing hair, dark complexion. i didn't get to gaze into her eyes or anything like that so i can't tell you what color her eyes were, but i thought that she was very attractive. until i saw that cigarette. that took away the prettiness and it was replaced with an image of an old wrinkled lady with a hacking cough, choking up a lung while sucking on her oxygen and cigarette alternately.
**not a very pretty site, huh?**
i can remember being in the ninth grade and playing soccer with a girl who, for the sake of this blog, i will call "jane doe." one day, while we were changing for practice, jane doe realized she had forgotten an extra practice shirt. because i had worn a t-shirt to school that day, i gave her my intended practice shirt, wore the same one i had on already, and we went out to practice. a couple of days later, we were again in the locker room getting ready to change and she mentioned that she had brought my shirt back, freshly washed the night prior by her mother. she pulls the shirt out of her bag, presses it to her face, and takes a long sniff and tells me how wonderfully clean it smelled, like fresh flowers or something. she throws it to me and tells me to smell. i lift the shirt to my nose and take a huge whiff . . . and **smell nothing but stale cigarette smoke.**
of course, i don't wanna hurt jane doe's feelings, so i lie to her and tell her how flowery it does smell as i stifle a cough and try to hold in the tears that have quickly formed in the corner of each eye. and because she has made such a big deal about how great this shirt smells, another girls grabs the shirt out of my hand and presses it to her nose. **and she isn't so nice.**
"EEEEEW!" i remember her screeching. "that doesn't smell flowery! that smells like cigarettes!" and she throws the shirt back at me. jane doe looks at me as if her feelings are hurt, and i shrug my shoulders, throw the shirt in my dirty clothes bag and locker and quickly run out to the practice field.
i don't really have a point to this blog, other than to say that i think smoking is dithguthting. i have a few friends who still do it and they all know my opinion. i am one of those people who makes a HUGE deal when someone lights up in front of me. i cough, i act like i can't breathe -- in general, **i make them feel bad** for doing it. i don't do it to insult anyone or to offend any smokers out there, however. i just prefer to breathe fresher air than a cloud of cigarette smoke allows. and okay, okay -- i guess i have to admit here that frankly, i kind of like being an ass sometimes.
**so sue me.**
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