wordinista

It's kind of dawning on me that I've been extremely incommunicado for the past few weeks. Like, extremely.

Long story short -- everything's fine, but between doctor appointments, working on my Staffing Management take-home exam, birthday, and working on my Staffing paper/presentation, and then basic, everyday obligations I found myself in the rare situation where I kind of... did not realize I had dropped off the face of the earth so completely.

Birthday was wonderful -- we did not go to The Yellow Dog Cafe, as we have the past few years. For some unknown reason I was less enthused about it this year, so George made me dinner instead, and we spent Saturday together just doing goofy couple-y things, and Sunday Mom made a phenomenal birthday dinner (filet mignon with a green peppercorn sauce, oh my GOD SO GOOD), and somewhere in there was an ice cream cake from Ben & Jerry's. Mom surprised me with The King Arthur's Baker's Companion, which made me VERY happy (I was shocked she even remembered I wanted it), and I've already tried out a few recipes (zucchini lemon muffins are to die for).

The sole blemish on the weekend was our experience going to see Coraline.  For a while it looked like we were going to have the entire theater to ourselves when -- FIFTEEN MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE (not the previews, the movie), a family of six came in: two adults, three children who appeared to be under the age of six, and one infant.

And sat right behind us.  In an otherwise empty theater.  RIGHT. BEHIND. US.

And then proceeded to talk.  In conversational tones.  And then the children proceeded to whine about godknows what.  And then the infant started to fuss.  And then the jackoffasaurus sitting behind George started to kick his seat.  Oh, and about five minutes after this lot came in, another family with small children came into the theater, and sat further towards the back.

After about twenty minutes of incomprehensible rudeness and having turned around to give the adults my best "Are you fucking kidding me?" glare, I said "Fuck this" (possibly audibly; I cannot remember -- THAT'S HOW ENRAGED I WAS), I got up and nearly walked out, then decided to switch seats instead.  (George, I think, was disappointed that I didn't make a beeline for the door; that's how fed up he was.)  So I headed up towards the back, basically placing us closer to the OTHER family.

Dude, seriously -- who screws around with a celophane wrapper for two solid minutes?  ARGH.  These children were marginally better behaved, but that's not really saying much. (And having gone to the movies with R&C and their three munchkins, I am perfectly aware of the fact that it IS possible to teach children how not to behave like complete animals at the movies.)  

At some point during all of this, the cockbites we moved AWAY from apparently had not turned off their cell phone, either.

Usually I'm one of those people who WILL say something in a movie theater.  I WILL shush someone who is being a complete moron.  I WILL turn around and let the person who is kicking my seat know that I do not appreciate their percussion solo vibrating against my tailbone.  However, I did not speak up this time -- and I think I know why:  I try to make it a point not to swear like a sailor in front of small children, and I was so completely furious that if I opened my mouth, the tirade would not end until I had insulted someone's parentage in language decorated vibrantly with as many creative invectives as I am capable of conceiving.

So, yes.  I finally saw Coraline.  No, I cannot say that I particularly enjoyed the experience.  Not for lack of trying, mind.

OH.  OH OH OH.  And when the lights went up?  And everyone left?  We took a look behind us at where the other family had been sitting?  OH MY SWEET MONKEY JEBUS, THE MESS THEY LEFT BEHIND WAS A PILE OF EPIC FAIL.  A pile of juice boxes on the floor, wrappers, spilled popcorn, cups, GOD IT WAS FOUL.  There was a trail of popcorn down the stairs.  It defied words.  Honestly. 


So, other than THAT, it was a lovely birthday. 

Had a slightly weird thing happen tonight, and I'm finding myself kind of... still vaguely annoyed over it.

In the middle of watching the 'Bama-Gator game, Darwin ran over to the front door, barking. He shoved his muzzle through the mail slot and started sniffing, and then paced the foyer, really agitated. I peeked through the window and saw two dogs standing in our driveway. Since I'd seen a flyer around regarding two lost dogs in the area, George and I went outside armed with a flashlight, leashes, and liver treats. They weren't the right dogs, but had collars and tags, so they were obviously someone's pet, and we brought them over to Mom's house, since she's got the fenced-in yard. (I'll just skip over the part where I tried to call her over and over again and she did not pick up her phone which seems to be par for the course when there's actually something wrong.) We got her two little dogs inside, and herded the two strays into the yard, at which point we got the collars off the doggies to look for owner information.

