Blink

I'm not buying the car.

Please re-surge the good vibes. Thanks.

Apparently, when the girl listed the car as "totally clean and sound! Just a few bumps on the back bumper!" she was either a)lying or b)an idiot. I'm going with the second one.

I told her I wanted the car inspected to see if any major mechanical work needed to be done, and that I would pay for it. She agreed. We also signed an agreement stating that if there was any major work that needed to be done, we would adjust the sale of the car accordingly.

She calls me with the results of the inspection, and says....

"I'm not really mechanically inclined, so i don't really know what this stuff means, but the timing belt needs replacing, the valve gasket covers are leaking, the water pump needs to be redone, one of the blades on the cooling fan is broken, the serpentine belt needs to be replaced and the coolant flushed. Call me!"

So I do. In a panic. I, also not mechanically inclined, but not an idiot, understand that the aforementioned things equal 1)Serious money and 2)I'm not paying this much money for a car that needs that much work.

So I call her. I explain that this is bad. That I will not buy the car unless these things are fixed.

She tells me she will replace the timing belt (apparently the only thing with an exclamation point next to it on her notes) and that's it.

I tell her I'm sorry, but I cannot buy this car for that price and need to get all that work done.

She tells me she will split the repairs with me.

I tell her, NO, she won't.

She tells me she will come down $900 in price.

Nope.

She then proceeds to start crying. (She is using this money to go to china in like, a week. Who doesn't sell their car for trip money until a week before?)
She can't afford the repairs, and she can't afford to take less than $900 off the price.

Sorry.

I tell her I understand, and that I truly am sorry. I genuinely want this car, but it is not feasible.

THEN! She gets mad.

"I just really wish I had a head's up. If I had known this car needed to be in perfect condition for you to pay full price for it, I would have shown it to other people."

Silence.

"I'm just being honest.", she tells me.

"You do know that you advertised this car for being in perfect condition with all the maintenance records up to date, and all services needed had been performed, right?", I tell her. "You do know that isn't the truth, now, right?"

"I'm in a real pickle (she actually said pickle.) now, that's all."

I told her that I would still pay for the inspection, which in my mind is fair. She then took my mailing address and hung up on me.

No Jetta for me.

Oh well. Such is my life. Nothing can be easy. I guess it's off the the Auto Mall, (also known as "The Eighth Circle of Hell") to go shopping. Kill me.

T's sister is getting married this weekend. T's car is dead, dead, dead. Bye Bye Jeep, it's been good knowing you. Sigh.

I'm not going to California for my vacation. I'm going....somewhere we haven't decided on yet. Car shopping, probably.

I hate my job and all things involved with it. So there.

Consider yourselves updated!

Ta-Da!

Oh, so that thing I didn't want to jinx myself over?

never fear, my darlings, here it is.



As of today....My new car. (Your good-vibe-oozeage worked! Thanks, guys!)

Oh, and the best part? It's a TDI. 50 mpg.

I pick it up next weekend.

Start thinking of names!

50+what?

I really, really wish that the payroll office at my job was not filled with morons.

Really.

Again with the missing hours! Again with the missing paystubs! Again!

Sigh.

Its a long story.

Hey--everyone needs to cross their fingers and wish me luck on the endeavour I am taking tomorrow--I don't want to jinx myself, so I'm not mentioning it.....yet. But I really, really, really want it to work. REALLY. Totally fucking awesome.

So ooze me some positive vibes, peeps!

The Unspoken Word

Some of you may know this.

A one-way-ticket to making me incredibly angry is to put words in my mouth, and then use them against me. Just putting words in my mouth will make me angry, actually. I am a very....outspoken person, usually, and won't mince my words--I say what I mean. Therefore, when someone takes those words, adds to them, and paints me as an asshole or attempts to 'guilt' me with them, well, it doesn't sit well.

Add in the fact that I finally have some time off without family, and I am fucking sick as hell with some tummy bug (damn you, tummy bug!) and your final result is....well, this post.

I have made it plain to both offending parties (Indeed. Two completely separate people, two completely separate instances, both yesterday, just what I need.) that this shit ain't gonna fly.....

And yet, it continues. The histrionics, the manipulation. Kill me.

