Happy Update From the Sarie

It's been a while, and I need to update what-all is going on.

1) I've started my new job.  I like it.  It's super fun, the commute isn't as bad as I worried it might be, and it is making me smarter.  That said, I've lost a good bit of time (chalk up almost 2 hours/day to commuting, although I technically arrive at work at the same time that I used to do so), so I'm feeling tired.  That and the fact that I actually have to think during the day.  Combined, I'm tired.  But happier.  Also, it's New Orleans, and also, there is a bar IN THE OFFICE.  Win.

2)  Christmas (well, and before that, Thanksgiving) has come and gone.  It was the best Christmas I can ever remember.  I got some nice things, mostly gift cards and a (much needed, much desired) watch, but the kicker was watching the baby.  He was OVER THE MOON with his present from me.  So much so that I still get a little misty grin thinking about it.  I haven't ever seen him be so happy with one thing before, in all of my life.  I got him an iPod, which doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me, but to him, it is the world.  And he has been texting me, which is amazing, since he is both adorable and also in Georgia right now.  I enjoy staying current with the baby.

3)  My marathon is a no-go.  I have to work that weekend.  This was an enormous blow when I found out, but weeks have gone by and I am no longer that upset.  Truth is, that race was going to completely kick my ass.  Utterly.  So really, I'm better off this way.

That's pretty much my last several months in a nutshell.  Couple that with me finding my mother sharing a drink and a smoke with the Kirby salesman and the time she tried very hard to convince me that it would be okay for her to pick up a hitchhiker, you will see that she is the same as she ever was.

Hope all is well with all (both) of you.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and by the way, there is a BAR IN MY OFFICE.  Just reminding you that.

Happy days!

Quitter

I turned in my notice at my job last Friday.  On Halloween.  Haha.  Boo.  Fuck you.  Just kidding.  Sort of.

I got a new job, in New Orleans, with a little more money and a lot more responsibility and pretty much a whole lot to offer.

My problem is...  well...  these next two weeks, y'all.  How?  How do you survive the final two weeks, when the boss person is FURIOUS at you because you dared to disobey her commands showed what an ungrateful brat you are made her feel like you don't love her anymore.

That's the thing, I kind of have divorced my boss.

Mind you, it is the right thing to do, for lots and lots and lots of reasons, and I am super duper excited about the next phase in my life, but I cannot help but sit here and be miserable.  I don't want to be miserable!!!

So...  I think, in the end, that there is just one thing to do.  Practice saying, "I'm sorry, this is just too uncomfortable for me.  I would have liked to give two weeks' notice, but I'm going to go ahead and leave," and have a nice glass of wine on the regular.  Eventually one of two things will have happened.  I will either use what I practiced (trust your training!) or I will have survived two weeks.  Either way, same result.

Either way, new adventure.  Bring it on.

Lurch

Oh, my God.  I nailed it.  I FINALLY figured out why the new sales manager is driving me so batshit crazy.

He just called his wife back, ostensibly having missed a call from her.

"you RANNNNNG," he said, a la Lurch from the Addams Family.

MOTHER FUCKER MY EX HUSBAND USED TO SAY THAT EVERY FUCKING TIME HE WOULD CALL ME BACK.

And we all know how that worked out.

Mystery, solved.  Now I'm off to find a missing airplane.  Obvs, I am on a roll.

Grown-ass Man

Goddamn Lent is killing me, smalls.  I gave up negativity, and you know, I might as well have given up, I don't know, smoking, or drinking wine, for all the ability I have to stick to it.  Week one went well until a blow-up at work, more of which I will feed you in a minute, but this week is balls.  I don't know what my problem is.  But balls, I tell you.

The thing at work was as follows, and it doesn't translate to paper well, because it sounds so fucking STUPID, but we'll give it a whirl, anyway.  I may or may not need to preface this with the following fact:

I'm not a hugger.  I have strong need for people to respect my personal space.  I have three (yes, three) bottles of hand sanitizer on my desk.  I don't hug.  I barely high-five.

Okay.  So let's give you a little back story.  We hired a new sales person about six months ago, and I am having a tough time being friends with him, some of which stems from the fact that his predecessor is a freaking amazing person, and he is... not.

But really, he's fucking irritating.  He doesn't do a great job at his job, and he doesn't take accountability, which is REALLY the thing that makes me nutso.  He gets his panties all up in a wad and says things like, "I'm a grown-ass man."  That's a quote, folks.  You know what makes you sound NOT like a grown man?  Calling yourself a "grown-ass man."