Now, one of the pups was a fairly young-looking Golden Retriever. I'd guestimate him to have been about a year old, maybe a year and a half. He was pretty small, and his coat hadn't come in completely yet. The other dog was a Leonberger, and ... y'know, "huge" really does not cut it. A giant, bear-like dog, who had absolutely no manners whatsoever, and seemed obsessed with humping the Golden, and then tried to hump ME, and he and I had a talk and I expressed to him quite clearly that that was not on. Neither seemed to know the "sit" command, and neither had been fixed (made evident by the Leon humping everything and also marking various points around Mom's yard -- Gizmo will be very busy tomorrow...).

Now, the Goldie was ... he was actually in pretty good shape. But the Leonberger looked like he'd been roaming for a while. He stunk to high heaven, and his coat had just... godawful mats, especially around the collar. According to their collars, the Goldie was named "Sparky," and the Leo was named "Mattei."

But anyway! Called the phone number on the tags! Like you do!

...The phone number was out of service. Insert WTF here.

The address, however, was less than a mile down our street, and I volunteered to drive down to the house. George wanted Mom to go with me, which subjected me to a round of "Mom Standard Time" -- when she says she'll be out in X minutes, but the reality is anywhere from two to four times the initial estimate. SO! We finally got to the house, and there were cars in the driveway and the lights were on (cue sigh of relief here). I knocked on the door and apparently the owner did not realize his dogs had Houdini'd out of his yard, and was like, "ZOMG ON MY WAY," so we went back to the house, he collected his dogs, and all was well.

Except.

Um. What the hell, man. Who in their right mind has a dog like a Leonberger and not only doesn't teach it basic manners, but doesn't bother to make the effort to train it to a point where the dog is remotely controllable on-leash. Because, uh. This guy? Had NO control over his ENORMOUS, GIGANTIC, BEAR-LIKE DOG. None. Seriously, NONE. The dog all but dragged the owner to his truck, and he needed me to help the Golden get to the truck, because he was so overwhelmed by the Leo. (Also, the Goldie seemed kind of hand-shy, which broke my heart and pissed me off in turns.)

And also. ALSO. The condition of the Leo's coat was DEPLORABLE. There were mats ALL up in his fur, some of them roughly the diameter of a dime. How -- HOW do you let your dog's coat get to be in that kind of condition? And if you ARE a lazy sumbitch, then why have a dog with a high-maintenance coat in the first place? According to the breed-club's website, the Leonberger requires daily brushing. Now, maybe you can push that to a couple of times a week, or maybe even a weekly brushing, but if that dog's been brushed within the past month, I'd eat my hat.

I just... don't understand people. I'm trying not to think too hard about this, because both dogs tails started wagging like crazy when the owner came to pick them up (even if they were utterly out of control). But I'm still feeling... vaguely annoyed.

AND WHO THE HELL KEEPS A DISCONNECTED NUMBER ON THEIR DOGS' IDENTIFICATION TAGS?

Argh. People.

I really need to be working on my research paper, but financial news is EATING MY BRAIN.

And Barney Frank really, really needs not to be implying that people criticizing Congress's lousy financial decisions are racist. (Isn't that some variation on Snacky's Law?) Granted, the Community Reinvestment Act is just a part of a much larger problem, but, come on, Barney.  That's no way for House Financial Services Committee Chair to act.  I know he's pointing the finger at the GOP, but given that, according to a recent Rasmussen Poll, something like 59% of voters polled would have no problem voting out the entire Congress and starting over again, that implies to me that pointing fingers (and basically calling your critics racists) is the dumbest thing to do right now.

This whole mess is nauseating. Did no one learn ANYTHING from Enron, Tyco, and Arthur Andersen?  ARGH!  STOP.  BEING.  STUPID.  RECKLESS.  IRRESPONSIBLE.  JERKFACES.  These people are ostensibly intelligent!  THEY SHOULD KNOW BETTER.

And I have a feeling this whole thing's going to get uglier.   That's a serious conflict of interest, right there.  Pair that with the youtube video going around where Frank asserts there's nothing wrong with FM/FM, and you've got the equation for some serious facepalming.  Is this what happens when you put a lawyer in charge of finances?  He's a Harvard Law grad, right?  Or am I remembering someone else?

*checks* 

Yup, Harvard Law.  I would seriously love to know how a background in law qualifies Senator Frank for being the Chair of the HFSC.  I've looked at his biography, and... if he's got any background in economics or finance, it's well hidden. 


Aaaaaaaaaand now back to my paper.  (Guys, diversity management is fucking awesome.  I really kind of love HR.)


