little_tristan: (Riptide Murray Too Early)
Everything falls apart when I go to the bathroom in the morning. Today when I came back, not only had Willow chewed up the trash, my master monitor had died. I was going to steal the arch-nemesis' monitor long enough to switch control over to the slave, but luck smiled on me. When I unhooked the master, control switched over automatically to the slave. I didn't know that would happen.

The slave monitor sucks a little bit, but it's better than being offline. Or trying to explain to the a-n why I need his monitor, but only for a minute.

Sister and I have been trying to figure out how to get together tomorrow, with her confined to her house and my boys working. She said she'd been told they weren't having dinner because they can't afford the food. Her husband's out of work again and his mother's being a non-contributing leech for the fifth straight year. (At least my soul sucking dickhead nemesis in-law pays rent.)

We don't have time to cook the meal, but I said we could bring pizza and hang out. That's the point of Thanksgiving, right? Hanging out with your family and being thankful for what you have, even if it's Figaro's instead of Butterball? She was good with that. MiL the Hutt was not.

Ensuing conversations in Yahoo chat have escalated the crazy. Now that we're coming over for an hour in the late afternoon, MiL has to climb up on the cross and produce a full Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. This is not a generous act on her part. This is her slaving over a hot stove all day for people she hates so she'll have something to punish my sister with until Christmas. Which is a whole other, but cruelly similar, drama.

The timing will fail, of course, because that's what she does. Always. We'll get there at five, after Russell's worked eight hours, spent an hour getting home, and driven another hour to Sister's, and the food won't be ready. She'll say it'll be another hour or two, and we'll end up leaving before dinner so Russ can get home and go to bed because he has to work on Friday, too. Hopefully McDonald's will be open.

But whether we get to eat at all is irrelevant compared to what she'll do to Sister if we leave before dinner, since she went to all that trouble for us in the first place. I wish I'd never brought it up at all, but Sister gets so unhappy when we miss holidays. There's just no way to save her.

Everyone blames the boys for working but that can't be helped either. They have to finish welding parts for the machine or the orders won't go out and the deal will fail, just like it did before. And our shop lease expressly forbids welding so it can't be done here. The machine has to be on the production line in two weeks and it's not going to be good for much without all these fiddly bits welded together in straight lines. Who knew the electronic designing and software writing were going to be the easy parts? Okay, that's not true. There were no easy parts.

I wish we could stay home and not bother the MiL from hell at all, but I haven't seen my sister since July. I don't want to wait another month.

At least my dentist appointment got canceled so I don't have to go outside. Their portable front door ramps got stolen. I actually have to find a new dentist now. One with a building I can get into. I love these people. They have an all female staff and the receptionist always remembers me. Now I get to go to whatever schmuck happens to not have stairs.

Everyone downtown has stairs. Even the physical therapists and chiropractors. All the good buildings are Historic and immune from current ADA standards. Historically, cripples stayed home. Some traditions just never die.

Oh good. The sky has gone completely black. I need a better look at that.
little_tristan: (Default)
Remember that post last week where I mentioned being surprised by a big gross bug in my Kleenex box? More specifically in the Kleenex I was using? I threw it in the little trash can by my desk and lost track of it. A few days later, the same bug or one like it appeared on my bookcase where I couldn't reach it and there it stayed. Now it's gone. Sounds good, right?

No. I saw the bug on the news today. In a report about the spreading *shudder* stink bug invasion *shudder* that's taking over the state. *shudder* Apparently they're coming inside *shudder* now that it's getting cold. We can probably block the crack under the front door, but it might be too late. You know, if it was female. *shudder*

According to the Dept. of Agriculture, we shouldn't crush them (duh), but they can be safely scooped up and flushed. Or we could bring some chickens in to eat them. Wow. Catch them or buy chickens. Usually Kenny Whiskers handles our bug problems but he's probably not going to be any help with these. At least not more than once.
little_tristan: (Catloaf mini)
First, thanks muchly to [livejournal.com profile] amine_eyes. [livejournal.com profile] birdgirl_1107, [livejournal.com profile] oasis3017. and [livejournal.com profile] barancoire for all the hugs and good wishes. I didn't have time to respond before we left, but it was strengthening. *HUGS ALL*

Anyway, it went pretty smoothly. Except for the foolishment of Oregon's biggest, most important hospital not having anything resembling handicapped van parking. All the parking is underground now with a 6 foot 10 inch clearance, and apparently we have the last van in the state (and Southern WA.) with a 7 foot 8 inch raised roof. They put us in an ambulance bay at first, and then sent us to a garage with "oversized" parking right by the door. It wasn't so bad getting in, but leaving took two guys stopping traffic so Heather could back up and turn around in the single lane before going out the entrance. And I had to load outside because they packed other oversized vehicles in beside us.

