Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: alcoholic beverages

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.

Dear Ideal Reader…

Yeah, that’s today’s Blog School assignment. Do you feel ideal yet? I’m feeling ideal, having had 1 1/2 cans of alcoholic beverage. You know the one.

Yes, I’m sidestepping the assignment. I have no idea who an Ideal Reader of this blog might be. I do know that an ideal existence would not include the mosquito which is currently attending me.

You know you’re hopeless when you get to “Need help? Read the Tips for this assignment” and you don’t understand the tips either. Pingbacks? Trackbacks? I don’t even know what they are, how can I decide whether to allow them?


The ideal Diet Coke fountain to use at McDonald’s is the left-hand one. The middle one splatters soda all over you, and the right-hand one spits carbonated water into your cup for a moment before consenting to give you Coke.

Speaking of which, the St Joe McDonald’s got a fancy new menu screen in an attempt to look like the big-city one at Lloyd and Rosenberger. It features a video with a Caramel Frappe which looks like pouring puke into a cup. I found the screen somewhat intimidating, until I realized the menu itself hadn’t changed.


“Subject is talking about an All-Seeing Eye. Put his arm into an anthill, got ants on himself, and told caller he was going to go give a church a plague of ants.”


Which I report on every year, you may remember. Walgreen’s stock included a Spooky Witch Wig, which consisted of long dark hair, with light hair in front. Like I, you know, have anyway. All year long.

I planned to write some other stuff, but I’m drunk and flighty, so you’ll have to be content with this, unless I wander back here later.

What You’ve All Been Waiting For


“What we’ve been waiting for is a damn post,” they interrupt testily. “Didn’t you say something about trying to write every day…again…”  Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. “Then why didn’t you write about it?”  It never stops, nevernevernever stops…

Ahem. My birthday was Saturday, and featured a surprise VISIT FROM NICK, with his mate and pair of spawn in tow, all in red shirts. I don’t think that man knows how to dress unless some type of uniform is involved. (No, Nick, I will not take fashion advice from someone whose shoes fall apart.) I also got a SURPRISE HUG from the same individual, which mildly alarmed me, and a birthday card congratulating me on turning 85, which just goes to show that a beast can’t count. Seriously, I’ve always wished there were specific cards for all ages–“To A Special 37-Year-Old…” Did you know that Rom once thought he would die at 37? See, he’s not always right. I once dreamed I died at 83, on March 16 of whatever year that would be. (Now who can’t count?) I ought to sign up for one of those services that send you an email from yourself on a specified future date. On March 16 Whatever Year, I’d read “Have you died yet?” and promptly die of fright. I would die as I’d lived, namely, ironically.

Thornton’s gave me 10 cents off a gallon of gas for my birthday, showing a lamentable lack of knowledge of my buying habits. Lands’ End gave me a 20% off code, which I will not use to buy green gingham shorts, unless I happen to be drunk at the time.


Stephen Colbert informs us there is currently a national surplus of cheese. Rom & I are doing our best to address this, thanks to a recent shipment of Wisconsin cheese from my sister. You all need to help out and eat an extra 3 pounds of cheese a year, or the extra cheese will…get moldy, I guess. Moldier.



In spite of my charming/disarming tell-all tone in this venue, it is my habit to keep my personal plans to myself, in case…well, in case someone uses the information against me, I suppose. It’s like when I’d go with colleagues to the FOP Club in the 90’s. I’d drink too much, turn sullen, then call a cab, slip out and wait for it on the corner, without telling anyone I was leaving. You know, being mysterious and stuff. Or the way I never want to tell my co-workers which shift I’m picking until the last minute, even though I always pick the same one anyway. SO, recently I caught myself thinking, “I wish I could tell my FanBase what I’ve been doing lately,” and realized, What’s stopping me? It’s my own blog, after all.

“…which nobody will be reading if you don’t get to the point,” they point out. 


What I’m getting at is, when I turn 62 at this time next year, I’m planning on retiring. (I already feel panicky, like I should qualify that–I mean, it’s always possible that the numbers won’t add up like I think they will, since I’ve already proven I can’t do math.)

I went to one of the retirement workshops sponsored by our pension fund. I ran into someone I used to work with, which was kind of embarrassing, in that “Well, what are you doing at this whorehouse?” sort of way. I also picked up a magazine called “The New Retirement,” put out by AARP, who ought to know, I suppose. It included an article about financial planning, which mentioned that a professional financial planner can help you come up with a plan for your pension and Social Security. You mean, other than letting them send me a check every month? Because that was my plan.

