iHate Food Poisoning!

No, I’m not talking about some nefarious Medieval plot to kill a monarch. I’m talking about Hometown Buffet.

I went there with my family today, thinking, everyone will get what they want to eat:
Older kid – fish, fried chicken leg and some crabby patty-lookin’ seafood hockey puck.
Younger kid – mac n cheese, orange chicken, cinnamon bun, regular bun
My husband – enchilada, some sort of Mexican food medley, orange chicken, cinnamon bun, regular bun

Me – I had problems from the start. The plates were dirty…no, not the ones sitting on the side of the tables, waiting to be picked up…these were the so-called “clean” plates stacked next to the so-called “clean” silverware (which is what first alerted me: two nasty forks from the clean bin). I thought, well, maybe it’s just a fluke. I told the manager and he and another worker took all the plates from the stacks I was picking through into the back. I thought all was well.

I ate mashed potatoes, brown gravy and mushrooms. I also tried the seafood hockey puck, only to pass it along to the older kid, who ate it with gusto.

I warned the kids and husband about dirty plates and other dishes.

Going back, I still had some trouble with plates, but found a clean one quicker this time. Then I got some yams with marshmallows melted on top (Turkey-Day Fave!), a leg of rotisserie chicken and an enchilada (which was full of onions – yeck!)

I got a couple of bites into the chicken and noticed how pink was the flesh. My husband, a former cook, said properly cooked chicken shouldn’t be pink. I stopped eating it and took two pix with my cellcam.
I then took the plate to the manager and complained. He gave me my money back – probably hoping I’d go away.

Not so, grasshoppah (if you don’t know what this refers to, watch the movie “Karate Kid” – it’s a good movie with great quotable lines), for, my husband was incensed by what the manager had said (‘we temp our chicken at 160F…’). He knew it was 165. Hell, I knew it was 165F (roughly 74C for those of you reading this from outside the U.S.)!

That’s the minimum temperature to kill the salmonella virus that exists in 60 to 80 percent of all chickens (at least in the U.S. – I don’t have stats for anywhere else at the moment).

So, the pix and a nicely worded complaint have been sent to the health department.

I’ll let you know how that turns out.

This is not about Hometown Buffet in particular (or I’d tell you which one it was…), but for the health and welfare of others who go to any buffet. The world needs to know.

It is truly a noble pursuit—not a quest for revenge (I really hope I don’t get sick…food poisoning is awful: throw up, have volcanic diarrhea, groan from horrible stomach pain; repeat). I just want others to know – all is not well at the buffet: Watch out for dirty plates!

iDislike Being Serious! with Bonus: iHate Stupid People!

Well, not all the time, but, seriously, people are too serious.

I enjoy the odd oddity and the off-the-beaten-path ramble.

I like getting lost! Just ask my kids…they go on lots of “adventures” through neighborhoods through which we’ve never been.

People who stay serious all the time are the ones who seriously irritate me.

Have a little fun, people!

If more people had fun (without harming others…”fun” isn’t defined the same for all) while they worked or whatever, then more people would be tolerable to be around. I think I’m more tolerable to be around now that I have a job that I like. I went back to school and turned around and got a job in my field – journalism. (This is a big-shit deal: Few journalists get jobs in their fields these days…I can almost hear the sounds of job-free journalists scraping their personal crap into a box and leaving with a security escort…) My motto (one of many, which may defeat the purpose of a motto, but that’s that!): Do (for a job) what you like and you’ll be a happier person.  Be a little silly.

Serious people should seriously get a clue about what their seriousness could be doing to their health and well-being. (Not to say there’s not a time and place for seriousness…like when your kid won’t do her school work…)

I don’t like being around two types of people: People who are too serious (about themselves or something—like work or model trains or whatever) and stupid people.

Now, don’t judge! When I say stupid, I mean people who have chosen to be ignorant or who have chosen to flout convention just to flout convention—not because there’s any real cause for it. People who are mentally disabled do not fall into the “stupid” category.

Stupid people examples: People who are shopping in a store who park their shopping carts in the middle of the aisle, as if they are the only ones in the store. Another – people who leave dirty baby diapers in store parking lots—people have to clean the lots as part of their jobs and picking up nasty, stinky, possibly dripping diapers is not—or should not—be a part of it! More more and I’ll leave you alone (for now): People who know from being told that ‘nuclear’ is pronounced noo-clear, but who continue to say noo-cue-lar. If these people are just trying to imitate the current (lame duck! yay!) president, well, then that just continues to prove their stupidity…the man’s hardly worthy of the admiration of his speaking skills. If these people are NOT trying to copy ol’ Dubya, AND they’ve been told the proper pronunciation, then they have purposefully chosen to sound and, in some ways, be stupid. People who choose to be stupid should never spawn and thereby create more stupids.