EDIT:  Yup, still eating my brain.  I'm starting to wonder if these CEOs think they're playing with Monopoly money. Seriously, what the hell -- you're going to shell out twenty MILLION DOLLARS on "special payments" for departing executives four days before you declare bankruptcy?

Dear Independent Auto Repair Shops,

Please DIAF.

Love and Kisses,
Bunneh

***

Dear Dealership Service Center,

Do not think for a moment that I actually trust you, or believe you're "on my side."  And so help me, if you find ONE MORE THING that NEEDS TO BE FIXED OMG, I will buy a baseball bat for the sole purpose of introducing it to your collective kneecaps.

Love and Kisses,
Bunneh

***

SO, THE LONG STORY ABOUT MY CAR IS THIS:

About four months ago, the car was running really rough.  It seemed to shudder a lot, and struggled to get up to speed.  The check engine light was coming on and off intermittently.  I was getting a less-than-fuzzy feeling about my normal repair shop, so I went with a AAA-certified place that was also nearby.  Four days and $400 later, I had a new Ignition Control Module and a new battery, and on the way home the check engine light came on again.  I wasn't in a rush to take it back to that place, so I considered it an expensive lesson and tolerated the crappy perfomance until we could afford to get the car back into the shop.

On Wednesday, I took the car to our old repair shop.  I told them it was running rough, misfiring, and it felt like it was on the verge of stalling out at stop lights.  I also mentioned that there was a squeal coming from either the brakes or power steering, and if they could see which was the problem, that'd be swell.

$105 dollars later, they told me that they heard no such squeal, and that the diagnostic report showed the problem to be my PCM (power control module -- basically the car's main computer, as I understand it).  Luckily, the PCM was covered under dealership warranty for 8 years or 80,000 miles, and they recommended I take it to the dealership, otherwise to replace such a part could run about $800.  So, I took the car to the dealership (I hate dealership service departments and avoid them like the plague).  They asked me if the mechanic was CERTAIN the problem was in the PCM, and I said, yes, the mechanic was certain (because I asked him if he was sure).  So let's make this clear right now:  I never would have set foot in the dealership service bay, if not for the recommendation of the other mechanic.

The dealership ran another diagnostic.

It wasn't the PCM.  EVIDENTLY the problem was an issue of "low flow" in the fuel injection, which meant I either had a clog, or a bad fuel injector.  They could run a test to determine which it was ($150).  I got a phone call from the dealership saying, YAY, it was just a clog!  They could run a fuel injection flush for another $100. 

Oh, and by the way?  The squeal that the previous shop said wasn't there?  The dealership found that there was about an eight of an inch left on my front brake pads.  SO, HEY, TIME FOR NEW BRAKES.

So, at this point, after labor and everything, I was looking at a $700 repair bill.  High, but still workable.  BUT THEN the dealership called back.  Evidently, the clog was so bad that the flush didn't work, and they needed to put a new fuel injector in there anyway.  BUT GOOD NEWS: the manager was going to pay for the part, and all I had to pay was the labor.  Which bumped my repair bill up to $969.22.  This is not workable. 

I called the auto shop that "fixed" the car for $400 in May, and spoke to the owner -- very good customer service skills there.  In his words, "We're very sorry that we were unable to solve your problem, and would like any chance to make this right by you."  So I'll be talking with them more today.  The shop that performed the $105 "diagnostic" that sent me to the dealership in the first place?  Not so willing to do right by me, and I am THIS CLOSE to putting a stop payment order on the check, because I do not see why I should pay money for bad advice that essentially sends me somewhere to get bent over a barrel.  I will be talking with them more about this issue (translation:  I will make a goddamn pest of myself until they give me a refund just to make me go away).

Hopefully the first place will be able to give me even a partial refund that can help offset the cost of this current repair bill (because if they'd diagnosed the problem correctly four months ago, I could've had a fuel injector flush and be done with it).

I just want the car to run right.  Is that too much to ask? 

YES, I GUESS SO.

Well, she lost another pound (down to 6.5 lbs now), and her PCV value is about 7%, which is considered to be fatal levels.  However, her personality is still very much in place, and she's eating and drinking, so the plan is to keep her on meds and as comfortable as possible for the time she has left.  She will likely become weaker -- to the point where she won't have any interest in eating or drinking.  At that point, we're going to have to bring her in for the last time.  But like I said, she's still active (in that she's walking around and getting into trouble), and still demanding attention, so hopefully that day is a long way off.

