The Diaries of a Fat Chick

Driving home from work the other day, Ben turns to me and says:

Ben:  Look, a condo for sale within a heritage home.

Me:  I told you, I’m not living with you in a heritage home.

Ben:  Hey, I think Cuda would like living in a heritage home; maybe I’ll move into it with him.

Me:  Go right ahead.

Ben:  You’ll do anything to get rid of that dog won’t you?

Me:  What makes you think it’s the dog?

Ben:  laughs*

*He can’t help it; he secretly loves that I’m a bitch.  And I love him for loving it. 

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Every year around April, a letter arrives in the mail for me.  A letter I dread. 

It’s a letter from my doctor’s office informing me that I’m due for my annual.  Just seeing their return address makes me shudder.  And Patti, the nurse, always adds a little handwritten smiley face to the letter.  Because she is evil like that.

I usually put it off for a month or two but unfortunately my doctor is a wiley one and will only give me a prescription for a year’s worth of thyroid medication.  And they won’t refill prescriptions over the phone.  And they always say “Kelly, let’s just book you in for your annual shall we?” when I call to book an appointment for a prescription refill.  See, wiley.

This year I managed to put it off until June 16th.  Tuesday morning at 11:30 I found myself sitting in the clinic room, rolling up my sleeve so Patti could take my blood pressure.

Patti:  It’s going to be high isn’t it Kelly?

Me:  Of course it is.

Patti:  I won’t judge you for it.

Me:  And you know what?  When Dr. C. comments on my high blood pressure I’m going to tell him it’s only high because I’m about to have my hoo haw violated!

Patti:  You go girl.  Huh, well look at that, your blood pressure is normal.

Me:  Sweet.

Patti:  Well done.

Me:  It’s all about mind over matter Patti.  You just have to concentrate and will it into normal range.

Patti:  I’m impressed.

Me:  I’m like a ninja that way.

10 minutes later, I’m lying naked on the bed (table?, what the hell do you call that thing?), my legs dangling down at the end of it and covered by nothing more than a too small hospital gown and a sheet.

Dr. C:  Hey Kelly, how’s it going?

Me:  Livin’ the dream, Dr. C. - livin the dream.

Dr. C:  Why are you laying that way?

Me:  What way?

Dr. C:  Like your dead.  Your arms and legs are dangling over the sides.

Me:  Cause I’m too fat for the table?

Dr. C:  Okay… moving on.  So, are you having any health issues you’d like to discuss?

Me:  You mean other than the debilitating stomach issues?

Dr. C:  Still bad huh?

Me:  Let’s just say I’m never far from a bathroom. 

Dr. C:  Hmmm… even with the gallbladder out?

Me:  Yup.  Oh well, we all have our crosses to bear.

Dr. C:  Well, we could do some more tests if you like, I could schedule you in for -

Me:  No way.  I am not having anything stuck up my bum.  It’s bad enough I have to have a giant steel q-tip stuck up my hoo haw.

Dr.  C:  Fair enough.  If you change your mind, let me know.  Any other issues?

Me:  Nah, not really.  For a fat girl I’m pretty damn healthy.

Dr. C:  Okay, well let’s get started, we’ll do the breast exam first.

After a few moments of manipulation of the girls:

Dr. C:  Good, no lumps.

Me:  Yeah!  High five!  No…? 
Dr. C:  That’s a lot of enthusiasm.

Me:  Hey, 34 years lump free is something to celebrate.

Dr. C:  True.  *high fives me*

Me:  Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!

As Dr. C. moved to the end of the bed (table?) and pulled out the little shelf hidden in the end of it for my feet to rest on, I automatically clamped my knees together and curled my toes up.

Dr. C:  Um… that’s not going to work for the exam Kelly.

Kelly:  I know.   Just give me a minute, I’m doing deep breathing exercises.

Dr. C. leaned against the counter, folded his arms and watched me breathe for a couple of minutes.

Dr. C:  You know Kelly, not to brag or anything but I have like the best track record in the city for accurate pap tests. 

Me:  Uh, congratulations?  High five?

Dr. C:  *high fives me*  Just thought that might help you relax.

Me:  Oh it did.  Really.  Alright, let’s get this over with.