Anyway, one of his favorite things to do is to pester people.  Like most grown-ass men, he doesn't know what he can get away with it, and when he needs to not, like, say, when a client is here.  Or ever, when it comes to pestering me, if said pestering involves touching me or otherwise invading my personal space.

Weeks ago, he started doing some magic evil thing where he buzzes his fingers really close to my ear, and it sounds like a mosquito in my ear.  He's done this several times, once leading me to losing my absolute total shit and beating my fists on his arm, saying DON'T DO THAT over and over again.  Good times.

On Friday, we were in a casual meeting, with four or five of us sitting at the table, discussing shit.  And he did that buzz thing to me.  I said (and I swear to God, I used my polite voice):  "Would you please not do that.  Seriously?  I need you to respect my space."

He lost his mind, blew up at me - and everybody, really - right there in the meeting, fussing at all of us.

My boss went and had a Big Talk with him, telling him that I will never, ever respond in the positive when someone invades my personal space, and blah blah blah.  After I cooled off, I went into his office.  "Can we talk?" I said.  "I'm sorry for fussing at you in front of everyone.  That was unprofessional of me.  That being siad, I have asked you to not do that before..." and on and on.

He apologized, and said (yes, I quote), "Look, I don't care if anybody here is my friend or whatever.  I'm a grown ass man and I can handle it."  I made nicey noises like, "well I do care, I want to be friends, but I need you to respect my boundaries" and what-all.

And that was that, and we are ok, but then...

I spent the whole weekend thinking about all the things he SHOULD HAVE said.  Things like this:

1) "It's never okay for me to invade someone else's personal space at work.  I should have know that, being that I am a grown-ass man."
2) "I'm sorry I created a hostile work environment for you.  It's wrong of me and I won't do it again.  I am a grown-ass man and I should have known better."
3) "You are the greatest person I have ever known, and I could not respect you more.  Being a grown-ass man, I still aim to strive to be more like you in every aspect of my life."

Fucker.

Let's find the positive.  I think I can safely say that, if that tool gets in my personal space again, I can both beat the shit out of him and threaten lawsuit.  Because, I, too?

Am a grown-ass (wo)man.

Antisocial Office Employee (please can I just work from home?)

One of the things I want to do in 2014 is be a more consistent blogger.  You are welcome.  A result of this will be your being forced to read some of the trivial things that live in my head.  Again, prégo.

Here is a list of things you can do to ensure that I hate having your office within 10 feet of my "office."  I put my office in quotes because, although I do have not one, but three doors, I also have a half-wall-shelf-thingee on the front of my desk, and that makes me look like a receptionist.  Which I am not, but I would completely understand if you think I am.  It's fine with me, really.

1.  Snort.  Please, for the love of all things good and wonderful, please, please God, please don't snort where I can hear you.  Don't clear your sinuses.  Oh, for fuck's sake, please just go in the bathroom and blow your nose.  I do not need to hear your allergies.  Gah.  Ross.

Once upon a time, I had a shared office with two other girls.  It was a big office and really comfortable, but this one lady, Peggy?  (Seriously, that was her name) Peggy had the allergies.  Peggy liked to drain her sinuses in a big ol' loogey kind of way, and it was AWFUL.  The other girl, Lisa?  She cringed for a while, then she took action.  This is how the afternoons were:

Peggy:  SWWWOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRKKKKK

Lisa:  BEEEP

Yeah, not joking.  Lisa beeped every time Peggy cleared her sinuses.  AND PEGGY NEVER NOTICED.

Please to not snort.  I swear to God, I'd rather deal with Indians-from-India-that-have-not-acclimatized-to-American-bathing-standards (this is NOT racist, somebody from that place I used to work please get my back on this one) than deal with the snorting.

2.  Music.  'kay, look.  Jam to your tunes to your heart's content.  I do, sometimes.  I get it.  But here's the trick.  Point your everloving speakers right at you, and turn that shit down.  You know what is worse than hearing your office-neighbor's music?  Just barely hearing the tinny sound of a tiny bit of treble, knowing there is music that goes to it, but not being able to hear it, AND said tinny sound being just loud enough to be heard over your own jam.  If YOUR music drowns out MY Humpty Dance, I'm going to be pissed.

All that being said, if you randomly break out into song, particularly in a Billie Holiday - or David Sedaris doing Billie Holiday - voice, I'm all for that.  That's my joy in life.  Please don't stop doing that.



