pbbbbththth.

yeah, well, I hate you too, yeast.

boller fail. on to aunt andrena's cookies. gado-gado should be fine.

channeling Samuel Jackson...

... as in I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane, only change snakes to dispatchers and plane to day.

05bumbleyuck: The Boy's alarm goes off. Marit grumbles and rolls over to this:

more animals
yeah. no. evicts kittehs from room and rolls back over.
0815: wake up. realized managed to somehow sleep completely through alarm. crap.
0825: pulling on boots and zipper breaks. attempt to fix.
0842: look at clock, realize it's 0842, swear profusely, give up on boot, bike to work.
0855: race train into work. clock in. go change.
09ish: dispatch tells us our first call is at 1030. marit goes to put contacts in, tame The Hair of Poofy Death, and try to forage for food. hey, someone brought muffins. sweet. eats half of a chocolate muffin. mmm, muffin. also sutures boot closed on foot with paperclips.
1000: head to call.
1005: go "WTF!?" at traffic. seriously? at 1005? stop and go? what?
1030: arrive at call in oakland, having lost chance at coffee. oh well. there will be later chances. (HAH) while at call, get dispatched to a new call, pickup in alameda at 1215.
1200: arrive in alameda, swing past a starbucks (me) and McDeath (tim) because- cue ominous music- we'll be able to grab real food in berkeley after this.
1215: pick up in alameda, drive back to downtown oakland.
1300: drop off patient and get another page, this time a pickup at 1330 at the location we just dropped off at, going to berkeley. we decide to just hang out, since there's not really any food close.
1310: someone comes out to tell us that our 1330 is ready now. ok, let's go.
1400: drop off, get another page, pickup in san pablo at 1430, oh, and by the way, it's an emergency call. we tell dispatch we still haven't gotten any food and we're getting cranky and need food. they say fine, after this call we can get food.
1435: pick up patient, get clear at 1500. realize that dispatch has given us a call at 1600 going from San Ramon to Fairfield. SAN RAMON TO FAIRFIELD. FAIR.FIELD. get cranky at dispatch. "uh, we still haven't gotten a bite to eat. since 0900. any chance we can get a closer 1600?" dispatch: "uh, I really need you guys up in coco county, so, go ahead and grab something on your way there." yeah. like it's not going to take us an hour to get to fucking San Ramon from San Pablo at four-o-fucking-clock.
1602: arrive at san ramon. pick up patient. drive to fairfield.
1630: get phone call from schedulers. can you work tomorrow 0900-1700? do the O.o stare. (remember? the omgwtfbbq stare? the Friendly Hostility Fatima's WHAT stare?) send charlie and mandy and matt texts to see when/if bbq is happening tomorrow. get back "...who is this?" texts from charlie and mandy. send "marit." texts. get "oh! AWESOMENESS IS HAPPENING AT 1800. WOO" texts. grumble at perkiness. weigh $ and possibly getting a day off next week vs likelyhood of having another DAY OF DEATH, call schedulers. "oh, wonderful, you called us back, sorry about the phone issues, (they could hear me, I couldn't hear them), thank you so much, but we just filled the hole, have a good day!" urge to kill rising. no, don't kill the schedulers, the schedulers are your friends. good schedulers. *petpet.* sigh in relief at dodged bullet, then try to rein in urge to flip on the primaries and sirens and MAKE THESE IDIOTS GET OUT OF MY WAY. holy mother of god is traffic RI. DIC. U. LOS. on a friday in this state.
1835: arrive in fairfield, drop off patient. 2 hours and 35 minutes of no contact with dispatch. what's supposed to happen? they call us after 45 minutes of no contact and make sure we're not dead in a ditch somewhere. screw this, we're going to go eat. and sit down and eat. we go to in and out.
1900: have first actual food since half a croissant at noon.
1945: get back to station. send in paperwork.
2000: clock out. YAY FOR 11 HOUR SHIFTS. NOT.

here is a map of my day:

thank you dispatch. you have made me cranky. and I mean cran.ky.
AND I HAVE NO BEER. but I have rum. rum and rodrigo y gabriela and smashy smashy video games and fuzzy kittehs and eventually I will become noncranky. but for now I am not opening my mouth because The Evil Marmot has the reins.