Dr C. sat down on a small stool at the end of the table and pulled on his rubber gloves.  He clucked sympathetically when I cringed a little at the sound.

Dr. C:  Okay, just relax your legs.

Me:  They are relaxed.

Dr.  C:  They need to be more relaxed.

Me:  So, how’s it look down there?

Dr. C:  *peering at me from between my knees*  Looking normal so far.

Me:  Excellent.  I prefer to have a normal looking hoo haw.

Me:  You know, you really should put some posters on the ceiling, give your patients something to read.

Dr. C:  That’s a pretty good idea.

Me:  I know.

Me:  Also, I should be taken out for dinner for this.

Dr. C:  It’s the least we can do.

Me:  I like sushi.

Dr. C:  Okay, and we’re done.  We’ll call you if there are any problems, remember no news is good news.

Me:  So the likelihood of me having to have another chunk of my cervix lasered off is slim?

Dr. C:  I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you.  Okay, have a great rest of the morning, we’ll see you next year!

Me:  Oh yay.

 God I love being a woman.

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When the mumsi entity was here for the great renovation project of 2009, she took a couple hours off to go and get herself her very first tattoo. Now, I won’t say how old she is because she’ll beat me with a stick but she’s definitely old enough to know better!  Crazy tattooed woman…

She got herself a Canadian flag with mine and George’s birth years tattooed above it.  Below are the pictures of her at the tattoo parlour.

 

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This weekend was our second bulldog meeting.  There were between 10 and 12 bulldogs at the offleash park including two babies at six months old - Oscar and Murray.

Cassie and Chopper

 

Cassie and Emma:

Oscar:

Oscar and Murray playing:

A personal favourite, Chopper:

Typical Cassie after 10 minutes of playing:

Murray:

This poor dog didn’t know what to expect from all the bulldogs:

Goofy and his amazing tongue:

Playing fetch, sorta…

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For the first time in my nearly 20 years in the workforce, I suck at my job.  And not just a little - there’s a lot of suckage.  I’ve had other jobs where I sucked at the beginning and struggled a little but I always found my groove.  Not so in this case.  To be fair, this wasn’t the job I was hired for; two weeks after they hired me, that job was centralized with corporate. Or at least it was supposed to be nearly 11 months ago now.  And, to be fair, the company did everything they could to keep me employed, they, with the assumption that payroll would be ending last summer, put me into another full time position - part time.  So, for the last 10 months or so I’ve been doing two full time jobs; as you can imagine it really didn’t work out that well.  One job had to suffer and, not surprisingly, it wasn’t payroll (which, incidentally - I rock at!). 

Anyway, that’s really neither here nor there - the truth of the matter is, I suck at the job they’ve given me and despite my very best efforts; I’m not getting any better.  I’m a smart cookie; I know when to fight and when to call it a day and it’s certainly time to call it a day.   Unfortunately employment is pretty slim pickins these days.

Here’s the thing - I sat through two extremely brutal and humiliating meetings yesterday and for the first time ever I am considering just quitting.  No two weeks notice, no new job to go to.  Just handing in my letter, cleaning out my desk and walking away at the end of the day.  This type of behaviour is totally not me which lends evidence to just how badly it’s gotten.  I mean, who walks out of a job with nothing to go to when you have bills to pay and the economy is bad? 

There’s a certain team member who, due to various reasons, is out for my blood.  And she’s doing a damn fine job at collecting.  Seriously, as much as I loathe this woman, I have got to give her props for her dedication to proving that I am extremely incompetent at my job.  But damn girl, you’re beating a dead horse here.  My supervisors know I suck at my job, we’ve had various conversations about it and the proof is right there in front of them.  Yet, she persists.  At first it was mildly amusing, then it was really amusing but now?  Now it’s just…brutal.  This employee used to be a supervisor and she sucked at it.  She micro managed and couldn’t get her own work done because she was too busy doing everyone else’s.  She got rid of an extremely competent employee because said employee wouldn’t work Fridays, she showed obvious favouritism to certain employees and, eventually, when the stress became too much would haved small mental breakdowns and have to go home for the day.  The Company tried numerous plans and ideas with her but nothing worked and so, just recently, she was demoted. 

