Stupid Jerk or Brilliant Asshole?

I have a cat. And I absolutely love my cat. She is a wonderful companion and a great source of amusement. But sometimes I wonder if she's just so dumb that she comes across as mean or so brilliant that she's mean on purpose.

When I moved out of my mother's house after college, I was living with my then-boyfriend, who is tremendously allergic to cats, so my cat (Annabelle) really couldn't live with us. So she had been living with my mother in my mother's house. My mother would let Annabelle and the other cats go outside as they wished, so when I moved to my current apartment with Annabelle a year and a half ago, she had to adjust to being an indoor cat. So for the past year and a half, every single time I have come home, I've opened the apartment door, and Annabelle has gone running into the hallway. I throw my stuff inside and chase after her. Most of the time, she just rolls around on the floor in the hallway. Normally, this is only moderately annoying. Sometimes it's even funny. However, I share joint custody of my dog. When my dog is here, the cat not only runs into the hallway and rolls on the floor, but runs straight down the stairs. So I come home from working eight hours, the poor dog needs to go outside and pee, and the jerk cat is running around the building. So I frequently let her continue to run around while I run the dog outside, bring the dog back in, then the dog and I chase the cat around the building. I can't imagine what my neighbors think when they see this spectacle.

I knit. I'm not great at it, but I like it and I do it regularly. I always have a project going. Annabelle is absolutely certain that I took up knitting to provide her more toys. Every day, I leave for work and my apartment looks pretty good. Then I come home to find a yarn maze. I'm kind of upset right now. I just dicked around in Paint to make a shitty representation of the yarn maze, and now I can't figure out how to embed it. Blarg. Oh well. Basically, I come home and find yarn dragged around the apartment. I always thought "Oh, poor kitty. She's so bored, all she has to do all day is play with yarn." Well, one night, I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up in the middle of the night and watched this furry little jerk carefully pick up a ball of yarn in her mouth and trot off down the hall. A moment later, she came walking back down the hall, perfectly calm, with the end of the yarn in her mouth. I watched her walk into the kitchen, dragging the yarn behind her. I watched her walk through the kitchen, into the dining room area. She walked around the table. She walked through the dining room chairs. She walked under the table. I watched her deliberately tie up the kitchen table and chairs with this yarn. So the yarn maze I come home to is definitely one hundred percent intentional and by the cat's design.

My cat's name is Annabelle. As crazy cat ladies do with their cats, I have given her all sorts of silly nicknames. The obvious one, of course, was Anna Banana. The has been shortened to just Banana. Annabelle was six years old and had the name "Annabelle" for all six years before I started calling her Banana. Now she will not respond to "Annabelle." If I want my cat, I have to call "Banana!" if I want any response from her. And she's very responsive to "Banana!" Sometimes I'll be sitting on the couch in the living room and a sad commercial will make me want my cat. She'll be sitting in the bedroom window. I'll call "Banana!" and she'll come running and jump into my lap. That's cool. However, she'll also come running when the boyfriend is here and I ask if he'd like a banana from the kitchen. The worst part of this is when the cat runs outside and I have to chase her. I call out "Annabelle!" and she doesn't respond. But running through the hall of my apartment building at midnight, yelling "Banana!" gets her attention and makes her stop running down the stairs. So now whenever I speak of the cat to somebody who knows me, I just say "The Banana." My aunt and my mother came to visit the other day and I asked if they'd go to the pet store with me, so I could "pick up some treats for The Banana." I've never seen anybody look as confused as my aunt did then.

When The Banana decides I'm not giving her enough attention, she chews on my hair. I've started putting my hair up most of the time when I'm home. This isn't a deterrent for her. It was my weekend with the dog this past weekend. The Banana got jealous of him and climbed up on the back of the couch and proceeded to bite my head, trying to loosen some hair to chew on.

So, I love my cat. She cracks me up. I'm just not sure what to think of her intelligence level. I'm pretty sure she's just an absolutely brilliant asshole. And on that note, I'm going to go play with my cat.

Some Awesome Words/Phrases I've Heard This Week

I've been surrounded by some hilarious people this week and their phrasing for certain things is so brilliant, I wanted to share! So this entry is just a list of some funny shit I've heard lately.

"Chick-fil-Learn-How-to-Fucking-Spell-You-Homophobes"

"Well, that's a barrel of dicks. And not in the good way." (As spoken by a heterosexual male)

"Twat-waffle" (name calling)

"Fucktwit" (also name calling)

Thank you, hilarious people in my life. Keep it up, and I may have a weekly roundup of awesome.

Terminable Offense? I Don't Care!