And all that is just me avoiding thinking about the hospital itself and how much I hated going back for the first time since my dad died there fifteen years ago. And the brutal unfairness of my beloved Daddy dying at the age of 54, while the arch-nemesis, who is 86 and beloved of none, learned that he isn't nearly as sick as he for some reason told us he was. That whole ticking time bomb, dead before winter thing was bullshit. Seriously. I genuinely believe his doctor gave him the referral to get rid of him and his obsessive questions that can't be answered by anyone who isn't technically Jesus. The OHSU crew told us that not only is the aneurysm not on the verge of rupture, it's not even serious enough to require surgery. Maybe next year. Or the year after. I suspect he orchestrated all this for the attention, and I'm still going back and forth between being pissed off and painfully sad about that.

So, yeah, we wasted a whole day on pretty much nothing. Heather swore she enjoyed it, though. Just for getting away from her kids for a whole day (and her daughter had a school event last night that she was using me to get out of:), and going to Burgerville, if nothing else. And, of course, we found a convenient parking lot where the a-n wanted to get out and smoke in the sun, leaving us the back of the van for getting ridiculously high before continuing on home. Nothing goes with a Burgerville milkshake quite like a big bowl of peace.

The van met my performance expectations, although it definitely drags a little going up the giant hill. But being an after-market conversion, it's overweight and badly balanced, so that's also well within my expectations. It just doesn't like hills. But the old man couldn't praise Heather's driving enough. She was definitely the right choice for the trip. He really enjoyed being treated like a five year old, having her fasten his seatbelt, roll his window up and down (it's powered, but it doesn't work right so there's a trick), help him get his jacket off, ask four times what he wanted to eat, and on and on and on. Honestly, Russell would have knocked him unconscious and hogtied him in the back after the first half and hour but she just kept giggling and flirting and carrying on. What a trooper. She's really cute, and he thinks that's all girls are really made for, so it was a perfect fit.

We got home late and Heather swept the floor and hung out with Russ for a while, to make sure she'd be really late for the school thing, and I spent the rest of the evening trying to decide between waking up and going to bed early. One wouldn't think that riding in a car would be that tiring, but unsecured wheelchairs are sort of like those mechanical pony rides outside the grocery store. They don't want to throw you, but you have to work a little to stay upright. Wears me right out.

However. Thanks to the incompetence of someone at work, much higher than my boys although I don't know who, maybe a supplier even, they didn't have to go in today. The materials they need won't be in 'til tomorrow so there's nothing to do. Although the materials have to be assembled into product and shipped out tomorrow, too, so they may work late. That could suck, but I'm not one to borrow suck so I'm hoping for the best. Point is, I got to sleep in this morning and get up just in time for Criminal Minds. That's how I like to start the day.
little_tristan: (Emergency! Johnny facepalm)
Remember the neighbor with the loud car? The guy who made me so crazy that I wrote a Riptide fic where Murray and Quinlan had a neighbor just like him and destroyed his car over and over until he lost his mind? He's out there right now revving that engine for all it's worth, and I realized that I miss the days when he was our worst neighbor.

Now we have the screaming fighting drunks across the street, the ones with eleven people in a three bedroom house, who've always kind of hated us because Steve used to go over there to drink and complain. It isn't just the fighting and screaming obscenities, or even the lies about what happened to Heather's car that day we came home and it'd been hit. It's that they're actually de-evolving now. Like, full-on Jonathon Coulton, There's a Monkey in the Future for You, de-evolving.

Right now they're in a primitive man state where the males urinate in the front lawn in broad daylight and drag the women around by their hair. These things are true. I've seen them while sitting on the front porch at two in the afternoon. But the other day six or seven of the eleven were outside yelling YUUUPPP, in imitation of that guy (Dave?) on Storage Wars that everyone hates. That's not even primitive man, y'all. That's primates trying to imitate human sound.