This is where things get ugly.  She was demoted because she wasn’t a good supervisor and because she wasn’t able to get her work done (which, just happens to be connected to my job - we’re supposed to be a team).   I believe, however, that while they mentioned her lack of supervisory skills when demoting her they really played up the we need your help to get EI back on track; it’s not going well yada, yada, yada bit and now?  Now she’s convinced herself that the reason she was demoted was because the EI project is so out of whack and she was the only one who can fix it.  And who made this EI project so ugly?  Yours truly.   Which, in her defense, is partially true, I really have fucked things up and we really do need someone like her to get it back on track but there’s ALSO the fact that she’s not a good supervisor.  Something she has conveniently forgotten.

So, the woman is doing her job - she’s getting EI back on track and in the process making me look like a complete idiot.  Which, again, not that I don’t deserve but woo baby has my self esteem taken a few hits this week.  Which is nothing short of a miracle because I’m one of the most egotistical people I know.  I think I’m awesome; I think I can do anything; I can’t think of anyone who is as awesome as me?  Right?

Yesterday, as I mentioned, there were two meetings that related to the EI project.  The first meeting was a general admin meeting with a five minute update on EI by said employee who currently hates me.  The floor was turned over to her and when asked for an update on EI, she said (and I do quote, oh my brothers):

“I’m doing a massive clean up.  Clean up en masse.”

Then she stared bitterly at me from across the room while everyone squirmed uncomfortably for 30 seconds before the CFO jumped in and, bless her little heart, explained more in depth about the whole “Kelly having to do two full time jobs in the last eleven months”.   I actually found that one a little amusing as a coworker sitting beside me, who happens to know the whole sordid story and has been listening to me bitch and moan about it for the last month or so, nearly fell off her chair because she was trying desperately to keep the laughter from bubbling out of her mouth.  As she told me later, “The look Kelly, the look!!  It was so blatently over the top and evil, I couldn’t help but laugh.”  And you know, despite the debilitating embarrassment as all my co-workers stared at me, it was sorta funny…. I mean, I could see the humour in it. 

The second meeting was our weekly EI meeting with the CFO and Controller and that one was horrible.  All kinds of humiliation and feeling like an idiot were involved.  And that woman, the frickin’ woman, just sits there looking down her nose at me, or pretending that I don’t exist as she explains over and over again why she is awesome and I am not and as the news about the EI situation just gets worse and worse I feel worse and worse.  Partially because my pride is taking a huge hit - I’ve NEVER sucked this bad at a job before but mostly because I’m friends with both the CFO and the Controller and they’re the ones who are having to explain the EI problem to the entire management team and getting raked over the coals for it. 

In short, I am looking for new employment.  I’ve had four interviews over the last two weeks and go for another one today and one on Friday.  These are both second interviews - one I really want (working full time at a vet clinic, and I’d still be able to work casual hours at my current vet clinic) and the other I would take just to get out of this place and it’s ability to suck the very confidence from my bones. 

Wish me luck kids.

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Just recently we discovered that Kelowna has a bulldog group.  They meet every other weekend or so in an off-leash park to visit and let their bulldogs socialize.  We went on Sunday with Cassie to visit the other bulldogs and both us and Cassie had a fantastic time.  All together there were about 12 bulldogs, the youngest was about 8 months and the oldest was Cassie, at 13.  People were quite impressed at how playful she was.  Here are some pictures of the event:

 Bulldog pandemonium:

Cassie, sitting in the sun and soaking it all in:

  

Cassie made a new friend called Cooper.  They had quite a good time chasing each other and trying to out-hump each other:

Here Dozer, stopped by to play as well:

Max:

Lulu getting a bum scratch and a belly rub:

Saying hello to Emma:

Lulu and Emma:

Saying hello to another bulldog whose name I can’t remember:

There were other non-bulldogs that stopped by to play as well:

Charlotte the pug wants to play too:

Max, Dozer, Cooper, Emma and Cassie:

Lulu relaxing:

Cassie, completely pooped:

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Back in December our dog Cuda (he of the hardest head in the canine world) grew a lump roughly the size of an orange in his right armpit.  We had the lump removed surgically and the vet was confident that it was nothing but a fatty lump gone rogue.  We were wrong.  Turns out the canine klutz had the big “C” however the pathologist was fairly positive that by removing the lump we had removed all of the cancer.  Can you sense a theme here?  Yeah… we were wrong.

