What did I get for my 40th birthday? A snakebite! Sebastian (the baby California kingsnake that belongs to Anxiety) grabbed the inside of my pinkie right where it meets my hand (that blurry silver thing in the pic is my Claddagh ring).

Silly me overlooked the fact that Sebastian was in hunting mode, and decided to take her out of her cage. (That’s not a typo; Sebastian is female — Anxiety named her before we found out her gender.) When she first bit me, I honestly didn’t feel it. I mean, her entire head is about the size of the fingernail on my ring finger, so you can imagine how tiny her teeth are. But she’s got quite the bite pressure! I tried wedging a fingernail between my skin and her teeth, and absolutely could not do it. So I had Lyse take some pics with her cell phone while I waited for Sebastian to let go.

As I waited, Sebastian decided to subdue her prey’s squirming by grinding her little teeth, which I definitely did feel. Still, it didn’t exactly hurt, it just wasn’t comfortable. And Sebastian showed no interest in letting go! Remembering how I got the last snake that bit me (which was a 5-foot boa constrictor) to release its bite (they stop biting when they figure out that you’re too big to eat), I gently shook my hand — and Sebastian — a few times. Presto, she let go.

I now have several pinprick-sized bite holes that did actually bleed a few drops, and a small but significant amount of bruising around them. Since over 90% of reptiles do carry salmonella in their system, the treatment for a non-venomous bite is pretty simple: wash the hell out of it, plus Neosporin to prevent secondary infection. I’m sure all the marks will be gone in less than a week (unlike the bite from the 5-foot boa, which left small scars that didn’t fade for a few years, since the skin was actually slightly torn).

Also today, I got a much better birthday gift, from Kylanath! She got me a couple cookbooks from my Powell’s wishlist (that I really wanted but probably wasn’t ever going to buy for myself), and a pair of kick-ass drinking glasses: a gorgeous blue one that says “Bitch” and a beautiful purple one that says “Slut.” Woo hoo! I’m seriously envious of both her ability to choose amazing gifts, and her phenomenal gift-wrapping talents. (Due to my extra-special birthday migraine, I forgot to take her pressie over when I dropped in on her this evening, so she’ll get it this weekend.)

My debit card is about to expire, and WaMuChase has not mailed me a new one. I called them up, and was basically told that I’m wrong and my card is not expiring (gee, I think I can read a friggen expiration date!!!), that their records show a different expiration date (orly?!), and I will have to go into a branch to get any kind of customer service whatsoever. Well, THAT’S going to be fun, I’m sure.

Fine. I guess the rumors are true that Chase has utterly horrendous customer service, and so I will be closing my WaMu account. After FIFTEEN years of having the same account. If loyalty means nothing to them, no problem. I will go talk to a credit union, and I’m sure they will be pleased to have my business!

It hasn’t even been a month since my work schedule was changed from five 8-hour shifts to four 10-hour shifts, and my body has just about had it. Getting up at 4:30am in order to be at the bus stop by 5:30am, in order to make it to work by 6:30am, then working until 5pm, not getting home until nearly 6pm, and doing any house-tidying or cooking whatsoever before leaving a brief time to de-stress (which is not optional — can you sleep when you’re tightly wound? because I can’t) before falling into bed means I’m not getting more than 6 hours of sleep — at the most — on the nights prior to a workday.

I can’t function on that. The only reason that I’m not having sleep-deprived migraines on a frequent basis is that several weeks ago the dosage on my my migraine-preventative medication was increased. Instead of having 4-10 migraines a month, I’ve had one in the last 4 or 5 weeks. (Hallelujah!)

And I’m not staying up late (and by “late,” I mean past 9pm) watching TV or any such nonsense. Comcast’s OnDemand has become my special buddy; I use my days off to catch up on the whopping 4 or 5 TV shows that I regularly watch. (I watch Battlestar Galactica, CSI, Numbers, NCIS, and Survivor. When Lyse is over, I am usually forced to watch Dirty Jobs, because Lyse is in lust with Mike Rowe. And Battlestar Galactica has only 1 episode left before the whole series is over! *sob*) My de-stressing usually consists of an hour or two of crocheting while watching Netflix movies (usually a documentary).

But one of my coworkers got a job in another department, and while I will miss her a lot, her Mon-Fri day shift is up for bids and I may — just possibly — have the seniority to snag it. I won’t find out until at least the 23rd, but with any luck I’ll soon be back to a schedule that doesn’t leave me feeling like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck for most of each week.

That’s the only hope and change I’ve got going for me these days.

I am starting to recover from the midwinter ick. That, and some phenomenally great sex, have been the only good things about the last 24 hours.

