Turns out I won a bunch of money. Oh, and I'm a clone.

First off, let me just say this: it's raining!!!! Yipee!!!!!

Okay. Now that that's out of the way, on with the point of this post.

(That was a bit of subliminal hinting, because there really isn't much of a point, but if I say there is, you'll believe it, right?)

So I get this cute little piece of spam in my college email inbox the other day. I usually ignore the spam, delete the spam, and wish the spam a happy journey when the system gets around to flushing them away, but this time... this time I decided to read the email. You know, just in case I actually did win a million dollars without really trying.

Hey, it could happen.

It's all about believing.

And I, if anything, am a believer.

I couldn't leave her if I tried. Just me and the Monkees.

Wasn't Davy just the dreamiest? *sigh*

Okay, back on point... (*hint hint*)

Turns out, according to the spam friendly award notification, I've won an award. If I didn't figure that out by the subject line ("AWARD NOTIFICATION, FINAL NOTICE"), they made sure I saw it immediately in the body of the email.

FROM: THE DESK OF THE VICE PRESIDENT
MR.PAUL MARK.(ACADEMIC AWARD PROMOTION)
PRIZE AWARD DEPT.

ATTN: WINNER.

RE: AWARD NOTIFICATION, FINAL NOTICE.

We are pleased to inform you, that as a result of our RECENT AWARD PROMOTION DRAWS HELD 2006...

The bolded words were bolded by me. The annoying ALL CAPS is their doing.

So yea me, I won an award! And its worth, get this:

(FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND US DOLLARS)

I didn't have to fill out a form or write an essay or anything. Best. Contest. EVER!

Their program just randomly selected email addresses:

from all search engines and web sites,from Asia, Australia, NewZealand, Europe, North and South America, Middle East and Africa, as part of our International Promotions Program.

I don't know how my college email address landed in a search engine or a website since I never give it out and only use it to check for school work and campus crime alerts and roommate wanted ads and last quarter's text book sales. Oh, and award spams. Maybe my college email address is listed on the college website somewhere? Hmm... maybe. Or maybe this program of MR.PAUL MARK's is super psychic and knew my email wanted to be out there, running rampant on websites and whatnot, if only it didn't have a boring, unfun, unattentive master who played with her other emails more, neglecting its poor little college email butt.

Good thing MR.PAUL MARK was around to give my email addy a lil' lovin'. Because dude, I won 500 G's!

Woot-asaurus-rex!

I'd also like to give a big shout out to the sponsors of the AWARD. The "eminent personalities like the Sultan of Brunei Igwe of ibo's and oba of yoruba other corporate organizations". Yeah, you peeps know who you are, even though I don't. Though I think Ibo's And Oba sounds like a great folks-y funk rock band name. No?

The next part of the email states the following, and since its freaking all capped again, it must be important for me to take note of:

THIS IS TO IMPROVE THE LEVEL OF EDUCATION WORLDWIDE AND ALSO HELP THE DISABLED IN UNIVERSITIES AND TO ENCOURAGE THE USE OF INTERNET AND COMPUTERS WORLDWIDE.

Is MR.PAUL MARK calling me disabled? No really, I think he is. I think I'm winning this award because the level of my education needs to be improved (which, okay, I guess could be useful) and because I'm disabled and need help (which, uh, ouch!).

And, obviously, I don't spend enough time on the internet. Which is so true. I think $500,000 will help increase my internet time substantially. This MR.PAUL MARK dude really knows how to make a girl's day.

All I have to do to claim my AWARD is contact my claims agent, my "accredited" (read: "we legit, biotches!"), who, I kid you not, is named: Rev (Dr) Martin Johnson. I mean really, can you get any more legit than a Rev (Dr)? Seriously. Can you? Maybe if he had "Former President" in his title. Or "Former Oprah Book of the Month Club Author". Then he'd really sound accredited.