About three weeks ago we discovered another lump deep in his right armpit.  On Friday Cuda went back to the vet for more surgery.  When the vet went in to remove the lump she found three or four more in the same area.  She removed as much as she could but is certain that the lumps will return.  She sent them off to a different pathologist to see what his recommendation would be.  It’s a waiting game now, not so much does he have cancer but what do we do about it?  At this point, we don’t have many options, most likely wait until the lump(s) have returned and are so large that we have to put the big dumb fuzzy mutt down.  Which is, most definitely, a bummer.

Right now he’s recovering from the surgery rather nicely.  He went back for another bandage change today and the incision is looking good with minimal bruising and swelling.  He’s also rocking a pretty awesome t-shirt to protect the bandage:

That’s his “rub my belly now” roar.

He’s big, hairy, needy, dumb as a sack of hammers, and there’s no doubt that our lives will be easier without him but to have cancer at only seven years old in a word?  Sucks.

But he does look dashing in a t-shirt:

 

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A recent phone conversation with my big brother:

Me:  Hello?

George:  Sheila!

Me:  George!  What’s happening big fella?

George:  Not much; just got back from a date.

Me: Cool.  How’d it go?

George:  Eh, not so well.  Didn’t feel a spark.

Me:  That’s too bad.

George:  Yeah.  She was feeling the spark a little too much though.  She was already calling me “baby and sweetheart”

Me:  Weird.

George:  Um, yeah.  She asked if I did anything for mother’s day.  I told her I had sent flowers to my mum with my sister.  Then she wanted to know if I had sent her a card.

Me:  Uh oh.

George:  I told her I was anti-card; she didn’t understand it.

Me:  Not a lot of people do.

George:  Then the waitress came up and I asked her, “How do you feel about greeting cards?”  And the waitress says “Um…, what do you mean?”  And I said “Greeting cards, how do you feel about them?”  And she said, “I like them?” and I said “Wrong answer.  Anti-card:  join the movement”

Me:  Laughs hysterically

George:  Then the waitress wanted to know who else was in the movement and I said “Me and my sister.  I just turned my sister to the dark side.  Join the movement.”

Me:  Laughs hysterically.

George:  You’re my first-in-command Sheila.  I told my date, “Just wait, in 20 years, you’ll see me on the news and you’ll be all “Hey that’s George.”  I’ll be the guy who took down Hallmark.  And Shoebox.

Me:  Laughs hysterically.

George:  I don’t think she’ll want to go out with me again.

Me:  Yeah, probably not.

George:  I called her after the date and told her I didn’t feel a spark. 

 Me:  But she felt a spark.

George:  Sheila, she was on me like a fat kid on a smartie.

Me:  Laughs hysterically.

George:  Oh well, better luck next time.  Hey talk to Ben about the anti-card movement, tell him he can be my second-in-command.  Then the next time someone asks me about the movement I can say there are three of us.

Me:  I’ll do my best.

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So way back in February of this year we decided to do some major renovations to the trailer.  Arrangements were made to bring the mumsi entity to town at the end of March to help out and as part of the renovations we decided to buy new living room furniture.  The renovations included painting every single room and replacing the majority of the floors, it went well (although at one point on my birthday, as I was on my hands and knees putting new floor down in the spare room, mumsi wished me a happy birthday and I said (and I do quote) “It’s my birthday and I want to die.”) but that’s really a post for another day.  This post is about the furniture.  The fucking furniture if you will.

At the end of February I went shopping for a new couch and chair and I found one I liked at a large retail chain.   When Ben tells the story he refused to divulge the name of said retail chain store for fear of swaying people’s decision about whether to shop there or not.  I, however, have no such qualms - it’s the Bay dear readers.  THE BAY.

