Category Archives: Piece of Insanity

Incontinence is an inconvenience.

My old friend Cracker called from Boise tonight. She relayed the story of her recent dealings with the customer service department of a company that will remain unnamed. Clearly she was frustrated. What follows are the ACTUAL emails between Cracker and a department rep.

This refund takes 30 days and I have process. I am sorry for any incontinence this may have cause you.

Thanks, G



Thank you for your 30 day refund notice for my file. As a matter of fact, this whole situation HAS made me incontinent. I’ve noticed that over the course of this ordeal, I’ve lost bladder control and often found my office chair wet after dealing with you on the phone on a daily basis having to repeat myself time and time again despite your “phone conversation records.”

If our account is not refunded in 30 per your policy (even though YOU made an unauthorized withdrawal) I will more than likely have permanent bladder damage, thus you will also be paying for…. (more)


P.S. If you didn’t catch my above drift, “incontinence” means you have bladder problems. You might want to strike that word from future e-mails to your customers.

No problem.

Outsourcing. It’s good comedy.


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Who doesn’t love a sure thing?

So, you know I have OCD, right? Bona fide, from birth, medically diagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. The real deal, complete with a prescription to prove it, lest ye doubt. (Goooo drugs!)

I have ups and downs. And components of my OCD vary. Everyone who has it — TRULY has it — has different … things. For example, when mine is especially bad, I mentally count everything in sight. There’s a lot of adding. Then reducing to a single digit. There are good numbers and bad numbers. The maddening irony? I HATE math. But this is just ONE of my things. Just one on a very long list.

Blah blah blah. Another mommy blogger on drugs. BFD.

ANYHOO, last night I’m thinking, what if there were a component of OCD that compelled you to act out everything you read? How bad would THAT suck? Twitter would be from the Devil, and I would be at the mercy of every tweet.

Advertisers would LOVE me. One mention of their product and I’d buy it. I’d be a sure thing. And who doesn’t love a sure thing? Helluu toilet paper makers?? Helluu morticians?? Helluu strip clubs?? (SPAM and hot dog eaters, you’re excused.)

Yesterday, my Twitter OCD day would’ve looked like this:

10:22 p.m. @mothergoosemous MIL: “Every house has to have a piano. Every house has to have a bed too, but a piano is better.”
Dropped everything and went piano shopping.

10:23 @mooshinindy @VelveteenMind doughnuts.
Overwhelming urge to eat. Went to Dunkin’ Donuts.

10:36 @Mashable Break.
Just because. Dude. Have you SEEN his avitar??

10:38 @MaggieDammit Underwire in my bra just snapped. Thankfully, no one was hurt. (Twitter was made for moments JUST. LIKE. THIS.)
Whoa! Easy Tiger.

11:30 @andij1967 Out running errands in beautiful Utah weather. Next stop: Costco. That place gives me a shopping boner.
Went shopping. Which aroused me. A-GAIN.

11:45 @Mashable Break.
Helluuu Lovah.

12:48 @snackiepoo Haha @evehorizon! I will find a person hungry for an orgy. Must research!
Um, yeah.

12:53 @Mashable Break.
Um, yeah.

12:54 @teenagehelp I just pigged out on Spaghettios, something about a can of Spaghettios just make me happy!
*Sigh* Orgies aren’t what they used to be. Rush, rush, rush. Ravenous. Raid grocery store canned goods aisle.

12:59 @JenMaselli @alladither Go shopping!
Stimulate the economy.

1:50 @Hip_M0M “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak, like me?” Don’t ask me where I got that from but it’s now stuck in my head.
Wave my freak flag. Bust a move in the car on the drive back to work. Driver in adjacent lane calls 911 to report epileptic seizure in progress.

2:10 @BackpackingDad Three pullups!!! Not, like, in a row.
Must. Exercise. Now. Hang from office doorway. Co-workers finally convinced I’ve lost it.

