There’s no time to discuss the outcome of yesteryesterevening’s experiment. I have breaking news of the receptionist kind.
Several weeks ago, the receptionist from the office across the hall (we will call them the Inferior Nerd Company) came in asking to borrow our little red dolly. Let me preface this story by stating that it is my favorite dolly. It’s just the right size for the big boxes of magazines and paper that I need to haul around. Without it, I’m forced to either schlep 50 lb boxes around the office by hand or use one of the other dollies that are just totally useless. The brown one doesn’t have a handle – it’s just a board on wheels. The blue one is so big that it aught to have an engine so I could drive it around which would be freaking awesome and I have just added to my list of To Dos. Anyway, the Inferior Nerd Companyy’s receptionist didn’t really ask to borrow it so much as waltzed past me and took it which she does all the time and makes me frown.
Last week one of her coworkers came in looking to borrow yet another dolly. I informed him that I couldn’t lend out any more of our equipment until the piece that was previously borrowed was returned. That’s fair, right? He hung his head and left. Later that day, I could see him through the glass doors in front of my desk pushing stuff around in the elevator vestibule with, what else, a little red dolly.
A few hours later, the IN Co. receptionist comes back in with My Precious, apologizing for its late return which I graciously accepted with a "Oh no - don't even worry about it. I'm just glad it hasn't been lost or something!"
Today, another of her coworkers, Mr. Man, walks in with the janitorial guy that creeps me out (first I thought he was one of those cute, non-English speaking types that waves and smiles in order to communicate but now he has lengthy cell phone conversations outside my office doors while staring at me. The bond is broken.)
Mr. Man: Our receptionist returned the wrong dolly to you. It belongs to building managements [gestures to creepy janitorial guy]. We need it back.
Dangerous K: No, she returned ours which went unreturned for almost a month.
So, we walked into the mailroom and I put my hand on the red dolly to signify "this one" at the same time that Mr. Man gestures to the useless, (currently) undriveable blue dolly that’s collecting dust in the corner because no one wants to borrow it. In doing so, he also clearly demonstratd that he doesn’t know what’s going on. Creepy Janitor says "no" to the blue one and "yes" to the red one which upon closer inspection I realize is much more beat up than the one I had lent out. Perhaps this wasn’t My Precious after all.
Regardless, after a month of back breaking box moving, I had A Precious back if not My Precious and frankly, I don’t feel that I deserve to be Preciousless any longer. I related this sentiment as I herded them out of my mailroom, saying, “It’s entirely possible that she returned the one belonging to building management. We might have the same model. But that means that your office still owes us a dolly". I stood righteously in the doorway to block their forcible removal of my red dolly
Then I stood in the doorway to the mailroom in my righteous receptionist glory to prevent the forcible removal of A Precious. And that is where I remained until they got the point that they weren't taking the GODDAMN RED DOLLY UNTIL I GOT MINE BACK.
Hrmph.
This, yes, technically means that I am currently engaged in a hostage situation.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Ode to the Days When My Bottom Was Smaller
Once upon a time, I rented a room in the student ghetto of Boston where I cohabitated with two girls, two boys and two dogs, not to mention the ever shifting group of hippies in the first floor apartment and the creepy guy that lived in a tent next to the washing machine in the basement.
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
- Do not snack pre-dinner
- Eat something healthy instead. This does not include: condiments eaten from the jar with a spoon, ice cream straight from the container or cheese in any form.
- Dance around in underwear or exercise otherwise for a minimum of 20 minutes.
- Drink a cup of tea while reading. Just because it sounds quaint.
Now that the bag of Tostidos is no longer a threat, I feel optimistic as to the outcome. Full report tomorrow.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Most pictures are worth a thousand words. This one is worth six hundred and thirty eight.
Forgive me for being abnormally quiet. It’s just that nothing wacky or entertaining really happened to me this week. I haven’t gotten into any bar fights, I haven’t been chased by the police, and I haven’t seen any new genital piercings. But since I can’t help but talk about myself, when nothing terribly interesting happens, I just get all reminiscey about the past. That is why I will now share with you, the Internet, what I believe to be the first picture taken of Beau and me, way back in our junior year of college on the day of Beau’s 21st birthday when he uttered the fateful words “I want to get so drunk that I vomit.”