My name is Marit, and I approve this message.

drool.









and they're currently working on a new album. faint.

I-I was weak.

yes, there is a Firefly quote for every occasion.

But it's true. I was going to be strong and not go buy Bone Crossed or Whisper to the Sleep but really, if I hadn't gone to get them, instead of spending five hours curled up in a Starbucks sortof-comfy-chair reading while nursing a cinnamon dolce latte, you'd be reading about the aftermath of a murderous rampage through downtown Oakland.

yes. five hours.

I was curiously disappointed with the new Dana Stabenow, but I think it's because I think I downed it like an Irish Carbomb and, while it left a good aftertaste, it wasn't as good as if you'd slowly drank the whole pint.

ok, so as a metaphor it didn't work so well, but if you love guinness and you've ever done a carbomb, you should understand it. Brittany and Anna get it. At least I think it was you two. Lord, that sounds horrible. I can't remember due to crappy memory, not drunken debauchery. Honest. I'm pretty sure I did the same thing with Small Favor, so a reread will be in order. See, authors? this is why you should write faster. *snort.*

must....resist....urge....

So I spotted the newest Mercy Thompson (protagonist) book out as I was picking up The Boy's valentines day present (which was a book on astrophysics). I resisted the urge to purchase. I'm still trying to track down a library in my area that I can actually get to and isn't in sketchy parts of richmond. (hah.) and I am being virtuous and not purchasing unnecessary things. (although I need to go pick up a bottle of cinnamon dolce syrup so I can better resist the siren song of the cinnamon dolce latte. mmm. well, the siren song of the coffee shop, I guess, not the latte itself.)

BUT.

I was checking my release dates and just went ZOHMYGOD (illustrated here by Friendly Hostility (which is an awesome webcomic (that's ending soon snif) but you should go read it anyway):)
(those faces in the beginning are the pertinent part. also, I heart Fatima.)

...because the newest Kate Shugak novel of Dana Stabenow's came out on the 17th of FEBRUARY and oh my god I want to go to a barnes and noble RIGHT NOW. RIGHT. NOW.

soooooo much. I totally could too. There's one right there. right down the street. and I have to be at the car dealership tomorrow by 0800 to give them my car so that they can check it and fix it and a book would totally be required to ease my pain, right? right? RIGHT?

do I get to amortize cost based on sanity? mom?

heh, I just realized that using a comic with Fatima to illustrate a point about that book is actually pretty apt, given that Kate is a cranky alaskan and Fatima is cranky and in alaska. oh, go read the comic already.

hoo-ray!

well, it was a good thing I packed my lunch today because dispatch sent us driving all over- and I do mean ALL OVER- the bay area. about the only place we didn't hit was the true north bay. it seemed like every time we talked to them it was "you can show us clear from *insert place here* and enroute to *insert place here*" and we would gaze longingly at various places as we drove past them. "look....it's that really good shaved ice place..." "...oo, that place has great burritos..." "...starbucks/peet's/tully's/coffee...sigh..."

But! got off mostly on time (stupid traffic I hate you die) and I got home in time to get online to get one of these before they all disappeared! for a good cause and the most awesome discworldy thing in a long time. space! and hawksbills! and discworld!

sent of my igor package to itth dethtination yethterday. was going to send off my section of the latest Dr Who scarf today but see aforementioned 'running all over the bay area' y'know? tomorrow.

ugh and the car gets to go for a checkup saturday at 0800 ICK which means I probably won't be making my noon appointment at origins, sad. grumblybrumgle.


Ssssh! Cow on wall speak!



also? this should not have made me laugh as hard as it did...but it did.