3.  Phone Etiquette  If you call anybody, and I mean anybody, "man" on the phone, I will mentally stab you with a pencil.  If you fail to say "bye" on a phone call, said pencil will meet your eyeball.  If you fail to leave your door open while you are having convos with your spouse or other family members, for my nosy-ass-pleasure, I will cut you in real life.  Don't take away my little joys, people.  I want your personal gossip.  I want to know your dinner plans and what you wore and how your mother said such-and-such.  DO NOT SUCK AWAY MY JOY.

While we are on this topic, here's another little bit of advice from me to you.  When you buzz me to ask a question, and I pick up the line and say "go ahead," don't say, "Question."  I fucking already know you have a question.  And you BEST say "bye" when we are done with this little intercom convo, too.

4.  My shelf-thingee is not a place for you to put your crap.  Don't leave shit on it.  For that matter, don't ever put shit on it.  Don't do it.  Don't stand in front of my desk to talk to your clients.  Take them to your space, take them outside, take them wherever the fuck you want to, as long as it is away from my desk.  If I am feeling particularly nice, I may offer them water or a cup of coffee.  If I do this, and I probably will, I will NOT clean up their cup or throw away their trash.  Your guest, your trash.  If this is left on my shelf-thingee, I will envision carrying it all and putting it on your desk for you to deal with.  All that being said, any candy, cupcake, brownie, bag of chips, alcoholic beverage, or other snack food left on the shelf thingee will be eaten immediately by the gnomes that live in my face, which I call my teeth.  It is also acceptable to leave me jewelry.  I prefer silver to gold.

5.  No prank calling.  Our office is not exactly new-fangled.  Our caller ID works, sometimes, but most of the time it shows "Cell Phone" or "Jefferson Pa."  Not helpful, and also weird, in that we don't work in Jefferson Parish.  Whatevs.  That means that, if you call in to me at work, there's at best a 50/50 chance that I will know definitively that it is you before I answer.  So.  If you call in, and I answer, do not fuck with me.  Don't pretend to be a client.  Don't put on a silly accent or ask me ridiculous questions.  Do not do that.  I'll think to myself, "self, this is probably the asshole whose office is next to mine, but I do occasionally interact with some pretty whack-job members of society, so it's best to not take a chance."  When I do discover that it is, indeed, you, using a semi-Borat accent and asking me about something absurd, my respect for you will fall lower than my respect level for the real crazy people who occasionally call.  They can't help themselves. You fucking can, and you fucking better.

6.  Do Not Ring The Bell.  There is a bell on the shelf-thingee, and it is there to alert me if somebody has walked in and needs help, while I am, say, at the copier, or eating lunch, or in the potty, or in somebody else's office.  If the bell rings, I turn into Pavlov's dogs and come running.  If I have put down my $8.00 Subway Sandwich (toasted!) and it was you just being a dick, I'm going to consider slashing your tires.  I'll state that we have a few clients who are bell-happy, and it grates my nerves, but I will be much more forgiving to them.  They do it a few times a year.  You do it every day, and I'm going to go all crazy-ass batshit yelling at you one day, and you will find it funny, but you will try not to laugh, which will make you want to laugh even more, and that's just going to make me that much madder, and then I'm probably going to end up crying, and I've been wearing a lot of eye makeup lately, so if I cry, it's going to be BAD, so for the love of anything and everything good in the whole motherfucking universe, do NOT RING THE BELL.

That's enough ranting for today.  I feel better now that we've had this talk.  Now go sing me some Billie Holiday and shut the fuck up.

Badmin

1.  There is this lady.  She's not a client, she's like... a frenemy, I guess, of our boss.  She comes to our work, and brings her dog with her.  Her dog.  To our work.  Truth be told, it's a cute dog, but my favorite time is when that little dog runs into one of the manager's office and he kicks the dog.  She hasn't been in in a long time, but she called on Friday, tied me up for about 40 minutes.

I'm not terribly busy today, just not in the mood for that level of crazy, so when she called, I just dumped her on my boss.  Sorry, boss person.  I'm evil.

40-some-odd minutes later, my boss gets off the phone.  "Sarah, you are evil."

Told you so.

2.  I miss our temp.  She called me princess and made me coffee.  For some reason, she TOTALLY thought I was the boss of her, which I am TOTALLY not.  But whatever.  Meanwhile, we have hired a new McBaseball McSalesMcManager, and I AM the boss of him.  Only I'm not.  But nobody has told him that, so let's just keep that to ourselves, shall we?

Here's what I like about HM (ie, Hottie McBaseball).  He is a slob.  He carries crap everywhere, and leaves it wherever it lands.  I like the whole Pig Pennishness and I like that I can just collect his crap and bring it to him periodically.  No idea why this all amuses me, but it does.

