The bitter taste of furlough...

Confirmation came last week that my office, along with quite a few thousand other DOD employees, will take 11 furlough days, 1 day a week, starting July 8th. That's a 20% pay cut for 3 months... during the time of year when outdoor concerts, happy hours, road trips, weddings, and long anticipated vacations require additional funds, not less.

With this rather unsettling, but not altogether surprising news (as if Congress and Obama were going to spontaneously get their act together and protect those hard working, middle class citizens that have done NOTHING to deserve this fate... HA!), I've found myself rather bitter about my decision to leave my job in WW, a job that I was DAMN good at, with an awesome boss and an office that is NOT getting furloughed, all for the opportunity to do something and live somewhere different.

Yeah. Genius move on my part.

But the more accepting I become of this situation, the more I'm actually looking forward to the silver lining of 4-day weekends and the occasional mid-week day off. More time to focus on my health and fitness or do fun painting projects I've been wanting to do for months. More time to read the foot-tall stack of books on my nightstand or go exploring the many parks in the city with the Bandido.

OR more time to focus on my skinny wrap business so I won't have to worry or even think about the 20% pay cut. :-)

But until I can guarantee that my shopaholic syndrome and fear of missing out won't completely cripple my finances come July, or that my wrap business will be able to bridge the gap between stingy and comfortable, I'll be preparing for the worst, cutting coupons and socking away every extra penny I have to help cushion the blow.

Who knows - maybe this is all just a big show of political bravado and all my contingiency plans and worries will be for nothing.

But probably not.

Poo. Crap. Duece.

**Disclaimer - if you're a wuss about natural bodily functions, well... then I'm not exactly sure how we're friends.**

Poop.



This is actually a label I made (thanks to my Mr. Labelmaker) and have displayed on my desk at work. Poop is funny!

Why is it so taboo to talk about poop?

It's just poop! We all do it. Can't really avoid it (unless you live on sugar water, in which case, you have other, more serious issues. Like you're probably a diabetic. Or a butterfly).

Some folks will wait until the bathroom is completely empty before letting one go (for fear the super judgemental people in this world will...what? Judge you? *gasp!*).

Or what about the people that avoid pooping in public restrooms altogether and will instead go all the way home to do it in private. What if you're out somewhere and you REALLY have to go and you're nowhere near a safe, private toilet, and there's a line for the restroom 20+ people deep and there's no way you can get in and out without anyone seeing or hearing you? What then?

What about the phantom poopers who are never seen going to the bathroom EVER, but will leave a little gift for the next user. Those are the BEST.

But then there are those incredibly uninhibited poopers that just don't give a flying rat's ass. All conversations with these people eventually digress to talking about poop. Individuals that actually have classifications for the different "types" of poops.

For example:

- The Holy Sh*t - a poo that is SO big you just have to take a picture for documentation and gloating purposes (usually these people send this photo off in a text to their friends, beaming with a sense of accomplishment).

- The No-Wiper - On the last day of summer vacation, after you've had your last "real" meal (before the school cafeteria sludge begins) - the planets align and everything comes out solid and you're left completely wipe free.

The rarest kind are the battle sh*tters that actually revel in the thrill of making everyone else gag from the sound and smell of their triumph on the porcelain throne.

Admit it - you wish you had someone to battle against.

;-)

-slr

Fond memories

I've found myself thinking about my grandma today (for no specific reason), and what an incredibly amazing woman she was. I'm always telling people that her favorite saying was "If you rest, you rust." Wiser words were never spoken and I can only hope that when I'm old and wrinkly that I'm even half as determined and full of life as she was when she passed away more than 15 years ago.

Some of my favorite memories are of bringing stray or wounded animals home with me and taking them to her to fix them up (mom and I lived right next door. It was like the best thing ever). She was a Registered Nurse during one of the wars (not sure which - she was old and I was young so at the time I thought it was probably one or both of the World Wars), so for me as a 6 or 7 year old that meant that she could fix anyone or anything that was sick. And all those animals (Mostly cats. There was one squirrel) would then hang around after she had done her medicinal magic (which usually consisted of a little H2O2 on a cotton ball to whatever ailed them (because that shiz cures EVERYTHING!) and a little TLC.) The best part is they would trail behind her when she walked down the street to a friend's house and wait for her in the yard until she came out. On days when I wanted MY cats to do the same thing (who, btw, absolutely LOVED her and only tolerated me), I would drag one of my 2-4 cats down the street on a leash hoping they would finally see that I was just as cool as she was. After a few years of that, I eventually gave up the hopes and dreams of having a harem of felines willingly following me everywhere like my grandmother and the Egyptians.

She would also get me ready for school every day. She would sing me awake and make me toasted PBJ sandwiches cut into quarters for breakfast EVERY morning. And then she would walk me to the bus stop (her harem stayed behind so as not to encourage me and my fragile psyche). She would wait with me and my friends until we were picked up for school, and then of course she would be there in the afternoon to pick me up.

Every. Day.

She was also the reason I made it through 10 years of piano lessons as a kid.

My grandma taught herself how to play the piano as a kid using her lunch money to buy sheet music. She was so good that she could play ANYTHING on the piano (or the organ) after listening to it just once (seriously. Anything) and I always insisted that she play something before and after I practiced (I always practiced at her house because I couldn't be trusted to do it at home. Hello? I was 7). I was mesmerized watching her fingers glide over the keys with the most amazing precision, just barely touching each one as she played. One of my favorites was this little gem...

I cry when I hear this song. I can see her at the piano and hear her singing the words (in her shaky old lady voice) and I think of how lucky I was to have her (living right next door!) for as long as I did.