LIES! *snicker*

I want you to know that I intend this breast satirically.

So I didn't find my navneskilt in time to take a picture on nametag day, but I just went and voted for my pics. Tried to keep with the skog faith, but got suckered in by two girl low brass-ers. C'mon. I can't not vote for the euph! or the trombonist in the tree! gotta represent!

whimper

I can't find a clip for this. YouTube failed me. Gone in 60 Seconds:

"You can't negotiate turns. You can't signal properly. You can't maintain speed. You can't parallel park. Hell, you can't drive honey. Shit, I can't swim. I know I can't. So you know what I do? I stay my black ass outta the pool."

CALIFORNIA: please, please please learn how to merge. or stay outta the pool.

Also...Dispatch: please familiarize yourself with the terms 'rush hour' and the geography of the East Bay. seeeeeriously.

I'm buying stock in Windex.

eff-yoo-cee-kay-tee-aitch-aye-ess. lefuck lethis. uck-fay is-thay.

Fuck. This. Shit.

I'm moving to Alaska. or back to Alta. I'll go chill with that swedish chick with the fire-engine red, butt-length dreads and her sheep farm and penchant for folk dancing, or go back and tell Marit Sara or Sara Sara or Sara Marit or Marit Eira that yes, I would love to meet their grandson/nephew/son/sister's cousin's brother's uncle's grandson, and I'll use him to get my norwegian citizenship, then get The Boy his citizenship, and he won't care, because we won't have to deal with the fucking ants of doom.

for fuck's sake.* we've sanitized. we've scrubbed. we've gone through enough windex to clean every window in the city. we've tupperwared the shit out of our kitchen. still they come, now in my bathroom (which does not share an outside wall.) and under the dishwasher (which is CENTERED INSIDE THE APARTMENT.) and along my desk, and in the relocated cat food, which has now been re-relocated outside. I guess we have to go back to "hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey, human. hey. hey, human. human? human, I want food. now. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey, human. hey. HEY. FEED ME, SEYMOUR." although I want to ship the cats over to charlie and mandy's or elliot's or steph's and terro-bomb the hell out of the apartment. and then call the landlord and say "the ants. get them out of the walls. I'm not paying for it. if you won't get them out of the walls, then I will. you do not want this." but that's not gonna happen.

*and yes, that is the sole phrase that I say with a deep minnesotan accent. (usually with an oh in front of it. yes, 'oh, fer feuk's seyk.') I say it rarely. the last time I said it, I made my partner spit coffee all over the rig. no, that isn't hyperbole.

snort.

Topping the list of "Headlines That Make You Go ...What?":

Putin denies dancing to Abba hits

Hokay.

Ok, universe. I submitted my timecard for this past friday-thursday, which means that this whole recent "let's rain hellfire on marit" thing that you've got going on? Is done. done, over, no more, we're going to have a good day tomorrow, yeah?

otherwise, I will not be held responsible for my actions.

(it's a tossup between screaming murderous rampage and rocking in the corner sucking my thumb.)

Monday: everything goes OK until we get a call for pickup an hour and 45 minutes before we're supposed to go off duty. Our station's in Richmond. pickup was in Vallejo. dropoff was in Sonoma. ookaaay...we can almost make that. (my thought? dispatch's sense of scale is a leetle broken.) also? dispatch neglected to inform us that I was going to be spending 45 minutes in the back with a very annoyed, very...vocal patient. get back to the station 2 hours later than we should have.

Tuesday: marit forgets to set her alarm back to the 0900 start from the 1000 start from yesterday. bother. get to work, change, stick contacts in eyes, walk out. hmm...no partner. call dispatch. who's on first, what's on second, I don't know THIRD BASE ensues. Marit's partner is now station manager, who is training crews and will return later. kay. station manager returns. station manager tells marit that shift has been cancelled and marit should go home. Marit's first thought: yay, now I can do the chores and clean the freakin' fish tank like I've been meaning to. Marit's second thought: waitaminnit. I just got screwed out of 6 hours of work through no fault of my own. Marit's third thought: dammit.

