Month: June 2019

Tracking Information–My Favorite Form of Fiction!

It’s no secret that I do some of my best work with purchasing.  Nothing can make the human female’s life more annoying than a good, old-fashioned mix-up with merchandise, poor packing, overages, shortages, breakages, billing, packings slips, miscommunication, and all the vagaries of various freight companies and their whimsical ideas as to what constitutes timely delivery.

Where would I be without the Vendor Who’s Responsible?  The human female orders so many things from them that I have LOTS of opportunities to put my little finger in and stir up some good, old-fashioned mischief.

The human female has two big, incomplete, partially-outstanding orders with the VWR.  One is from early in the spring; the other is from May.  Will the phosphoric acid ever arrive?  How about the pipette tips?  The centrifuge tubes?  She’s called, she’s poked, she’s been put off—and off, and off.  “It’s shipping from a different warehouse.”  “It’s shipping from the manufacturer.” “It’s a special order and the manufacturer has to make it.”  Thus the phosphoric acid, ordered in early spring, and its June 18 delivery date.

Lately she’s been getting Order! Update! Emails!  Progress!  Things are moving!  There is tracking information!  There are arrival dates!

Arrival dates firmly chiseled in jell-o.

Observe closely. Watch those delivery dates.

vwr-interim ship date

Great!  Some of the pipette tips were set to arrive on June 17.   They didn’t.

vwr-initial ship date

Woo hoo!  Here’s a big chunk of the latest order all set to come on June 20!

VWR-tracking est

Uh, make that June 26.

VWR-in processing

Make that June 27.

more dates

Oh, well.  July then.   Maybe.

So what has actually arrived?  Phosphoric acid?  Tips?  Tubes?  Six crates of nothing?


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It Wasn’t Me, But I’ll Have to Remember That Google Could Be a Good Ally

I wish–Oh, how I wish!–I could get the human female involved in something like this:

That is some first-class mischief right there!

Actually, come to think of it, the human female drives so slowly down country roads in the spring, gawking at all the wildflowers, that often traffic *does* tend to pile up behind her.  If I tweak Google to recommend whatever route she’s taking to a bunch of other drivers as a speedy detour, the results could be record-setting.

Speaking of records, this is my 1,700th post.  Time flies when you’re creating mayhem!

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We’re still at the restaurant.  The human female and her fellow diners have emptied enough of the tiny plates and shoved them down the slot by the table that a prize ball is on the way.  I’ll distract everyone by knocking over someone’s water, magic the ball away into a pocket dimension, and retrieve it later to open when Sigyn and I are by ourselves.


And here we are!  The last one was solid orange. This one is bicolored.  What do you think is in there, Sigyn?


???  It’s a plastic bag and a folded up piece of paper.


The bag is full of little black and orange bits.  I can’t imagine what this is supposed to be.


It looks a little Halloweeny.

Oh, I get it now!  It’s something we have to buildItty bitty pieces-parts that assemble to make something.


But what is this supposed to make?  How are we supposed to know how to progress?  Maybe the paper has more information…


Ah.  Step-by step instructions!  With diagrams, even.   I’m brilliant; I can follow directions—this will be a snap!  (Literally!)


There! That’s the first two black layers built.   Sigyn, you do the orange ones.  They’re clear, which is kind of neat.


Odin’s eyepatch!   What are we supposed to do with all the leftover bits?


Perhaps we put something together incorrectly?


Oh.  See the small print?  It says it includes extra pieces, so we are all right.  We made it correctly.  But what IS it?

Sigyn has figured it out–it’s SUSHI!   Enormous, plastic, inedible sushi.  I think it is supposed to be salmon roe or something, and the black is the seaweed wrapper.  There’s even a little plate on the back of the paper for displaying our masterpiece.


Hmm.  I wonder if we shoved this paper plate down the slot in the restaurant—would it count toward the next prize ball?

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The humans have dragged us to the Big City to the West again, and wow–they have lost no time in rushing to the place with the sushi-go-round!  I would rather leave raw fish than take it, but Sigyn is excited.  She had such fun last time.

Remember, my love?  No riding the conveyor belt.  I mean it.  There’s no telling where you might end up, or who might snatch your cute little self off. Then I might have to hurt someone, and we’d get banned from ever coming back–and you know what that would mean:  No sesame balls full of sweet red bean goo.

You will just have to behave.

Speaking of… We seem to be beginning the same way we did last time.


Grabby hands!  Sigyn thinks they are so soft and sweet that they’d be “comfy to snuggle down and rest in.”  Maybe?  At least you could have a little snack without having to get up and go to the kitchen.  Just turn your head and nibble…

Will wonders never cease!  The human female has ordered something different this time.  Fried…  Can you tell what it is, Sigyn?   Could be anything under that breading.


(tentative taste)  Hmm.  Tastes like chicken.  Probably because it is chicken.   Not the best chicken I’ve ever had, but not bad.  Certainly no match for the tempura shrimp, though.


Tails!  Tails are all that’s left.  You and I will have to order some shrimp of our own, Sigyn, because the glutton has left us just just the crustaceous hindmosts.

Just for that, human, I’m going to spoon a heaping helping of whatever-this-is on whatever you eat next.


I saw you shudder as you shoved the little pot and spoon away from you, so I’m guessing it will make a very good mischief.

Well, many noshes and tidbits and morsels later, we have come nearly to the end of the gustatory excess.  There is *just* enough room left to squeeze in a bite of dessert.  Someone at the table has ordered these and is sharing.  Any idea what they are?  Whatever they are, they’re pale red and pale green, so we approve.