I once had a job that involved working in an area with lots of caustic and toxic chemicals. Through various federal regulations regarding health and safety, it is a violation to have consumables in the area where we used these chemicals. The area is pretty clearly defined. Most of the store has off-white floor tiling. The "No Consumables Beyond This Point" area has black flooring. Shall I break this down further? Don't take anything meant to be put in your mouth onto the black flooring. No drinks, no food. Simple, yes? This means we cannot take consumable merchandise over that threshold, nor can we take personal food or beverage over that threshold.

I had been finding drinks back in the No-Food-or-Drinks area on occasion. Mistakes get made, so I just mentioned it to the folks in my department. "Hey, I don't think it's anybody in the department" (even though I fucking know it is) "but don't let anybody take their stuff back here." 

So, one day, my relief, who we'll call Andrew, came strolling in, a few minutes late, with an iced coffee. Now, I'm a caffeine addict. I like drinking things. And I don't like wasting money. So I would never tell somebody "Hey, throw out that delicious-looking beverage that you clearly just spent a nice little chunk of money on. No caffeine for you today." If somebody tucked a drink under their register, I would, and still do, turn a blind eye (assuming it's not alcoholic, of course). But I'm not going to ignore and allow things to happen that can levy a $25K fine. Oh, yes, folks, you read that right. Twenty-five thousand dollars for taking food or beverage into this area. So I said, "Hey, Andrew, don't take that back there."

"Whatever." And kept going.

"No, seriously. That's a huge OSHA violation. I don't care at all if you leave it by this register, but please don't take it back there."

"Meh."

"Seriously. If the health inspector were to walk in and see that, it would be a $25K fine. And as your friend, I'm telling you that I don't think our boss would let somebody keep their job after earning the store that type of fine. Or being found risking that type of fine."

"Yeah...I don't care."

So, you just flat-out told your supervisor you don't care if you violate health and safety policies, earn the store enormous fines, and/or get fired? Fucking seriously? Currently, I've been working a second job that I don't give half a shit about, while caring a lot about my current job. But I have also been seeking a better second job and recently found out that I am indeed being promoted. So I am successfully escaping from that job. I successfully escaped from the job I was working at during this story. As far as I know, this kid had not been searching for other jobs. And he's a kid. I have enough work history and enough good references that I could afford being fired one time. I was fired last summer. Less than a year later, I'm being promoted in my new job. He didn't have the history to be able to afford to get fired. He had had one job in the past, which he left on bad terms. He's not going to get any positive references from this job because his attitude was garbage. So let me put it this way: When you have no fucking prospects and are not eligible for unemployment, maybe you should care if you get fired.

Also, asshole, this isn't just a matter of you not doing your job, which you don't, and if it were my decision, your ass would be fired for that alone. You're putting the store in violation of federal policy. You are doing things that could get the store shut down. You don't care if you work? You don't care if you ruin any chance you have of working again? You want your girlfriend to support you forever? Fine. It's your choice to be a worthless piece of shit. But you're *way* out of line doing things that can cause everybody you work with to lose their jobs. Yeah, people make mistakes. I can see "Oh, no, I didn't know that was a huge fine. Let me move this drink." But no. "I don't care if I get fired and take everyone down with me."

And yes, kids, the end of this is that I talked to *my* supervisor. And yeah, it was a write-up. And no, I don't feel bad about it.

Fat Shaming, Part Two!

How fucking sad is it that this has a Part Two?

Just to recap, in case there are any new readers, Hi, I'm Roz, and I have a bit of extra girth. Quite a bit of extra girth. Yes, kids, I'm a fatty. And I'm so very cool with it. I do not feel limited in my activities or my movements, just in what clothes I can wear. I do not have weight-related health problems. I have a tremendous sex life. And I'm cute as Hell.

Yet, I frequently deal with stupid people and their fat-shaming. As you all may know from previous entries, I am required to suggestive sell junk food as a part of my job. I frequently get in response to this "Oh, no I'm watching my weight" or "That's really bad for you," while the customer glares at me. Really? Then I'll pretend I don't see your cart full of beer, cigarettes, and all of that cat food made by that company that refuses to do quality inspections and is well known for poisoning animals yet somehow damn near has a monopoly on pet food, oh, wait, it's because of assholes like you who think my weight (my choice) is a problem but don't care enough about the living creatures you're responsible for to make sure you're not poisoning them (not their choice). Yeah, how's that for a rant?!

The story that I meant to tell, however, is one that some of you may have heard already.