It really promotes the licensing of parents. And also makes natural selection look really good.

iWant Coffee Creamer!

Thursday – Didn’t sleep well. Big project coming up due. Nightmares about doing work. Take kids to school. Smile warmly as think of coffee waiting for me in breakroom.

Stop. Go in, coffee cup in hand. No creamer. No creamer means no coffee. I’m not a black coffee drinker. I like good coffee, but it has to be creamy!! Drink cola…very unsatisfying. Not enough caffeine.

Friday – Same as night before. Same wind up. Hope the supply goddess has ordered more creamer.

Stop. Go in, coffee cup in hand. No creamer…again. Don’t drink cola. Too much sugar & chemicals. Raises triglycerides. Bad. Cranky all day. Only good thing is it’s ‘casual Friday’. Whee!

Have weekend where I take work home and deal with the raging pile of hormones that is my teen daughter. Have coffee and creamer at home. Yum.

Monday – More sleep, yet still waking to nightmarish work scenarios. Take kids to school. Hope again the supply goddess has granted my wishes and brought more creamer. Surely someone else has complained!

Stop. Get out, coffee cup in hand. Don’t bother to fill it…no creamer again!!! This time, I rage about it – quietly…no need to rouse the ire of the Boss – to anyone who will listen. Supply goddess says, “We’ll put the order in tomorrow.” Tomorrow? I thought it had already been ordered. Who are these people?! Anti-coffee activists in disguised as administrative assistants?? Cranky day. Don’t even get to wear jeans. Day looks up when friend reveals secret stash of creamer in desk. Yum.

Tuesday – Still having nightmares about the project. Wake up with brilliant idea: Bring my own secret stash of creamer! Hope has ended.

Stop. Go in, get coffee cup, look around secretively and mix up my coffee – just the way I like it. Take creamer back to desk. Enjoy coffee. Yum. Better day. Not enough creamer, though. Not enough coffee. Crankiness sets in later. Having daymares now. Can’t even enjoy lunch.

WHERE IS THE FARKIN’ CREAMER, OH ABSENT SUPPLY GODDESS???

It’s at the store…unordered. Will need more ’secret stash’ creamer tomorrow. I’m boy-scoutin’ It’s all good…for now.

ORDER THE FARKIN’ CREAMER!!!

iWant More Time!

I get up every morning, M-F, get the kids ready for school, take them to school, drive to work, do my hair in the parking lot (no time to do my hair whilst chasing children into their school uniforms!) and go to work for nine hours (with an hour for lunch, which is often used for running errands). Then I have to get back in the car and fight “rush” hour traffic to go pick up the youngest kid and then fight that same traffic going back home, usually stopping to pick up something from the supermarket for dinner.

On Saturdays and Sundays, I can’t even sleep in. I’m so into my routine, I wake up at 6 a.m. anyway. So then I have to run more errands or do work at home I didn’t get done at work. I also have to attend to the many needs of my youngest child, who seems to believe that being alone is the worst thing ever. I think she’d even eat Brussels sprouts (her favorite hated food) if I told her that she’d never see people again if she didn’t. She’s social…unlike her sister.

Back to time…there isn’t enough of it. I tried sleeping less, so I could do more, but then I was just crankier and bitchier than usual all day long and to everyone – kids and husband included. It didn’t work out. Sleep is good.

Lately, though, I’ve been dreaming of work, so I really don’t get much rest. (I would say it’s not really dreaming, but having a nightmare…so nightmaring?) Time is eating away at all of us.

Why can’t Americans enjoy their lives more. In Mexico, many people enjoy two hour lunches, so they can eat and then rest and relax before going back to work. Sure, they leave work later than we do, but their stress levels are lower!

I know, I know…I just got through bitching about how I don’t have enough time to finish my work, but still…imagine how much more work a relaxed, yet focused, person could achieve without the stress that makes us all paranoid and ill (ulcers, heart attacks, diabetes, GERD, etc.).

iWant more time. I don’t think I’m alone in that desire.

iDon’t Like Smoke!

I hate it when I’m drivin’ along, enjoying the cool autumn air, when I smell cigarette smoke coming from one of the cars in front of me. I look up and then, yup, I see a hand flop out of the window of some SUV, or even a Prius, and flick ash out the window. Smoke streams out, back toward me. And I have to breathe it.

How is it not OK to litter, but it is OK to use the whole world as an ashtray? Where is the logic in this? Anyone? Anyone? There is none. Tappin’ your ashes out into the street or on the sidewalk or on the ground is the same as littering. Smokers who don’t like to see people throwin’ their Big Gulp cups on the side of the road, but who tap their ashes or, worse, throw their lit cigarettes out the window, are big, fat, ugly hypocrites. It doesn’t matter how pretty or handsome you look on the outside…being a dirty smoker makes you ugly on the inside and smelly on the outside.

