The Y Factor


Chromosomes.

They make us what we are. They determine what we look like, our future health, pretty much everything. This includes our ability to find things apparently.

MJ has his first behind the wheel driver’s ed session this morning. We are instructed to bring his permit – check, and his original application that posed as his permit until his official card came in the mail – unchecked.

In great mommy fashion, I like to make sure we are not running around like chickens without a head right before we leave so I tell him that he needs to find it…LAST NIGHT. And what do you think happened? Did he go look then? If he did then hell must have frozen over and I don’t see any demons coming up top to warm up in the cuddly new blanket of snow we got last night.

So…I ask him this morning.

“Did you find it?”

“Ummmmmm…..”

“Where did you look? Did you look in the cars?”

“Uh, I can’t find my wallet either.” His wallet is where his permit card is, btw.

Well, his wallet I can help with since Devil Dog gently brought it to me the other day. The yellow piece of folded up paper? Not so much.

“So, did you look in the cars?”

He goes and looks in both cars.

“Uh…I can’t find it.”

Shit, damn, shit!

We tear the recycling bin apart thinking we may have thrown it in there because we are green like that…

Still no sign of the elusive yellow paper.

So I do what any mom would do when her kid can’t find what they are looking for…I go out to the car and look myself.

Why? Because I have this compulsion habit to not believe that he really looked as well has he should have.

A) because he is notorious for not seeing things

B) because he has that Y chromosome

So I trudge through 5 inches of snow out to the garage because my dear, dear Rambo didn’t want to have an attached garage. Can we say dumbass together? DUMBASS!

Open the door, open the center console and move 1 crumpled up donut bag. And what do I see? A yellow slip of paper. Yeah. Underneath HIS crumpled donut bag. Seriously, it wasn’t mine. I hide the remnants of my secret donut runs so much better than that.

I walk back to the house to show him his missing paper permit.

“Did you move the bag?”

“Uh. Yeah, but I didn’t see it. It must have been hiding!”

“Hiding. IN PLAIN SIGHT!”

I am just glad that it wasn’t me that lost it or threw it out. FYI…In Minnesota, even if you have gotten your official permit that looks like a license…do not throw away that little piece of yellow paper. You may need it to start your behind the wheel lessons. DUMB!

Now I am all paranoid about throwing away MY renewal piece of yellow paper…

Seriously though? What is it in that Y chromosome thread that just makes the male species so obliviously blind to things that are right in front of them. If there is one thing that is blocking 50% of the item they are looking for they can’t find it. Rambo is the same way. Is there just some part of their brain that doesn’t process something if it’s not in its whole form?

And they wonder when they ask the question of me…

“Have you seen XYZ?”

I just get up and find it for them…because I know in 5 minutes after being asked that question that I will be up looking for it anyway. I see it as a time saver.

How about at your house? Are you the finder in your house and is it worse with the XY species? I really want to know. Because if I am the only one, I need to kick some ass…they are playing me for a fool.

Let me know!

~Sassy

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Willpower Had Forsaken Me


As I sit here listening to Devil Dog whine in his crate, I wonder.

Why?

I had a moment of extreme weakness, that’s why.

When I had 3 people ganging up on me with pictures of cute puppies, talking about all the memories we had of Maggie, our last dog and pretty much begging on their hands and knees, it is hard to say no.

Oh how I wish I had.

Note to self: say no more often!

Another note to self: Get ear plugs and wear them often.

They fail to remember the dog hair on the floor. The dog piss on the tile.

The forget the dog puke on the new carpeting, baking in the sun all day.

First week in our new house the dog pukes up her food 2 inches from the tile. Southern exposure sun…8 hours. Yeah.

Don’t ever listen to the carpet salesman when they tell you that Berber won’t stain. Call BULLSHIT on their ass.

BTW…we don’t have carpet anymore. We have hardwood. So now I just have to pray to the puppy gods or fairies or whatever rules that part of reality,  that he pees in the middle of the wood plank and not in the crack.

Let me tell you how many times THAT has happened…Yeah. You guessed right.

My office chair? Bite marks all over it. Ok, to be completely, gut wrenchingly honest? THAT I don’t give a damn about. I want a new chair any way. But still…it’s the principal of the thing. Right?

And who had the bright idea to get a puppy in the winter time? Seriously. I hate winter as it is. And now I have to take this puppy out and stand there while he decides where he wants to pee. IN THE COLD! Don’t even ask what happens when I shiver so much I drop his leash and he runs away. He hasn’t gotten the hang of listening to “come” very well. The only bright spot is that I am not responsible for the middle of the night pee breaks. That my dears is one place I stomped my foot on Rambo’s throat saying…

“I. WILL. NOT. GET. UP. IN. THE. MIDDLE. OF. THE. NIGHT”, that is all.

I need a vacation.

~Sassy

p.s. this was written yesterday…today he shit on my office floor.

Ebonics and Shock Therapy


It’s been one of THOSE weeks.

You know the ones…

The ones that each day seems like a never ending saga of babysitting, therapy sessions and playing a fireman. And that’s just at work!

I have never been so happy when my alarm went off and I realized it was Friday. Friday means I can look forward to 5:00 and then relax with a glass of wine.

But I have to get through this day first.

How is it that you can work with someone for almost 3 years and now just realize how bad their grammar is? Let’s face it, in the business world there is no place for ebonics. Especially if you are a phone support person.

Seriously.

I would rather talk to George or Susan in Bangladesh then have to talk for 5 minutes on the phone with one of my employees. Or worse? Trying to carry on a Skype conversation with a person who types in ebonics…

“It don’t mean anyfing”.

“Iffen I do this, it don’t do nuffin”.

And the worst one? Rambo is a frequent user of this one and it drives me fucking crazy because I hate HATE the word. It’s almost as bad as saying panties…

“Ain’t it”

This one is like nails on a chalkboard.

Ain’t ain’t a word and ya ain’t supposed to use it! I want to shock him every time he says it. Put the dog training collar on and ZAP!!!!

I will need someone to hold him down to get the collar on though…any takers? I have to take it out on him because it is against employment laws to shock your employees.

Sorry Rambo.

So this week I have lost 1 employee (not due to shock therapy either), verbally warned another and had to talk a superior from off a proverbial ledge. Shouldn’t I be the one who needs therapy?

The miracle in all of this? I got through the week without drinking. NO. Booze. And what do I get to show for it?

An empty bag of jelly beans.

And later?

An empty bottle of wine.

Now I get to go to the boat show…and drool over fancy campers.

Have a great weekend!

~Sassy