The Beast

There comes a time in everyone's life (especially females) when paths are crossed with vile creatures. The vile creature that has recently crossed my path will herein be referred to as "The Beast".

The Beast started work at the restaurant last week. The Beast was cleverly disguised as a bubbly, girlie-girl waitress with a lot of experience. Oh, but no. Underneath that horribly fake blonde hair with lots of bling-bling in it, there resides evil. Evil that makes the devil shutter. The Beast decided that she would kiss as much ass as possible to try and "get" my job. I'm not sure why she wants it, but nonetheless, she pursues. The Beast is a money-grubbin' whore. If there were a 20-dollar bill laying on the floor, and you were in the Beast's way, she would stab you with a butter knife to get to it, I shit you not.

Thank the Lord I am not the only employee to feel this way. Apparently, I don't hide being annoyed well, and a private discussion was had on what to do about the situation. We decided to grit our teeth and bare it for now, and let life take its course. Boy, did it. The Beast let her evil out by phone call at a quarter to midnight on Saturday. I was still working, and just happen to answer. The owner witnessed the wrath of the Beast.

The call was about how she was all pissed about having to "share" her tips with me and two other employees that night, although she disguised this real reason as "I need to know exactly how much I made so that I can write it down for my taxes, and I know I made more than $75." Whatever. We don't usually have a tip-pool, but due to a large banquet party, it was the fairest route since we all busted our asses. I am in charge of the dining room and made the command decision to make an even split of the tips. You have to keep in mind here that this was her third night of work, and she was technically still in training. She is lucky she got ANYTHING. The Beast demanded copies of her tickets. (She apparently didn't look at them before she left.) She went on to tell me that when she was hired on, she was told that all servers made individual tips, and if this not how it was going to be, then she was going to have to quit. (Oh well! So sad!) She said she didn't like sharing because she is "used to making better tips than her co-workers and it would not be fair to share them". Say WHAT? Excuuuse me, but I've been waiting tables for 17 years, BITCH, and have bigger tits than you. The Beast even witnessed me making a 65$ tip on a $145 tab the other night, yet she still had the nerve to say this to me. I am the only other server there. I concluded she was pissed because she made a bee-line for the door to seat those very same good-tipping customers in her section on Saturday night. They are regulars, MY regulars. I was a little miffed to say the least. Who the hell does she think she is? She is certainly not CrazyDogMama, damn it.

The Beast also likes to show off by bringing in her own wine accessories and such and give the owner all kinds of "suggestions". It gets on my damn nerves. But, as it turns out, it gets on the owner's nerves as well. (Insert evil smiley face here). It will be interesting to see where this goes. Stay tuned.

Update

You are all so great. Thank you for all the personal emails...I wasn't really mad, I just wanted to stir the pot a little. Hehe. All of the blogs I read daily really cheer me up and keep me going. I actually feel guilty for not writing in mine. I know I am all twitchy when my favorite bloggers go on hiatus.

Jim is still on the job-hunt, but he decided to go with a staffing agency for now to just get something to keep us going. He is wanting to get out of the woodworking business, but that will of course take some time and soul-searching. In the meantime, we need stuff. Especially me. I'm a stuff-needing-girl. The greedy little bitch that I am. My close friends keep telling me to snap-the-hell-out-of-the-depression. They don't let me get away with whining a whole lot. Especially when I try to get out of working out. Picture 3 women dragging a fourth to the gym kicking and screaming holding onto a brownie while smoking. That's me.

Louie and Maggie are on serious vacation. When I come home last night, all three of them (Jim included here) are laying T-U on the floor lounging with the TV blaring. Bones laying nearby, and bags of Cheetos. That is when I go into my B-movie routine of how I am working so hard the flesh is falling off of my fingers and where's my dinner? Get-the-hell-up-before-I-kick-you!

Things are looking up, though. I am in a silly mood today and I was brought an iced mocha. Oh, the Joy.