So this will be the last year of the Crisis In Progress department. I will now be a lame-duck dispatcher. I’ll be doing a bunch of stuff at work for the Last Time, probably getting sentimental about stuff like being yelled at on the phone. “No one will ever say they’re paying my salary again!” Perhaps I will become dangerous and yell at them on the phone. I hope to have a drunken retirement party–if you play your cards right, you may get the “House of the Rising Sun” karaoke I’ve been threatening for years. And if I take up skydiving in retirement, you’ll be the first to know.


Stuff & Nonsense


My shift is from 3 to 11pm. The other night, I had relatively little to do, from the time my shift started, UNTIL…At 10:21, I got, simultaneously, an armed robbery (with gun), and a burglary in progress–with knife. On the same side of town. Now, although these calls came in simultaneously, I couldn’t dispatch them simultaneously, even if I were better at multitasking than I in fact am. Because there’s only 1 of me. Nevertheless, I got it all sorted out, and then said, “What’re the chances that that would happen at the exact same time?” No sooner had I said it, than–on that same side of town, a plague upon the East Side–I got “There’s a guy outside with a gun! And he’s arguing with my mom, and she’s got a gun, and I’ve got a gun, and I’ll shoot if I have to!” And, as I was scraping up more officers to send to that one, a woman calls in about the same situation, and says that she has a gun, and will shoot if she has to. Apparently that’s what you have to say if you’ve got a gun. So I’m thinking, Could someone call in who doesn’t have a gun, for a change? This is not building my confidence in the efficacy of a fully-armed citizenry.


At Walmart, obviously.

I have little patience with Walmart. They call in several shoplifters per shift, and expect us to babysit them on the phone while they trail them all over the store. Telling them you have other emergency lines ringing (possibly with more import than a theft from Walmart)  will not pry them from the phone. But I had to admire the shoplifter who:

  1. Stole a knife and then used it to cut open the packaging of electronic devices, then
  2. Stole and put on over his shirt–
  3. a blue t-shirt,
  4. then a white polo shirt over that, and then
  5. a blue-and-white-striped shirt over those, and then stole
  6. a pair of sunglasses, and
  7. a blue-and-white-striped hat. It all coordinates! I could not be more pleased if I’d put the outfit together myself. Of course, it was all for naught, since the cops made him take it all off when they got there.

Hey, I figured out how to make the automatic numbering feature quit! Just space down twice. I could probably have figured that out with that one old post where it got out of control, but I was drunk at the time. (Appearances to the contrary, I really don’t drink very often. I just write a lot when I do.)


Not nearly as exciting as his, of course, since I pay for stuff, but I went to the $ General (I have no patience with them, either, but they’re more exciting, because they have fewer corporate policies in place and tend to attack shoplifters) (now I’ll probably be sued by their high-priced lawyers) (or, more probably, low-priced lawyers) to get trash bags. They had a fund-raising deal at the cash register where you get to put your name on a piece of paper they tape up if you contribute money to support autism. I was all for doing that, but the cashier did not offer me the opportunity, and I could not bring myself to ask her. Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow, now that I’ve prepared myself for the eventuality.


Yesterday was the birthday of a certain Nick, with whom you may be familiar. What to get him?

“Happy birthday, Nick!”

He’s lying on my torn-up towel that he stole.

“I have a present for you.”

He raises his head with a weary hopelessness that’s heartbreaking.

“I’m giving you back the power of speech!”

He leaps to his feet, tail lashing joyfully. And the first words out of his mouth are–

“Could I be venomous, too?”

“Um, no.”





Tingling With Excitement

…since I have a giant can of ale. Did you know that 24oz is the perfect serving size for me?



Why? Because an internet (do we still capitalize Internet these days? I think not–apparently the novelty has worn off) test on Which Side of Your Brain is Dominant? pronounced me Left Brain Dominant 68%. Hey, I wanted to be more creative and artistic and stuff! Of course, an I.Q. test also revealed that I’m not as smart as I think I am. And that wasn’t on the internet, that was a Real Test given by a Real Police Department Expert,

for my current job. Apparently I am just smart enough to do the job, but no smarter. Did you know that the average I.Q. of police dispatchers is higher than the average I.Q. of police officers? It says so on the Internet. It makes sense when you think about it. So don’t. (If you’re an officer, that is.)