One, of course, is my mother. surprise surprise!

Mom called me yesterday, and says to me, "I need to ask you something, and I know you're going to say no." (then why ask?)

"I need you to come here and help me pack and then drive to where you live." (approx 700 miles from where she is)

My response?

I burst into tears. I feel like SHIT--I'm sick, I'm tired, my fucking dad just fucking died, I have to do all this shit in regards to that, I didn't work for two weeks so I don't have any goddamn money, I have to work as much as I can because I'm taking a week off for T's sisters wedding, and the idea of going there and dealing with her (especially in a motor home. With three cats in it, as well as mom) just....well, I couldn't handle it.

Do you think hearing her daughter sob would be enough for her to say, "Oh, no, honey, don't do it. I understand, totally, that you have too much on your plate right now."

No.

She gets nasty, whilst I cry. "I'm not going to BEG!", "I know you don't want me there!", "Why can't you do this? I haven't seen you for so long!" and on, and on, and on, with the guilt.

I cried some more. Told her all of the aforementioned things. Told her that I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, that I would help her if I could, but I just can't right now.

Suddenly, her tone changes. Cold. (this is common when mom doesn't get her way.)

"I never get what I want! Never! How am I going to do this by myself?"

(Aside: There is no fucking way in hell that I would do this with her, even if I was healthy and all the other crap was going on. I went back there just over a year ago to help her pack because she was moving, and 'help' turned into T and I doing everything while she drank was was awful. She will just sit there and do nothing except get wasted and be abusive--and if I give her an inch she takes a mile. If I were to do this for her, she would want me to go back with her in the spring, go to Arizona with her after that, and of course, spend my own {nonexistent} money to get back. But I really don't want anything bad to happen to her.)

The crying continues, and she realizes that badgering is not making me mad, or change my mind, so she caves. She is kind again, and gets off the phone.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rings again. I answer.

"Oh. I was just going to leave a message."

Seriously? I was here 20 minutes ago, did you really thing I got my sick ass out of the house with no car in that little time?

I ask her what she needs.

"I want you to forget that we had that conversation. Forget that I even asked you. I am not going to be HOMELESS, so there's nothing for you to worry about."

Homeless? Who said anything about homeless? I ask.

"You!"

Wait.

Oh, nope, wasn't me, sorry.

"You did too!" (she does this a lot.)

Now, well, now we're fighting. I'm PISSED, now, that she is doing this. How dare she treat me like this? How dare she play down my fathers death and make it all about her? how dare she manipulate me now, or ever? Sure, I shouldn't have risen to the bait, but, well....I'm fallible.

I laid it out for her. Not that she listens, she just talks over the top of you.

"Mom, it's not all about you. I didn't say that you were going to be fucking homeless, and you know it. Stop making me out to be the bad guy--stop looking to me for someone to blame when you fail. You should have planned this out when you bought the fucking motor home. Stop taking the blame away from yourself in this being 'not your idea to ask me', its bullshit. You expect me to treat you like an adult when you continually act like a child, and yet you treat me like a piece of shit in return. I'm over it."

She yelled some, and I hung up.

This morning (I'M FUCKING SICK! HOW MANY TIMES TO I HAVE TO TELL THIS WOMAN THAT I AM SICK, THEREFORE SLEEPING, THEREFORE DON'T FUCKING CALL ME BECAUSE THE PHONE WILL WAKE ME UP?), bright and early, (7am) she calls and leaves a ridiculous message on the answering machine, babbling, and then at the end she says (AND I QUOTE!)

"Forget that I asked you. I have lost too much, I won't lose my kid too."

How sad. She lost me long, long ago, and doesn't know it.

I asked her, once, a while ago, if she knew anything about me. My favorite food, color, what my most treasured possession was.

Nope. No idea. No idea what I want to do with my life, no idea about the ins-and outs of T's and My's relationship, whether or not we have a good relationship, what our plans are, what kind of car I want to drive...nothing. I don't think she cares.

Is that normal?

Freedom

For the first time in three or more years, I can do anything I want and not have to worry about anyone else.

I can go to California in two weeks, and not stress the whole time.

I can go to T's sister's wedding, and have a great time.