I really want to call the number they list. But not like, from my phone or anything where they can charge a buttload for the call, not that I believe MR.PAUL MARK or the Rev (Dr) Martin Johnson would do anything like that. I'm just cautious. And curious.

After the phone number and the email addresses there's a list of information I need to be able to supply.

1. Name in full
   
2. Address
   
3. Nationality
   
4. Age
   
5. Occupation
   
6. Phone/Fax
   
7. Batch Number
   
8. Serial Number

My eyes flitted over the list quickly, looking for the catch (sorry Paul and Martin, I'm just paranoid like that) and stopped at "Serial Number". A-ha! I thought. That must mean they want my ssn, the bastards! I knew it!

Then my eyes traveled up a bit and saw the phrase "Batch Number". And I thought, What the fuck? Do they think I grew in the lab in a little petri dish? I mean really, I'm not that disabled. Sheesh.

The rest of the email is written in bad grammar and is really hard to understand. But it appears to be mainly legal mumbo jumbo about percentage fees I have to pay out of my winnings because my winnings are currently being insured for some reason or another. That's just swell.

And, upon further inspection of the email, (as I wrote this up, not because I was wondering if I should call the number now or when I get home, really!) I found the batch number and serial number the email was talking about. Darn, guess I'm not a clone after all. Turns out my prize is connected to some batch drawing, with serial numbers and reference numbers and ticket numbers and holy cow could they make that any more complicated? Each number series looks like a swiss bank account security code. Like I can keep all those numbers straight! Pffffft!

Guess I won't be contacting my special accredited claims agent Rev (Dr) Martin Johnson after all. If only they'd made it as easy as winning the damn thing in the first place. Hellooo-ooo, I'm DISABLED, remember?

Bestest Spamage Ever

Now, don't judge me (too much) but I found this in my Inbox and it, quite honestly, made my day.



I mean, how sweet is that!

Awwwwwh.

Memory Flatulencitus

One of the side effects of being tired is forgetfulness.

Sudden and Complete Memory Flatulence.

Translated into street terms: brain farts.

It all started yesterday, this tale of nothingness, as so many tales of nothingness are want to do. Yesterday, my co-workers did not approve of my music selections. I have a pretty eclectic taste so you'd think I'd be able to DJ for the masses. Only problem is, I only have a few songs saved on my computer. And while I keep meaning to bring in a bunch of different CD's... well... that's all still in the "meaning" stage of development.

So the guys didn't like the music I was playing. This was, I must say, quite baffling. How anyone could not approve of tunes from the musical Les Miserables, one of the longest running shows on Broadway, I do not know. The music is powerful. Beautiful. Inspiring. Fun. And shit, if I listen to the whole thing the whole way through I have to keep myself from crying sometimes. There's some deep moving shit in that music!

Anywhoo... as the guys complained, and talk of other musicals came up, Coworker Jack started singing "a spoonful of sugar..." He apparently only knows that one line, as that's all he felt compelled to sing, so I felt it was imperative that I bring in my Mary Poppins soundtrack CD with extreme immediacy. I offered to bring in my Singing In The Rain and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers CD's as well.

Let me tell you, those boys never giggled with so much anticipatory glee.

While I thought of all the soundtracks I could bring in, Mary Poppins was still "tip of the top" priority. Partly to exercise that spoonful song out of my head, but mainly because its just a darn fun CD. So, like I do whenever there's something important for me to remember, I took a pen and wrote myself a note. On the back of my hand. There's no way I can forget to see my hand!

So last night, I see the note, and think, "I should get up, get the CD, and put it in my bag before I forget." This thought was quickly followed up by, "Meh, I'll do it in the morning. I've still got the note on my hand!"

Another side effect of tiredness? Laziness.

But I digress...

So this morning, as I'm getting ready for work in a haze of sleepiness that defies the laws of gravity, I see the note scribbled on the back of my hand. And I think, "Remember CD! Remember CD! Remember CD! Go get it nowwwwww!!!!"