Wednesday: is hereby renamed "aaaawwwkwaaaaaard" day. you can insert your own image of Johnny making the sign for awkward.

Thursday: can I indulge in some internet-speak? omfgwtfbbq. srsly. o.O -_- ... ok, done. shift starts 0815. we have the 'special' radio that gets everyone else's pages, and almost none of our own. case in point? we're posted up in berkeley, 1100 rolls around, and dispatch clicks in and says "uh...you guys on scene yet?" um, let me think. NO. we look at the radio. no page. we'd talked to dispatch around 1000 and they'd said nothing pending. well, apparently we'd been given a call with a 1100 pickup. (and dispatch apparently decided that they'd wait until we were supposed to be on scene before calling to check in, as opposed to, y'know, calling in 15 minutes before to say "hey guys, you en route to your 1100 yet?" so that we could have, oh, say, gotten to the call on time?!) (and then they called us -twice- with our ETA. yo. dispatch. I'm two fucking blocks away, when I'm on scene, I will call you that I am on scene. do. not. ask. me. every. five. minutes.) I know, I know, if I am nice to dispatch, dispatch will be nice to me. mutter mutter they started it mutter. but the patient is very nice and we move on to our next call, which went so wrong that I have blocked it from my memory and rewritten it forcibly with vanilla vodka. (just a shot, and I poured it into my coffee after I got home, don't worry.) I also can't really make it vague enough to satisfy hippa soooo there ya go. It was......bad. not the patient, who was also very nice, and about the only good thing about that whole...what was I talking about?

huh? oo, shiny....

Anyway. Tomorrow = new day, new payroll week, thus I implore you, o universe...throw me a bone, here.

Also, I got a catalog today from the Lindblad national geographic cruise thing people. And this?

Oh. My. God. although I want my grandpa as tour guide again. just look at it. waaaaaaant. oh, to have thirty thousand dollars to spare. if I had 30,000 $...I would sigh wistfully at that map and wish I had another 30,000 $.

The kittens are being ridiculously cute. This probably means they've found a skein of silk laceweight and have turned it into amigurumi hair.

Neil Patrick Harris is on Craig Ferguson every night this week for Magic Week. I love him.

I have two patches of relatively itchy could-be-spider-bite-could-be-mosquito-bite-damn-well-better-not-be-hives on my elbows.

stupid random monterey allergy BETTER not be coming back.

the face....it's coming from the faaaace....!!!

best. movie. ever.

enjoy this, because I'm fighting off another wave of ants. siiiigh. later, I will tell you of the Day That Didn't End Well.



also...brain...so...hurty...so...hurty...

mmm...wife soup.

not really. just keeping in line with the firefly of earlier.

Sad Panda: nighttime theraflu's honey lemon and chamomile flavor is NASTY. na-stai.

Happy Panda: I have egg drop soup. is not Mom2 soup, and is from a packet, but is egg drop soup and good and nummy and hopefully de-coldifying.

Sad Panda: NCIS tonight is a repeat, and not new. saaaad.

Happy Panda: at least it's the episode with Ziva as a lounge singer in a ridiculously hot dress. Shallow? Moi?

although I do wish that they'd gone with a high neckline, like what'serbutt's dress at that award show that one time. I know. So specific. The chick from Boys Don't Cry. You know.

mrglmrglmrgl.

0600: The Boy goes to work. The Thing...It Liiiives! rolls over and takes 2 Nighttime Sudafed, then goes back to sleep.

0830: Alarm beeps. The Thing...It Liiiives! grumbles, but pokes it into submission and staggers to couch for to feed and watch an hour or so of inauguration. that's a really hard word to spell on cold pills. seriously. Anyway. Stupid CNN Announcer Guy! NO ONE cares that at 1200 Obama became president even though he hadn't been sworn in. NO TALKY OVER PRETTY MUSIC! seriously. the cats were confused as I was shouting shut up shutupshutup at the tv. grr. he's going to the special hell. (see 01:33, and then just watch the whole episode, because firefly=win.)