And there's nothing modern science can do.

little_tristan: (Christina's World)
The good news is I sold some books! I gave a box to Cousin Heather to take to a craft/rummage type sale she's doing this weekend where people rent a table and sell whatever they want. But before she could get there, a friend of hers who'd read The Bedlam Boys asked if she could get him more so his book club could read it. He bought the whole box and I had to send another with the boys so she'd have some for the sale. (Their work is close to her house, so she can sneak over there and take things from their truck during the day.:) I doubt she'll sell any more, but it's still pretty cool. And if it's not raining, they want me to come speak at the club meeting. Only in good weather, though, as I won't be able to get into the house. Of course I've no idea what speakers do at these things, so I'd love advice from anyone who has experience. Or just good ideas.

I also think I've finally lost some weight, as today I was able to cross my legs for the first time in about 4 years. That was exciting.:)
Cut for depressing shit that no one wants to read )

Oh, and the boys put up a higher door between the kitchen and dining room so Willow can't even see over it, let alone jump it. The a-n still teases her over the door until she leaps for him, but she can't get to him so he can't complain. And the latch is way easier for me to work.
little_tristan: (Volcano)
But I'm feeling a little jerked around today. We scheduled Ranger's overnight stay last Friday, and then today the receptionist, the same one who did the scheduling, called to say it wouldn't work. They have surgery on Tuesdays so the schedule will be packed, and the male tech they'll need to lift her won't be there, so now we're supposed to leave her on Wednesday and pick her up Thursday. (Thursday being a really bad fucking day this week, which I told her, but whatever. That's my problem.)

The thing is, Tuesday is always surgery day, and Gerald's schedule is the same every week, so why the hell did she plan it this way in the first place? If we'd just started out with Wednesday, I could have had a good weekend, at least.

I know everyone needs time off, but I wish the good receptionist could be there every day.
little_tristan: (BBT Sheldon WTF)
The furnace is running. It is very cold. Weirdest summer ever.
little_tristan: (Puppy Willow)
For a while now, Willow's been working toward going outside to do her puppy thing. This means she pees in the kitchen and craps in the library, right outside the arch-nemesis' bedroom door. Of all the square footage in the library, that's her spot. Right in front of his door. It amuses me a little. Especially on days when he steps in it. (I know it's mean, but come on. I don't have much.)

Today he was extra mad, though. So he came up with a brilliant plan: Since the weather's getting better, we can just leave the back door open all day. After all, she's doing it in the library because she thinks she's outside. (Where we keep the rest of the books? I don't know.)

Because I never tire of shouting the same things over and over to a senile egotist who's never actually listened to a female in his life about anything anyway, I reminded him about the holes in the fence, the vast number of things in the patio workshop that a busy puppy could use to commit suicide (am I the only one who remembers Doodle?), and the fact that she can still squeeze under the gate to freedom. But it all fell on (literally) deaf ears. Every once in a while he wanders back in to share more reasons why she'd be fine outside. None of it makes sense. In between the words to and share, he came in and made me open a case of tp for him. When I was done ripping cardboard, he pointed to Willow and said, "I think she's getting bigger". She's more than doubled in size over the last month, but he still says these things (daily!) as if they were profound statements on world events. A totally new take on global warming, perhaps.

I acknowledged that she has, indeed, gotten bigger. To which he responded, "She'll make it." WTF does that even mean? She'll make it where? Under the gate and into the street? Or is he suggesting that her having gone from 9 pounds to 22 means she's now big and strong enough to survive his completely insane plans to minimize his inconvenience? Or perhaps he's determined, based on the fact that I closely observe her outside nine times a day and he ignores her completely unless she's barking, that she's too big to escape the yard. I'll never know. I put up a baby gate to keep her from going down there at all. And if cleaning up after a puppy on an unfinished wood floor is nearly impossible, while the library floor is tile (TILE!), that's not his problem.