I took Ben to see the couch and chair, he liked it, we bought it.  When we bought the furniture, our store associate Wendy told us it would be ready at the end of March, beginning of April.  Perfect I said.  We would be done renovations by the end of March so the arrival of the new furniture would be perfect timing.  Our only concern at that point was if the couch would fit through the door (actually that was Ben’s concern, I was all easy-breezy about it, if the truth be told, of course we would fit it into the trailer, we’d find a way). 

The second weekend of March we got rid of our old couch.  People we knew needed a couch; it would just be in our way when we were doing renovations and the furniture would be arriving at the beginning of April at the very latest. 

On April 4th, I called to check on the status of our furniture delivery.  A very nice, but dim man at the Bay (THE BAY) informed us that our furniture would not be arriving until April 14th.  When I protested this, telling him that we were told the beginning of April he explained that he had no idea why we were told this as it says right on the purchase order, April 14th.  Fine, I said.  I’ll wait until April 14th.

A few days before April 14th, Wendy from the Bay (THE BAY) phoned and talked to Ben.  The furniture was delayed, they thought it might arrive May 1st.  Ben was kind but firm in explaining all the trouble we had been experiencing with the Bay (THE BAY) and this furniture delivery and Wendy did her best to blame the entire problem on their new delivery system. 

Fine, I said.  I can wait until May 1st.   I love that couch and chair, I’ll wait for it.

On April 29th, I called the Bay (THE BAY) to inquire about the delivery of the chair and couch.  It’s being delivered on the 1st of May, the nice young man told me on the phone.  Between the hours of 1 and 6. 

Oh really, I say, the 1st of May, you mean the Friday between 1 and 6 when both my husband and I are working?  Yes, he says, weren’t you called?  When I informed him that no we hadn’t been called and that I now wanted to speak to his manager, he gave me her name and said that Hazel from the Bay (THE BAY) would call me.  Six hours later Hazel did, indeed, phone me.

Me:  Good afternoon, Kelly speaking.

Hazel:  Hello Kelly, this is Hazel calling from the Bay (THE BAY).  I’m calling in regards to your furniture delivery on Friday.

Me:  Hi there, yes there seems to be a problem.  We aren’t going to be home to receive said furniture on Friday.  It will need to be delivered on the weekend.

Hazel:  Oh, we don’t deliver on the weekend.  Besides, you were called to inform you of the date so you could make arrangements to have someone there.

Me:  We weren’t called.  We were called to say it might be arriving on May 1st but were not called again to tell us it was indeed arriving on May 1st and would, in fact, be delivered on May 1st.

Hazel:  Are you sure?

Me:  Positive.

Hazel:  Hmm, well that’s weird.  Unfortunately, as I said, we don’t deliver on the weekends, our delivery days are Friday 1-6pm, Tuesday 9-1pm and Wednesday 4-9pm. 

Me:  Here’s the problem.  If I have to go back and tell my husband that our furniture, which has been delayed over a month now, will once again be delayed until Wednesday because you neglected to call us, the possibility of him telling me to just cancel our order is extremely high.

Hazel:  Oh?

Me:  Our $1800 order.

Hazel:  Oh yes? 

Me:  Really, that’s all you’ve got?

Hazel:  Well unfortunately our new delivery system doesn’t deliver on weekends, so Wednesday is really the only day I can pencil you in.

Me:  I see.  Listen, Hazel - can I call you Hazel? 

Hazel:  Of course!

Me:  Well Hazel, I guess you have us by the short and curlies over here don’t you?

Hazel:  Oh!  Well sorry but…

Me:  Basically what you’re telling me is the only way I’m going to get my furniture is by waiting until Wednesday.

Hazel:  Yes.

Me:  Then I guess we’ll have to wait.

Hazel:  Perfect!  Let me just see when the next available Wednesday is and I’ll pencil in your delivery.

Me:  NO!  You will book me in for this Wednesday for delivery.  This Wednesday Hazel.  You will not see when the next available Wednesday is, you will book this Wednesday in for the delivery of my furniture.

Hazel:  But - but today is Wednesday.  I can’t possibly book it in for today.

Me:  I didn’t say today Hazel, I said this Wednesday, as in the Wednesday coming up.

Hazel:  Oh, okay.  Well let me just look at the computer here…. hmm, I seem to be having some trouble getting the program to work.  I’ll have to call them and manually change it.