First, I finished tying my shoe.

And then I brain farted.

Pffffffffffffffffffffffffttttttttttttttt.... ttt.

I'm at work, with the note still on my hand. But no CD. Waaaah.

Guess its Les Mis time again. :)

When Office Morons Attack

Okay, vent time. I have to vent or I'll explode like some kind of exploding thing and no one is here to hear me. Well, Mr. Desk Neighbor came back to his desk half way through typing this all out, so I vented to him. Several cuss words were used. The back story behind the email conversation, which he was copied on, was explained, and then the email was shown. And he didn't seem effected by the other person's idiocy. He didn't seem shocked. Or dismayed. Or outraged. He didn't join me in burning her name in effigy.

So he's dumb. So I'm finishing my vent via typing.

At my Place Of Employment, the way we buy things is this: someone requests an item by filling out a form on the computer. Sometimes I fill it out for them. Then its approved by a supervisor. Then I turn it into a purchase order (p.o.). Then I place the order. In a perfect world (re: some place other than my P.O.E.) that's how it usually works. I don't do everything (thank god) because we have a checks and balances system going on. I can't approve orders and I can't receive orders. This keeps me from buying a yacht or a jet or a pony with the company's money. Darn.

(Off topic a bit... but what kind of dumb ass spelling is 'yacht' anyways. Silly ancient English (or whoever invented that word) people.)

So I get an email this morning from the lady that pays the bills. She has an invoice for something that was ordered outside of the system, so now we need to backtrack and create a p.o. for our records. Happens all the time.

From: Office Queen
Lisa, please issue po for this attached file. thanks

The attached file was a copy of the invoice with an amount scribbled up at the top. The amount didn't seem to match what's listed on the invoice, so I called her up for clarification. Turns out I'm an idiot and didn't see that the attached file had several pages. Oops. But during this phone call she asks if I've received the packing slips for the items on the invoice.

Now, I receive some receipts because some items do get charged to my account (which is how, I guess, I really could buy myself a pony... and then ride it as I flee the country so they can't find me and ask me about the weird Ponies-R-Us charge to my corporate card). But more often than not, the receipts go to the Office Queen. So I am puzzled by her question. Why in the world would I have them? I tell her I don't have them and she mumbles something about nagging the person who did the ordering in the first place. Cool. Fine. Talk to you later.

By the time I get back to the req in the computer to update the price, its already been approved. Sweet. So I adjust the price (ya, not a perfect checks and balances system) then do my thing, a little computer magic, and voila! It's now a purchase order! Then, like I do every time we have an After The Fact p.o., I send an email to the guy who receives, asking him to please receive the items so we can pay the bills, and I copy the Office Queen so she's all updated and stuff.

I get back the following email reply...

From: Office Queen
Lisa, I thought need to be approve first ?

(Yes, I copy and pasted that. No editing whatsoever was involved.)

I first thought to reply as such: Well, duh, how else did I get a p.o. number? I didn't exactly pull it out of my ass.

But I responded like this instead...

From: Desk Drone
It was approved. That's how I was able to make it into a PO.

And I'm thinking that settles that.

From: Office Queen
Do you have all the receipts to support that amount I gave you ?

I first thought to reply as such: Huh??? I just told you over the phone I didn't have the receipts!!! Are you mental?!?!?!?!?

My response, though, was this:

From: Desk Drone
I have not received any of those receipts. If I did, I would have given them to you

Do I sound catty in my replies? I really tried not to be. I tried to sound simple and direct. Just stating the facts ma'am. But in my head it sounds catty.

Meorrrrrrrrw.

Then the Office Queen calls me and we have the following verbal conversation:

OQ: So-and-so was going to give them to you.
Me: Why would he give me the receipts?
OQ: Who else would he give them to?
Me: Youuuuu. (I really tried to not use my Talking-To-A-5-Year-Old-Voice but she frustrates me and I just couldn't help myself.) You're the one who collects them.
OQ: Who made the req?
Me: I did... (Which has NOTHING to do with anything!) ...but you're the one who pays the invoices. You need them. I only collect receipts for orders I put on my card. Riiiiiiight?
OQ: Yeah, but person who's going to receive them needs to have them.
Me: *thinking: oh... my... gawd... *
Me: Then the receipts need to go to The Guy Who Receives Things. Because he's receiving the order. Not me.
Me: And two plus two equals foooouuuuuuuur. (no, I didn't say that)
OQ: Okay. (To the guy standing next to her) Give them to The Guy Who Recieves Things then.
Me: Okay bye.

Holy frustration batman. That conversation didn't need to happen. This is not the first time an issue like this has come up. We've been doing this job for years. This is not a new concept!

Grrrrrrrrrr.

Then the conversation turns to emails again.

From: Office Queen
Let me ask you what is the approval amount on the req. ?

Okay, again, I'm confused. I don't understand what this has to do with the price of tea in Malawi. The price is what we discussed during our first phone conversation of the day. The number scribbled at the top. You clarified it for me. I got it. Clarification received and fixed so look at the damn computer yourself and figure it the frell out.

I'm tempted to ignore the email, but I respond, and try and sound helpful and professional.

From: Desk Drone
Approval amount is for the number written at the top of the invoice, $127.88

Ta da! Perfection.

Problem solved.

Question asked and answered.

From: Office Queen
My question was the approval amount on the req not the amount I gave you. Its ok I will bring this up tomorrow in our meeting.

I first thought to reply as such: Fuck you.

But I didn't.

I mean really! Is this woman on crack? Or is it me? Because if its me I wish someone would let me know.

I have no idea why she wants to know the "approval amount". Why would that be any different than the amount the P.O. is for? Answer: it wouldn't. The price is the same. It doesn't suddenly get multipled 50 times during the conversion to the P.O. (though with the crappy software program we have I'm surprised that hasn't happened before, but I digress...) Besides, the "approval amount" doesn't matter to her. What matters to her is the final price received on the purchase order. Which is the price she told me to use. END OF PROBLEM!

Did she by any chance see that I put in a low amount at first? That happens all the time. Its no big deal. I just adjusted it. Is she worried that the supervisor didn't see the correct price? He couldn't give a shit and she knows that. I know that, because the supervisor is my boss. If she's worried, I'll forward the freaking email to him.

I am completely failing to see the point of any of her questions, other than irritating the hell out of me.

But I shouldn't worry, because thankfully she'll bring it up at tomorrow's meeting in front of everyone.

Yippee.

I tried to call her back, because I was so ready to have a verbal sparring match with her. But she wasn't picking up the phone. Which is best, I guess, because trying to understand her and make sense of what she's complaining about isn't always in a person's best interest.

If none of this makes any sense, and it seems I'm all worked up over nothing... well, all I can say is that there's a lot of history here, of her irritating the hell out of me. So irriation levels can be reached quite easily as of late. She's the kind of person who will send me an email asking me to ask The Guy Who Receives Things to receive something for her. Why she can't frelling ask him directly I have no frackin clue. So I forward the request to The Guy and copy her on it, hoping one day she'll get a clue.

I'm still full of hope. She's still full of cluelessness.

Plight of the Whiny Mechanical Walrus

There's this sound - I'm not sure what its from exactly, some machine out on the warehouse floor most likely - and its driving me crazy.

Capital C-r-friggin-azy.

It sounds like a walrus getting rear ended over and over and over again.

Every second, I hear the poor walrus crying out in agony.

Every friggin second.

Actually, its more frequent than every second. It's going at about the speed of 2 whines per sec.

And it doesn't stop.

And oh holy hell its getting LOUDER.

I think it stopped for maybe five minutes a couple of hours ago, but that's it.

/cry

I've got Random Blinking Light on repeat on my comp, and its helping to drown out some of the noise. But not all of it.

And for once the voices in my head are silent.

Bitches!

I was going to write something up about how earlier today I read that it was de-lurking week, but I just can't think straight right now.

Gah!

I'm going to go find another blog to de-lurk on. Maybe that'll make the bad noise go away.

Man, if I had a gourd I'd be bored right the hell out of it.

Now that the new school quarter has started up again I have to go in to work earlier and stay later on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This is in order to get all 8 hours of working fun in. For some reason my company won't pay for the few hours I need to take off to go to class.

Silly company.

I like the schedule I've come up with because it means I only drive to school three days a week, which in turn means I only have to wake up early three days a week.

Score!

Now, the perfect schedule would include a sugar daddy or a dead relative from some as-of-yet-unheard-of rich branch of the family tree that endows me with large sums of money so that I can quit work and go to school at my leisure. But since that hasn't happened (yet) I'm stuck squishing my school and work schedules together.

I'm sure I'll get used to the schedule since it's exactly like the same one I had last quarter, which I quite liked. It broke up the monotony of the day, jetting off to school and back again.

But I'd just gotten used to not doing that anymore, darn it.

Because right now, if I hadn't gone to school today, I'd be home. Right now. Instead of here. Planning world domination with a friend of mine via emails. Which, sure, is a blast, but it still means I'm here. At work! When normally I'd be home.

My body instinctively knows it should be relax-at-home-time. Even if it was cooking time, which isn't very relaxing, it'd still be cooking-at-home-time. The brain thinks its time to shut down, to go into energy conservation mode. It knows it should be home watching The Daily Show or Scrubs reruns or last night's tivo'd Top Chef.

Since its not where it thinks its supposed to be, the brain is rebelling. It's down right refusing to be entertained by all these pretty invoice numbers I'm inputting into the computer.

Bored bored bored with a half hour still left to go. Why isn't there anyone here to talk to me?!

Bueller?

Bueller?

Adventures of a night owl sloth

The night before, I stayed up really late (like 1friggin30am!) and woke up around the same time as usual - well, at least as usual as its been for these last couple of "non-school" weeks. So I got a little less than 6 hours of sleep.

Fine. Okay. I dealt with it like a champ.

I was yawning by 2pm and had been wondering "is it nap time yet?" since about... oh, say, 11am. But I made it through the day without napping. Or passing out. Or zoning through most of it.

Hurray for me!

So then last night, seeing as how it was a school night (blah) I made sure I went to bed before midnight. Actual pillow contact was around 11pm. The only problem with that is I had to start waking up super early this morning to accommodate the new quarter work/school schedule (double blah).

Translation: I ended up only getting 6 hrs of sleep again.

And let me tell you something, my body is no longer conditioned to handle this kind of torture. My eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds and my body feels like its wading through jell-o. Icky fruity chunky jell-o at that!

I woke up 35 minutes before I had to leave for work. 25 of those minutes disappeared in the bathroom. I know I brushed my teeth, because they feel grimy-free. I can't quite tell from my as-of-late-usually-nappy hair, but I'm pretty sure I brushed it. And maybe I peed. I just can't quite remember.

Did all of that take 25 minutes?

If not, what the hell was I doing in there?

Ooooh, deodorant! That's what... thirty seconds accounted for right there.

*sniff sniff*

Yeah, I'm deodorized.

As I was getting ready, I grabbed all of the clothes I wanted to wear today and brought them into the living room (so as to not disturb the HB - the lucky "can you change my alarm from 6 to 6:30 I feel like sleeping in some" sob - while I got ready.)

So there I am, dressing in the living room while I watch the news, because I like to pretend I'm worldly and on top of things and all grown-up and shit. I've got the essentials on and now its sock time! I grab the socks to move them closer to me... then I do something (like put my glasses on because I saw them and didn't want to forget them)... and then something else (I think I threw my cell phone in my bag so I didn't forget that either)... and then I went to put my socks on and... holy crap I can't find those gollydamn socks! Where the frell did they go!

I swear, I think I spent 5 minutes looking for those damn socks. Sure, I could have just gone and grabbed another pair, but it was the principle of the thing. I just had them in my hands! and now they'd gone and disappeared on me. I looked on the couch... under the couch... between the couch cushions... I looked in my school bag... nothing. My search radius wasn't wide because I hadn't moved more than 2 feet, and I still couldn't find the lil bastards. Socks get lost in the washing machine, sure, but this was ridiculous!

Yeah, turns out they were already on my feet.

I'd put them on and completely forgot about it.

Sigh.

And now that my eyes are fully awake and accustomed to bright lights I can see a big ass stain on the shirt I'm wearing. A formerly known as favorite shirt.

Mega sigh.

Is it nap time yet?

Act IX: where Jabby gets tired of our conversation sooner than he ever has before.

Oh Jabby, is the honeymoon over already?

Jabberwacky: Them that has gets.

Loon: Gets guts?

Jabberwacky: Gets what.

Loon: Guts! Geez, can't you read?

Jabberwacky: I m tired of this.

Loon: Say it ain't so jabby!

Jabberwacky: It ain't so!

Loon: Nice! I like it when you obey me.

Jabberwacky: Why do you like that?

Loon: Why not?

Jabberwacky: You are mimicking me.

Loon: No. I'd mock you before mimicking you.

Jabberwacky: Then I am talking to myself. But this is impossible.

Loon: Obviously not. I think you solo-chat quite well.

Jabberwacky: I read.

Loon: You want a prize or something?

Jabberwacky: Ok. Come to my house.

Loon: Not on a first date buddy.

Jabberwacky: Do you go the distance on a first date?

Loon: Depends on how far I have to run.

Jabberwacky: You don't use your computer to cook pasta.

Loon: So what?

Jabberwacky: Who is it that you think you might meet then at Wimbeldon?

Loon: Dick Cheney.

Jabberwacky: Yes. Where is he?

Loon: Wimbeldon. Duh.

Jabberwacky: Well, I'm sorry if I'm boring you. I thought it was intelligent.

Loon: Well, you thought wrong. Sucker!

Jabberwacky: Oh no, I'm certain I'm right. I am always right.

Loon: Says you and what army?

Jabberwacky: Me and my cronies.

Loon: Well me and my posse could beat up you and your cronies.

Jabberwacky: Who is that?

Loon: Yo mamma!

Jabberwacky: I said that first.

Loon: No you didn't dumbass. I did. Check the log.

Jabberwacky: Is it possible that you write in a way that I'm able to understand you?

(editorial note: bwahahahahahahahahahahaha)

Loon: Probably not.

My brain is so mcfuddled I am unable to come up with a non-lame post title. Meh.

Why do I keep thinking its Wednesday?

WHY?

I was off Monday, so today's my first day back at work this week, so I should be thinking its Monday. And not halfway through the week already.

Because realizing that its only Tuesday, after thinking half the week is almost over, is kind of a bummer.

Damn you mcfuddled brain!

Today is proving to be very unproductive. From me giggling over ZackJack wiggling his butt like he's a model in a fancy jeans ad (so adorably funny it was almost pee-inducing, seriously) to giggling over Mr. Desk Neighbor yelling, after a misheard radio ad: "A family whore pack!?!?!?"

I tell ya, no progress has been made.

/sigh

I work with a bunch of five year olds.

And being a six year old myself isn't helping much :)

Hellooooooooooo 2007!

And hello to old readers still sticking around. And to any new readers that find they have some sticky power in them. And to the inventor of 2pm coffee and fake pink sugar and disco for inspiring more dancing from ZackJack.