Total Slacker

That would be me. I have watched my blog stats sail downhill the last few weeks; no doubt due to my lack of updating. Well, you know WHAT? BITE ME. No one has emailed me to ask if I'm dead, and there have been no words of encouragement. So, again, BITE ME. The depression and total pity-pot attitude I have had lately has turned to cynicism, sarcasm and anger. So, basically, I'm back to normal. But APPARENTLY you don't miss me, so BITE ME.

Day 17 of No Days Off

It is the aftermath of V-D. (Valentine's Day for all you warm and fuzzy freaks out there.).Holy Crap-O-Rama. The restaurant I work at was sold to a new owner last December and this was the first REALLY CRAZY night we've had. My body aches this morning, and I swear I'm getting varicose veins. Gross. Anyway, I have 5 more days until I finally have a day off. What will I do that day, you ask? SLEEP. EAT. SLEEP. REPEAT.

Louie is being really sweet and loving and cute and fuzzy. I'm wondering what the hell is going on in that little doggie brain of his. I'm waiting for the bomb to drop.

As if you don't already pity me.

Let me tell you about my day yesterday. It was going along just fine, la la la. THEN, I decided to try and figure out my own taxes before I go to the tax guy, so that I will know whether or not I can do it myself next year, or if I'm a complete retard. So, I just basically copied my taxes from last year, filling in the new numbers and complying with the new laws. (Love the new deduct-all-your-sales-tax thing.) Before I started, I thought I'd probably get around $1500 back per usual, give or take a few hundred. WRONG. I get back NOTHING. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. This is the year I needed a return. Jim has no job. There is no food in the refrigerator. I can't go anywhere or do anything. I owe everyone I know money. My hair is turning brown. THE HORROR. Enter bad mood.

THEN I went to the Post office on my lunch break and my "YOUR ENGINE IS GOING TO BLOW UP" light on my car's dashboard turned on. Super. Perfect. I called a mechanic, and he told me to go make sure I had my gas cap screwed on tight. (Apparently, he thought I was an idiot. A common mistake.) Yes, the stupid gas cap is on, fool. So, I had to get the car in right away. Long story short, I wrote a check for about $350 dollars that my bank account doesn't have. Yeah, that's right. Bad mood turning to panic.

After that, it was time to go to kickboxing. After writing the rubber check, I had developed a major migraine. Since it was only 4:30, and kickboxing wasn't until 7:30, I figured I could just go take a nap in between. I didn't get all the way home before I needed to stop driving and LAY DOWN. HEAD NOT GOOD. GOING TO PUKE. I parked in the grocery store parking lot across the street from the gym to rest. Of course, the place I decided to park just happened to be the next hang out for the local dumb-ass kids who have nothing else to do but hang out in the grocery store parking lot. Loud thumping music. Loud stupid kids. Crazydogmama pissed. I moved the car to a different spot, all the while my head is pounding so hard I can't even see. I am thinking at this point that kickboxing probably isn't a good idea tonight. (duh, ya think?) I start to cry. Not a little whimper or two, but BAWLING so hard that my face puffs up, snot is running out my nose and my mascara is running down into my bra. I have no Kleenex mind you, and my headache is getting worse with the pathetic wailing.

My cell phone rings. It's my kickboxing buddy calling to see if I'm still going. I sound like a train wreck, and she asks me what the hell is going on and where I am. She comes and picks me up and takes me to one of our other kickboxing friend's house. Since I am a big loser this evening, everyone decides we are not going to kickboxing. They give me a drink. It is Dr. Pepper and Malibu rum. I am in no mood to argue. Don't ask. They give me headache drugs. Much better. I still looked really pretty, though, with raccoon-face.

Today has been "I gotta find money to put in the bank" day. So far, I've come up with 170$. Only 180$ to go!

Are you realizing my whole "February" issue yet??

I hate February.