It's totally foreign to me--Being able to go somewhere without telling anyone first, seeing if they need anything, telling them when I will be back. A life lived for myself.

My mom is now giving me the silent treatment because I won't give her another car.

Whatever. She's a child.

Insomnia!

It's really getting old, this not sleeping bullshit. Especially since all the condos around me have been rented by families with gaggles of children under the age of ten who wake up and begin shrieking (who knew the human voice could go so high?) between 7-8am. Kill me.

In response to the comment on my last post--Yep, Brian, it's you who lives in Rochester, NY and reads my blog. I'm on to you! ;) Also, I don't know where the parents of that child were. I do know that the grandparents were on a boat, staying in the marina in front of our restaurant, and I assume the parents were there. Who knows.

I think perhaps enough time has elapsed since my father's passing to fully extend to you all the behavior of my mother, the "Last Man Standing", since then.

My mother is insane.

My mother is an alcoholic.

My mother is selfish, manipulative and cruel.

With these things in mind....

Mom hated dad. I assume she loved him (or his bank account) at one time, as she was married to him for over a decade and had a child with him. (A child she snuck upon him, actually. I got the whole story from my sisters, finally, and found my parent's divorce papers, so I now know who said what and why and so on....Interesting.)

Mom hated my dad, hated the fact that I 'abandoned' her to come here and take care of him. (Granted, that's not what happened. Yes, I took care of dad, but not until I had been here a year or so.) She hates me because I refused to take any more of her shit, give her any more money, or allow her to abuse me.

When dad died, and I told her, she cried. I was confused by this....but she cries all the time anyway.

For the first few days she was great. Supportive, kind, she listened, expressed concern for my well being.

That has since ended.

It's now all about her. (as usual.) "I have two dead husbands!", she cried.

"I have two dead dads.", I responded.

"Your father's death just shook me up! It keeps bringing back all these terrible memories for me!" (she now tells me all of them while sobbing, smoking, and pausing to crack another beer. {Aside:My mother is doing the "its only beer! It's not real alcohol!" justification route. Sure, mom. I'll sit down and drink 40 Cokes while you drink forty beers and we'll see who's doing better at the end.})

"You had the service, what are you still sad for?"

Mostly she just talks, and talks, and talks, and rages on and on about how horrible I am to her. How I obviously don't love her because I am not back in that infernal hellhole where she is, since dad died. (she seriously thought that my first action after watching my dad die would be to jump in the car and go take care of her. Again.) About how she is going to move here now, whether I like it or not. How I am irresponsible, mean.

She talks and talks, and I say literally nothing. NOTHING! She's just babbling, she doesn't care who to.

I wish I had a family.

I have sisters, sure. But they aren't really my family. I do have my cousins.

But it's not the same.

I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself. My step dad, whom I loved more than anyone, gets shot. My father, with whom I had just recently began to foster a good relationship with, dies in front of me. My mother, who I do nothing but fight with disowns me (this is my 50th disownership, btw. Consistent, that woman.) and then acts like nothing is wrong and demands things of me that I will not give her. Oh, and she told me not to marry T.

(in her mind, if I get married, she is no longer my #1 priority. And if I get married, I will probably have kids, and then she isn't even in the top 3. What she doesn't understand is that for the first fucking time in my 25 years on this planet, I AM MY #1 PRIORITY.)

It's just exhausting, depressing.

I am really trying to not let my distaste for this woman spill over on to other people that I know. Let me clarify that--

Anyone who drinks to excess.

My mother has instilled a burning, seething hate for alcoholics in me. Even if someone closer to me than anyone else drinks too much--I feel that seething for them.

I try to hide it.

People can make their own choices, and I cannot and should not judge them for that. If you are an adult, you can do pretty much what you want within the confines of the law here in the USA and no one can tell you different.

Which is why I hide the seething. I get so. So. SO upset with T if he drinks too much--even if he drinks just enough to smell like alcohol. I don't want him to kiss me, sleep in the same bed as me, anything, if he smells like that. It repulses me, and I feel fucking guilty as hell about it--I love him--he IS my heart--He isn't doing anything wrong, nor should he have to change the fact that he has a few beers from time to time because I'm neurotic.

I have some wine now and again, but I don't think I have been intoxicated in a long, long time.