Me:  Fine, I will assume if I don’t hear back from you that I will be receiving my furniture Wednesday night between 4 and 9.

Hazel:  Oh no, I will give you a call either way and let you know.  I don’t like to leave things just hanging like that.  I’m the type of person who wants to confirm and let you know that your furniture will be arriving.

Me:  Fine, I’ll talk to you tomorrow Hazel.

Hazel:  Absolutely, I’ll call you later today or Thursday at the latest.

Friday morning:

Hazel:  Good morning Hazel speaking.

Kelly:  Hello Hazel, this is Kelly calling.  I spoke with you two days ago in regards to the delivery of our furniture on Wednesday.  I’m calling to confirm that it will be delivered Wednesday and not today as you had originally booked it.

Hazel:  Yes, it’s being delivered Wednesday.

Kelly:  Well gee Hazel, your tone of voice would suggest that I’m a bit of an idiot for not knowing that.  However, I seem to recall a part of our previous conversation where you assured me you would call  and let me know either way if it was being delivered on Wednesday.  However, I have not received a phone call from you.

Hazel:  Oh really?  Are you sure.

Me:  Am I sure that I haven’t received a phone call from you or sure that you said you’d call me?

Hazel:  That I would call you.

Me:  Oh I’m positive Hazel.

Hazel:  Well it’s being delivered on Wednesday between 4 and 9 pm.

Me:  Gosh Hazel, are you really the manager of the furniture department?

Hazel:  Um, yes.  Why?

Me:  I’m astounded and amazed that someone like you, who could so obviously care less about customer satisfaction, has made it all the way up the chain to be a manager.  Good work there Hazel.  Seriously.

Hazel:  Oh now -

Me:  Hangs up.

Fast forward to Wednesday night.  Ben and I leave work early so that we can be at home by 4pm.  At 8pm we receive a call from the Bay (THE BAY) in Ontario.

Me:  Hello

THE BAY:  Yes, is this *mumble, mumble*?

Me:  *sigh*  Yes.

THE BAY:  Hello.  This is the Hudson Bay (THE BAY) phoning to inform you that the delivery truck has run into a traffic jam and are running half an hour to 45 minutes late.  Would you still like your delivery tonight?

Me:  Yes.

THE BAY:  Perfect.  Please make sure you are there to collect your furniture when they arrive.

Me:  Are you kidding me?  I’ve been here waiting to collect my furniture since 4pm.

THE BAY:  Of course.  But please be there later to collect -

Me:  *Hangs up*

At 10 pm the delivery guys called to say they were 20 minutes away, would we still like the furniture delivered.  Yes, I said, I would.  15 minutes later they called lost and asked for directions, which I gave.  5 minutes later they called again, I gave them more detailed directions.

At 10:37 he called from the foot of my driveway looking for the correct house.  Look to your left I say, See the fat chick holding the phone and waving at you?  Yes, he says.  You’ve found the right house I reply.

At 10:47pm they brought the chair, my beautiful new chair, into the house and put it in it’s designated spot.   For one brief shining moment, I knew sunshine and puppies and rainbows were afoot.

At 11:45pm, they turned to me and said

Karl the delivery man:  Ma’am, this couch will not fit into this trailer.  There is no possible way it will fit.  If we had another inch, two inches of room, we could do it.   But I am telling you - this couch will not fit into this house.

Me:  Well fuck.

Karl:  Would you like us to return just the couch, or the chair and couch?

Ben:  It’s up to you dear.

Me:  Fuck.

Karl, the delivery man:  I’m sorry ma’am.

Me:  It’s not your fault Karl.  I appreciate you trying for an hour to get the fucking thing into the house.

Ben: So…

Me:  Take it back, take it all the fuck back.  I’ll call the Bay (THE BAY) tomorrow, cancel the order and we’ll order new furniture.

Ben:  I’m sorry honey.

Karl:  I’m sorry we were late and couldn’t get the couch into the house.

Me:  Neither of you need to be sorry.  Let’s just get this fucking couch and chair out of my house so we can call an end to this wretched, horrible, train-wreck of a night.

And that, dear readers, is the story of why I have not had a couch for nearly two months.

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