So Mona gave us all a fairly easy PFC word, and here I am a whole day late, still wondering what exactly it is I want to rant about.
Part of the problem for me is that it takes a lot for me to get wound up into a good rant. I've tried for so long to control the raging spirit that dwells within... nevermind, I don't have Lou Ferrigno's phone number anymore. I thought about a few things I could easily get worked up about (modern life, work, lost friendships, cheese) but even with those prime subjects I just couldn't seem to get a good core outrage worked up to start with.
So, how about a series of short rants, rather like being rabbit punched in the kidneys, only without the kidneys. Or the pugilistically-inclined lapin.
Yes, I agree that was a bit of a show-off. Sorry. Been reading the last of the Nero Wolfe books by Rex Stout, and I'm a little verbose, as well as angry. See, the book company that owns the corpus has been reprinting all 72 stories, albeit very slowly, and not in order. (Oh, that was a nice link, wasn't it?) I've been carefully collecting and trying to stay within some sort of chronological order but I had to throw up my hands in despair. I can't afford anyone's "print on demand" prices, and this town is too small to support more than one half-arse used book store, so I've been buying new as they come out, and now...now I'm about to finish the grand denoument, the book that all good Wolfeians tell newbies to read last because it wraps up all the questions about Wolfe and Archie's familial ties along with the whole Arnold Zeck thing. They simply don't get published fast enough for me to want to wait an additional thirty years to read them in sequence and I'm ranting, you see, about authors who dare to die before I've heard of them, so there's no waiting for new books to come out, no hope of more stories. I hate you, J. K. Rowling.
You'll have to forgive me for being hot under the collar (watch this, it's gonna be an excellent segue) but I pulled down the office curtains earlier to wash them, and it's sweltering in here. (Heh. Wasn't that great? Emotionally 'hot' to physically hot...I slay me!) The weather has turned on me like a crazy ex-girlfriend; it's been very hot but clear all week while I toiled at work but now that the weekend is here it's been raining since late Friday night and overcast. Not that the heat has let up, mind you, it's just DAMP and hot now, which is nice if you're with a woman of dubious moral character but not so nifty if your plans involved working outside for any length of time. And Louisiana is good at these sorts of days--hot, muggy, and hot. Stir in a heaping handfull of mosquitoes and you've got yourself the makings of a Saturday in July. So here I sit, in my monstrously bright, exquisitely hot office, my very inner soul opened to the world through 30 panes of glass, ranting about the weather.
Speaking of panes (wait, there it is again... link incoming!) the freaking nurses at work have been SUCH pains here of late. (Zing!) I warned them at the first of July that inventory was coming up, starting on the 12th. Plenty of time to bulk up on medical supplies that their patients require. Did they? Yes. The last day. Did said pains come whining and bitching and crying after I've locked down the medical supply process for inventory? Oh yes, in spades. Did I want to strangle them with their own stethoscopes? You betcha. But I gracefully relented and patted their hands and wiped their tears and their asses for them, and called my one and only contact in Corporate Supply Management. I do so love to show her that our local office is just as filled with simpleton children as the others are. But, I swallowed my feeble pride and asked for an emergency order for Monday delivery so I could see that my medical kinder get what they need to take proper medical care of the sick and injured people that they so condescendingly call "their babies."
Pots and kettles, kids.
Okay, that's enough of that. I'm gonna go watch the doves at work, unfettered by curtains.
Oh, and can't forget the glorious moth (warning clicksters: large hi-res photo)
who is riding out the drizzle on the screen and whose patterns remind me not only of bark but of the fur of my tabby cat.