Category Archives: Work is for Suckas

Please Be Perceptive Regarding My Utter Disdain For You

Holy shit.

Did you really just ask me the same question twice, even with me answering it already?  Did you?

It’s not like it’s been a day and you forgot this info.  That I would forgive.  But when I tell you one thing and then you ask me the SAME THING LITERALLY 30 SECONDS LATER, I am fucking done.

OH WAIT NOW YOU’VE ASKED FOR THE SAME THING THREE TIMES WHEN I GAVE YOU THE ANSWER ALREADY AND SERIOUSLY, I’M NOT SURE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT NAME-DROPPING WILL NOT HAVE THE DESIRED OUTCOME YOU THINK IT DOES

So I kind of woke up on the wrong side of everything today, and while this isn’t your fault exclusively, you are now making it your problem.  Reading, as they say, is fundamental.  At least admit you didn’t just read what I wrote.  Admit it.  Before I figure out where you’re at and drive an ice pick through your ear.

I know I can’t live in an idyllic paradise with fountains of scotch and hills made of cheesecake, but fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I promise to use less words next time.

I.  Promise.

Signed,

The One in the Dark Office in the Corner Who Loathes Your Mere Existence

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Win An Evening with Me

I’ve been saving this story for y’all.  Merry Giving of the Thanks!  Enjoy your foul.

Now that I’ve retired from roller derby (a subject to be tackled later with a box of wine, a stack of kleenex and less jokes than usual at my dispense), I’m left with a fairly large amount of time on my hands.  Time, mind you, that has been used so far to a) watch the movie “Pitch Perfect” four times in a row, and b) cook food.  Cooking food equals dishes, pots, and pans.  All these items must be cleaned after usage.

Which leads to about the best, most exciting evening ever.  You too could share an evening like this.  With me.  Step into my glamorous life for five minutes (or less).  That’s about how long it might take you to read this, and almost as long as it took for this particular enchanted evening I’m about to relate to you, dear readers, to unfold.

It was a Thursday evening, and there wasn’t a thing that was remarkable about this magical Thursday, except that I was left to my own devices for dinner and entertainment.  The “entertainment” I chose was to finish up some work, which is hardly amusing.  After setting up my laptop in my cozy little place in the kitchen, I decided to procrastinate a little longer on the festivities that awaited me and do the washing up resulting from my lonely dinner  (which was probably some form of chicken and/or pasta, because I’m inventive like that.)

So I am doing the dishes, and I have let my adorable and lovable terrier, Mister William Wallace, out in the backyard to do whatever it is he does out there.  I look out the screen door, and lo and behold, it appears as if he is, at this particular moment, doing something that he should not be doing, as he is chewing mightily upon something.  THERE IS NOTHING TO EAT OUTSIDE, Dog.  What is it you have???  My curiosity is now piqued.  I dry off my hands and go to put shoes (well, Crocs, which are totes not shoes) on my unshod feet.  I need shoes because whatever it is might be gross.  I leave the sink area…OH WAIT.  Now might be a really good time to draw you a picture of my kitchen.  You know how I likes to draw.

THIS IS ACCURATE

Harmless.

As you can see, my kitchen looks relatively harmless.  What about now?  Do you see any potential “issues”?

Note:  Cord.

Note: Cord.

So on the way to put on my shoes, these things happen in this order:

1)  Trip over laptop cord.

2)  Laptop and 30-lb wood cutting board crash to the tile floor.

3)  I fall in to the corner of the METAL TABLE that, not shown in the picture, houses all of our liquor.

4)  Ribs subsequently feel giant rush of pain.

5)  3 bottles of alcohol careen to tile floor.

6)  A lid pops off of the bottle of kirsch that I’ve used exactly one time, immediately filling the room with the scent of alcoholic fruit.

7)  None of the bottles actually break.

8)  I lay on floor for about 30 seconds in amazement at the entire progression of events.
BUT OH SHIT THE DOG IS STILL EATING SOMETHING BUT FIRST I NEED TO CLEAN UP THIS CHERRY LIQUEUR FOR REAL

I grab the roll of paper towels, look out the door, see the dog is still furiously chomping away, and get back to soaking up alcohol.  Throw paper towels away.  NOW GO OUTSIDE.

IT IS A TOAD.   A GIANT FUCKING TOAD THAT IS ONLY PARTIALLY DEAD.  Because this whole time (which has really only been about 90 seconds) he hasn’t been chewing it, per se.  He’s been playing with it.  With his grody dog mouth.