Today was quite possibly the most stressful, shittiest day I’ve ever had at work that didn’t involve me crying. (The gal who sits behind me, however, apparently had a hormonal breakdown of some sort which included hysterical sobbing for half an hour.) Almost half of (what’s left of) our entire day shift called out sick — so the few of us who bothered to frakking show up were losing our ever-loving minds. If I wanted to be that stressed out at work, I’d still be working for Deathstar Int’l!!! As I left, I announced to the office, “I’m going home to make some voodoo dolls.” They probably thought I was joking.

Just remember, a good witch harms none. A better witch laughs at the good witch.

Hells yes.

This week, I was accorded a privilege at work that actually made me more hopeful for the future. The department I work for is hiring a new supervisor, and yesterday the management team (my boss, her boss, and her boss) asked me and another operator to sit in on the final interviews, and give our input. I gave my opinion with as much positive emphasis as I could, and exerted a lot more tact than usual (I didn’t say what I was really thinking about the less-than-stellar candidate — which was that I thought either of my kids could do a better job running the department).

Even better, the candidate I was hoping would be offered the job is the one who made the final cut! We haven’t been told if she’s accepted the position yet, but if she does, I think it will be quite a positive turning point for the department. She seemed professional, intelligent, strong-willed, and she appeared to genuinely enjoy developing professional relationships and being a mentor. She also has (*gasp*) a wicked sense of humor! If she does take the job, she’ll be the supervisor for the Wed-Sat schedule (which is when I work), yay!

Today she sat with me for an hour and a half, and observed some of the varied duties that we perform in our department. Besides my usual immense between-calls project, I also had some on-call scheduling to get loaded into the computer, and the daily checklist of tasks (which is rotated each shift; I’ll have it every Thursday). I also had gave her about a dozen of my most recent QA reports, so she could get a feel for how we’re evaluated (I scored 100% on all but one of them, and that one scored 98%).

After hearing that the company that Lyse and Robert work for did some cleaning-house and fired a bunch of people who had severe attitude and/or attendance problems, I was feeling pretty content with my job. No, I don’t like working Saturdays. And I’m still pretty ambivalent about the new 10-hour shift. But I know I’m good at my job, and other people seem to think so, too (one co-worker, after hearing that I’d been on the interview panel, said she was really glad I was chosen to do it — now that’s a warm fuzzy!).

What I find vaguely amusing is how many people, both at work and in my personal life, asked me why I hadn’t applied for the supervisor position. The most practical reason is that I don’t have the kind of supervisory experience they were looking for, but the main reason is, as I said to my daughter, “I can’t work with my nose up someone’s butt.” Kissing ass may work for a lot of people, but I have this pretty terrific thing called a life, and I’d like to enjoy it without having to constantly suppress my honest opinions (any more than I need to, to keep my job!) plus working 60+ hours a week in a management job.

I figured out my taxes, which I do every year as soon as I get my W-2s, because I always get a happy refund. My lowest refund in the last decade has been $800, and my highest was just a smidgen over $4K.

Not this year.

Because I made about $2K too much to qualify for Earned Income Credit, I get a piddly $100 refund from federal, and owe state $1400. Needless to say, I will not be mailing my tax forms in until April 15th.

For shits and giggles, I grabbed Geoffrey’s W-2s and figured what our federal taxes would have been if we’d gotten married last year and filed jointly. It did not make me happy, because it would have been a federal refund of $725 — and our joint state tax owed would have been slightly under what I owe alone. (WTF?!) Plus he pays a bit over $2200 a year in medical insurance premiums, and if we got married I could add him to my medical insurance without it costing a single penny more than I already pay (since I have a child on my medical insurance, I’m already paying the family rate).

So living in sin cost us over $3000 last year. *headdesk*

Found a magnificent new site with tons of incredible goodies. And they let me make a wishlist. Hey, there are only 127 days until my birthday!!!

My psychic powers foresee a lot of cross-stitch in my future. *grin*

Today I learned that a groundhog and a woodchuck are the same animal. This disappoints me greatly, and I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it’s because “Woodchuck Day” just doesn’t have the same ring.

Happy Imbolc anyway. Winter is officially half over.

My work schedule is going to be changing in 3 weeks. With the budget cuts and layoffs at work, we’re losing one-quarter of our department’s personnel. That means the current schedules will be inadequate, and so everyone is getting new schedules. Basically, all but 4 people in our department will be going to four 10-hour shifts instead of five 8-hour shifts, me included. I had enough seniority to avoid being one of the people who got laid off, but not enough to grab a prized Sun-Wed schedule. So I’ll be working 6:30am to 5pm Wed-Sat, starting the 25th.