2:14 @AmyInOhio Damn you bossman!
Tell my boss how I really feel. Something about growing balls …? Am promptly fired.

2:17 @sweetney Am totally breaking up with the internet.
Depressed, I compose a Dear John letter.

2:21 @PetCobra Dan Cortese. There’s a name that evokes snide laughter.
And then cackle madly. Outside my office, co-workers don bullet-proof vests.

2:27 @mrsflinger IIS make me stick a fork in my eyeball and swirl it all around. Server FAIL.
Motherfarker. Ow?

3:37 @Mashable Break.
Ogle with remaining eye.

3:40 @rocksinmydryer It is impossible to listen to the song Zip-a-dee-doo-dah and not do a corny dance.
Exit work. Eye missing. Delirious with pain, I sing. And dance. Co-workers cower beneath their desks.

3:48 Log off and drive myself to the ER. Wheeled in by devastatingly cute orderly. Give a little wink. He vomits.

8:57 Return home with shiny new eyepatch. Am thinking I could totally make this work. Once my mail-order parrot arrives from South America.

8:58 Log back on.

9:16 @mamaspohr mamaspohr They need “CHEER,” “BOO,” “LAUGH,” and “CHANT,” signs, because this audience seems confused.
Break out the poster paint.

10:38 Log off, crawl into bed, exhausted.

10:40 @Mashable Break.
Okay, not THAT tired …


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Beer cans, biplanes and the intricacies of networking

Last night was my once a month, sometimes excruciatingly tiresome, obligatory networking cocktail-y work thing. This month’s outdoor event was okay — made fun primarily because my best guy friend in town (we’ll call him News Guy — I love him to bits) showed up. His timing couldn’t have been better. I needed someone to tell me if I had BBQ ribs stuck in my teeth. I did not.

So, I’m standing there, talking to News Guy and someone else we’ll call Manorexic, and this crazy woman comes up to me, addressing me by my first name, which she’s clearly just learned from my NAME TAG. She has her 14ish-year-old son in tow. They are obsessed with the Bud Light in my hand. That I’m so obviously DRINKING.

Turns out her elderly father makes model biplanes out of Bud Light cans. I learned it takes 18 cans to make one airplane. I also learned her father doesn’t drink, which poses a dilemma. Because the money he earns from the sale of these planes — apparently there’s a market for things of this nature — goes to his grandson’s music lessons. Which, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh, PLEASE let them be COUNTRY music lessons, or I’ll be crushed.’ The irony of the whole story is lost without the Country.

I told her when I was done, the can was hers. She thanked me, and she and her son — the music lesson grandson — backed away a good … three feet. Waiting. Watching. Chicken Hawks to my field mouse.

I tried to ignore my Beer Can Stalkers. It must have been around this time that conversation turned to seafood and my intense dislike of all things fishy. I distinctly remember saying I didn’t think I’d make a very good lesbian.

Note to self: In work-related social situations, best to remember the difference between INSIDE voice and OUTSIDE voice. Probably a good rule of thumb in any situation.

I almost forgot all about them.

Half an hour later, as the party was winding down, we moved to a completely different location. The Chicken Hawks chased me down, planted themselves in front of me and just stood there. Smiling. Holding a bag of cans. Not really a TRUE bag — more like a plastic toilet paper wrapper fashioned into a bag. Which only paints a better picture.

“Take your time. No rush!” Mama Stalker said, standing WAY too close, popping the Personal Space Bubble.

Rather than go off on the woman, News Guy took a step back and looked away. I stood there like an idiot, trying to chug the remainder of my Bud Light. I suggested she check out the trash for more cans.

She remained. Inside my Personal Space Bubble. Smiling.

I was so annoyed and freaked out I finally handed her my half full beer telling her I’d get another. “Are you sure?” she said, taking the can. Still smiling. Still completely socially inept.