Good times.

3.  I'm supposed to do the following this week:  a) find a photographer.  b) order Christmas cards.  c) re-write my boss's self-review (I know.  Seriously.).  I intend to do these things at, like, 4pm on Friday.

4.  I knitted a sweater.  This is not work-related, except in that I will wear it to work, if I can get it to shrink a little bit.

5.  Also un-work-related, but YES I DID make everybody at my work enjoy it - - - last night, the baby and I spent several minutes recording ourselves singing pop songs in the correct (ish) tune, but with only the word "meow."  "Meow, meow, meow meow meowwww meow..."  THAT is ART, people.

6.  Football is here!!!!!!  I wore purple.  With gold.  Hottie McBaseball, who went to ama-bay, wore burgandy pants with tiny little gray "A's."  Imagine.  I love the football.  I do NOT love the LSU team who thinks it is fun to jerk my cold dry little heart around.  Of course, I AM lying.  I DO love the LSU.  They just try really hard to give me a heart attack.  GRACIOUS.

And such is life.  Happy times.

Hottie McBaseball's At-Work-BFF

We hired a new Sales Manager at work.  This guy is mid-twenties, used to play pro baseball, and is 6'7".  He shall, therefore, be hereafter called "Hottie McBaseball."  For good reason.

So.  Hottie McBaseball started last week.  I began the process of acclimatizing him, teaching him how my workplace functions.  I, being the world's greatest employee, know the ins and outs of his job (of course I do) and only I am able to show him how to do it.  Because that's how I roll.

So that's fun.

But anyway.

He gets a work cell phone.  His predecessor had the same number, and so, when she left, oh, six months or so ago, I forwarded the work cell phone number to my cell phone.  So as to not miss any calls.

I forgot that I did that, though.  And this weekend?

Hottie McB's brother called.  Who sounds like Junior Hottie McBaseball on the phone.

So I sent Hottie McBaseball (sr) a text message:

"Hi!  Sorry.  Your phone number is forwarded to my phone number.  To un-forward, just dial *73, and follow the prompts."
"oh, and your brother wants you call him."

Good times.

Label wearer. In case I lose my V.

And so this one time, I said, "I've got a cold thing going on."

You all know just how very much this girlie likes to be sick.  Well, if you don't, you definitely should.  Pales compared to how much I like a band-aid, but still.

As an aside, my friend Mel's daughter is EXACTLY like me.  Girl fell and hurt her wrist like two weeks ago.  After much whining, Mel took little bit to the urgent care for an x-ray and it wasn't broken.  But girl child really seriously considered that perhaps they screwed up the x-ray.  God, how I love that kid.

Anyway, despite my delight in ailments, I do not really go running off to the doctor with every little sneeze.  No, no.  I like to be martyr-like, stoic in my rapid decline.  And thus it has been for the last two weeks, what started off as a little sniff, a dry cough, turned into a big ol' shaking fever and a cough that sounded like, in my mother's words, the cough of a dog with heartworms.

Delightful.

Anyway, after coming to work one day last week, I decided that there was a definite issue and did, in fact, make an appointment with my Doctor.  I got to go and see the fabulous and slightly sexy new PA, whom I will call Doctor Dirty Dianna, her name being Dianna, and me being 12.

DDD called me "thin," though, so please note, I'm pretty much in total love.

And guess what?  My cold?  Not a cold.  Pneumonia.  She took a PULSE OX, which you just know I fucking LOOOOOOOOOVED.  I took another day off and resolutely, stoically returned to work, just so they could send me home because my cough was scaring them.  I like being scary.

It's been a week now, and I'm well medicated (five prescriptions - HIGH FIVE), and I'm improving, although I still have a little cough.  But good gracious.

In the midst of that nonsense, the little boy of my household SCORED A GOAL playing soccer (BOOM) and then attended a birthday party for TRIPLETS.  Because we are awesome.

Here are some pictures for you, of random crap.

Here is me, kissing an alligator.  I asked them to un-tape his mouth.  They said no.  I asked them if I could have him.  They said no.  Please note, I had the phone with me at the time.  I'm a very good worker.  I love alligators.  Especially their feet.  That's some cute feet.

Here is me, trying on a dress (while wearing my "winter flip flops", shoes which really ought to be thrown away) at the mall.  Which is, in and of itself, really fucking weird because I don't go to the mall.  Anyway, I tried on this dress, me with my little tiny white legs, because I thought it was cute, completely unaware that it was also a label for my v.  V.  Because, you know, I might lose it.  Nope, there it is!  Righty thery, ho ho!  That's my V!

