Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Category: Mildly Amusing Adventures

True Confessions + Some Actual Content

I’m going to tell you a secret. Actually, three secrets, but the other two will have to wait. Only then can we move on as a nation.

I’ve been trying to figure out if this blog is still viable now that I’m retired and no longer able to provide content that you couldn’t get anywhere else. Or that you weren’t getting anywhere else, more precisely. Which brings us to the secret, of sorts.

I never thought this blog would make me famous, since I’m not insane. However, I did think it might attract a wider readership of fellow 911 dispatchers. Toward that end, someone more publicity-minded than I am (well, that could be anyone, couldn’t it?) linked to this blog on a dispatch Facebook page so that others could view it. I received my highest readership that day, some 360 people. That was a big surprise to wake up to. The bigger surprise was that all those extra readers never came back. They checked it out once and decided it wasn’t for them.

I’ll discuss why that might be so in the next post, but in the meantime, if you noticed a point at which S.G. lost momentum, and I could no longer be counted on to post regularly, that would be why. Nick, if you call me a “poor thing” again, I will…well, I don’t know what I’ll do. You’ll have to check back with me later.

I remember when I couldn’t wait to get home and post all kinds of exciting stuff about my less-than-exciting life. I still get ideas, but I tend to lie down and wait until the urge passes. BUT NOW…


–“Why you gotta be so cruel? I’m gonna marry you anyway.” Always a good idea.

–“Marry you no matter what you say.” I believe that’s illegal.


“Sun’s out, buns out!” That’s illegal, too.


I don’t read my daily horoscope, but mine must have said “Taureans will have trouble accessing public restrooms.”

At CVS, they’d put up the “No Public Restrooms” sign in front of, well, their public restrooms, as they do at unpredictable intervals. (Whenever they see me coming, for all I know.) It actually says, “No Public Restrooms–Please Don’t Ask,” which infringes on my freedom of speech.

At Walgreen’s–well, if you smell an almighty stench as soon as you turn into the hall leading to the restroom, you know not to go in there.

At Thornton’s, the women’s room had a sign saying “Closed for Cleaning.” Feeling a bit desperate by now, I slipped into the (empty) men’s room. When I came out, I saw a mother and daughter waiting for the Cleaning to come to an end. The little girl said, “Mommy, that lady came out of the men’s room!” I went and got my fountain drink (thus beginning the cycle all over again), glanced back, and saw mother and daughter emerging from the men’s room, looking a good deal more relaxed.


On another occasion at Walgreen’s (see, this is what happens when I post regularly, so be careful what you pray for) (if anyone was in fact praying for this), whoever keeps mischievously locking one of the stall doors from the inside (I’m guessing a poltergeist) had again done so. I thought, What this situation requires is someone able and willing to slither under the door and unlock it. So I did. It meant that my clothes acquired bathroom cooties, which makes them ritually impure until they’re laundered, but two-stall functionality has been restored. I expect a plaque on the stall door for my efforts.


…having dropped a brand-new shoe in the toilet. So that shoe now has toilet cooties (even though the toilet was clean), which will not be removed until I get caught out in the rain wearing those shoes.

OK, I’m tired of this topic. Time to resume arguing with A Certain Person about whether Nick is adorable or not.


Desperately Posting

…as A Certain Person accused me of doing. Well, desperation is never far away. But I owe you a


–$25 in winning lottery tickets from the Birdman. It seemed appropriate to spend lottery winnings on alcohol, which was consumed long ago. Of course, now I have other alcohol, to observe what they insist on calling the “4th of July holiday weekend,” in spite of its occurrence on Tuesday, which is not even near a weekend.

I also got gift cards for Walgreens and Visa, which I have already spent, and hope to remember what I spent them on once I sober up. It wasn’t more alcohol, though.

$150+ from people at work paying me to go away! This requires some thought. I once dreamed I got 3 roses tattooed on my butt. That might be a wise investment for these funds. Perhaps I should take a poll.

Speaking of which, in my estimation, a tattoo’s workmanship and originality count for naught if it is also ugly. I saw a woman with an elephant’s head with ram’s horns, impaled on a stick, tattooed on her arm. I picture her talking to the artist–“I want an elephant head with ram’s horns on my arm. It has great significance in my life.”