Wait!  We’ve had these before, they just didn’t arrive vivisected like this.  MMMmmochi ice cream!!!  There hasn’t been something this yummy, small, cute, and sweet since Sigyn was born!

The human male has ordered something odd just because he’s intrigued by the photo on the menu.  The picture looks like a fried fish, but it says something about ice cream and it is listed with the desserts.  It should be zipping this way on the conveyor belt any moment.

And here it is!

It…It looks like a fried fish!   Sigyn confirms that it is, indeed, nestled in a bed of ice cream.  i have never seen such a thing and I am completely baffled.


Human male: takes a bite

Me: stares

Human female:  takes a taste, squeals

Well, nail me to the front door and use me as a knocker!  Apparently this is, in fact, dessert!  The outside has the consistency of a waffle or a fried doughnut, and the innards are full of sweet red bean-paste!  In other words, it is a more highly-evolved form of sweet, beany goo delivery!

The human female now wants one of her very own.  However, everyone at the table is completely full, and there isn’t room in anyone’s tummy for so much as a fin.  See, human female?  If you’d shared the shrimp tempura earlier, you’d have room for a fish waffle now.  Serves you right.


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The Vendor Who’s Responsible–For Killing Trees

The human female’s big order to the Vendor Who’s Responsible for the fall semester wasn’t as big as it has been in some years, but it was big enough, running to multiple line items and a couple tens of thousands of dollars.  The various items have been arriving a few here and a few there for over a month now, and it’ a rare week that doesn’t see some sort of packing slip in the human female’s in box.

Years ago now, I had a chat with the Vendor Who’s Responsible about their shipping and their packing slips.  I suggested that some items should ship directly from the manufacturer.  Thus, a large order to VWR might generate shipments from a dozen different vendors–each vendor using its own color and format of paper, of course.

The human female and her minions usually have enough brains to cope with this, but lately I’ve encouraged the Vendor Who’s Responsible to up their game a little bit.

Wouldn’t it be fun, I suggested, if they put ALL of the items from the whole order on each and every packing slip.  Just in case someone can’t recall what they ordered, you understand.  It makes for no little confusion, what with all the “shipping from alternate warehouse” notes and Prep Staff’s helpful notations of “this came on prior packing slip.”  The slips got so confused, it was impossible to tell what was and wasn’t in any given box.  The spreadsheet of orders became amusingly muddled.  The human female instructed her minions to check and initial ONLY the things actually included in the particular shipment in question.

Hence, this:

Page one of the slip for a recent order.  The minions have checked off and dated items included in the shipment:

vwr invoice1

But wait, there’s more!  Page two:

vwr invoice2

Page three:

vwr invoice3

Did anything actually arrive?!  The human female has taken to dropping the useless pages on the floor as she reads.

vwr invoice5

And on we press!  Page four:

vwr invoice4

There we are!  Anything else?

Page five:

vwr invoice 4

Auuugh!  I meant to annoy the human female, but this!   THIS is why our forests are disappearing!  Stop it, vendors!  I am going to rule this miserable rock one of these days, and I’d appreciate it if there was still a little vegetation left on it when I do!

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I Think I’m On To Something

More and more, I think I have chosen the right city to be my eventual capital.  Oh, granted, it is hotter than Hel in the summer, and the traffic is abysmal, and as far as gardening conditions go, it’s the armpit of the horticultural world, BUT…

..The pizza situation is improving.

One of the local markets has just opened a pizzeria just inside the front of the store.  There it sits, wafting its grease-and-garlic siren song right into the foyer, so that all of those mortals who are “shopping hungry” are immediately drawn by the nose to investigate the source of the ambrosial aroma.  Those who have not arrived hungry are rendered so with a few sniffs.  It’s all anyone can do to make it past the pizza to the produce.

Two other, stand-alone pizza restaurants have opened in the last year or so.  Both specialize in building pies on a thin crust, adding whatever toppings one desires, and baking them in a flash in an oven kept at roughly the temperature of the surface of the sun.

We’re’ trying out one of them today.  Since the local town council has made the nearby parking garage free and obviated the need to pay just to walk around this section of town, it seems like a good time.

The menu is pretty straightforward…


Though that gratuitous stray apostrophe is giving me hives.  I note that they list gorgonzola as one of the possible toppings. If I live on this planet for a millennium,  I will never understand the Midgardian fascination with weaponized cheese.  

No two souls will ever agree on what toppings should go on a pizza, so pizza-crafters will often divide the crust of a shared pie down the center and top the halves differently, with a sort of no-man’s-land in the middle.  Behold–the humans’ pizza is such a pie:


Chicken, spinach, artichoke, tomato, basil, mozzarella, and a nice tomato sauce.

There is a demilitarized zone separating the pro-mushroom camp (human female) from the anti-mushroom camp (human male.)  Norns defend any fungus unwary enough to accidentally stray over the line.  Such a shroom will be dealt with using extreme prejudice.

Which is why it will be so much fun when the male discovers the bit of basidiomycete that I’ve hidden under his copious artichokes.  He will glare daggers at the female and accuse her of disrespecting the culinary and matrimonial treaties, and she will accuse him of being a baby when it comes to members of Kingdom Fungi.

Then I will direct the female’s attention to the calorie counts listed on the menu and whisper in her ear that each delicious bite is in direct conflict with her desire to fit into her clothes without the application of grease and a shoehorn.

And thus what began as a pleasant, peaceful evening, sharing a pizza at an outdoor table while watching little children play upon the grass, will devolve into defensiveness, resentment, self-loathing, and my ability to snag about a third of their pizza for myself.

My work here is done.

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