I was recently at the store where I work, and happened be showing somebody an old photo. A coworker, who we'll call Gita, walked by and saw this old photo of me from high school, posing with my sister. Now, in high school, I was a size six (still had some awesome hips, though). My non-American readers, this is what is frequently presented as the ideal size for a woman. Not the practical, most common, or realistic size. That's a twelve, which is really only 3 sizes larger (8, 10, 12). American sizes are stupid. I look at photos of me in high school and I think I looked kind of gross. You could see my individual ribs. I don't mean you could see my ribcage when I was topless. I mean, wearing a low cut shirt, you could count my ribs from my clavicle down. My bra size was 34B. I found an old bra the other day and laughed for about twenty minutes. Today, I don't look like a walking skeleton. I'm not going to share my dress size, but my bra size is 40DDD. So, notable difference. Gita looks at this photo of my sister and me, and asks "Is that you?" "Yep, about ten years ago." I'm not at all exaggerating about this. Her exact words were "What happened? That much of a difference in just ten years?!" and shook her head.

Why in the Hell would anybody think that okay to say to me? Why would anybody think that's okay to say to anybody?!

So, I bitched on Facebook about this, without mentioning Gita's name, just saying "a co-worker." I work two jobs, so I figured nobody would really be completely sure of who I meant. The next day, my workmate, let's call him Shawn, greeted me with, "So, I came into work today, and I saw Gita. And I asked her 'What happened to your face?' She got confused and went to look in the mirror, then I just smashed her face into the mirror. And I said 'What happened to your face? That much of a difference in just ten seconds?!' " Obviously, this didn't actually happen, but damn, did I get a laugh out of it. The kicker is, folks, that Gita's pretty chunky herself (I still think she's very pretty though).

Fat shaming: It gets dumber every day.

You Can All Skip This One

Just don't even bother to read this one. It is 100% me bitching in vague terms. After all, it's my blog and if I want to scream incoherently, guess what I'm going to do?

I asked a friend for advice the other day. About what, you ask? It doesn't matter. It was something deeply personal that I've been struggling very hard with. Basically, in my broad, general, vague explanation, I've been involved in something that is requiring a lot of time and effort. It's something I want to be involved in, but I sometimes worry that it may not be worth it. So, I asked my friend, let's call her Emma, for advice on how to continue my involvement in this. Emma's advice? Bail.

So, let's talk about giving somebody advice to "Bail" on something they're not wanting to bail on.

The answer to "This is important to me, how do I make it work?" is not "bail." What is the answer? Fuck if I know. It definitely depends on what the issue is. But "How do I stay involved in something really important to me?" is not to be answered with "Don't."

The other reason "Bail" isn't a cool answer in this case, is Emma lives quite a ways away from me. It's a solid twelve hours drive time, if you cut through Canada. 14 if you don't. "Bail" is an easy answer if you don't have to stick around to see the fall out. When you contact me every three weeks or so because you're bored at the time and have no idea what I'm dealing with during the time in between, "bail" is really easy to say. However, I have to sit here and deal with the soul-crushing depression of failing at this. And the worthless feelings that come from giving up. And the fact that nobody is fucking here to help me through it.

The moral of this endless bitching? No, it's not "don't give shitty advice." It's don't bother asking for the advice of somebody who consistently gives you shitty advice and doesn't stick around to help you deal with the fallout.

The Responsibility of All People

I live in an apartment building. Based on other buildings I've lived in and/or visited, I'd say it's a pretty normal set up. Multiple floors, four units on each floor. So, on the top floor, each unit has a unit next door and a unit below, then a unit across the hall and one kitty-corner. Like I said, pretty normal.

My neighbor across the hall, who we'll call Garrett, likes to beat his girlfriend, who I'll call Lori. And Lori is a screamer. A very loud, very obvious screamer. I'm not shaming Lori for screaming when her boyfriend beats her. I'm merely pointing out that she is loud and it's very apparent when she's being beaten.

It's not uncommon for me to come home around midnight, and hear Lori screaming. From the entrance. I live on the top floor. As I climb the stairs, Lori's screaming becomes more coherent. "No! Stop! Don't! Please don't hit me!"

Yep. From two floors down, I can hear my neighbor screaming "Please don't hit me!" I usually can't hear the blows landing until I reach at least the second floor. By the time I reach the floor they and I live on, I'm debating if I should break the door down and pound this asshole myself or just call the police. So I go into my apartment, lock the door, and call the police. The police usually show up pretty quickly. Lori is usually still screaming when I buzz the police into the building.

By now, I figure you're all expecting a rant about this dick hole who beats his girlfriend. That's not what's going to happen. I trust you all know why it's not okay to beat your partner. The rant that's about to happen is about the other neighbors in the building. Specifically the neighbors who share common walls (or ceiling/floor in one case). If I can hear this shit from across the hall, you know the downstairs neighbors hear what's going on. You know the next-door neighbor hears what's happening. There's no way in Hell I'm the only person in the building who hears Lori screaming "Don't hit me!" followed by the sound of Garrett hitting her. Yet I'm the only person who has ever called the police.