And the other day, I figured out why. Whenever someone comments on one of our dogs, Bruder always puts on his Dr. Know-It-All voice and proclaims, "I've had dogs all my life". I don't know what information this is really meant to convey (I've had dogs all my life, so that's why I let my sister-in-law raise and train them for me now?), but being a child of a very traditional family (which always had dogs--I just don't feel the need to announce it to everyone I meet on a daily basis), I inferred incorrectly that this meant his father had dogs. But I forgot the real history. The a-n's wife took the kids and left him when Bruder was about 4 years old. After that, the boys spent vacations with their dad some years, for some holidays, but they lived with their mom. She had dogs. The old man did not. He lived with a dog for a while when the boys were with him as adults, but the dog was also grown.

He's never had a puppy in his life.

That makes me sad for him. Yet glad for all of puppy-kind.
little_tristan: (BtVS Spike Sod Off)
That when you install a new version of Semagic it transfers everything from the LJ server, like tags and icons, but nothing from Semagic itself? Like locations, friends' birthdays, and, you know, saved entries? Good thing no one's holding their breath for that review of A Short History of a Prince, because I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be rewriting it.

But seriously, a little warning would've gone a long way.
little_tristan: (BtVS Spike Sod Off)
It actually makes the opossum thing look pretty good, I think. The story goes back years and years, to when I went to a state agency that helps disabled people find jobs. They gave me a caseworker, D, who got me the interview that led to my only "real" job. We stayed in touch until D moved to the other side of the state. Then I kind of forgot about him until two or three years ago, when he moved into a house up the street and a couple blocks over from me. I ran into him once and decided not to walk down that street anymore. Then, a couple days ago, I ran into him again on a street that I always use, since it has the best curb cuts. We talked for a bit and, since I'm an inherently honest (read: stupid) person, I gave him my real phone number when he asked. Because, you know, old friend.
Click here to find out how stupid I really am... )
little_tristan: (BtVS Spike Misery)
I thought it would just be me figuring out what papers to collect and where to find them. And then when I met the lawyer, she made it sound pretty cut and dried. Long, but not terribly expensive or torturous. She even came up with some stuff that my sister can spend her share on so the state can't take it. (Apparently she'd have 30 days to get rid of it, and a lot of useful stuff is exempt.) And then I happened to mention, just in passing, that my dad died in the same situation that Sister's in now, with Medicaid and all.

So--it turns out that while there were loopholes to protect Mom when Dad died, she was able to keep the house and such, Medicaid can and will make a claim against her estate now for his debt. So the bank account with the actual money in it, the one with no beneficiary or POD, could very well go to the State without ever pausing to be divided between us. The lawyer says there's a small hope based on the fact that Dad's been gone 14 years and Mom only got the money a year and a half ago--an inheritance from her sister. But she also said that we have to fight it in the county where Mom lived, which is a much harder one to win these things in than our county. When we were on the way home, I remembered that Mom filed bankruptcy in 2006 or '07, so I called her back to ask if that would help. Maybe the State released its claims against her then. She told me to bring everything I could find on the inheritance and the bankruptcy, so I get to do that this afternoon, after I see the accountant about my (and her) taxes.

One thing is sure: I'm not going to feel the least bit bad about collecting my representative fee. I think I'm going to earn it.

Oh, and one more thing. POD means Pay on Death. Pick someone out, go to the bank, and put that name on your account. It doesn't make it joint, they can't spend your money while you're alive, and it can't be attached by that person's creditors. It DOES avoid probate by passing the money directly to the chosen person, and not even your creditors can take it from them. Seriously. It's quick, it's easy, and they'll thank you when you're dead.
little_tristan: (Denis Leary)
Actually, I've been awake for a long time. I've officially run out of positions to sleep in that don't inspire unbearable pain, so I read in bed for a while and then got up at one. It's brutally unfair. The Thing That Hurts isn't supposed to hurt when I'm already lying on it, so when it does, there's nowhere left to go. Sitting up doesn't really help, I just feel more in control and better able to cope when I'm wearing my exoskeleton.