Which, you might think, is not a big deal.  Except this dog has eaten toads before.  And it has made him violently ill.  SO NOW:

1)  Yell at dog

2)  Observe flopping toad

3)  Turn on hose

4) Proceed to try to get dog to swallow water from hose, but really just end up hosing down dog’s face

5)  Observe sad, wet dog

So NOW, I grab said Sad Wet Dog, dry him off, and take him inside and deposit him gently into the bathtub.  Because if he’s going to vomit up some toad slime, experience tells me that this is the only place where it is acceptable.  All over every rug in the house has already happened before.  At this juncture, I’ve phoned my good friend and animal lover Daisy, because a) she needs desperately to hear about what just ensued and b) she can tell me if my dog might die and what I can do to prevent that from happening.

How the conversation really goes:

ME:  HOLY SHIT YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT HAS AND IS HAPPENING WTF

HER:  Um, maybe you should exaggerate more.

ME:  I DON’T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND MY LEVEL OF TRAUMA RIGHT NOW IN FACT THERE ARE MULTIPLE LEVELS IT’S JUST LIKE INCEPTION BUT WITH WALLACE AND LIQUOR AND A FUCKING EXTENSION CORD

HER:  …

ME:  IS MY DOG GOING TO DIE WHY DON’T YOU COME OVER HERE AND HELP MEEEEEE

HER:  Is he vomiting?  Are your ribs broken?  Then maybe we should get past this part right here where I have to tell you to be a little less dramatic.

ME:  WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THANKS I AM SURE ALL WILL BE OK BYYYYEEEEEE

HER:  You are a winner at life.  I mean this literally.  Don’t forget to go kill the toad in the kindest way possible.

ME:  I WILL (hangs up and leaves Toad to die in yard alone)

Meanwhile, the dog is exhibiting zero signs of illness.  He’s mostly confused, because he’s in the bathtub which he hates, he’s wet, which he hates, and evidently has now realized that he misses Toad.  Because it’s his new mouf-buddy.

I check outside.  Toad has ceased to flop.  Which is good, because despite Daisy’s plea to humanely end this toad’s life,  I AM NOT IN ANY WAY PUTTING MY HANDS NEAR A TOAD.  Toad, if not dead, will be forced to die cruelly and slowly because of my irrational fear.  Of toads and toad-related items.

Besides, HAVEN’T I GONE THROUGH ENOUGH ALREADY????

Dog did not die.  Dog was fine.  Toad did die.  Sorry, Toad.  I suffered a righteous bruise on my ribs for about 2 weeks.

Fuck.

Thus ends the dog frog blog.

P.S.  The laptop miraculously survived.

Dog.

Dog.

Frog.

Frog.

Blog.

Blog.

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Foat Wuth I Luv You but GOTTAMN

Dudes.  I am here on business.  “But you live in Dallas, Stoney.  Why is it such a big deal to be in Fort Worth?”

I WILL TELL YOU.

FIrst, the roads are colossally fucked, so why drive to Dallas only to sleep for less than 4 hours?  Stupid.

It is 12:04am on what is technically a FrIday morning.  I have spent my entire day in a 55-degree room.  I ate lunch at 1pm.  I AM STARVING.  After arriving at my hotel that rhymes with something like “Sheridan” I am not only confronted with the bar having last call at 11:45, but more importantly and discovered after the fact, ALL THINGS IN TOWN STOP DELIVERY AT MIDNIGHT.

areeeeeeee you kidddddddding meeeeeeeee

 

I am very hungry and tired and cold.  God bless the lobby, from which I extruded a turkey wrap after calling every pizza joint in town.

 

NEVER AGAIN, FORT WORTH!!!  I will bring snax next time.

 

love,

IAMCOLDANDHUNGRUANDWORKINGONTHEWEEKENDSUCKADICK

 

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Monday: Decidedly Worse than Sunday

This was originally titled Monday:  Please Choke on a Dick, but I figured that would only yield terrible (or AMAZING) search results for all of you.

My husband, when I’m sad or sullen, calls me Sunday Shawn.  This derives from anticipating Monday.  It starts usually about 3pm on Sunday.  It is not necessarily always the case – yesterday was a good Sunday.  So, Monday, I guess I should have been more sad-timez than I was, because you sure have shown me.  Already.  Asshole.