Do not get a nose ring that looks like a drop of snot hanging out in profile. In fact, do not get a nose ring at all. What if you sneeze? GROSS. I am now retired and don’t have to care if you think my disapproval old-fashioned. Speaking of which, I saw an ad for leggings that said, “You’ll never wear real pants again!” See, even the MAKERS OF LEGGINGS admit they’re not really pants.

McDonald’s yesterday was full of hipsters. They even ordered hipster stuff like a McFrappe (or whatever they call them) with just a large order of fries for lunch. It looked like a McDonald’s commercial, except that their clothes didn’t fit as well.

CVS ad–“Long Live Skin!” It’s guaranteed for 2 weeks after death, you know. (That was a sign at the place where I got my tattoo, many long years ago.)

Nick has offered to let me live in his basement. He seems to think it would bring him good luck.

Look, Nick’s on TV!

–Rom said he thought Mark Wahlberg wasn’t yanking the chain hard enough, but then said, “Well, then he might choke the poor thing.” The poor thing in question has actually gotten somewhat bigger since then, so the ears don’t look so prominent, and the barbs on the tail had not yet developed. And no, I can’t move the video closer to the top of the post, and in fact, for all I know, it might not even play once I hit “Publish.”


–Trying to guess which people belong to which vehicle: The pickup with Browning Buckmark logo (designed by my brother-in-law!) and “REDNECK” across the back windshield? Probably the guy with the t-shirt that says “Her Buck” on it. Probably not the skinny guy with long blonde hair, Indiana Jones hat, and tie-dye Allman Brothers t-shirt, although I bet he’s a redneck also.

–A couple snuck in the back door of McDonald’s with food from somewhere else, including chips and drinks, and settled down to eat it at a back table. They even grabbed a bunch of McDonald’s napkins.

–Kids’ lives are filled with nagging. “Is that yours? No? Then don’t grab for it.” “Don’t do that, it’s gross.” After all, how else will you learn what’s gross? There might be another culture in which licking the condensation off the outside of your drink cup is perfectly acceptable.

A CAN OF BABY CORN WAS SIGHTED IN A CERTAIN PERSON’S LOCKER. THE CONSPIRACY LIVES ON IN MY ABSENCE. See ancient posts tagged “Conspiracy News” for details. Don’t know how to look those up? Neither do I.

Crisis Averted

You must excuse any typos because I’m pretty drunk right now. Nick, you may avert your gaze.


Disclaimer: Drunk enough to make many typos, sober enough to correct them.

Who would have thought I’d ever be popular enough to reserve a whole room at Hacienda? (Notice: Let’s see how well I do at Chuck E. Cheese on Sunday.) The most decadent thing I did was get chip crumbs in my hair–hardly a match for Easter Vigil at St Boniface, where I got hot wax on my hand and holy water in my eye–and I got tipsy enough to think sending Nick a picture of me with a drink in my hand was a good idea (though it wasn’t that bad an idea {disclaimer–I meant to do italics for “bad” rather than boldface, but I’m drunk, so suck it}, since I wasn’t driving).

There was no question of any sort of singing, since we were SO LOUD anyway. {Non-disclaimer: I have resumed this post several hours later and am now sober, which makes it much easier.} I was very pleased to see several former colleagues who had gone on to greener pastures (I guess the sewer department might produce greener pastures, for one). It is worthy of note that, in spite of this being a Mexican restaurant, A Certain Person had a burger covered with loathsome vegetables and a huge pile of fries. I had two of their wonderful strawberry daiquiris, the  most painless way to get alcohol into your body there is, but, combined with the large quantity of food I consumed, they just made me sleepy. I went home and dozed off mid-rosary on the couch, which sounds like some kind of retirement cliche.

Nick’s owner assured me he was sorry for his absence and would make it up to me somehow, both of which he loftily denied.

Now it’s time to shower, and I need to remove nail polish first, so I must go.