This wasn't an easy decision to come to, but we both feel it's the right decision.  She's not in any pain, she's just... weak.

The pharmacy, however, is being... you know what?  There aren't words for what they're being.  I've been having a devil of a time filling the cytoxin prescription Bronte needs (in addition to her Prednisone, which I can get from the vet clinic's pharmacy).  Every single time I've dropped the prescription off, they've been all, "Okay! You can pick it up in two hours!"  Then I go back:  "We're sorry, this is out of stock.  It'll be in in a few days!"  I go back a few days later: "We're sorry, this is out of stock."  WHAT.  JUST.  WHAT.  WTF, PEOPLE.  And it doesn't matter if they call the other Walgreens in the area -- NONE OF THEM HAVE THIS MEDICATION.  I was complaining about this to Dr. Young recently, and he said the next time it happened to call the clinic and THEY'D call the pharmacy to impress upon them the importance of keeping DRUGS IN STOCK.

Argh. 

Found this at the Australian Shepherd forum I frequent, and decided to re-post it here.

Beware, while this is perfectly work-safe, you may not want to read it at work.  Particularly if you are, like I am, a total sap, especially about animals.

( How could you? )

I found it!

I found it!

I found it found it found it!

*runs around in happy, caffinated circles*

OMFG I FOUND IT!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!



To anyone who may be wondering, I've just spent the last 4.5 hours tearing the house apart, looking for the title to my car.  Because someone's coming to look at it!  Possibly they'll even buy it!  And if I'm a very lucky Bunneh, they'll buy it without trying to screw me over!

EDIT: WTF, he just tried offering me less than half of what I was asking. Jerk.

So help me, if one more person makes a wiseass, condescending remark about my choice of dogs, someone is gonna get kicked in the shin.

Dear Various Idiots I've Encountered at Petsmart, Wickham Park, and Satellite Beach Dog-Park:

Yes, that's an Australian Shepherd.  Yes, they are herding dogs.  Yes, they are high-energy.  Please do not think you are being witty or cute by giving me a condescending little smile and saying that I don't know what I've gotten myself into by choosing an Aussie.  Do not assume I chose my dog for his coloring or his cute, mismatched eyes, or his tail-less "wiggle butt."  I am not like you.  I read up on the breed before deciding on one.  I wrote to breeders.  I asked questions.  I learned that there's a difference between Aussies bred for work and Aussies bred for show.  I know they're smart, and I know they require training.  Guess what?  ALL DOGS REQUIRE TRAINING, MORON.

Yes, Aussies have a reputation for herding things like children, other pets, bicycles and even cars (a deadly, frightening thought).  But not ALL Aussies have this urge.  Some are stronger herders than others.  Just because I have an Aussie, doesn't mean he's a hyperactive snot of a dog who runs around herding bipeds and quadrapeds alike.  But guess what?  You can train them not to do this.  You can train your dog to be gentle with children and not to nip/herd them.  (Of course, you also have to train your children to be gentle with the dog, you idiot.)  So if your neighbor/brother/uncle/cousin/mistress had an Aussie that herded things uncontrollably, it's probably because the owners were slack-assed morons who couldn't be bothered to train their fucking dog in the first place.  And these idiots decided to fall back on the excuse of "instinct," because they didn't want to take the time to train a dog that was, in all likelihood, smarter than they were.

Australian Shepherds need to be kept busy.  When they're not kept busy, they fall into destructive habits like barking, chewing, digging, and herding your children or pets.  So, dumbass, I'll thank you to keep your unsolicited "advice" to yourself, and go play with your wussy little priss of a toy-dog.  This is why, asshole, when he's done with his puppy class, I'm going to try and join the local dog-training club (if they ever get back to me, WTF) and get him into classes -- not that that's any of your goddamn business, of course.

Your advice was not requested, nor is it appreciated.  Next time, I will not smile politely.  Next time, I will bore you to tears with every snatch of Australian Shepherd trivia I can lay my brain on.  Next time, I will smile condescendingly right back at you and point out that my dog comes from a show line heavily peppered with champions, who have excelled at Obedience, Conformation, Agility, and Rally-Obedience.  Next time I will shove my training clicker down your fucking throat.

Love, kisses, and a sharp kick in the ass,
Bunneh

Note to self: Bring said training clicker to puppyclass Thursday. Darwin seems completely fucking lost if I ask him to do anything without the clicker in my hand. He always looks at it before doing whatever it is I ask him to do, and he will probably look like less of a head-case if I have it around my wrist.