I woke up in a great mood, which is completely uncommon.  I don’t understand, Monday.  Why must you fuck with me?  It started so well.  Then, as I was happily eating my 1/2 sandwich for breakfast and packing away my cantaloupe for a snack, I feel a tickling in my nose.  Oh, what is that?  A bloody nose.  Awesome.  I wish I could blame all the blow I did last night (because that’s how Sunday nights roll in my hizzy), but no.  There is no reason.  Not a one.  As soon as I finish dealing with that, I leave for work and attempt to get in my car to go, but first I must dodge a swarm of wasps and promptly get hit in the face with our errant yet timely sprinkler.  Clean, clean, sprinkler water.  Delicious.

Then I walk into work after somehow making it without getting run over by a cement truck, and am immediately called into a sky-is-falling meeting.  Upon returning to my desk, an infuriating quarterly newsletter appears in my inbox that is Full of Misused Capitalizations, Punctuation Errors and Ridiculous Statements.  It will take all the willpower I have to not spend the rest of the morning DISSECTING AND RIPPING APART this pathetic excuse for a newsletter.  Breathe.  Not my job.  Calm down, English degree.

It is 10:35am, Monday.  Please show some mercy.  I’m eating cantaloupe, for Christ’s sake.  ISN’T THAT ENOUGH DO-GOODING FOR THE DAY?

Evidently not.  My friend just told me that she got in really late from a business thing in Vegas, got 2 hours of sleep, and her car wouldn’t start.  Clearly, both our karmas suck.

monday

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Happy Anniversary, Nameless Faceless Killer!

It’s 7:05 am.  My husband has just told me that for some inexplicable reason, our garage door is open.  Not wide open, but like, person-crawling-in-size open, 3 feet off the ground.

I bolt out of my Hunger Games-reading stupor and say quietly, “what the fuck,” because this is exactly the way I need to be woken up on a Monday.   Unfortunately, said husband is leaving for work.  We both stand in the garage as if to say, SHOW YOURSELF MOTHERFUCKER!!!  But alas, no one does.  Husband moves to leave.  “You’ll be ok,” he says winningly.  “I put your .38 by your desk.”  Somehow this is supposed to comfort me, and I guess it does a little, while I walk through the house turning on every light.  This will be a non-showering day.  Awesome.

Husband leaves.  I proceed to do some dishes while my trusty Lady Smith sits beside me on the counter.  I look out the front door when finished only to find that THE GARAGE DOOR IS NOW ALL THE WAY UP, WIDE OPEN.

There are only 2 possible reasons for this:

1) There may be someone in the neighborhood who has a  garage door opener that is somehow on the same frequency (but this never really happens, does it)

or

2) SOMEONE WAS IN MY GARAGE.  

Neither of these thoughts are comforting.

Did I mention that I have a broken leg?  And that I have just quit smoking in the last week?  I am the slowest and angriest person you have ever met.  No matter.  I proceed outside with phone and gun in hand, sort of trying to conceal it as there is a little old man walking his dog and I really don’t want to alarm him by looking insane. I stare into the garage like it holds some ancient mystery.  Like the Ark of the Covenant is deep inside it.  I am really just looking for evidence that someone has been up in here trying to steal our…our what?  Our priceless bags of Salvation Army clothes?  Our double-sink granite vanity that we will never install that weighs literally 500 pounds?  Our two completely hideous Christmas trees?  No sir, there is nothing in here for you.  Trust me.  While I’m standing outside the garage in my pajama pants holding a gun, I attempt to close the door by just reaching my hand inside and pushing the button.  The door will not close completely though – when I press the button, it will get to the ground and then bounce back up like something is blocking its path.  I decide to enter the dark and frightening chasm that is our garage.  I close the door with the button again, this time holding the door down as it hits the ground.  Mission accomplished, door fucking closed, may I go on with my Monday now?  I HAVE NOT HAD COFFEE YET.

I text my husband to tell him the door was wide open.  He phones immediately and I ask him if there is a way to secure the door.  There is.  I do it.  He says:

“There are only two reasons this would happen.”

Yes, I am well aware.  Happy anniversary, baby.  

Well, if it’s reason number two, the killer/sink-and-Christmas-tree thief  is gone now, and if not, he might as well come on inside.  I’m a bundle of joy in the morning.  And it’s a Monday.  You just hit the jackpot, buddy.