I think some of the questions on that test (the brain-side test, not the I.Q. test, which I don’t remember any of the questions of, being under a lot of stress at the time) were unfair. (“Please provide an example,” they say.) For example, “Does your desk need to be neat and orderly, or are you comfortable with clutter?” My desk is cluttered, but I am not comfortable with it. So what does that mean? That I’m left-brain-dominant, but incompetent? That’s not the answer I was looking for.

I am now experiencing difficulty deciding what needs italics/CAPITALIZATION/bold-face type. I suspect alcohol makes you stupider. I doubt I am now smart enough to dispatch police.

OOPS, LOST MY CURSOR AGAIN…I take no responsibility for the unexplained space in the middle of the above paragraph. I am, for some reason, unable to correct it. (I am how smart, again?)

OK, I just almost choked on my drink. Apparently I can’t drink and write at the same time.

Where was I? Oh…

I’m tired of having a dog bite on my leg.

Did you know that pants fit better if they’re not on backwards? “How is that even possible?” male members of my FanBase wonder. It’s one of the mysteries of womanhood. Ooh, I said “male member.” Sorry. I remember one night on 3rd shift we spent listing all the synonyms for that organ we could think of. It was a night of few emergencies, obviously.


…on his furry-hat segment, which is a rip-off of my World Leader Edicts…

“If you name your genitals, you now have to introduce them at parties.” Good thing I’m never invited to parties. I have not yet been drunk enough to reveal her name to anyone but Rom.



I’m Writing This Under Duress

No, I’m not on a ridealong with Nick (the ultimate form of duress). I was given a sharp rebuke for not posting by someone who, as a Stephen King fan, is the likeliest to kidnap me and force me to write something. So, to avoid the whole pain thing, here is…

well, something. Something uncoordinated, due to the amount of alcohol consumed. Are you tired of hearing about how drunk I am yet? I thought so.

Redd’s Wicked Mango Ale is the perfect alcoholic beverage. I will accept no argument on this point.

Even I cannot necessarily avoid clicking on Facebook news items, ESPECIALLY when they feature…


“ARTIST KNOWN FOR COMBINING BRIGHT COLORS WITH SOLID SHAPES DIES AT THE AGE OF 92.” You know, I could combine bright colors with solid shapes. I did that when I was 4. Why am I not famous?

There was one other news item I meant to feature; can anyone tell me what it is so I don’t have to go back and check? No? What good are you?

Makeup advertising display at Walgreens–“Wild Is a State of Plan.” A. No, it isn’t (except maybe for Nick, and the only cosmetic he needs is tactical Chap Stick), B. English no language speak?


Day 7: The Search For the Forgotten Title

know I thought of one earlier–what could it be?


“Caller found what appears to be a human limb in the alley.” It turned out to be a deer limb.

“Caller reports seeing a man wearing sunglasses write something that wasn’t in English on a bus stop bench.” She called back to report that he wrote it in red (apparently thinking red would cause a quicker response time than other colors). The responding officer reported, “There was something written on the bench, but I couldn’t read what it was.” Well, of course you couldn’t! It wasn’t in English!


According to Channel 14, the night before Thanksgiving has become “the biggest party night of the year,” which is saying quite a lot. If so, it’s only in the past year, since this is the first I’ve heard of it, and I am a regular consumer of Channel 14 news.

Last night I dreamed my house was overrun by big pinchy bugs. Hey, that would have made a good title!

S.G.’S 7TH POST–3/19/13: Theater of Cruelty with the Infamous Nick

I refer to him as a beast for the first time, but do not elaborate on his bestial qualities. I accuse him of misspelling “abominable,” and he accuses me of patronizing him.

Hey, would any of you pay money to see him and me get drunk? Just a thought. (“And not a good one,” he growls.)


Day 6: Working Fast

I owe you a drunk post, so I better work fast. I’m trying to get the drinking out of the way early, since I signed up for overtime tomorrow, at the ungodly hour of 11AM. You may think “vacation” and “work” are diametrically opposed, but officially it’s not my vacation yet, but my regular days off. (Yeah, no one else cares, but that’s a chance I have to take.)

