I woke up this morning in a funk, probably because I slept like shit last night. As productive and calorie free as I’ve been in the last 3 days, I think I’m over the bachelorette lifestyle and if the husband is listening, he’s welcome to come home early if he likes.
I started this day with a bad attitude. It was on my ass from the second I opened my eyes – literally. And it bit my hand when I tried to push it off. Then it ran to the kitchen and demanded that I feed it. Furry little bastard.
So I’m half a pot of coffee deep into this day already and it’s only 9:30 am. The world at large is fucked today because I have only two settings right now – consume coffee and destroy all who fuck with what little calm I have. Case in point? I’ve been calling around town all morning looking for a specific ballast for a fluorescent light replacement that we’re not even sure is necessary yet. My first notion on that front was “Change the fucking light bulb first and see if that fixes the problem.” Why am I making phone calls for a $75 part if the problem can be solved with a $7 one?
Now, before I proceed, I need to make a full disclosure: I hate it when men – especially handyman types – hover over me and talk down to me like a clueless, helpless woman when I’m trying to take on DIY projects. Nothing makes me lose my shit faster than some condescending wank blanket questioning what I’m doing that I’d need that particular part for it. I’m trying to retrofit a deck clamp to railing that’s narrower than the clamp. Point me to the fucking mending plates, and get out of my way, and so help me if you try to sell me a different deck clamp I’ll wrap your nutsack in it.
Disclosures fully made, I also had to make several phone calls to a few sign companies to replace a sign plate. I finally managed to get in touch with a company we’ve worked with before for custom sign work and my contact there passed me over to their production department. Our conversation went a lil’ something like this:
Me: Bridget said you’d be able to help me out with this. I’m looking for a custom lexan sign plate replacement to be screen printed with a particular graphic.
Buddy Cock Socket: Well, you’d have to meet with our design department to have them digitize your artwork and then bring in your replacement sign so we can measure it for cutting and printing.
Me: The artwork is already digitized and I have measurements for you right here if you have a pen handy and can give me your email address.
Knuckle Dragger: Hold on there, dear. Design needs a special format for their work. You can’t just use a digital photo for screen prints. We also need very specific measurements. We can’t take rough dimensions.
Me: Yeah, got it. I turned it into a vector file for your convenience. The measurements are 4 3/8″ tall, 12 3/8″ wide, 1/16″ thick. Lexan. Two-color print job.
Monkey Felcher: And how did you get these measurements?
Me, making the transition to unholy bitch: Well, I reckon mah daddy taught me how to read a tape measure when I was in grade school. How did I get these measurements… what the hell kind of stupid question is that? You know what, don’t answer. I can’t handle anymore stupid. Honey, be a doll and put Bridget back on the phone, will you? Thanks, sweetie.
Me, to Bridget: Where did you find him? A 1930s women’s suffrage protest? I can’t work with that douchenozzle. Do you have anyone else that doesn’t turn into a misogynistic redneck chicken fucker the second they open their mouth?
Thus playeth today’s first moments of WTF?!?. For the preceeding days, I’ve found that pictures truly speak louder than words. And so I present to you: More random shit encountered on the job.
Yesterday was damn cold. I like sleeping in a cold bedroom, but it was so damn cold that I wore thermal underwear to bed and kept the heat on all night. This is an infrared temperature gun which is accurate to within +/- .2 degrees. I shot it into a snow bank outside one of my properties. I thought snow was supposed to have insulating properties.
This next one I found on a tenant’s fridge. To be fair, his apartment was chilly, and I left him encouraging words of hugs and puppies and dialed up the thermostat for him. They are paying for the heat, after all.
Then there’s this one from the apartment across the hall, also voted “Most likely to be holding a decomposing hooker under the mountains of bottles, fast food wrappers, and dirty clothes.” I love the righteous indignation, considering that his room would make a rock star’s hotel maid weep.
I believe I have truly saved the best for last. This was found during a showing of one of my frat boy apartments. I love the strategic placement of baby lotion and tissues.