Category: Crankypantsing

Crankypantsing

How Old Are You? Part II

Shelly

Remember when Coworker A demonstrated her inability to gauge other people’s ages? At the time, she thought I was old enough to have parents in assisted living communities. Um, no, my mom is a few years younger than Coworker A.

Anyway, yesterday she launched into a tale of how it was her 31st wedding anniversary. I congratulated her. Then she asked me if I was 31 years old. How on earth did she get from Point A to Point B? Not to mention that A) it’s kind of rude to ask someone else how old they are, and B) she’s already asked me how old I am. Multiple times!

Miss Noseypants is both nosy and forgetful.

Crankypantsing

Delayed Nosypantsing

Shelly

Coworker A asked me if it was supposed to snow tonight. I looked at Weather.com and gave her the newest forecast. Then, about an hour later, Coworker B informed me that her weather forecaster of choice said something entirely different. Why on earth should I care? I wasn’t the one who wanted to know whether or not it was going to snow, and the person who did want to know left over an hour ago. And besides which, who on earth waits an hour to poke their nose into someone else’s conversation?

WTF?

Crankypantsing

Quilting Report

Shelly

I managed to get my sewing machine set up, which was an adventure, and I even got a few squares sewn. I also managed, somehow, to slice my thumb open. It’s not deep, but it’s on the inside of the joint, so it hurts every time I bend it.

I also now know why people buy pre-cut quilting squares. Cutting brazillions of squares of fabric is a ginormous pain in the ass.

Crankypantsing, Photography

Wet Paint

Shelly

I just took a load of clothes down to the laundry room. There was a “Wet Paint” sign on the stairwell wall. Good. But it said nothing whatsoever to indicate where the wet paint was. Now, this has happened before…

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…so I was prepared. Someone else was not so astute, because when I got to the bottom of the second landing, there were footprints in the not-exactly-tacky-but-not-completely-dry paint. They led from the bottom of the stairs all the way over to the washing machines. There’s no way on earth the person walking on the wet paint could not have realized what he was doing, but they just kept going about their merry business. That’s just plain assholery.

By now, the paint was dry enough to walk on without leaving marks, not that it mattered(!), so I went ahead and put my clothes in the washer. If the paint had still been wet, I’d’ve waited or driven over to the next court, onna counta I’m not a total asshole.

Crankypantsing

It Must Be Monday…

Shelly

…because the blowers just died and the forecast is calling for icy DQQM. The latter isn’t supposed to start until tomorrow night, but still, it’s kind of ruining my day.

On the bright side, today’s holiday luncheon has been either called off or postponed, onna counta icy sidewalks.

Oh, and while I’m complaining, Sugar did not win Survivor. I’m disappointed. I liked Bob, and am happy that he beat Susie (WTF? How did she get three votes?!), but I was really pulling for Sugar.

Crankypantsing, Photography

Two Busses

Shelly

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The holiday luncheon ended up being on-again. We went to DeAngelo’s, and one coworker molested every goddamned piece of bread in the bread basket. This is the same person who, last week, I caught sneezing into their hand before using the aforementioned to rummage around in a coworker’s candy bowl. Not the sort of person you want touching food you’re about to eat.

What the hell is wrong with people?

Crankypantsing, Ladybusiness, Meta

Comments Problem Fixed

Shelly

Once again, something I did inadvertently changed the setting for whether or not commenters must log in. I don’t want people to have to log in, so it was unintentional! It should be fixed now, though an unfortunate side-effect is that comments are now closed on old posts. I have no idea how to fix that, but in terms of cutting down on spam, it’s just as well.

ETA: And more on those creepy purity balls, courtesy of Jackie. I’m all for fathers being active parents (um, that’s their job), but I think this stuff crosses the line into fetish.

Crankypantsing

How Old Are You?

Shelly

Coworker A, who is (I am guessing) in her mid-50s, recently asked Coworker B if she was a member of AARP. Coworker B is, at most, 35. I know this because I’m usually a pretty good judge of age, and I pay attention. Coworker A has mentioned that she was in college in the early 1970s, while Coworker B and I have discussed the music we both listened to when we were in high school. Some of the bands were the same, but some were popular when I was in college, so I know she’s a little bit younger than I am.

And then, a few days ago, Coworker A told me about looking for local assisted living communities for her mother. She asked me which one(s) I’d recommend, and how much they cost. WTF?! How the hell should I know? A) My mom is her age, so not old enough to retire yet, nor anywhere near old enough to need any sort of assisted living arrangement (just how old does Coworker A think I am, anyway?), and B) I’m not from around here, so even if my mom were old enough for assisted living, I’d hardly be familiar with local communities.

So here’s the funny part: Coworker B was home sick the other day. She called work to ask me to do her a favor. Coworker A answered the phone. She didn’t recognize Coworker B’s voice, so when I got off the phone, she asked me who it was (nosy!). I told her, and her response was, “Wow, she sounded so young!” Um, yeah, that’s because she is young. Sheesh!