Want to know what I think? If you’re a dirty smoker, you probably stopped reading a few sentences ago, but here goes, anyway:

A. Children don’t get a choice to breathe or not breathe the second hand smoke coming out of their parents’ lungs when they smoke while driving. Children in cars behind smokers suffer, too. The smoke doesn’t just magically disappear. Neither does the ash or butt. Second hand smoke kills, people. Drop the comma: Second hand smoke kills people. Children are people, too.

B. Tapping ashes out a window, or worse, throwing the still-smoldering butt into the road, is, in fact, dangerous. Sometimes, the burning butt gets tossed back through someone else’s car window, burning one of the occupants or causing damage to the driver’s car. Sometimes they start forest fire.

C. It is also littering. Like I mentioned before, you don’t like to see trash on the roadside, so why is it OK to toss a butt into the street. Butts, which are not biodegradable cotton, as some fools may believe, take 12 years to break down. And as they do, they leach nasty chemicals into the ground…sometimes into the sand around playgrounds. Take a look around the next time you take your kid to play at a public park. You’ll see nasty-ass cigarette butts around. They’re more common than used condoms in a nightclub bathroom stall. The butts and ash don’t belong in the gutter, on the sidewalk, on the ground or on your neighbor’s porch. Get a personal ashtray—even Zippo, lighter king of the world, makes a portable ashtray.

D. It’s just plain rude. Why would I want to smell your baloney-breath smoky exhale as I travel along, trying to enjoy the breeze? Would you, dear dirty smoker, sit calmly if I walked up and laid a fat smelly fart in your face? I think not, though you think that, since it’s outdoors, I should have to put up with your smoke. I’ve heard smokers complain that somebody’s wearing too much perfume. That’s the pot calling the kettle black (if you squint and squirrel your eyes up while thinking about it, this part makes sense). It’s your right to smoke outdoors and in your car, huh? Maybe not for long, sweet cheeks.

E. People driving behind rude smoking drivers tend to roll up their windows to avoid the stench. Reasonable, I think. But, then it gets warm. What to do? Ah! Turn on the air conditioning, which causes the vehicle to burn more fuel, which ejects more particulates into the air, thereby contributing to global warming. Planet killers!

So, in summary, smokers—particularly drive-by smokers—litter, contribute to the deaths of thousands of children, drive up the risk of forest fires, think it’s their [diety of choice]-given right to blow smoke all over the place while complaining about other people’s smells and, finally, contribute to the end of the world as we know it. Wonderful people. Just wonderful.

The smart thing to do would be to quit smoking altogether, but then, you’d have to be smart. Huh.

iRant

Deadbeat parents should be rounded up, tied to individual poles and their children given the chance to either talk to them or take a leather belt to their asses. If that were to come true, deadbeats who have teenagers would maybe start paying child support and, perhaps, send a postcard or birthday card here n there.

My ex has been MIA for going on nine years, now. Our kid was 6. Do the math – come on, public education at least taught you how to add simple numbers. Yep – she’s a teenager. She’s hormonal. She’s smart. She’s angry. She’s pretty much full grown and strong as an ox. [Insert choice of diety here] help him if she gets to him before the cops find him.

Yeah, I said ‘the cops’ – he’s wanted for skipping out on a plea deal. All this idiot had to do was stop smoking dope, pee in a cup once a month and get on with his life.

But nooooo. He had to get high. All or most of his money goes to get high – guaranteed. I have no knowledge of his current location, but he’s been stuck in the same gear since high school: Stupid. He only works enough (and usually under the table) to pay what rent he has to pay, what food he eats (most likely Spaghetti-Os, which, as I’m sure you know, is a trademarked name. Spaghetti-Os surely did not have anything to do with this asshole’s life choices, just so that’s clear and I don’t get sued), and the drugs he ‘needs’. He probably occasionally drops a bundle on gambling – another addiction I never could understand. 

He’d gamble our rent money away when we were still together. He stole from his brother once when he said he felt he could make it all back and more at the casino. I think the brother knew he was taking money – he left his wallet on the coffee table when he went to the bathroom – who does that? 

My problem with this guy – aside from the thousands of dollars in child support he owes me, the hell he put me and my kid through in court and more – is that the fallout is now coming down on me.

My teen argues with me all the time. She strikes back verbally and with malice. She neglects to do simple chores. Doesn’t do her school work. She’s spiraling down and it’s all his fault.