A Timely Reminder

…My RETIREMENT PARTY occurs tomorrow! Yes, I’ve been retired for 2 weeks already, but I won’t feel completely-retired until then. Now I’m just “newly retired.” It’s like how long it takes after your wedding before you’re no longer “newlyweds.” And there will be a Social Page post after the party, if I survive it and remember anything.

One thing we need not fear is a visit from Nick, who had a prior commitment to perform in the rain at Disney World. “Too bad,” said Rom, “he could have done the stripper-cop thing.” “Hmm,” said Nick when I told him this, “I’d actually thought of that when I left my hotel room today.” It’s a bit pitiful to think of him fantasizing about performing at a party he can’t go to, but he doesn’t see as much of me as he’d like.

OK, since paranoia springs eternal, I am now imagining my (former) colleagues thinking, “PARTY? Oh no, we forgot!” or, conversely, all showing up at the restaurant without me.

Oh, and there is no karaoke facility at this venue, so “House of the Rising Sun” will have to go forever unsung. I’m not about to perform it without accompaniment. Perhaps A Certain Person will treat us to her a capella rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” instead.


Piece of junk mail received–“Enclosed: Your Death Benefit and Walmart Savings Certificate.” Yes, one benefit of death is that there will be no Walmart. And who thought those things would go together? Is Walmart now providing funeral services?


I have a 33 oz. bottle of shampoo that I opened round about Inauguration Day. It occurred to me that Trump might be gone before I finish this bottle. I will keep you posted on its progress. I wash my hair every day, but it’s Suave Daily Clarifying, and only a small amount is required, so it’s anybody’s guess. Perhaps I should take bets. I will illustrate the process on Facebook, if I ever get my phone photo-link to Facebook fixed. It’s not worth waiting a long time on hold for. Unlike Nick, who waited OVER TWO HOURS to get on a ride at Disney World. No ride is worth two hours of my time. Of course, Disney World isn’t worth my time, either. Enormous crowds! Things with big heads! Hotels with “themes”! Sounds like Walmart, except Walmart is easier to get out of.



Day 3: The Almost-Forgotten Post

It’s like I’m retired already.


I will be phones for the last time tomorrow. It’s never good when you’re walking toward the door and you hear a co-worker saying, “I’m not sending them, someone else is sending them,” which is the standard response to, “WHY ARE YOU ASKIN’ ALL THESE QUESTIONS? JUST GET ‘EM OUT HERE!” Everyone knows how to do this job better than we do. Or, “Can’t you give me an address? OK, that’s much better,” which is the standard response to, “AT MY APARTMENT COMPLEX!!!” (Fill in apartment complex name here, or just scream “CAN’T YOU TELL WHERE I’M CALLING FROM??!”  It’s all good.) I myself had someone screaming and crying because she ran out of gas.

In other news, I have finished coloring the octopus (and its extra arms) to the best of my ability, and will be moving on to a pair of elephants with paisleys on them. The instructions say to add my own botanical motifs, but I don’t know if I will follow that directive. There was actually no need to get me an adult coloring book. I’d have done as well with a child’s one, and even better with one of those for really little kids that tell you what color to make each thing. I still remember when I was 5 and my mother encouraged me to be creative and color the grass purple, when the book said  to color it green. I was disturbed by the very suggestion. I will probably be disturbed if I don’t follow the instruction to add my own motifs to the elephants, as well.


Day 5: Ready To Quit Already

Very first call: “Someone is at the bus terminal trying to sell a rotten fish for $20.” Attempts to confirm the address were met with, “Well, you don’t have to get smart with me! How many bus terminals are there, anyway?” Who got smart first here, anyway? know how many bus terminals there are, but the person I was training didn’t, as I seem to be the only city employee who rides the bus. Speaking of which, I got on the bus the other day, and the guy behind me said to me, “I couldn’t believe that driver wouldn’t let you on the bus with your drink the other day! And then when you threw the drink out the door, that was great!” Yeah, that was a proud moment. AND SPEAKING of bus-related adventures, remember I mentioned the warning sign with the stick figure guy leaning against the back door of the bus, and then the drawing of that guy falling out the door, but you could tell by his posture that he was a smartass, and you were glad it happened? Well, I saw that guy in Real Life the other day. There were plenty of empty seats available, but he insisted on standing there with his arms folded and leaning against the back door of the bus. I waited breathlessly, but he never fell out. There is no justice in this world.