Of course I expect to be ridiculously tired in twelve hours, but for now at least I'm getting some writing done. It might even help me finish Les Miserables on time. (No, the irony is not lost on me. It never is.) And later today, I'm calling about the new improved exoskeleton. March is almost half over and I haven't heard from them since December. But I think I might be able to sleep in that chair.
little_tristan: (Daria: Mr. D)
All weekend, Herr and Bruder have been worrying about going to work today. They were supposed to start working split shifts, with one of them running a morning crew, then an overlap from about noon to three, and the other running an afternoon/evening crew. They badly didn't want to do this for several reasons: a) it's a long commute and with both of them driving themselves, it would double our gas consumption without increasing pay; b) Bruder really shouldn't be driving in the dark, and in Oregon in February, almost everyone goes to and from work in the dark; c) they're so co-dependent (a term they actually agree with) that they only really work effectively together. Dividing them doesn't spread the productivity, it reduces it. So they've been pretty upset about the whole thing.

Turns out, though, that they should have been worried about something else. Yesterday they were given such a huge stack of work that takes two people, that only they can do, to keep both of them there all day. The crew will work two shifts, but the boys will have to be there for both. Why? Because they aren't allowed to have charge of any employees who are actually smart enough to learn to change the heads on the manufacturing machines, and they don't have any say in the production schedules, so they can't plan the best way to, you know, produce.

The ex-partner gets the orders and they go through at least three members of the office staff, none of whom actually understand or care about what they're writing down. And they don't get into trouble when they screw it up, the boys do. The numbers get transposed, letter codes get mixed up, truncated, or left off altogether, and when one of the boys catches a mistake (which is hard to do when they don't know what it's supposed to be), they get into trouble for contacting the ex-partner for clarification. They're not supposed to go directly to her, they're supposed to go to the office staff, who, when presented with two sheets of paper that are supposed to say the same thing and yet don't, aren't even capable of understanding why that's a problem. ("Oh, I wrote down 22 DPT here when she said 22 T. So?" "So, DPT and T are two radically different kinds of trays. The customer wanted DPT and we just made nine pallets of T." "So?") These are the conversations they have at least twice a month. The waste of time, soil, and paper that costs $800 a roll is tremendous.

Yesterday the boss, who is also an owner, showed up on the factory floor and lectured them about "not catching these red flags". For some reason, they're expected to know instinctively when they've been given a wrong order, and further, what it should be. But still without checking with anyone. The bosses have been ranting and harassing about stupid shit like this ever since the boys got there, and they've finally started getting angry and yelling back. It's very interesting. They probably won't quit, and I'm pretty sure they're too important to be fired, and that alone might be why the small, petty, partial-owner boss is being such a wanker. He put up money to buy in, but he doesn't seem to serve a purpose. I'm coming to think that he doesn't like people who have actual skills.
little_tristan: (Daria: Jane)
Day 27--What do you remember about yourself as a teenager? What was important to you? What were your dreams?

I was widely disliked and had no actual, real, loyal friends. I had high school friends who hung around with me when there was nothing better to do, but were equally entertained by spreading rumors, picking fights, and just generally selling me out as a joke to anyone who was cooler or more popular.

All that was really important then, beyond taking care of my dad, was reading and writing. But my teachers said I had to go to college to pursue a career in that area, and my family said I wasn't smart enough to get into college, so I didn't really bother to dream about or plan for a future.
little_tristan: (Daria: Mr. D)
I think I posted a while ago about a conflict I was having with a medical supply company over money they felt I owed from June 2009. It's been a complicated and stupid fight, and I surrendered last week after my repeated requests for proof kept resulting in irrelevant pages of invoices, accompanied by handwritten notes in place of statements from insurance companies. They were threatening my credit rating, and there was enough of an air of plausibility to it (in spite of the fact that they wouldn't explain why it took a year and a half to send the bill, or why the initial invoice was for a rental chair rather than repairs), and it wasn't that much money, so I ended up paying it.

Although I sent with it a letter saying that I wasn't happy, that I thought I deserved those answers, that I was insulted by the billing manager's insistence that the invoice said repairs when it clearly said rental ("some months of rental", it said, and that doesn't really translate to "some months of repairs"; especially when it was a one day, while you wait, job), and that I was paying it without getting those answers only because I might have to do business with them again and I couldn't afford to be penalized by them for having made trouble. Insurance companies decide where you go, and Herr's boss could switch companies on us again at any time. And I also made a note about "questionable billing" on the check, in case any proof came up later. You know, so I'd know which check it was when I hit them up for a refund.

