Stuff like this just depresses the shit out of me.

We just had a woman come into our office , she bailed out of her husband's car when he pulled over at his job down the block to pick up his paycheck and she ran to our office with a five or six year old boy in tow.

Her husband beat the shit out of her yesterday and this was the first opportunity she had to get away from him with her son. Her eye is slowly turning black and it's swollen, there are bruises up and down her arm and she would like to call her family who lives about four hours north of here for them to come get her.

She sitting at one of the officer's desks in the back of the room now, getting checked out by the local ambulance crew, one of the deputies got her little boy a soda from our machine, and my supervisor is watching out the front door waiting for either the police or the husband, I guess whichever shows up first.

The city police are here, it's fairly obvious that the woman has been beaten by somebody. But since it turns out now that the actual beating took place yesterday in San Antonio, city of Pasadena's finest isn't going to take any kind of report, they aren't going to go 1/2 a mile from here and knock on the apartment door and see if the shitbird's bothered to go home yet, they'll take her to the local battered women's shelter, she can make some calls there and try to find somebody to come get her. Of course she doesn't want to go to the shelter "because it'll be just like in California".

Excuse me, but are you going to let this joker kick your ass all the way across the country?

What's worse, she let's her little boy see this time after time.

Legend has it that Vivian Vance used to pull her car off to the side of the road everyday on her way to the Desilu Studios and throw up. That's just how much she hated her job, apparently she didn't love Lucy as much as Lucy loved Lucy.


With days like today, I understand what motivated Ms. Vance to possibly hurl her cookies on a daily basis.

If stupidity where criminal, I would be working on Death Row.

I couldn't even get my purse off my shoulder when I came back from lunch before somebody asked me a stupid-assed question that we've only been over a couple of thousand times in the year and a half that she's been working here.

I know that seems petty, small, and hopelessly stingy with the last three minutes of my lunch hour that I was planning to spend in the ladies room applying lip blam and running a comb through my hair. And if it wasn't a question that I had already answered three times this week, it probably wouldn't annoy me as much as it did.

But the pure and simple fact of the matter is that it did annoy me.

I think that Quizno's sub I had for lunch is going to make me hurl. Even if those freaky little petrified singing rats on the commercial are cute, Alfredo style sauce on a chicken sandwich is not a good idea, and I should have thought about that before I ordered it.

Gee, guess that was stupid.

If I only had a fifth of vodka.

If only I had a fifth of vodka.

I wouldn't have it for long.

I personally think it's a little crazy to want to start drinking fifteen minutes after you get to work in the morning, but I really thought nothing of it when I wanted to start drinking BEFORE I got to work this morning on the commute in.

Curse you Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission and your archane rules about when liquor can and can't be sold.

Curse you to hell.

I was just told by someone pretty close to me whom I love a lot that if I had a blog she would "read it everyday!"

Um, yeah, thanks, but there is just some stuff that I don't want you reading about me. I don't mind if everybody else on the WWW reads it, but the thought of you reading it and knowing that I wrote it gives you too much power in family gathering style situations, and I'm just not comfortable with that.

And I like to remember my family history in a way that best excuses my behavior, not anybody elses.