When I am sick, I knit at about half speed.  Which is to say, still really fucking a lot faster than you do.  I imagine.  Whatever.  But anyway.  I knitted an elephant.  A pneumoniaphant.

With little, black, island-of-misfit-toys eyes.

And a little penis nose!  Hooray for penis noses!

Don't Poop On Me

My bigger child is the person in my life who provides me with the most entertainment, I think.  Every day or two, he sends me a link, usually to a video (these are teenagers.  they SUBSCRIBE to youtube channels.  I mean, that's just weird.)  Anyway, lately, there have been some excellent examples.

I give to you, ham.  Dayum.




At least twice a day, my coworkers and I will look at each other and tenderly say, "I wish you could smell, what I'm smellin'."

The gift that keeps on giving.

Kid has also introduced me to Jenna Marbles.  She definitely cracks me up, and now I say "GET THE FUCK OUT, ADELE" on a regular basis.  HAHA.



And then, this week, we were gifted with this.  A parrot.  If you don't know, I motherfuckingHATEbirds, but if I DID have to have a bird, and I never would, mind you, because birds are motherfuckingDISGUSTING, but if I DID, it would be a parrot that had a potty mouth.  I would teach it to say the worst phrases I know, the most nasty and off-putting, particulary, "cunt-licker" and "ass-fucker."  Because I can.

Could.  I won't, though, because I will never get a bird, because birds are motherfuckingDISGUSTING, and guess what?  THEY CANNOT CONTROL THEIR BOWELS.

I'm pretty sure this guy discovered that lack of control, and uttered a phrase, a phrase that also will live with you for days to come, and listened to his parrot echo it back.  Note, this might be a Macaw.  AS IF I CARE.



Don't poop on me.  FUCKING SHIT.

Don't poop on me.

My god, how I love that phrase.  FUCKING SHIT rocks, too, and that this bird sounds like Pacino just makes me all the happier.

In other news of video-viewing, I finally finished Dawson(GoodGodIWishINeverStartedThatStupidEndeavor) and have moved on to The West Wing.  MUCH more respectable and far less likely to make me hate myself for watching.  The music isn't as good, but the characters are so good.  I want Jeb Bartlett for president.  Fuck it.  Also, I like to think of myself as a Donna at work.  In real life, I might be more like Mya's assistant on that one show with David Spade and Mya's dad owns a magazine and is an idiot?  Right, you know what I mean, right?



Fast Forward to 5:45.  Best moment in adminning EVER.  EVER.

Alas, I have to go work and cannot watch more videos.  Happy Thursday, everybody.  If Death stops by, I'll let you know.

Debbie Does Dallas

We did a major overhaul on our office area at work, over the last two weeks.  It's been a pretty much total fucking nightmare, a lot of the time.  We all worked from one common area, for several days, and - who knew?  This girl actually likes privacy.  So fuck that.

But anyway, we did all of this because we got new carpeting, and OhMyGod there was some disgusting shit on the old carpets.  Ever seen spider eggs?  THEY ARE GROSS.

Anyway, the result of all of this was a full-on rearrangement of our spaces at work, the offices, the common areas, pretty much everything.  I am now tucked into a corner, all cozy, and I FREAKING love it.

But here's the best thing:  I got a new monitor, and this one fits all snug up under the little shelf thingy above my desk.  Which is to say, it's COMPLETELY SECRET.

A few minutes ago, a girl stopped by my desk to ask me a question.  I interrupted her:

"You have no idea that I am looking at porn right now, do you?"

HAHAHA.

Porn-friendly desk and two new filing cabinets.  I'm never going to quit this job.  Unless people can't stop leaving their shit on my desk.  Because that's still a problem...

Happy Friday!

Tipsy Tina

Two times each year, we have drink-at-work days.  Now, mind you, la boss lady does not know that we consider these days thus, but she also drink-at-works, so fuck it.  Fuck it.

Anyway.  So this is one of those days.  It's called a Poinsettia.  It consists of cheap-ass champagne and cranberry juice.  AND I LOVE IT.

Later, today will be called "Annual Deal With Being Mildly Hungover At Work Day," but right now, no.  Right now is a BOSS.

In return for this bullshit I have to deal with a picture with the staff and Santa! And count toys for pToysforTotsp.  But I also get free lunch.  See?  You win some, you lose some.

You got to take what you get.

In other news, I'm grumpy, terribly, terribly bitchy about work, and not in the mood to fuck around with this shit.