Anyone who knows me, knows I hate February. Most of the *really* bad things that have ever happened to me, have happened in February. (I have big issues with Valentine's Day especially, but we're not talking about that.) I basically just hold my breath all month waiting for a bomb to drop. This year, however, I am optimistic for the first time since I was 16. So many icky things happened in January this year that I think I may skate through February unscathed. Maybe. You see, January is usually a great month for me, but not this year. Maybe it is taking February's place. It might as well, there is weirdness everywhere, and I mean weirdness. Are any of you experiencing weirdness too?? Dreams, feelings, people doing and saying bizarre things, etc. There is a guy at work that tiptoes down the hallway. He is not trying to be funny. It's that weirdness I'm telling you about. Yesterday, I saw a guy walking down the street with a wig on crooked. A normal, suburban street. I am living in the twilight zone. Either that, or I need to chill on reading all those freak-ass articles on the internet about aliens and Bigfoot.

My Husband's Diet

When Jim dropped a Fire Cheeto on his pot roast last night, I thought to myself, "I need to blog this.". Jim is the freakiest eater on the face of the planet. This is a man who ate fig newtons EVERY. DAY. For two years. Then, he went through a bagel phase. When I mean phase, I mean breakfast, lunch and dinner for an indefinite period of time. I'm pressed to eat *anything* twice in the same DAY, unless of course it involves iced mochas or pizza. He also does this really bizarre combo-thing, too. (Like spicy Cheetos and pot roast.) Yesterday this is what he ate in the time frame of 3pm to 8pm:

Frozen pot roast "Life Choice" dinner with green beans and spicy Cheetos.

Pork pot stickers with soy sauce.

Huge-ass piece of lasagna.

Chocolate brownie with white chunky sugar things in it.

More pot stickers, and more spicy Cheetos.

"Smart Ones" frozen chicken and pasta stir fry.

Please tell me this boy doesn't need some food-therapy. Did I mention he had SPICY CHEETOS WITH POT ROAST?? Yuck.

Someone needs to take the internet away from me.

It's a hopeless, dangerous addiction that gets me into to more trouble.

Currently, there is a rescue Cairn Terrier who needs adopting in my area. Crap. This little 6-month-old DOLL needs me, people. My husband is bugging me about getting her, but I keep telling him we can't because he needs a JOB FIRST. Dogs are expensive, I already have two dogs, I have to work a lot, blah, blah, blah. I know. But it just breaks my heart. I am the ultimate sucker. Jim walks his unemployed ass around the house all day telling Lou & mags they're gonna get a "sister". He gets them all riled up. Then he gets me all riled up. I keep saying no, but I'm gonna break, I'm telling you. As soon as he gets a job, I'm gonna break. He has an interview Tuesday for a good job that he is perfect for. Keep your fingers and paws crossed!!

I smell like a boy today.

For some reason the hand lotion I am using + the perfume I put on this morning combine into what smells like a very pleasant MEN'S COLONGNE. I keep wanting to flirt with myself, and I keep smelling my hands.

In other news, I was in bed all weekend with the flu, and when I was driving home on Friday on the very scary Highway 2 (nicknamed the "highway of death"), this old white van suddenly swerved head-on into my lane. I closed my eyes, swerved to the right thinking "I'm dead" and for some reason (most likely divine intervention), I completely avoided both a head-on collision and hitting the guard rail that would send me straight into the river. I must have a purpose on earth because SERIOUSLY FOLKS, I SHOULD BE DEAD. I walked into the house in shock and told my husband he was talking to a ghost. Then, I took a bunch of NyQuil and went to bed for 48 hours.

Does it even surprise you anymore?

This is the picture that my tax person has on the front of his brochure:



All I can say is, that pup better get me a helluva return this year. I need it BAD. I'm running out of 20$ hair conditioner, my nails need to be done and my car needs to be detailed. (All the dog hair.)

Adding Insult to Injury

As if you're not sick of my whining by now, in addition to all the crap happening to me, Maggie pooped in the hallway today and Louie peed under the coffee table. I almost cried. Almost. Usually I would just flail-about and scream "OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE!", but today was one of those days where I could cry over not enough chocolate in my iced mocha. I really, just really need a happy day. Things are so fricking crazy right now, it's scary. Even the weather has lost its mind. Last week we had an ice storm, and it was in the 20's. Today, we are flooding all over the place and its nearly 60 degrees. 60 DEGREES PEOPLE! IN JANUARY! I'm sure the world will be ending soon, or pigs will start flying.