Now, I know that nobody can make him be sober. He has to want it. I’ve told my kid that. She gets it – intellectually. But, I’ll tell you, my fine reader, that if she meets up with him somewhere, he’d better hope she’s not armed.

The fallout from not paying child support is one thing, but abandoning the child creates a world of inner hurt in that child that cannot be put to rest with soothing words. She’s not having nightmares. She’s living them. Nothing I can say or do will make her better and for that, I hate him. 

So, deadbeats of the world, I hope you all suffer. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, but I do believe that somehow, the universe brings it all back into balance. Watch yourselves, deadbeats, or the universe will knock you on your ass one of these days.

I’m back…new design…new name…same nasty, yet educational, attitude

I know…the name’s probably out there on somebody else’s blog, but I don’t care. That’s the “bitch” part.

The “i” part is 25% play on all things named “iSomething,” 10% play on a kids’ show and 65% that it’s all about me and my opinions about whatever the hell I think needs to be said on any given day.

There’s no “i” in “team.” Quaint, obvious and overused.

There is no team here. There is only I.

What you think, What I think…do we really care?

Do you really care what I think?
Do I really care what you think?

You must care, because you’re reading this. Maybe you care merely because you’re looking for some sort of entertainment, but you care.

I must care, because I allow commenting on my blogs without commenters being required to be registered and logged in. I seem to want to know what you think about what I say.

We like to think we’re aloof and untouched by what others think…but it doesn’t really work that way, like if you’re overweight a bit and constantly pull your shirt straight, so it doesn’t get stuck between folds of skin and make you look less good enough for the world, say.

We are social animals and that’s just the way of it. Those of us who manage to live without human contact can have it. I may not like crowds – the masses of idiots roaming the malls of America like herds of wildebeests really inspire my ire – but I desire human contact on a daily basis. So do you – this is human written, after all. Dogs can’t type.
That’s just the way things are.

Ethics – Who cares anymore?

I do, but I’m afraid I might be in the minority. People want everything fast, fast, fast, not right, right, right, these days, though there no doubt will be someone who vehemently disagrees with my post.

Take for example when you go through a drive through window at, say McDonald’s. You order a cheese burger without onions, fries and a Coke. What you get, which you discover back at work, is a cheese burger with onions and a Diet Coke – yech. Me, I make it known when people screw up. First of all, I check my order in the parking lot so I don’t have to go back if it’s wrong, but for the sake of this example, say I drove all the way back to work and, yes, I would turn around and go back to make them fix it. If I had no time before I had to be back at work, then I’d call them and explain how deeply unhappy I was and hope they try to make it up to me by sending me free food coupons.

My brother in law, however, would not do this. (He wouldn’t have asked for a special order in the first place – thinking it’s stupid to expect your food to be made the way you want it, but let’s ignore that for now) He would sigh and then just eat the burger as-is, without even scraping the nasties off his bun. He’d also drink the Diet Coke, which he finds repulsive. He doesn’t want to make a scene. He just accepts what comes, instead of pointing out the mistake to the McD’s employees.

Now, you, dear reader, may think this all inconsequential, which, in the large scheme of things, is pretty much correct, but think about this: If you never correct the mistakes, will not the mistakes keep happening? Won’t orders go on being done wrong? People won’t be happy with the food they paid too much for, and they’ll eat it in mute frustration.

I say, tell the cashier when it’s wrong. That way, they have motive to get it done right the first time, because, when the boss comes over and asks why there are so many throw-aways in the bin from food coming back wrong, that employee has to explain what happened. The boss sees his company’s bottom line wavering and does something to correct it.

Why is this important, you ask again? I’ll tell you: this scenario works for many things, from child rearing to journalism to diplomacy. If they don’t know it’s wrong or offends, then it’ll just keep happening. You’ll end up with a burger you hate, kids who run wild without direction, unconfirmed “news” from untrained blogsters, and a country that invades other countries because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Think about it.

Let me see your parent license and registration…

No. Not a typo. People should have to get a license from some responsible agency before being allowed to procreate. It’ll slow the population explosion. It would prevent most child abuse. See, you’d have to prove that you a) are not an idiot, b) have taken parenting classes to prepare you for the immense responsibility that is raising a future citizen of the world and c) have more than an ounce of common sense.
Reasons for my position are simple and should be instantly recognizable: Britney Spears and the driving with her baby on her lap incident; George Foreman and his six children, all named after him; and Paulette Lynn Spears, a Vancouver woman arrested for drunk driving recently who actually bit her son to get the cell phone away from him during one of the several times he called 911 because he was frightened by his mother’s behavior.
If those examples don’t at least make you pause and consider my idea, then maybe you’re one of the dumb bunnies who shouldn’t be multiplying.
Cheers.