BUT.  My band has a really good gig on Friday.  So that's fun!  And the baby will be performing, the same night, natch, at a different location, and I will be missing that.  Beast.  And the big kid is home for the holiday, and that's good.  And I still have more Poinsettia to drink.

Civic Minded, Racially Sensitive Former Pirate Whore Monsterknockers

There has been a request for pictures of the Pirate Whore Monsterknockers, so I'll accommodate that first and foremost:

I'm the one in the middle.  GOD DAMN we are some cute girls.

Anyway.  My friend Melissa who happens to be gifted with the picture-taking-skillz also took a full-on boudoir shot of me, and I look like a whore, but I don't even care, it's a pretty picture:

New Orleans was a bad-ish night for me, way too crowded and my phone was STOLEN FROM MY PURSE, but haha, fuckers, it was an iPhone 3GS, so it cost me like 99 cents.  I mean come on.  And too, I ended up with drunky girls and I was pretty sober, so that's a downer.  BUT, I didn't lose my panties, so we'll still call that one a win.

We revisited the costume on Halloween, as one ought, and even though the baby was tired, I like this one, too.  Far less whorey.

 Today is election day, in other news, and I took the baby to go and vote, so he could see how it works.  He was interested in reading the ballot (out loud), and I had to suggest that he not, as it is a) nobody's business for whom I vote, and b) I live in an extremely conservative little corner of an extremely conservative little town, so I thought it was possible that I might get my tires slashed if my liberalness was broadcasted.

Awesome.

My tires are intact.

Anyway, so there you have it.  I voted, again, for a minority because I think his opinions match mine closer than that of the guy who appears to look more like the people where I live.  Primarily because I'm too tall to fit in a binder.

His minority-ness really has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I mention it because the baby and I were talking about racial equality the other day, and he said that he knew what I was talking about.  "I can give you an ezample," he said.  "Okay," I said, "go for it."

"Well, I'm white," he said, "but Yaya is black."

um.  Yaya is his name for Beanie, my older son.  The one who is half Greek, half me, so...

Not really black.  More like olive.  But who's counting.

The little person is much whiter than we are, although he has got some mad moves, and the Bean doesn't, so based on this assessment, he's got it backwards.  However, I enjoy having one black kid, one white kid.  I have since referred to Beanie as my black son.  Boom.

Note:  I kind of wish I did have a baby that is either African-American or bi-racial.  They are so freaking gorgeous.  Just saying.  Similarly, I wish I did have one baby that was a girl child, because I'd like to name her Virginia but call her VaJayJay.

Anyway, so we expressed our civic duty, and I was super pissed/disappointed that they were out of stickers, I mean, come ON, so when I got to work, I made one for myself.  Because THAT is how I like to stick it to the man.

Well, that, and blogging...

Roseanne Barr

For some reason, I agreed to sing the Star Spangled Banner again, tonight.  At a thing.  A work thing.

I do not know why I do this to myself.

I must leave the office now, to go skank up.

God Bless My Little Heart for thinking I can do this.  Le.  Sigh.

Safety Ear Plug Needer

Let's play a game.  Let's pretend it is your work, and you pretty much have to be there, but there is jackhammering going on right outside your building, ergo, right outside your "office."  We can pretend you have a real office and don't work in a reception area if you want to.

Here's what makes that okay, at least somewhat okay.  Your boss doesn't bother to come into work until mid-afternoon, because the noise hurts her back.

Noise.  Hurts her back.  For serious.

Meanwhile, let's talk about how, the other day, you were at your mom's house, drinking with your mom and her friend, and you mentioned how much more fun you would have at work if you could have alcohol while you were there.  And then, all serious, your mom and her friend begin to tell you how simple this is to accomplish:  just fill up one of those grown-up sippy cups that we all have with Vodka, buy a diet coke for a mixer, et voila!

Um...

Yes.  My mother was trying to tell me how to be an alcoholic.  As per usual.

One of my friends said that I'm not an alcoholic, because I don't go to meetings.  Perfecto.

Anyway...  so the baby has been out of town for 10 days, and I'm suffering from serious silliness withdrawal.  He's coming home today, hopefully we can right this imbalance very quickly.

This is off topic (what topic, really, did we have?), but I've taken on a second job.  My very good friend Melissa, she has a distaste for laundry.  I know, right?  How can you not LOVE laundry?  Seriously??!!

But anyway, she went out of town, and I stole some of her laundry, and she has since concluded that she thinks it is worthwhile to pay me to do some of her laundry.  I don't even get that.  It's like being paid to eat candy.  Right?  I know!

But I'm stoked.  I enjoy it, and it basically will cover my extravagant desire to eat Outback on a regular basis.  ThanksbetoMelissa!