It's so very rare that I'll bust out religion in any way, especially since I don't practice any religion, but here it comes. The Talmud states that it is the responsibility of all Jewish people to take care of all other Jewish people. My personal philosophy is to remove the word "Jewish" from that sentence. I know, I rage about silly things a lot. Mostly it's for the sake of humor. But if you look closely, most of my raging is about people mistreating other people (that and grammar. And maybe a little bit about Michael Buble, but I readily admit my contempt for him is unfounded and that he seems lovely in interviews). So, let's make that edit.

IT IS THE RESPONSIBILITY OF ALL PEOPLE TO TAKE CARE OF ALL OTHER PEOPLE.

That's it. That's all everyone needs to know about social interaction. So if you hear your neighbor in a dangerous situation, DO SOMETHING! You don't need to charge over there with a baseball bat and physically defend her, but call the police. I can't force Lori to leave Garrett. The police can't force Lori to leave Garrett (though they can press charges on her behalf in my state). But every time I hear him beating her, I'm calling the police so that she has documentation if she ever does decide to leave and press charges. And when the people who in one way or another witness this abuse, how could she possibly feel safe leaving? Nothing says "Nobody will support you" like NOBODY SUPPORTING YOU! Refusal to report abuse is tantamount to saying "You're not worth defending." I find it tremendously upsetting that my other neighbors are okay with ignoring what goes on. Lori is a human being. No human being, no living creature, deserves that. Nobody deserves to be beaten, at all, ever, but sure as Hell not in their own home.

A few more anecdotes about people not giving a fuck about those around them.

I heard a commotion outside a few weeks ago. I got up, went to the window, and saw several fire trucks pulling into the apartment complex, to the building across the lot from mine. I stayed upstairs and out of the way until I saw the firefighters coming back outside and kind of milling around the parking lot. With the crisis under control, I ran downstairs and to the nearest slack-jawed gawker. "What's going on? Do you know if everyone's all right?"

"There's a fire."

"Yeah, I figured that much, given there are five fire trucks. Is everyone all right?"

"It's in that building."

"Yeah, dude, I have eyes. IS EVERYONE ALL RIGHT?!"

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't ask that."

Repeat with three more bystanders.  Okay, at this point, we're not looking at "Ooh, somewhere down the road, Garrett might end up killing Lori. Let's make sure her body doesn't end up in the dumpster." We're looking at "Oh, Hell, somebody we know could be dead right now." Having the information wouldn't change anything. But if our neighbor had passed away, we could be helping her family. I finally found out after talking to the rental office that the fire occurred in the kitchen of an elderly woman and was started by improper use of her microwave and that she was fine.

Another example. My mother is terrified of snakes. Like seriously terrified. I lived about 25 minutes away from her when I received a 2 a.m. phone call of just incoherent screaming. Not even knowing what was wrong, my then boyfriend and I ran out the door and drove over to my mother's. When we pulled into the driveway and opened the car doors, we could hear my mother screaming, and heard the words, "No! No! No, Molly! Molly! Molly, no!" Molly is my mother's cat. We ran into the house and found my mother standing in the door to the bathroom screaming. Then we saw the small snake in her bathroom (the cat had tried to go into the bathroom, and my mother had been screaming to stop her from getting near the snake). I grabbed my mother and led her outside while my then-boyfriend grabbed the tiny snake and took it outside and far, far away from my mother's house. In the driveway, my mother continued to panic and scream, insisting Tom kill the snake. None of the neighbors called the police, or even bothered to look outside. True, most of them were likely asleep when this incident started, but there is no way she didn't wake up somebody. I definitely feel more strongly about this than I do about other incidents of unconcerned neighbors because, y'know, it's my mom. But seriously? Your neighbor's outside screaming for at least thirty minutes and you do NOTHING? NOTHING?! At least be narcissistic enough to be concerned for your own safety and call the police to say "My neighbor is screaming like she's being murdered. Can somebody go check and make sure we're all safe?"

It is the responsibility of all people to take care of all other people. All the time. Any time. Not just when it benefits you to do so.

The Saga of Gulp-N-Blow, Part 2

So, maybe this isn't worthy of a full blog post. Whatever. Something is glitching somewhere, and I'm unable to leave comments on my blog. I tried to comment on an entry from http://selfimprovementmusings.blogspot.com/, too, but had no luck over there either. So you are all now getting an entire post out of what should just be a comment on an old post! You lucky readers, you!

A friend made a marvelous suggestion to me re: quitting Gulp-N-Blow. Confetti. "Here's my keys. Wheee!"