yrmencyn: (armadillo)
Just to save anyone else the trouble of emailing me (I can't believe two people found this randomly and independently):

Yes.  Yes I did give my permission.  The guy sent me a message on Flickr, I looked at his site and acquiesced, and the result is this.  Deeply amusing.  I are teh celebritiez.
yrmencyn: (qc - drunk)
Y'all.  I have a newfound respect for Medical Records staff.  I did filebacks for 6 hours (maybe?) today (minus a half-hour lunch), plus getting oriented and all that, and it kicked my ass, hard.  My knees are the part that hurts most, from bending and crouching constantly.  It got better after I started just straight sitting, instead of kneeling.  Then when I got home from work I kinda fell asleep for an hour or so.  Course, that could have had to do with Kregg (again) awakening me at 5am by coming home, loudly, with some girl and then fucking her, loudly -- not to put too fine a point on it.  And honestly, 5am is the absolute worst time to wake somebody up, especially when that person has a hard time falling asleep: the sun is starting to rise, the birds consequently get all chatty, the traffic on Highland increases... it's just bad.  Kregg and I need to have a talk, by which I mean I need to bitch him out and he needs to stop acting like an asshole, and that rapidly.

So anyway, the first day of work was tiring, but pretty good.  It feels like working at the library again, albeit with a much simpler classification system.  Also, did you realize this is my first "real" job?  Yep.  Everything else is somehow related to student work, or is summer camp work.  Ah, academe.

And now my cooking bows to working.  I made chicken salad tonight (oh blessed rotisserie chicken magic), for the express purpose of being able to make chicken salad sandwiches.  It's delicious, go me.  I'ma go eat one of them now.  Wow, I'm really exciting today, huh.
yrmencyn: (armadillo)
So, when I awoke this morning, I found this on the toilet:
Fightin' with the roommate 1
"WTF Mike,
    I just sat in
some piss on the
seat.  Clean up
after yourself
That shit is disrespectful.
          - Kregg"

I left this in return:
Fightin' with the roommate 2
"Oh please.
    Last I used the toilet I
was sitting, reading a book. Am
I to hear I have magical
flying piss now?  Let's
not even get me started on
cleanliness issues, shall we?
And honestly, stop it w/ the
passive-aggressive notes and
walk-by accusations:
'That shit is disrespectful.'

I had to run home today, and he was there, but the note was still on the toilet, so I don't know if he saw it.  I removed it, since I decided that I needed not to sink to his level.  I particularly liked my first draft, though, that started out "Bitch please" instead.


On an entirely different note, this is a far more critically analytical write-up than I'm used to seeing in the popular media, even in Slate: "G-d's Reggae Star - How Matisyahu became a pop phenomenon"
yrmencyn: (food)
I'm sitting here on my bed reading blogs, wearing boxers and a long-sleeved T-shirt.  Somehow this feels very New England to me.  IT's not the boxers as such, nor the long-sleeved T-shirt, it's more of the short-bottoms-plus-long-top combination.  It's always felt like an upper-class Yankee thing to me, all crab cakes at the Hyannisport Club with Buffy and Sport Jr. and did we remember to pack the extra pairs of sandals and light sweaters for our trip to the French Midi this weekend?  I'm weird, I know.

My mommy bought me shirts!  Heh.  There was a package waiting for me when I got home from the conference; Mom had gone to Beall's during a sale and bought me 5 dress shirts for under $10 apiece. I had mentioned that I might have to *gasp* invest in slightly more grown-up clothing, since it's not terribly professional to show up to teach in cargo shorts and some Tshirt I got for free eons ago, so I guess she decided to take matters into her own hands.  She knows me pretty well, actually: she stuck with the dark, rich colors.  Only misstep was a maroon light sweater with strange texturing, not to mention a total lack of proper fit.  Now I just need to come up with some pants I like, since I pretty much despise every pair of them that I own, jeans excepted.