And that's all that's new.  So, pretty much nothing.  You know what?  I like cheese.  And bread.  Together or separately.  Happy Wednesday!

Carnie

I may have mentioned that I work in an onvention-cay enter-cay in south Louisiana.  Most of the events we get are boring, meetings, parties, that sort of thing.  Occasionally, we get the joy of a dance recital (and nothing is cuter than little girls tapping in the hall outside of my office). 

And then, we have the unusual.

Yesterday, we hosted an ircus-cay.  I'm going to tell you, we have one every fall, but that one is in a big tent out front.  The highlight of that is when an elephant walks by our outside window.  But yesterday's entire event was inside my building.  And you haven't lived until you open a door and find yourself eyeball-to-eyeball with a big, giant elephant.  They have pretty, snuffaluffacus eyelashes, by the way.

And then, there was a tiger.  Deeming it too hot to leave him outside, they put his cage in our back hallway.  I was afraid of being sprayed on by him, but not so afraid that I didn't slip past his cage so I could see his big, sweepy-weepy wittle face.  He was gorgeous.

My favorite critter, though, was the zebra.  Zig Zag was his name, and he was a part of the petting zoo, although his cage was clearly marked with "Zebra May Bite" (I mean, who puts a bitey animal in a petting zoo?)  Identifiying this as a risk, I spent the vast majority of the day hanging out with Zig.

Look.  Isn't he so pretty?  He was a sweetheart.  A bitey sweetheart.  I love him.  I want him.  I tried to talk them into letting me have him, and I got pretty close, but at the end, not so much.

He loved me, too.  I think that's abundantly clear.

In this picture, you can vaguely make out an elephant in the back of the room, and this, of course, was a llama.  Llamas have terrible teeth, in case you were wondering.

Despite having to work eight hours on a Sunday, something that I usually do not care for, this was a pretty fucking fun day.  I also held a baby emu, upside down, by the feet.  Make no mistake, if it had tried to peck me, I'd have had no trouble at all snapping it's tiny emu neck and cooking it into an emu gumbo.  Just saying.

Someone else would have had to pluck its feathers, though.

And, I got hit on by a carnie, someone who actually said, "I wish I had met you years ago," prior to asking me if I wanted to show him my office.  Um, no thank you.  He DID have all of his teeth, but his role was simply to sell popcorn, which makes him pretty much the lowest man on the ircus-cay career ladder, wouldn't you say?  I mean, he had to wear a red-and-white striped shirt.

So that's pretty much a weird day at work.  And Happy Father's Day.  But I'm still thinking about the elephant shit in our side hallway carpet...

Minutes Taker

We have this Big Bored (that's an intentional misspell, thanks so much), that meets every month.  This morning was an instance of that meeting.  I am required to take "minutes" at this meeting, wherein I write down the first 30% of what they say before I zone out and start to think about other stuff.  Sometimes I write stuff like this at these meetings:

- Melissa -
   - blah blah blah great stuff rah rah rah

True story.  Today, though, was worse than usual.  Lasted about 2 hours, part of which was spent talking about God Only Knows What (although I know it was about bond refinanc...snooooooooooze).

And then this old dude, the one I refer to sometimes as my at-work-boyfriend, because he's probably around 70 but he likes to wink at me (frequently)?

He said the following:

"I felt like a turd in a punchbowl."

Ho.Ly. Shit.  That's a good turn of phrase.

I've never heard that before, but the internet sure has.  Even has pictures:

This is my joy.

Also, I'm kind of revolted.  But mostly joyful.

Spanish Mona Lisa

So, check it.

In our town, for Cinco De Mayo, you have several options, all of which are extremely affordable.

However, my boss's people have decided that we should throw a fundraiser on that date, charging a shit-ton per head, and featuring, you know, a decent band, and some food.

So far, I think we have, like, 15 tables full.  Out of the 40 that are possible.  FUCK.  ME.

I'm not kidding, this event is a week out, and now we are trying to figure out ways to fill up the room.  I'm not kidding, the only way this will be bearable is if I drink heavily.  Before, during, and after.

I do have a hot dress.

But seriously, could you think of a more pathetic thing than throwing a party to which nobody comes?  Because that's what we are about to do.

Perhaps I am a touch more obnoxious about how much I hate this because I don't have a date, for the first time ever.  And I'm certainly glad to be single, but I'm hyper-aware of my singledom, more than usual.  Good lord.

Drink-o, for Cinco de Mayo...

