240

Imagine this level of Crazy in YOUR home.
Imagine this level of Crazy in YOUR home.

Even though I’ve known his collection was extensive, I just found out that my FIL owned approximately 240 firearms.

TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY GUNS OWNED BY ONE MAN!

And now five children will split that collection between themselves. That’s just shy of 50 each, including to my husband, Sparring Partner. I’m furious.

Would you believe that S.P. thought I would be less angry if he told me that he had no intention of keeping them all? He’d sell most of them. This coming from the man who still has his sibling’s Christmas presents sitting on his desk waiting to be sent out…from LAST year. This coming from the man who hasn’t finished insulating his shop that he built seven years ago and yet recently informed me that he’s ADDING on to it this year (over my goddamn dead body, he is! (which if he gets 50 guns, he increases his opportunities and odds)). This coming from the man who adamantly refuses to let the kids have a trampoline because of how dangerous they are.

I should mention that since he told me all of this about an hour ago, which immediately preceded me telling him that he’s fucking crazy if he thinks he’s bringing any of those guns into our house, he’s been trying to draw me into some small chat about Doodicus’s homework; the night sky; and now just a moment ago, a rerun of Frasier. Does he really think he can baffle me with bullshit?

(Image courtesy of The Guardian.)

That’s Bressels. Not Brussels.

I’ve been training temps this week and I am trying to be sympathetic about their individual plights, but one of them has just rubbed me wrong from Day 1. The temps were really brought on in a rushed manner, and apparently my boss seems to have approved the first two applications that fell across his desk.

Here’s an interaction that took place within just a couple days of Temp Z’s training, which took place when I popped my head into where they were working to talk to a fellow employee:

Me: "Blah blah blah patient is blah blah blah and Doctor wants to reschedule to…"
Temp Z, interrupting: "Where did you get your top?"
Fellow Employee and Myself, awkward silence.
Me: "Uh, I don’t know. I’ve had it for a couple years."
Temp Z: "I think it came from The Store."
Me: "It could have."
Temp Z, defensive tone: "Well, I guess I got MY answer!"
Confused look exchanged Fellow Employee and Myself.

I won’t even go into her voice, which has been described by more than one person as "bored" and "disdainful".

And just because you know I’ll never lose that last edge of my Bitter Infertile, she announced she was pregnant and due Christmas Day, and she made that announcement April 20th. YOU do the math.

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The Fellow Employee’s last day was Tuesday. She left me a note to read to the entire staff at our morning huddle. It expressed the hurt she felt over something a couple of other employees did and the backstabbing. While she ended it on a positive note, I decided that I wasn’t comfortable reading it. I know it will get back to her and it’s unfortunate that her anger may end up getting diverted back to me, but I selfishly have to look out for myself as I’m the one still in the office dealing with the Backstabbers.

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On a more humorous note, my daughter, Aitch (who I may have to re-nickname after I discovered that "H" is actually a street term for Heroin, and here I am calling out to Aitch in public settings…More hip listeners might think I’m a soccermom addict), was instructing me in the ways of womanly attributes last night.

As I was tucking her in she poked my stomach. "That’s your belly." "Yes, it is." "And this is your chest." "Yes, it is." "What are these?" as she poked me directly on the boob.

"Those are called Breasts." "They’re Bressels." "What??" "Bressels are Spanish for breasts." I’m laughing now, "Hmmm, okay."

"I don’t have bressels. I’ll get them when I get bigger. I’ll get a Patch, too, right?"

All I could do was laugh some more and answer, "I suppose you will!"