I am not thrilled. However, I’m trying to focus on the positives…and I’m going to be happy about those if it kills me. So, the positives:

• I can drive to work on Saturdays, because my building doesn’t charge parking on weekends.
• I’ll have 3 days off every week.
• I’ll have almost the same days off as Lyse (she works graveyard Thurs-Sun).
• I’ll get 4 days off immediately preceding the change, so it’s like a mini-vacation without using vacation time.
• If my vacation request is approved, I will have 10 days off in June while using only 1 week of my vacation time.
• Every holiday that falls on a Monday (and there are lots of them), I’ll automatically get off work but I’ll still get paid for them. (Working Turkey Day every year, and Xmas & New Year’s for the next 2 years, however. Le sigh.)
• And the best part of the change: no more working at that nasty little office on the hill that I call Exile Island! EVER!!!

The oh-god-hundred wake-up time I’ll have to suffer will be grievously miserable, though. Perhaps I shall bring in some cubicle decorations that express my feelings on the matter!

Just about the only thing that saved me from bawling at work because of my migraine on Friday was getting an email from a coworker that said, in part (and I quote), “OMG!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO -MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM -GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!” I laughed my damn ass off (which is far from a painless experience with a migraine – but worth it).

Saturday, Geoffrey and I went to the Rose City Gun and Knife show. It strongly reminded me of the open-air swap meets my mom used to take me to in Hawaii, except it was indoors and there were fewer Samoans (sad to say — *grin*). Lyse was thinking of going along, but working graveyard shift makes daytime excursions a little disruptive to one’s schedule, and also she wasn’t feeling so great. It probably would have bored the demonspawn silly, and she’d had a late night, so she stayed home too. But it all worked out okay…I got this awesome new shirt (too bad I can’t wear it to work, but it would break the dress code in at least a couple ways I can think of!), and got Anxiety this shirt (in pale blue — and she can’t wear it to school, either…which still vaguely astonishes me, considering that I had my handgun targets hung inside my locker door for all to see when I was in 10th grade!!!). Geoffrey got himself a Mosin-Nagant M/44 rifle (well-used but came with some accessories), and I was soooo drooling over a rifle very similar to this (but more purple); I almost got it.

Why didn’t I? Because I decided it would be just a smidgen excessive to buy two guns at my first gun show. And I had my heart set on this darling little shiny (got it new, but didn’t pay nearly as much as that link shows, either!). Why that one, instead of something bigger? Because I’m super-picky about how a weapon feels in my hand (which is why I don’t care for semi-autos), and that was the only revolver that sat really *nicely*, like it belonged there. Okay, there were a couple of larger-caliber ones that I liked, too, but I do not need Dirty Harry’s gun! (I’ve fired a .44 without smacking myself in the forehead, but I’d rather not mess with that much recoil often. Not unless I take up weight training.)

I was terribly amused at how many vendors at the show kept pointing me toward the smaller-caliber guns with itty-bitty grips. Sure, I’m a girl — but not a small one. I’m 5′9″ and built like a Norse warbitch. I wear a size 9 ring, people; I do not have small hands! Crocheting for twenty years means I also have fairly strong and limber hands. Besides, derringers are for experts or posers; I actually want to hit what I’m aiming at, and if it’s not a paper target, it needs to go down and stay down. (BTW, I have never actually shot anything but a paper target…although one of these days I have got to try skeet-shooting.)

I wasn’t surprised that the men in attendance out-numbered the women at least 30 to 1 (in any other setting, I’d have been extremely creeped out by being in a crowd surrounded by that many guys, but everyone was so intrinsically polite that I wasn’t bothered a bit), but I was pleasantly surprised that the ratio was closer to 5 to 1 at the actual gun purchasing points. Poor Geoffrey may have been the only long-haired guy there; he was constantly referred to as “Miss.” One thing that did surprise me about the gun show was how few books there were — but we did manage to find a couple nifty titles: In the Gravest Extreme: The Role of the Firearm in Personal Protection and The Encyclopedia of Country Living. Both really excellent books, that I would recommend. Also I must say that the Expo Center concession stand makes a damned good grilled chicken sandwich.

Sunday I went grocery shopping (wearing my Infidel shirt, a few people stared but no dirty looks — which surprised me, in hippie-dippie stupidly-PC Portland), did a metric butt-ton of laundry, actually cooked a real dinner (used the oven and the rangetop, even!) and watched a horrible documentary from Netflix. I don’t know why I don’t shut horrible docs off within the first 20 minutes, they never improve…but somehow I always think they might. Le sigh. Out of every 5 flicks I get from Netflix, they tend to run thusly: 1 terrific, 3 decent (or at least not worthless), and 1 atrocious. Oh well, at least I’m learning things…like how to conclusively spot utter dreck within the first 5 minutes of a DVD. Speaking of which, I just added Repo! The Genetic Opera to my queue; my eldest loved it, and I’m a sucker for any footage in which Anthony Stewart Head is singing. I hate musicals as a rule (White Christmas being the ultimate exception), but how bad can it be? I’m going to find out.