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I Wish I Had a Dime for Every Dick on a Plane

I have recently started traveling quite a bit for work.  I can firmly say I’m in the pro-Southwest Airlines camp, even when the attendants float crazy bombs of jokes that go out into the atmosphere like a suffocating cloud of death.  I have a list of observations about my experiences on relatively short flights.  I would like to take this time to share them.

1)  I want more drink coupons, but more than that, I want a longer time to be able to enjoy them.  Southwest, on some flights, has started taking your drink order before take-off.  THIS IS A TOTAL BONUS.  The less time I have to wait for you to bring me 8 coffee & Bailey’s all at once, the better.

2)  I don’t need a great many frills – but why is the peanut/pretzel offer even an offer?  You need to just give me two of everything the minute I walk on the plane, because clearly, the choices I just made at the airport newsstand will not get me through your 40-minute flight. And in reality, all I did was buy my derby wife a $10 fedora.  Give over the snacks, lady or dude.  I cannot wait until I hit the ground in, like, 20 minutes.

3)  I appreciate people my age.  They now all work for Southwest.  It’s a little creepy, but I’m glad that if this job ever falls through, my fat ass can waddle through the aisles and offer you fine assholes some peanuts and drinks.  I’m guessing the air marshals may not find my jokes amusing, and I’m fairly certain they would have to put me through some sort of “WE’RE SOUTHWEST AND WE PROMISE YOU WILL NOT DIE” training.

4)  I enjoy the fact that I am of the Southwest Elite, and I will always board the plane before you, allowing me to procure the seat by the window directly over the engine.  If we go, I want to go first.  At all times.  For everything.  Even dying.

Let’s now discuss some experiences I’ve had with passengers.  Because unlike Southwest, the clientele sucks balls.

1)  Hey lady, I’m really sorry I now know your first and last name and your phone number.  Why do I know it?  Because you’ve shouted it at the top of your lungs into your phone, for clearly you are a Very Important Person.  I understand that Jared cannot do things by himself in the office while you are on a plane, and I am absolutely giddy at the prospect of your catered event going completely fucktastic because you are trying to Control All Things from your mobile phone.  Also, you write in a notebook like a child.  If it’s pink and frilly, you do not look professional.  Just sayin.  Personal style be damned.

2)  Wow, excuse me, King Douchebag.  Can you see that my row of seats is in front of your row of seats?  That means I get to exit the plane before you.  But hey, you are a guy, and we all know women don’t really work and if there are women in front of you on a plane it’s because they are going on a superfun girls’ trip.  By all means, cut in front of me.  The importance with which you guffaw at your business partner is nauseating, so I’d rather you had just go.  I can wait.

3)  This flight is taking place at 4:45pm.  Are you seriously just ordering water?  Does not compute.  You do not belong on my row.

4)  Get off plane.  Walk through terminal.  Perhaps go to the restroom.  PERHAPS TRY TO AVOID STANDING AIMLESSLY IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYONE’S PATH.

There are small, simple things everyone can do to make flying better, faster, and overall more awesome.  Southwest has done many of these things.  Unfortunately, Southwest offers some people more courtesy than they deserve.

On second thought, I hope this job never falls through.  No one looks good falling out of a plane, whether it’s me in my fancy blue flight attendant shirt or the loud-talking misogynist I’m taking with me.

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2012: Not Letting The Man Get Me Down

To my extreme chagrin, I have to work just like all the rest of you. After having all of this wonderful time off during the holidays, it’s especially chagrin-filled. The more I am allowed to rise at my leisure at 9am, the happier I am as a person. But sadly, that will only become a reality if you, dear reader, make me famous. Get to it.

As I stumble every morning out of my hateful sleep and awake to the sounds of angry little morning trolls beating their tiny troll drums inside my head, I think to myself, “Self, why do we have to get up at such a godforsaken hour? And why has the dog (or cat) not learned how to MAKE ME SOME GODDAMN COFFEE YET?”

The dog, thus far, has only learned how to look cute. No coffee skills at all.

These questions make sense to me during the wee hours, but then the horror that I’m awake wears off and I’m left with nothing but my sheer determination to arrive at my office before some choad drinks all the coffee without starting another pot. I warn you, Sir Choad (because I know it’s a dude, not a ladyperson) – if I ever actually witness with mine eyes the thing you do, I will proclaim “you should be shot” and throw the glass carafe at your head. I will take aim. I will not miss.