Oh, and now the would-be seller of rotten fish is calling in cussing us out. So we’ve managed to displease both sides of the controversy.


Officer’s comments on a run: “Subject wanted to know how to research the names of people who may have given him steroids as a kid, because he has small balls and a small dick.” It’s always someone else’s fault.


–Observed the 1-year anniversary of Alien Finger on the 20th. Alien Finger has apparently decided that 87% functionality is good enough. Its motto is, “I’ll do it, but I don’t have to like it.” I think it sensed my resentment in the first weeks after the injury, when I told Rom, “I almost wish they’d just amputate it.” (Having one finger that won’t bend, especially if it’s the longest one, makes everything from flossing your teeth to applying your deodorant difficult.) “But it wants to help,” Rom said, watching it attempt to curl into a halfway-natural resting position. Noble finger! Valiant finger! Please be like all the other dislocated fingers I hear about that end up just as good as new. After all, I had 5 months of surprisingly unpleasant therapy. (“I wish I could have been your therapist,” Nick murmurs wistfully.)

–Observed the 30-year anniversary of marrying Rom on the 22nd. As Nick said to me after meeting him, “You sleep with Gandalf!” Yeah, and you’d best remember that before you call me a Muggle again.


“‘All the iconic colors are here, from Macaroni & Cheese to Purple Mountain Majesties’? In my day, no crayon was called Macaroni & Cheese. Names like Green-Blue and Blue-Green were good enough for us. I’m just glad my favorite Periwinkle is still here. {Note: The 64 Crayolas of my youth were eaten by our basset hound. You can guess the outcome.}

Look how complicated these drawings are! I can’t fill them all in, I’ll never have time for anything else. OK, I’ll just fill in parts. But which parts?

OK, the first drawing is an octopus. I know! I can make it all the shades of blue there are. Start out with my favorite color. But I do have to use all 64 at some time or other. {“Do you have to use them all proportionately?” Rom asks, but he is just making trouble.}

Oh no, I colored over the line. I know! I’ll just color the spot next to it with a dark color, and no one will know the difference. But not too dark, or the stripes underneath won’t show through like they’re supposed to. 

Well, I intended to color each arm of the octopus a different color, but I can’t figure out which arm is which. I should have started at the other end of the octopus. Wait a minute–I think there are too many arms here for one octopus. {This possibility troubled me greatly, and I had to stop and think about it for several minutes.}

And this is only the first page. I will keep you updated as I progress, if “progress” is really the word we want here.



Day 6.1–It {was}’s My Birthday and I’ll Post If I Want To

Well, it was yesterday, and I didn’t want to. Plus, I was severely indisposed for the last hour of it. Let’s just say amine intolerance (which I decided to develop, because food intolerances are so fashionable these days, and lactose and gluten are so overdone) + stromboli sausage = a lot of bathroom time. The more distressing because the strombolis were an annual rite to celebrate meeting Rom in 1978. Of course, Rom can’t eat ice cream, and misery loves company.

Many thanks to D. (henceforth to be called Trex, for T. Rex, because Rom thinks she has really short arms), for the gift of a MARCASITE NECKLACE. I love marcasite, but my previous experience with it has been 2 Avon rings, one with black plastic rose center, and one with hematite center, which eventually turned my finger green, as cheap rings will. (I HOPE I’M NOT SUED BY AVON FOR THIS STATEMENT.)





“Every beat of my heart belongs to you.” Looks like that “Every Breath You Take” guy finally found his ideal woman.

“We’ll be together forever like Bonnie & Clyde.” You do remember how that ends?


My RETIREMENT PARTY will be June 14 at Hacienda on 1st Ave. Here I am, blithely inviting my entire FanBase, even though I’m not the one organizing the affair. Just show up and pretend you just happened to be sitting at the bar.


The latest plan for my Last Day Of Work is to show up drunk and naked. Although that will lead to difficulties walking there.