1030: The Thing....It Goes Back To Bed. (after taking more nighttime sudafed.)

1500ish: The Boy returns. The Thing...It Liiives... takes an Advil Cold and Sinus so as to actually be able to accomplish things and not pass out again. The nighttime sudafed packs a punch, it does. The Thing...It Liives... realizes that being conscious = being zombie, because eyes hurt, teeth hurt, all sinuses plugged, lips chapped, drugs not working must kill everything. especially The Altogether Too Chipper Boy. dishes go out of dishwasher. go lie down. Dishes go in dishwasher. go lie down. cat boxes get cleaned. no creature that small should ever be able to produce that much shit. seriously. contemplate calling in sick tomorrow too. check schedule. money...sleep...money...sleep...money...sleep...damn you, student loans...

Undiscovered time: Decide that sleep trumps money. Go to call in sick. Look at clock on phone. hellfire and damnation, it's 1708. if I call in sick now, I get tomorrow and thursday off. The Boy says something to the effect of how he feels much better today. contemplate killing and eating The Boy's brain. mrglmrglmrgl. back hurts from sleeping so long. ignoring fact that going from freezing-roasting-freezing means fever. what? what's that? nothing. draft = cold, too close to heater = hot. yeah. that's it. throw clothes in laundry. make russian tea. mmm, russian tea. want time to bend and have Mom 2 magically appear with The Life Giving Mom Soup. contemplate making egg drop soup.

1944: gather strength for making egg drop soup. in 16 minutes can take more drugs. also NCIS on. hopefully will feel better tomorrow. or hope for slow day tomorrow. yah.

Jack Black as Jesus. oh dear.

Although any mention of Prop 8 still makes me want to give up and run away, this is still pretty funny. I heart Neil Patrick Harris.

"Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and many more... by Jack Black

let's hope for another day in The Sunny North Bay, ok?

because the longer I can stay out of the Oakland area in my shiny navy blue uniform with shoulder patches and name tag, the happier I'll be. I don't look like a cop if you actually LOOK at me, but people don't LOOK at anything. (case in point? this guy yelled at me in a mall because I didn't know where Taco Bell was. I went "um...I'm an EMT? I don't work here..." and he flounced off muttering about bad service.)

this is why. (Mom, don't look.)

Hey. You.

People.

If you're in an avalanche because you went under safe conditions and had beacons and training and weren't doing stupid shit, but die anyway, it's not your fault.
-but-
if you're in an avalanche because you went under unsafe conditions and didn't have a beacon and you were highmarking and doing other stupid shit, and you die because you turn back into the avalanche to try to find a friend before the slide has stopped, then you have not died a hero. you've died an idiot, and have endangered the lives of the people who are now trying to save your ass.

Learn. Your. Shit.

thus endeth the day's rant.

fæææææææææææn.

(for those of you not in the know, that's a very naughty word, held out for one leeengthy syllable, which means The Marmot is unhappy.)

So I finished my training on Thursday the 18th and called the schedulers on Friday the 19th to let them know I could be scheduled, but all over break when I checked to see when I'd be working, nothing was marked. blank calendar. I called yesterday and they apparently didn't get the message that I'd already called, despite me actually talking to a live person.
This afternoon around 1300 or so I checked and had a shift for Wednesday the 31st. Yay, I get to make money and feed the anemic bank account.
Tonight I check it (we're supposed to check after 1900 in case they change it on us) and Lo and Behold....

I work at 0400 tomorrow.

oh dear GOD IN HEAVEN. fæn. fæn fæn fæn. That means I have to be up at 0300, and it is 2137. FÆN.

whoever is sick and making me cover your shift? you'd better be in the ER.

exactly what I needed today.

from the incomparable Randall Munroe:


...we'll think about it.