So they got the letter, and then I got an email. I didn't read it (although I did stick it away in an email folder in case I need to later) because I hate conflict and I've been sick over this thing long enough. Then I got an envelope from them, with that woman's handwriting on it, and that made me sick again. I let it lie around for a couple days before asking Herr to open it last night. I told him if it was a letter, I didn't want to hear it. Anything else, he could decide for himself if I needed to know about it. It was another copy of the bill, apparently crossed in the mail. I threw it away and figured that was the end.

Then, just now, she called me. Now that I've paid, she wants to know if there are any other papers she can supply me with. Do I still want to see the insurance statements that I asked for five times before I gave up and paid? I said, Look, you got your check, right? Aren't we done? Her response: We just want to make sure you don't go away unhappy. I said it was too late and hung up. But now my stomach hurts and apparently I have to live in fear of follow-up calls. And emails. It might never end.

What the hell's wrong with business people in this country that getting their money, which they may or may not even be owed, doesn't shut them up anymore? It's not like they need my goodwill for future business. It's the insurance companies they need to suck up to for that. And I'm sure they do.
little_tristan: (Losers Don't Start None)
Day 2 - What do you enjoy least about life at the moment?

My arch-nemesis. He's old, he's loud, he makes me keep the heat cranked up to 75 so he can walk around in his underwear all day while my eyeballs dry out and my skin blisters. He cooks awful food and expects us to eat it, leaves the water running in the bathroom and then denies it (even though we're the only ones home and I don't use that bathroom), and throws away important bits of Herr's machine because it all looks like scrap metal to him. And then he steals my Scotch tape. I could go on and on, and I have, and I will again, but for now it's enough to say that if nothing worse comes along, I'm probably lucky.

Um...oops

Jan. 4th, 2011 06:09 am
little_tristan: (Firefly Jayne's Hat)
Last night I realized that all this post-Christmas, New Year's thing means that it's, you know, January. I've been saying that I'd have my book done by January so I could pass it on to my proofreading posse, and here I am, in January, with no book. That June publishing date gets less and less likely all the time. But that's okay, because I don't like my writing anymore anyway. Hey, win-win. I'm going to go read comics now.
little_tristan: (Losers Cougar Silent Tears)
Probably everyone who's interested knows that the lovely and talented Anne Francis passed away last night. Until I read the news reports today, I hadn't put her name together with so many of her fine performances. For instance, I had no idea she was the confused mannequin in one of my all time favorite Twilight Zone episodes. She was a pin-up quality beauty in her youth, and a wonderful actress throughout her career. Eighty years is a good, long life, but that doesn't make it right.

Then I turned to my morning comic strips for cheering up and guess what I found? The Widow Doonesbury in a casket. No illness, no foreshadowing, no warnings of any kind. In the 20 years I've been reading Doonesbury, I've seen Andy die of AIDS, Lacey succumb to Alzheimer's, and BD lose a leg, but at least he padded the blows on all of them. Still, I guess there's never a good way to lose a grandmother. (Favorite exchange ever--Alex: "Is it okay if I call you Notorious Grammy D?" Daisy Doonesbury: "Heavens, dear, I wouldn't know. Is it disrespectful?"")

It was shortly after that that I realized I was out of Irish cream, which is basically what I use for food these days. It was 25 degrees out when I made my first trip to the liquor store at 9:30, just to find out that it was closed. (Oregon has state-run liquor stores with mandated hours, not to mention the whole population limit thing. Our town only gets one because we're small, but at least it's 5 blocks from my house.) I went back at 11 when it opened (30 degrees), and am pretty well buzzed now. That's good. Still a little cold, though. I can't put on sweaters or coats on my own, and since the arch-nemesis demands the heat be cranked up past all toleration, I can't have Herr put one on me before he leaves in the morning. So dickhead's hanging around the house in his underwear, and I'm either sweating to death inside or freezing outside. Did I say my house before? Yeah, that doesn't sound right.

Small bright point? Les Miserables is really engrossing. Can't imagine why I didn't finish it before.
little_tristan: (Sheldon WTF)
Okay, so wheelchairs are like cars and houses. They know when they're going to be sold/traded/replaced. Unfortunately, they lack the complex reasoning skills that would allow them to handle this in a mature, responsible way. Take my current chair. We'll call it Sparky, because it's purple and sparkly and has electrical issues. These issues are new. They started last week. )

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