Kregg came in just now to complain further about hair in the bathroom.  This, after he knocked on the bathroom door during my shower, necessitating me shutting off the water entirely to be able to hear him, just to tell me to PLEASE wipe out the bathtub.  I realized when he said that that I had forgotten to do so yesterday, having been out of the routine for a few days, which is my bad, but... timing?  Now, though, we have apparently expanded our madness to include all surfaces in the bathroom, which are apparently covered in my filthy hu-man hair.  "Like, your towel hangs over the toilet, so whatever falls off it ends up on the back of the toilet."  I pointed out, pointedly, the liberal coating on the entire sink area of small hairs from his clippers, which frankly is rather grosser than hair in the tub.  I'm not putting things in my eyes from the tub area, nor am I sticking my face down to within centimeters of the tub to see myriad trimmings pasted to the faucet like panko crumbs on coconut shrimp.  We agreed to both work at it.  I still think the hair obsession (with blind eye to other cleanliness markers, like the endemic soap scum) is symptomatic of serious mental skewedness, but I'm going with it to prevent major altercations.  Right here, though, among friends, I'd like to say: I am a hairy motherfucker.  I shed.  Deal.  It's not like I collect it and sprinkle it on your pillow like some kind of hair fairy.

Also, while I'm bitching?  Dear vapid blonde chicks in the driveway two houses down at 3:30 in the morning last night, what the fuck is wrong with you?  I shouldn't have to put on clothes, exit my house, walk down the street, and tell you to turn down the music from the car that's been idling in the driveway for an hour or so, because the bass is coming across loud and clear enough that I can't read, much less sleep.  And in the unfortunate event that this should become necessary, the appropriate response from the girl sitting in the front seat is not "This isn't my car."  I give a fuck, seriously.  Turn down the music, or even better, go home!  Go to bed!  It's 3:30 on a Thursday night, and you're in a neighborhood with families!  Don't you have anything to do tomorrow?  And if you don't, did you miss out on those years in childhood when you were supposed to have learned basic social skills and respect for others?  I really don't get it.  Next time I'm not even getting out of bed, I'm just reaching over to my cell phone and mentioning a noise violation to the police.  Maybe a visit from somebody in a uniform will knock some sense into your idiot heads.

Christ, I need to actually do something productive today.  First thing's first: food.  I have none, and have eaten none.  This is not a good recipe for shit-getting-done-ness.
yrmencyn: (Default)
So, Kregg last week had made some passive aggressive comments about the bathroom needing to be cleaned.  I had figured, fine, whatever, I'll clean it Saturday.  Then he up and started cleaning it on Friday, to which I could only say "uh... I was going to do that tomorrow."  "No big deal, you can do it next weekend."  Fair enough, fair enough.  Shared duties and all that.

Fast forward to today.  It had totally slipped my mind that I was going to clean the bathroom this past weekend (because... sorry, but I generally don't do a weekly cleaning of the bathroom.  I just don't, it's not necessary to my mind).  Kregg asks me wasn't I going to have cleaned the bathroom this weekend?  I replied, quite honestly, that I had meant to, but it slipped my mind.  He requests that I do so "as soon as you can."  There was a tone thing going on that carried a meaning close to "you are entirely unhygienic."

Bitch, please.  On my way back from translating at Perks today (almost 25 pages, including one quite long poem that had some really crazy stuff going on, rock on), I picked up some Comet and some toilet bowl cleaner, because all we had was some Clorox all-purpose spray and some Windex.  And I'm sorry, you cannot clean a tub with Clorox spray, no matter what the bottle says: it will not get the job done.  Even more so, you can not clean our hard-water-stains-and-other-such-madness tub with a spray, that baby needs scouring powder.  This is evinced by the results of his cleaning last week, which took a long time and had *looks both ways carefully* no discernible effect.  Seriously, how can you be so manic about bathroom cleanliness and yet so not effective at cleaning?  Obviously you didn't have my mother.  She may not have managed to get me to clean the bathroom regularly, but by God when I did I knew what I was doing.

I cleaned the tub, the sink, the toilet, and the floor, then went on to empty the dishwasher and deal with the gross pile of dishes in the sink (rinse, people, rinse!  Caked on peanut-butter and chocolate milkshake is disgusting!) while I was in cleaning mode.  Total time elapsed for both rooms?  A little over an hour.  I am a domestic god, and the tub is shiny white.  You could eat off of that tub.

So take that!  The bathroom's... um... clean to your obsessive-compulsive standards.  Woohoo, I really put one... over... on you... didn't I...?  *sigh*  I can't win.


yrmencyn: (Default)

December 2009



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