–Bumper sticker: “She Reads Truth.” Alright, then. Must be some hipster cultural thing I’m not aware of. Rom always says, “Ignorance of your culture is not considered cool,” but since when have I cared about being cool? Well? Which reminds me of the time I said to A Certain Person, “You know me, keeping a low profile,” and she said, “Since when?”


There was a children’s book, “Time To Sleep–A Touch and Feel Book.” It had something soft to feel on every page. I thought, Oh! I’d have loved this as a little kid! Did I pick it up and touch the furry spot on every page? Of course not, why would you think so? I promise I didn’t sweat on it. This is, by the way, the other side of having sensory issues.

It’s still hard for me to believe I soon won’t be working. I keep thinking it must be some mistake, and I’ll find myself with no job and no money.


When I got back home today, Rom was napping. I went in and said something so he’d know I was home, and he started violently, which startled the cats, so they both exploded off the bed. He said, “My first thought was, Did one of the cats just speak?”



Day 13: I Got Your Fortune Cookie, Baby

Yeah, this was supposed to be a workday, but…you know when you crack open a fortune cookie, you read your fortune, and then you add “–in bed”? Well, I sprained my toe. In bed.


Longtime readers (a few may still survive) may remember how Rom once broke the bedroom window of our apartment downtown during an amorous session. This contributed to our loss of the damage deposit, but the best part was the landlord asking how the window got cracked, and Rom stammering, “Uh, from all the–wind we had in that storm the other night.”

Well, now that we’re homeowners, we can break all the windows we want (unless Nick decides we’re disturbing the peace and arrests us). But those hypothetical longtime readers may also remember the time that our candle (we always do it by candlelight) set off our smoke alarm. (I still fondly remember one night dispatching the fire department to someone’s house in response to “a smell of burning rubber in the bedroom.”)

Which brings us to last night. We’d just gotten up afterwards, congratulating each other on our mutually rewarding experience, and I said, “But my toe is hurting for some reason.” Then there’s the moment when you look down and think, “Did it always look like that?” It was bent sharply at a weird angle. Not as weird as Alien Finger, but still. It was already beginning to swell, and of course I thought of all the times I’d read that you can break a toe without even knowing it. And you especially wouldn’t even know it if you were, well….Let’s just say I was bracing my feet against the sideboard of the bed.

Well, this morning it was a lot better–just a little swelling remaining–but I decided walking a mile and a half to work was contraindicated. I will try to do better tomorrow.

Day 15: Beam Me Up, Scottie

Since I still have (and I guess always will have) the mark of a big dog’s jaws on my leg since 3/19/16, I’m not very tolerant of dogs running loose. There’s a Scottie I encounter at Barker/Franklin, and this is the SECOND TIME this dog has attacked me. Same scenario as the Black Lab of 3/19–“I’m running loose where I shouldn’t be, my nerves are on edge, and I don’t know you, but instead of running away, I think I’ll just bite you.” So the stupid thing gets his teeth in my pants leg while I kick at him. This time he had an even runtier dog running with him, who was about to run away until Scottie decided to take matters into his own teeth, but then decided to stand her ground and yap instead. (Gender pronouns based on the brown Chihuahua having a pink collar, and the Scottie lifting his leg on the stop sign.) And there better never be an owner saying, “Hey, you’re kicking my dog!,” or else I’ll bite. You’d think the dog would realize, “Running loose always makes me paranoid and angry, so I better not do it anymore,” but we can’t get people to realize that about meth, so there you go.

I am now reading Harry Potter, because Nick flew over to my house with a bunch of books in his teeth.



“Sir, it’s not against the law for someone to knock on your door.”



Quite a few long-term McDonald’s employees have quit recently, perhaps because of the new manager who won’t allow them to sing. Hey, we should start singing in here! “Bohemian Rhapsody,” anybody?



My hair is once again as long as it was when I started here! Oddly appropriate, now that I’m leaving. And my fashion sense is no better, although I did buy more red nail polish. Walgreen’s was promising proceeds from sales of the same would go to charity. Now I just need someone to tell me I’m doing a good deed by buying perfume.


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