I spent the afternoon at the dentist, and rewarded myself, as always, with lunch at Hacienda across the street. Their


strawberry daiquiris (the most painless way to get alcohol into your system known to woman) now have whipped cream and a cherry on top, which strikes me as gilding the lily, but what can you do.

I used the handicapped restroom at Hacienda (I almost typed “the DX restroom,” because that’s the abbreviation we use at work, and you can just blame the BMV for that), because I was handicapped by having had a strawberry daiquiri. By the way, that’s strawberry daiquiri, not margarita, because tequila is gross, but rum is wonderful.

However, in the interest of truth in advertising, I now have apple ale. How drunk am I? Drunk enough to make numerous typos, sober enough to catch them all before you can see them.

Before I forget–

SCRATCHY GLITTER POST #6, 2/28/13: Tortured By Boredom: I briefly whine about mandatory training material, which I describe as “like being waterboarded with words.”


Day 5: Quantity, Not Quality

Be advised that I did not promise a minimum length of post. Attempts to refer to a mythical “spirit of the law” will be disregarded just as I disregard the “spirit of Vatican II.”

Sunday was that wonderful first day when it’s 25 degrees and you walk out, look around, and think, “Oh, look! Everything died!” Except the little pink bouquet from our wedding rosebush (given to us as a wedding gift–the variety was actually introduced that year, in ’87–so cool!) which Rom collects and brings in every year.

I neglected to say that the old post I dealt with yesterday was the first to mention a certain Nick, who should need no introduction, but is insisting on getting one anyway. Of course, he had not been transformed into a beast at that point. It will be interesting to see when the metamorphosis occurs.

S.G. POST #5, 2/28/13: Crisis in Progress/FanBase Follies/Mildly Amusing Adventures TRIFECTA

–I exulted in my fan mail, including someone who wanted to know why I wasn’t a columnist for a major national newspaper. That question remains unanswered.

–I noted scratchy/glittery nail polish at Walgreen’s which was called “Almost Famous.” I think my own situation could be better characterized as “Almost Obscure.”

–I told a story about The Entity Now Known As A Certain Person getting humped by a police dog while she was on the air.

OK, I am now on vacation, and you know what that means–DRUNK POSTING! Not just yet, though.

WORDS! WORDS! WORDS! Nick, can I go to bed now?


Crisis In Progress: How To Get Rid Of Me

This is going to be mostly job-related, so those unrelated to my job may want to skip it. I personally find every aspect of my job fascinating, even its annoying aspects, but you might not be so lucky.

First, I went to a gathering celebrating the departure of my former colleague L.K., who decided she’d rather dig holes for a living. (She should consult with Nick, who likes to dig holes and then curl up in the cool mud.) We had an appetizer plate of deep-fried geometric shapes (cubes and rods of different kinds of cheese, and blobs where you had to guess if the contents were cauliflower or mushrooms–perilous for me, since I like the former and dislike the latter). Anyway, I drank 2 frozen strawberry daiquiris in rapid succession (rapid enough to cause throat pain). This is turning out to be quite a social month!

“But how do we get rid of you?” they ask, hypothetically.

Well, everywhere I go, someone asks me when I’m going to retire. And it’s been pointed out to me that now I’m not only #1 in seniority, but THE OLDEST PERSON HERE! (If anyone else is over 60, feel free to correct me. Then I will curl up in a spiny ball.) So, the short answer is I DON’T KNOW!! But there’s always a longer answer, so here are hypothetical situations which would hasten my departure.


(All have some connection to reality, however tenuous.)

–They relocate Dispatch to the jail. Unacceptable for 3 reasons:

1. Too far away for someone who doesn’t drive.

2. Doesn’t it sound like a wee bit of a security risk? Just a little?

3. Could you possibly make the job a little more depressing?

–We go to 12-hour days, or 16-hour days. Why is there this idea that people working a stressful job should have longer work days than the rest of the world? “But then you’d get three days off!” I DON’T CARE! We tried 10-hour days once, and I spent the first day off catching up on sleep, so it was meaningless.

–They take away the union.

–They take away pensions.

–They decide to have one statewide dispatch center. I have dealt before with Just Because We Can Doesn’t Mean We Should, so I won’t go into it now. And why stop at statewide? Why not one national 911 center? Many callers already think that’s the case.

OK, one non-job-related fact: Chocolate is not, in fact, better than sex. I carried out a comparison study last night.

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