Once I settle into my office, I am immediately enraged by literally tens of personal emails from websites to which I have inevitably given my email address. Why, just this morning, it appears I have an urgent message from Sting. Sting, I didn’t realize that you cared, or that I was high on your radar. I thank you. Now kindly fuck off out of my emailz.

As my day meanders on with a succession of request upon request of people needing shit from me without a thought as to what I might need, I long for the sanctity of lounging in bed and operating my tiny world from there. Because honestly, if I can convince someone that this is way more productive than me getting up and getting dressed, it can totally be accomplished. I’m actually very focused when I work from home and am not easily sucked in to the Lifetime Network or reality shows. I *may* be sucked in to the idea that pants are a complete waste of time in all circumstances. That is the only negative. I swear. And it’s more of a negative for you, not me.

Either way, I like to start out with a thimbleful of optimism at the beginning of each new year, so 2012, you are already looking brighter simply because I have a vision one day that I might be able to get paid doing something that is legal while remaining in my robe. The vision, once far too distant, is a shimmering heat wave on a road in a desert that leads to my possible future, and I will relish in that desert dream until someone reminds me that the desert is full of insects and thirst.

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Workplace Restroom Etiquette: You’re Doin’ It Wrong

Hey there, lady with whom I work.  You are thoroughly disgusting.  Just sayin’.

It’s not your incessant humming while in the stall next to me.  It’s not the endless fountain of noises that come out of your body.  It’s not the fact that you want to strike up a conversation between straining.

It’s not any of that.

It’s actually ALL of it combined, because these nuggets of joy take place on a daily basis.  How do I possibly go about finding a time when you are not in the restroom?  Apparently it is impossible, as you are always there.  I am not one to criticize the situation goin’ on in your bowels, as Lord knows I have my own set of issues – but I do not advertise them loudly whilst attempting to take care of business.  I wish you would kindly return the courtesy.

But no.  That’s too much to ask, evidently.  What you fail to comprehend is the simple fact that what I am asking is not completely unattainable for you.

1) Walk in the restroom.
2) Shut the fuck up.
3) Do your thing quietly and respect the flush.
4) Wash your hands, please.
5) Get the fuck out.

It’s that easy.

And yet, here you are today, barreling toward the restroom door WITH AN OPEN GRANOLA BAR in your hand.  You are chewing.  Which leads me to believe that you are taking it with y…oh, I’m just giving the fuck up.

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Today is the Day I Might Kill the Receptionist

…was I so angry this morning upon walking in to see her horribly vapid face that I forgot the Sweet n’ Low in my coffee?  And why the fuck is my boss not responding to my “Spicy Hot V8 Emergency” email request?  Unbelievable.

Look, I usually don’t act quite this indignant.  I assure you, however, THIS LADY IS INSANE.  She is a shrill ridiculous harpy that somehow fills me with venom at the sound of her voice.  She squeals out of joy or pain or if she makes a whoopsie.  She is unable to give people directions, even though she has worked here for 11 years.  She confuses “Bryan” with “Brandon” and refuses to actually look at a directory in order to pronounce names correctly.  These drawbacks, in my opinion, make her a terrible receptionist.
I took a picture with her in it at a company function one year.  She was furious and told me to delete the picture, which I did.  She has not spoken to me for 2 years. She has had open screaming matches with her adult children IN THE LOBBY.  These children that she is apparently so fond of receive a phone call from her every morning upon her arrival at her desk, whereupon she asks them if they are going to have a wonderful day.  I can only imagine what goes on in the poor grown child’s head: “Sure Mom, my day has started out miraculously just because you’ve called.”  I was getting coffee one morning when I overheard her tell one of the kids, “Don’t let anyone take your joy.”  Whatever that means, I am pretty certain she is the #1 source of joy drainage in their lives.

So, Dear Lord, Dear Baby Jesus in the Sky that Makes the Magic Happen and Makes Food Grow and is Somehow Watching Over Everything We Do, please avert your sweet Baby Jesus Eyes while I more than likely throttle this woman directly on top of the granite reception area in our lobby and beat her senseless with either the handset or her time/date stamp.  When I am done, I will puncture her neck a la Godfather III with her glasses, and cover her in Styrofoam coffee cups.

Sorry for the ultraviolence, Oh Holy Ghost and Baby J, but it’s been a long morning, I need more coffee and my contacts are making me want to throw up.  So really, Hosanna, in all your forms, I beg for your all-forgiving mercy.

Bitch, don’t you page me one more time.

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