I have to say, though, as bad as my 2005 is going so far, I still have to be thankful I'm not in SE Asia. I read an article today saying that 225 THOUSAND people are dead, and you know they are under-reporting the numbers. It is estimated that a possible 200 thousand more could die from disease. That is just downright depressing. Makes me want to go hug everyone I know.

Guess what?

CrazyDogMama fell down a flight of stairs. Yep. My ankle is completely messed up and I look like I have many things shoved up my ass when I walk. Last week was just fabulous, let me tell you. Unemployed husband, bruised and battered body, and a new boss. What a stellar start to 2005. Somehow, though, I'm still going to go to my new boxing class on Wednesday. So help me GOD.

Pass the Valium, Please.

Nothing seems bleak when you have a full stash of "happy pills". Everyone keeps asking ME (not my husband) how it's going. Apparently, I'm the high-strung one. My friends understand me, though. Our motto is, "Create your own happiness". I am trying not to self-medicate with peanut butter cups, though. Prescription drugs are much easier on the ass and thighs.

It's going OK. I tend to want to freak out thinking about the situation too much, but truly, there is nothing I can do. I have my husband doing all kinds of projects at home. Fix the vacuum. Take down the Christmas lights. Wash the dogs. Steam clean the carpet. Yep, I have a house-boy. I may even have dinner waiting for me when I get home. *Grin*

Murphy's Law

What happens when you quit smoking, get back on track with eating clean, start going back to the gym 6 days a week and, just basically, start kicking ass?

Your husband loses his job.

Now I just want to lay in bed with a pack of cigarettes, a rum and coke and big stupid bowl of cookie dough.

Well, crap.

So, I went back to work on Monday. I put up my new calendar, checked all my bazillion work-emails and had 6 cups of coffee. In walks the Vice President. He wants to talk to me. Holy Shit. I'm not on the internet, I swear! He wants to speak in private. Oh Gawd. It's only a few hours into my day, in the new year, and he tells me, "I've just laid off your boss". What do you say to that? I just blinked. As my boss packed up his office, I was given a stack of work taller than my desk. I have been told that the company is being "reorganized". Yeah, whatever. I'm a peon here, so I'm not in jeopardy right now. I don't think. I don't make the big bucks.

So, being boss-less, here I write in my blog. I better get to work.

Whoa.

Can you say blog sloth? Yeah, that's me lately. I have just not been in the mood to type or do anything requiring brain power. Not that I use my brain when blogging, mind you. There has not been anything blog-worthy going on anyway. We raked it in at Christmas and have been lazy peanut-butter-cup-eating grumps ever since. I'm throwing out the cigarettes on Monday, (again) and I'm scared shitless that I will gain weight. I have enough weight, thank you.

For New Years, I'm working at the restaurant. (Insert sympathy, here.) While everyone else gets to party, I'm the one serving YOU. Remember that. Remember the next time you go out on a holiday, and you're all dressed up and drinking yourself into a stupor...someone made that drink. Someone is making sure YOU are having a good time. Tip them accordingly. Thank you. Done ranting.

I know I'm in a crappy mood. It's just that my computer crashed, and I have to go back to the other job on Monday (the 10-hour-a-day office job) after having 2 weeks off. It's been great, but the whole going-back thing sucks. One can get very used to doing nothing. Especially me. I'm really good at it.

Happy 2005 to y'all, hope its a great year for you!

He *really* wants to open a present.

I won't let him. Mean Crazydogmama.

Merry Christmas Everybody!

Consider this your Christmas card.

OMIGOD!

For any of you who have been reading my blog for any length of time, will know that this video is SO TOTALLY ME ON THE TREADMILL. You will die laughing. I did.

https://youtu.be/l3keGElnSh4

Just get your coffee and leave me alone.

So, at the coffee machine today someone said to me: "You look tired today." I said: