Process flow THIS

Posted in Bitching on May 31, 2012 by Ruby

I just received an e-mail from the Chair Nazi. In addition to hoarding quality chairs, the Chair Nazi is also the gate-keeper of all documentation being approved within our company. I’ve been trying to get something past her for literally nine months. If it were a baby I were trying to get past my cervix, I would’ve been successful by now.

There’s always something wrong with the documents, something “I” forgot, something that needs fixing, something to be added, etc. Mind you, in the umpteen weeks she’s had these documents, nothing within them has changed except for what she’s requested, meaning that each time she adds something to my list of changes, it’s another thing she’s pulled out of her ass that could very well have been discovered umpteen weeks ago during the first time she reviewed the docs. Editing: learn how to do it right the first 17 times.

Just three weeks ago, I finally got it past her initial gate and on to the gate committee for review. Today’s Chair Nazi e-mail informs me that the gate committee has more comments, more things “I” forgot, something that needs to be added, etc. Apparently this something that I need to add is a “process flow diagram.”

My first reaction is to ask what the fuck a process flow diagram is.

My second reaction is to ask why the fuck I need a process flow diagram.

My third reaction is to inform the gate committee that this isn’t even my freakin’ document, I didn’t write it, and I barely know what it’s for, much less what needs to be flowed processfully and how.

However, I try and remind myself that were I to express these reactions aloud, I would receive the subsequent reactions:

“You don’t know what a process flow diagram is?!?! Remind us again why we hired you?? It’s exactly what it sounds like!”

“Because we said so.”

“It’s your job to handle documentation for people too important or busy to do it themselves. Your job’s process flow diagram looks like this: Boss says write something up –> you do it.”

So, really, all I’m left with is a process flow that reads something along the lines of: Sigh –> Bangs head on desk.

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I’m getting there

Posted in ¡Las Pimientas!, Boozy, Gluttony on May 30, 2012 by Ruby

I’m almost fully recovered from my weekend with Lizzy.

See, you know you’re off to the start of a very long and tiring (yet fun!) weekend when your sister’s flight’s delayed well over an hour and a half, and you don’t end up picking her up from the airport until 12:15 at night. This has two implications: one, the only way you found to pass the time while waiting for her was going to a couple of bars and watching coked out cover bands royally fuck up “Pour Some Sugar on Me;” irony noted. And two, once you do get your sister home at 1:00 a.m., you’re not going to want to go to bed yet, because you’re going to want to stay up drinking and catching up.

Saturday I anticipated being a bit more low-key. We were able to sleep in a bit, waking up around 10:30 to finally eat some breakfast, head out to the store, buy ingredients for party contributions, make said contributions, and then head to Leah’s pool party at 2:30. A 2:30 pool party — how drunk can one get there? And how long can one stay drunk? I figured, not very and not very.

Wrong and wrong.

Well, no, I didn’t get that drunk, but I definitely consumed twice as much as I’d anticipated (hence the beer run halfway through to restock and perhaps the drunken wrestling match between Lizzy and me on the lawn which I think someone videotaped), and we didn’t end up getting home until 1:00 a.m. once again.

Sunday was another attempt at a day of moderation: we were up by 11:00 at the latest, cooked breakfast, and were then off to the farmers’ market to show Lizzy what collard greens look like. I also found there my latest prized possessions: not one, but two ghost chilli plants — full grown!! They were just sitting there, hiding, just the two of them! I almost missed them! I couldn’t decide which one to get, so Hank convinced me to buy both. He’s sort of an enabler, that one. From thereon out, I was giddy to an unruly level. My birthday phone call to My Mother the next day went something along the lines of, “happy birthday! I GOT GHOST CHILLI PLANTS!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Once we got home, after stopping at one of the original Krispy Kreme locations to watch doughnuts be made (seriously, it’s entertaining; some come out looking like turds), we went once again went into full on cooking mode, cooking up a Mexican feast for us and five teenagers (we make spare cash on the weekends by running a youth hostel; look for us on TripAdvisor). The only other evening plans after that were to head to the bar for just an hour or so to show Lizzy where we always hang out, maybe run into some people we know, and then head home for an early-ish bed time.

As anyone with half a brain can guess, things did not go according to plan. While we did end up home a bit before midnight, Lizzy and I stayed up talking until 4:00 in the morning. Some happy, some sad, most of it conducted by raising our hands and calling on each other, as it was the only way to get the other to shut up long enough to get a word in (we’re sisters, and very similar in our drunken rambling styles). I’m glad we had that opportunity, but it definitely made Monday far less of a holiday and far more of a sick day. My biggest fear was the moment I’d have to get off of the couch and drive Lizzy to the airport at 5:00 that evening. Hank said his biggest fear is that I was going to force him to do it.

In the end, Hank, who went to bed at 1:00 a.m. and had the most sleep of all of us, not only stayed home for the ride to the airport, but somehow got me to like him enough to stop for ice cream for him on the way home. Yes, he’s spoiled, that adorable man I can’t get enough of.

And now here I am, 48 hours sober, still oddly tired, and even though Matilda announced last night that she wouldn’t be home tonight, thus offering me my third night ever here to myself, I’m thinking it may be another drink-less evening. Perhaps early to bed. Maybe starting a new book? The rock star is fading…

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Detox Mode Engaged

Posted in Boozy on May 29, 2012 by Ruby

I blame Lizzy. She makes me drink too much. Yup, her fault.

I’m hoping the brain damage isn’t permanent and that I’ll regain the ability to write soon.

Until then, blorkity schmemple fintz.

That’s fried brain for, “be well and see you soon!”

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I’m so excited!!!

Posted in Good Karma on May 24, 2012 by Ruby

Lizzy’s coming to visit tomorrow!!!!

She’s never been here before (unless you count layovers at RDU). As such, I’m thinking about how best to introduce her to the area. If only there were more time, we could drive out to Charlotte and I could introduce her to such cultural monuments as where they filmed this year’s Bachelorette and the home of NASCAR.

Instead, we’ll have to stick around the RTP area. This means our activities will look something more along the lines of:

- Playing Where’s Waldo in the garden. Person to find the most cabbageworms wins a shot of tequila.

- Pool party at Leah’s where we can show Lizzy that we’ve taken Cards Against Humanity and turned into a slightly different game called Lena’s Vagina where the answer to every question is “Lena’s Vagaina.”

- Having Lizzy cook things for said pool party where I’ll then claim I cooked it.

- Teaching Lizzy how to upholster a cat condo.

- Teaching Lizzy how to play darts.

- Hanging out in carpeted bars playing darts.

- Hanging out in carpeted cat condos pretending to be cats.

It’s going to be awesome!

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We have a new enemy. And a new game.

Posted in Bitching, Death Threats on May 23, 2012 by Ruby

I’m rather new at the whole farming thing. Sure, I’ve grown more chillies than most of central America, but those were all in pots safely indoors. The worst vermin I had to worry about were cats knocking things over. Thus when I started to notice that something was eating my kale out in the garden, my first form of defense was to start swearing in the general direction of the plants, and then turn around and hope it would simply go away on its own.

Strangely enough, this tactic didn’t work.

A few days later, the damage even more extensive, I tried to investigate, see if I could find any trace of the evil plague that took out my gorgeous kale. But other than tiny bug turds everywhere, I saw nothing. I swore some more (seriously — how evil is that? Not only do you eat all of my kale that I worked hard to grow from seed, but what you leave in your wake is a trail of shit? Even common household thieves refrain from taking a dump on your kitchen floor after stealing the silver), and then I asked My Mother for her advice.

She recommended that I sprinkle cayenne pepper all around; this is a nice, homeopathic deterrence for pests.

However, a few days later, and there was even less kale, as if that were possible. Finally, last night, I went out again, in search of perpetrators. This time I hit pay dirt… in a most horrific way.

Those little green fuckers had been right in front of my face the entire time. It’s just that they do such a good job of perfectly matching their colour to the leaves that I couldn’t see them. Until now. And once you train your eyes to see them, you can’t stop seeing them… so many of them… everywhere… an infestation of pooping machines.

I pulled off and killed at least 50 of the shitters last night. This morning I caught another dozen. I dare say the kale is gone for good (and what’s left of it is covered in bug feces, so… yeah…), but now they’re moving on to the arugula! I did some Googling enough to learn that these pieces of shitting shits are called cabbageworms and allegedly only go after that family of veggies. So I guess after they go through the arugula, they’d be done with us. Though I hardly plan on letting them get off that easily. I’m thinking… fire… ant poison… glue traps… and maybe starting off with the babies while the more mature ones are forced to watch.

Meanwhile, finding my future victims has become a game of Where’s Waldo, yet far more disgusting and ultimately violent. Care to help me play?

This is the result of the gluttonous, devil-spawned cabbageworm.

We’ll start you off easy. Spot Waldo. Also spot lots of wasted cayenne pepper.

Slightly more challenging…

Level five cabbageworm challenge.

And now I have to learn to find them in the arugula too :(

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There’s just no pleasing people. Or cats.

Posted in Meow on May 22, 2012 by Ruby

Yesterday, approximately 30 minutes before I was about to start cooking dinner, Matilda comes in the office to inform me that she’s going to head to her friend’s to spend the night. “Well, do you at least want dinner before you go?” I asked. “What are you going to make?” she probes. “Crabcakes on a bed or organic arugula, roasted garlic cauliflower, kale chips, and a baked potato!” “Nah, I think I’ll head out.” Oh, I see.

Joke’s on her, because now I’ll just end up serving that tonight instead.

Nevertheless, I didn’t spend too much time sulking, because I quickly realized that this marked only the second time since I’ve moved here that I actually had the whole house to myself for an entire night. You know what that means: naked reading time in the screen room while nursing a bottle of moscato followed by blaring the Bachelorette in the living room. Twas glorious.

Around 9:00, I decided I was hungry and started putting together some crap when I hear a strange noise, I look around a bit to then discover that it’s Dizzy, who had helped himself to a loaf of bread from the pantry and was now trying to drag his spoils into the hallway. He’s so adorable, it almost pains me to teach him that it’s not okay to make sandwiches.

I texted Hank with this tale of utmost cuteness. His response? “I don’t find that amusing. That cat needs to be brought back to reality.” This reaction may or may not have had anything to do with Dizzy trying to grab a piece of jerky directly out of Hank’s hand the other day. Living with Dizzy can be like having to cover yourself from seagulls at the beach. However, as I then explained to Hank, this is just a positive sign that Dizzy’s adjusting well. He only ever tests the boundaries of a living situation when he’s finally truly comfortable. That’s when he’ll start trying to eat off of your plate as it sits in front of you on a dining room table. You simply clap your hands in his face, tell him this is not a buffet, and that he must wait to be served. He’ll then forever behave himself. Well, until we move again and he needs to settle in and figure out the rules of another place.

Oddly enough, they’re always the same rules. I guess he’s just a real optimist.

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Culinary mood swings

Posted in ¡Las Pimientas!, Bad Karma, Bitching, Gluttony, Good Karma, Secrets from Ruby's Kitchen to Yours on May 21, 2012 by Ruby

Hank’s out of town now until Wednesday, leaving me in charge of Matilda. Normally, I’d say I cook about once a week (don’t listen to Hank, who would like to tell you it’s more like once a month — the man lies. I have proof). However, when Hank’s gone, I feel a sense of pressure to cook every night.

Some of you may be thinking, “well, duh — you have a child to feed. Why wouldn’t you feel compelled to cook her dinner each night?”

Oh, so many answers to this question. Laziness, mostly. Also, Hank doesn’t always cook her dinner either — she’s 17; she knows how to make Ramen. And frankly, after a long day of sitting on my ass slaving away over a keyboard, I hardly have the impetus to stand for 30 minutes and chop and stir something. I’m not Mother Theresa. Or Kristy Thomas from the Baby-Sitters’ Club.

However, I caved to the pressure, and started reading through cookbooks people have purchased for me in the most optimistic of gestures. The first book I read through, something about a countess with no shoes, yielded a few possibilities. I’m leaning toward the garlic cauliflower and shrimp saute for one meal, and using the spring risotto for another.

Then I picked up my giant cookbook filled with only spicy recipes. I actually found this to be a far more frustrating read, as I had to translate it from the Queen’s English into Uhmerican. Where was Joe Hoover when I needed him? I knew about coriander equaling cilantro. But aubergine?? And courgette, really?? Are y’all opposed to common sense descriptions and Italians?

Things just went downhill from there when I started reading recipes that called for celeriac, lemon grass stalks with tops bruised, coconut rice, kroeung, fresh tumeric, kaffir lime leaves, galangal, kecap manis, mirin, tuk trey, mooli, and rocket. I’m not sure where they think I live, but I’m fairly certain that our little rural Food Lion — the one that never has ripe avocados, broccoli slaw, or arugula — probably won’t have mooli either. Oh wait, according to my food translator, “rocket” is arugula. We can definitely strike that off the Food Lion grocery list.

I finally settled on Jamaican Jerk porkchops. The weirdest ingredient in that dish is ginger root, which oddly enough, I can find everywhere. I will need to go purchase rum, however. Oh, and the marinade needs to be made 24 hours in advance.

Eh, fuck it. I’ll just leave the kid with pizza money and head out to the bar instead; being responsible is too much work.

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