Double standard, much?

As I have said before--You can't push your morals onto other people--you will always be disappointed.

Sigh.

One For the History Books

So, while I was away from work, I missed some very interesting shit.

But I have witnessed a HISTORY MAKING MOMENT since my return, dear readers. All 4 of you.

Vomiting Grandpa.

Oh yes, you read that correctly. Vomiting Grandpa.

Something like this has only happened ONCE in 12 years--and it was not even close to the same scale. (the restaurant I work for has been around since the early sixties, but the employee who has been there the longest has been there just over 12 years, so that is where we take our history lessons. So there.)

The first story went something like this.......

A local 'celebrity', of the time, it being the mid-nineties, (she was a real estate agent. And a 'Celebrity'. Do you see what I'm saying about where I live?) was meeting with a retired member of the NBA team for the city closest to us. He was interested in purchasing a home here, and she, by God, was going to sell it to him. Well, they meet. He is a kind, polite man who poses for pictures with the servers, compliments and tips the kitchen personally, and who was about to be horrified beyond his wildest dreams.

See, Local Celebrity Real Estate Agent is nervous. So she has a cocktail. And then another. Now, they are sitting in a bar, so this is alright. And another. And another. (you see where this is going.) In the middle of her show-stopping, career-making dinner with a REAL celebrity, this woman proceeds to vomit directly into the heater. (Oh, and did I mention it was February?) Vomit. Everything she has inside her, shoved out with the force of her desire to sell that home--into the heater.

The retired NBA player? He stood up, took his coat and walked out. Didn't say a word.

The Real Estate agent? She moved to another state.

And now....To Vomiting Grandpa.

Earlier this week, just before the dinner service/Happy hour (Aside:Fuck off, Happy Hour. I really, really hate you, with everything I have inside of me. I could give a shit that business is up 35% from last year--I hate you.) changing of the watch (Read:Changing of the watch equals more servers arrive. Like anyone gets to work a half shift! Ha! I worked 13.5 hours yesterday!), a disheveled, grossly overweight man walks in. He had been in a few hours before, and had ordered several shots of Jose Cuervo gold with a Pale Ale back. (yuck.) He didn't drink enough to appear intoxicated, and several hours had elapsed since his departure, so no one thought anything of serving him again. Only this time, he has his two year old grandson with him.

Let me paint the picture for you. This man would have fit in perfectly in the town where my mother lives. (everyone but the kind soul who reads this from New York understands.) He is wearing stained sweatpants, a torn and similarly stained tshirt, falling apart sneakers. His grey hair is uncombed and dirty, his beard is equally as unruly and is stained yellow in parts. Yummy.

The child is adorable, but a brat. The kind of brat that has been made a brat by being raised by parents who were raised by this man described above. Neglect, alcoholism, no boundaries, etc. And he is two. (Now, I understand that just because people are wearing dirty clothes and don't wash their hair that they may very well be excellent parents. I know several people that fit this description that are fabulous parents. However, let me finish the story and you will understand why and how I came to make that judgement.)

As this dynamic duo arrive, so does our new LEAST favorite server, B, who happens to be a guy. (Lots of Parenthesis this post. Anyway, this guy is super nice and really fun, but he's totally lazy and only took this job because he wants to be an actor and thinks that all actors were at one time waiters, so.....yeah. Makes sense to me. Wait.....No.)I announce to him that it is his table, goddamn it, as he normally comes to work and sings for at least an hour while doing nothing else but occupy space, and this way, well, he's doing SOMETHING.

Thank you, sweet golden fleece diapered baby Jesus, for letting him take this table.

I have a table, as well, and they are the only other people in the restaurant. They are a very sweet retired couple on vacation--total perfect grandparent types. They are on the opposing end of the floor, facing this man.

Vomiting Grandpa is actively taking part in a parenting strategy I like to call "Barking". He sits, never moving, while his grandchild runs rampant through the restaurant, screaming, yelling, damaging things, going behind the bar (!!). Instead of getting up and speaking with the child about how we stay in our seats while in a restaurant, that this is not the playground, that he could be seriously hurt here, that one of us could be seriously hurt were we to be carrying a tray and trip over him, he sits there like a toad and alternately swears/yells/snaps his fingers at the child.