Accounts PAYABLE, MAN

1.  So we have this "bookkeeper," and I use that term loosely because I know for a fact that she has never been to college and thus is certainly NOT an accountant.  Furthermore, she sucks.  BUT, she is really a nice, sweet, and smart lady, she just doesn't give a shit, so she does whatever she wants.  Which, you know, is lame.

So here's the thing.  I have not the best history with handling my personal finances so much, but... I am one mean motherfucker when it comes to accounting.  You know, at the work.  I love it.  LOVE LOVE LOVE it, and I am a hardass and I make everything BALANCE.

Except that one time, when I missed a million dollars on an accrual, but man... who cares.  That was at a company where a million dollars was Not That Big of a Deal and I didn't lose my job, so.  Yeah.  Doesn't count.

Anyway, at my current place d'emploi, I have proven to be a better bookkeepr than our actual one, in that I know how to work Quickbooks and show up more frequently than once every two or three weeks.  And that I care. 

Thing is, we pay this lady like $50 an hour or some such nonsense.  I have told the Boss Person that I will be happy to do her responsibilities, thus saving us like $350 each month, but... don't you think that some of that bank ought to be rolled over to my pocket?  Just saying...

So we will see.  In the meantime, four days a week (minimum), I am the go-to gal for the finances 'round here.  And I do a kickass job.

2.  What the fuck is Pinterest?  Everybody keeps talking about it, and I have one and stuff, but holy crap, y'all, do I find that boring.  Um, so it's a place where I can keep recipes?  Thanks, but the recipes I cook with are printed right there on the box, so I'm good.

And some of my lovely friends have admitted an addiction to pinterest, and I just don't get it.  I love you people, but... I don't really need the recipes.

Now, if it was only funny cat pictures, we would be in luck.

Receptionist, or... hooker, it would seem

I wear a lot of different hats at my place d'emploi.  I am the HR girl, the Finance girl, the shredder girl, the IT girl, you name it.  I also answer the phones.

Now, please note, we have a handful of full time staff, including several office people and then four guys that work out in the hall (it's a big place.)

We also hire part timers, usually to work nights and weekends, when we have events.  Because that's what we do at my work. 

So last summer, we hired this girl, I'll call her Brittany (because that is her name.)  Pretty much immediately after we hired her, she started getting called by what I can only guess is a bill collector that has been outsourced to a call center in the middle east somewhere.  I'm guessing India.

I took a message for Brittany once or twice, but then I told them that this was not a good number for her, she can't take calls here, etc.  Bastards were persistent, and they called back several more times, and I was emphatic that they May Not Call Here anymore.  And eventually, they stopped calling.

Note, Brittany does not work here any more.

Okay, so yesterday?  I answer the phone, and HEY LOOK BRITTANY IS BACK ON THEIR SHIT LIST.  So this happened:

"Hello, may I please speak to Britt-i-an-ee?"

"Let me speak to your boss."

"Why?"

!

"That's none of your business!"

There was a pause, and then,

"Hello, this is boss"

(hi, Peggy.)

"Listen.  I have told you that you cannot call here anymore, you cannot reach Brittany at this number.  She does not even work here any more."

"Look.  I am going to call you as much as I want to.  What is it that you are going to do about it?"

"I am going to CALL THE POLICE."

"Well, I want to fuck you."

!

"What?"

"Yeah, I want to fuck you.  What is it that you are going to do about it?"

"Don't ever call here again."

And I hung up the phone.

O.  M.  G.  WHAT is that???  WHO does that? 

Unfortunately, there is no caller ID for me to report to the po po, and I don't even know they name of the company, so no good is to come of this and I cannot really report this without any of that information, but...  I really, really hope they call back.

I also am kicking my own ass because I didn't respond with "Really?  Because I usually only like to fuck your holy precious cows."

Or at the very least, "Oh?  What are you wearing?  A sari?  Me TOO!"

God, I swear.

And yes, there is a teensy part of me that totally went, inside my head, "Mama's still got it going on."

Elf

At work, we do this annual pToysforTotsp give-away (that's so I cannot be googled.  Such a smart girl, me.)

We have collected almost 3,000 toys, not joking.  It's great.  It's awesome.  I have drawn a line through the barcode of almost 3,000 toys.  : /

I'll love it, I always do, but the toy giveaway starts tomorrow at 4:00, and I'm scared.  I'm already tired.  I'll be at work probably until close to midnight, and though there will be food a'plenty, I usually go to bed by 8:30.  At the latest.

How'mIGonnaDoThis?

Pray for me.  It's worth it.  Kids get happy tomorrow.

I get happy too, but also tired.