The thing was, it wasn’t like she was some random person crashing the event. She had a name tag. She was invited. Apparently the nuances of “networking” had her confused.

Perhaps she’ll leave the beer can fetish at home next month. I shall be drinking wine.


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And now, the weather.

I feel I should document yesterday’s snowstorm. Yes. SNOW. STORM. On June 11.

MP was LOVIN’ it. Here she is catching snowflakes on her tongue. You can’t see her because apparently just before a camera dies, it sees colors, lots of pretty colors. And then it travels down a loooong tunnel toward a beautiful bright light. And if it’s led a good and just life, it comes back as a discounted iPhone.

Our drive to work looked like this.

And this.

After dropping MP off at preschool, Longshoreman Mommypie was COLD and WET and none too thrilled to be wearing wool in JUNE.

Personally, Mommypie prefers cold and wet to look more like this.

Not to worry. Mommypie’s favorite workplace appliance came to the rescue and saved not only the hair, but the day.

And all was well in Pie Town.


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In case you were wondering where I live.

Greenland. I live in Greenland.

This is the view from my office today.

It’s June 6th and I’m wearing a turtleneck. And sitting at work with a space heater on my lap. MP wore her winter coat to preschool this morning, and my heating bill is still over $300.


Global warming? Myth.


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You gotta be kidding.

I’m feeling completely brain dead tonight, so in the absence of anything original, I leave you with this.

If this isn’t evidence of some sort of past life pickle trauma, I don’t know what is.

Your turn. You all know my phobia is boring old GERMS. What’s YOUR phobia? Condiments perhaps?



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The Little Matchstick (Button) Girl

MP hates buttons. HATES. This intense dislike has gone on since she was about 14 months old. Which is unfortunate, because it severely limits my wardrobe choices, and means hers are pretty much restricted to sweats and t-shirts.

Anyone wearing them be damned – she’ll see those buttons coming a mile away, and avoid you like a bowl of piping hot brussel sprouts. She’s noticed tiny embellishments on my clothes I didn’t even know were there.

It took me awhile to figure out why some days she just didn’t like certain people. Like Grammy or Poppy. Or even me. And then one day she told me.

“Because I can smell their but-tons.” (Her little face screwed up with disgust.)

Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.

“What do they smell like?” (Trying not to laugh)

(Highly exasperated) “Like BUT-TONS!” (Duh.)

Thanks for the clarification. Silly woman.

The weird thing is, I think maybe she actually CAN smell them. At the store, she’ll point out someone an aisle away and tell me they smell. As we get closer, sure enough … buttons.

My mom thinks I may have scared her at one point early on by telling her not to put them in her mouth. I’ve thought long and hard on that one and I’m pretty sure I never said that (at least about buttons, that is). It wasn’t like I sat her down in a big pile of loose buttons one day and said, “Go crazy Kid. Just don’t put any in your mouth, cause you could choke and DIE.”

I’m almost convinced it’s a past life thing. Too weird NOT to be. Maybe she was an impoverished button maker. Working in a button sweat shop. Or selling buttons somewhere on a 17th Century London street corner.

Grammy’s determined to put an end to the madness. She actually had a great idea last week and took MP along to help pick out “special buttons” for a dress she was making just for her. MP came home with a jar full of rainbows and flowers and ladybugs that didn’t resemble buttons in the least – she’s been playing with them all weekend. We’ll see how successful the behavior modification experiment is once they’re transfered to the actual dress.

In the meantime, I’m not worried about it. I know this “thing” will disappear sooner or later, and when it does, I’ll be sad to see one more little piece of babyhood go. So for now, MaggiePie, you go ahead and do your thing. BAD buttons. BAD.

UPDATE, 9:20 p.m.
The craziness has hit an all-time high. Tonight, I learned the button thing now includes BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS. That’s right – Goldilocks and the Three Bears has officially been banned, because Baby Bear is wearing a button-down shirt.

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