Nice.

Anyway, he orders a coke for the child (coke????He's two! ARGH! Why not give him a cigarette and a miller high life while you're at it??) and yet another shot of Jose and a Pale ale.

The barking and drinking continues. He orders food for himself the child, who is now being babysat by two servers. His food is delivered, the child returned, and they eat.

I walk to my table, and clear a plate. As I am walking back, I look at his table. Suddenly, it looks like the man is spitting his food out onto his plate....(this happens more than one would think, actually)....Wait, no, that's not spit...Oh, Jesus, did that man just puke? Oh, GOD! He barfed! On his plate! Not a lot, but....Yep, that's vomit.

I put the plate down, trying mightily to quell the urge to vomit as well and wipe the look of abject horror off my face. I walk into the break room, where the other servers are.

"B, the man at your table just vomited into his plate."

"WHAT?" is the collective reply of everyone else.

"He barfed. On his plate. He fucking puked!"

"Is he ok?", asks the lead server.

"I don't know! I didn't stop to look! He barfed! I saw him do it!"

It is about this time that we hear the "UUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHAAAAAAAA........splat" of him vomiting for real.

All over himself, the table, the floor. The vomit is creeping slowly towards the child.

Now, I cannot HANDLE vomit. I can if I have to, if someone is in dire need and I love them, small children, etc., but I seriously could not handle this. Tequila, beer, cheeseburger, french fry vomit.

C, another server and I, are standing in the pass way between the bar and the restaurant, trying not to gag. B goes over, pulls the child, who is now yelling "Mess! Mess! Mess!", away from the table and rivulets of his grandfather's vomit, and begins to mop up the mess. The man makes no explanations or apologies. Does not go to the bathroom to clean up. Just sits there and watches this happen.

I realize I have to get the check to my table. I also realize that in order to do this, I will have to walk past the vomit fountain, and will then vomit myself. I look back towards my table, and they make eye contact. They are equally horrified.

The kitchen has now been notified of this "explosion" of events, and bring down rubber gloves and commercial grade cleaners. And laughter. The entire staff of the restaurant (aside from those of us gagging or cleaning) are now silently rolling with laughter in the break room. Tears are being shed from the laughter.

I didn't think it was that funny.

Anyway, I get the check and take it to my table. I thank them for their patience.

"Sweetie, DON'T worry about it!"

The man collects his grandchild and leaves. AND DOESN'T TIP A CENT.

B now has to pull the table out and mop up the rest of the vomit. While he is doing so, THE VOMITING GRANDPA COMES BACK.

And what does he do, you ask? Apologise? Leave money?

Orders another shot and beer. And a cheeseburger, to go.

He is denied the sale of alcohol. No argument, however.

******************************************************

You think this story is over, don't you?

Later that night, he went to the other restaurant, which is 'Fine Dining'. Also, carpeted.

He drank and vomited there as well. From what I hear he asked for another shot and a towel--due to the vomit.

******************************************************

Still not done.

The next day, Vomiting Grandpa returned (!?!?!?!)with his grandson and his wife, who I assume is Vomiting Grandma, but they didn't get that far.

The executive chef, General Manager and Restaurant Manager happened to be in a meeting at another table when he walked in. One of the servers flagged them down and informed them of just who these people were.....

Vomiting Grandma says to her server, "I'm going to be bad! I'll have a shot of Jose Cuervo!", and was denied the sale of alcohol. The three managers walk over.

"Why? Is it because of the kid?", she said, jerking her thumb towards her grandson.

"No, ma'am, it's due to the two incidents we had on property yesterday with your husband. We are unable to serve you alcohol at either location."

"What? What the fuck happened?", she sneers.

"I got sick." Mumbles Vomiting Grandpa.

And you know what? They left. LEFT, because they couldn't drink. All the while, the grandson is crying that he is hungry for breakfast. It was two in the afternoon.

***************************************************************

Now, I ask you, was I judging these people too harshly? Was I wrong when I thought they were bad parents, role models, and guardians for that child? Who acts like that in front of a child aside from my mother? Who doesn't feed a two year old until late afternoon, and then only feeds them fried food and soda to keep them quiet while they get shitfaced?

Jesus.