Let us take a moment to analyze this most excellent photo. Shall we begin with the obvious? To the left, we have Beau, dressed as Bruce Springsteen with a Burger King crown of unknown origins, leaning in to make an emphatic point in conversation. This emphasis is easily seen in the two raised fingers of his red cup hand (also known as the “pimp hand”). Though the image catches a lateral view of his face, the glazed intoxication is still clearly visible in his eyes which only lends further credence to the impending accomplishment of his ultimate goal of the night.
To your right, we have a youthful Dangerous K in the years before she religiously watched America’s Next Top Model and thus knew how to take a flattering picture. You’ll note the unfortunate pink-and-white striped, bell-sleeved shirt with the horrible boat neck that only emphasizes what are affectionately referred to as my line backer shoulders. May I also draw your attention to the stick straight hair prevalent in the early 2000s? Oh, you noticed it already? Ok, don’t get so defensive. I’m not insulting your intelligence! I’m just trying to be helpful. Calm down. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Can we move on now? Thank you.
The picture predates our coupleness by approximately 2 years, but that didn’t stop me from assisting him later in the evening in what should have been a girlfriend’s duties. No, I don’t mean hanky-panky. I mean puking.
When the time came, Beau dragged me along to the boy’s bathroom and proceeded to flop down next to the toilet whining that he couldn’t vomit because he was unaccustomed to it (being all that is man and such). So, I proposed several solutions that had aided my foul, foul college-self: taking a shot of the cheapest vodka left while dangling over the pot, inhaling a lungful of the interior air of the bowl, making pathetic hurling noises and motions until biological forces took over. He turned them all down since he was in such a good cross-eyed position to be choosey. I was growing impatient so I offered the last solution I knew of. One taught to me by a much wiser collegiate than I. I offered to put my finger down his throat. Naturally, this is what Beau selected because even back then, he liked to get under my skin.
Without the graphic details, that’s how the next 15 minutes panned out. As Beau was wrapping up his little session, a voice interjected from the next stall over. Someone had apparently witnessed the entire event and advised Beau, “Dude, your girlfriend is awesome. Don’t let that one get away.” We had a good chuckle, seeing as Beau’s actual girlfriend at the time was cowering back at the party with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some other such atrocity of the alcohol industry. I didn’t take Beau’s following confession of love very seriously that night, seeing as he was lying prostrate next to a public toilet covered in his own vomit, but it would seem foreshadowing is not to be ignored.
To your right, we have a youthful Dangerous K in the years before she religiously watched America’s Next Top Model and thus knew how to take a flattering picture. You’ll note the unfortunate pink-and-white striped, bell-sleeved shirt with the horrible boat neck that only emphasizes what are affectionately referred to as my line backer shoulders. May I also draw your attention to the stick straight hair prevalent in the early 2000s? Oh, you noticed it already? Ok, don’t get so defensive. I’m not insulting your intelligence! I’m just trying to be helpful. Calm down. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Can we move on now? Thank you.
The picture predates our coupleness by approximately 2 years, but that didn’t stop me from assisting him later in the evening in what should have been a girlfriend’s duties. No, I don’t mean hanky-panky. I mean puking.
When the time came, Beau dragged me along to the boy’s bathroom and proceeded to flop down next to the toilet whining that he couldn’t vomit because he was unaccustomed to it (being all that is man and such). So, I proposed several solutions that had aided my foul, foul college-self: taking a shot of the cheapest vodka left while dangling over the pot, inhaling a lungful of the interior air of the bowl, making pathetic hurling noises and motions until biological forces took over. He turned them all down since he was in such a good cross-eyed position to be choosey. I was growing impatient so I offered the last solution I knew of. One taught to me by a much wiser collegiate than I. I offered to put my finger down his throat. Naturally, this is what Beau selected because even back then, he liked to get under my skin.
Without the graphic details, that’s how the next 15 minutes panned out. As Beau was wrapping up his little session, a voice interjected from the next stall over. Someone had apparently witnessed the entire event and advised Beau, “Dude, your girlfriend is awesome. Don’t let that one get away.” We had a good chuckle, seeing as Beau’s actual girlfriend at the time was cowering back at the party with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some other such atrocity of the alcohol industry. I didn’t take Beau’s following confession of love very seriously that night, seeing as he was lying prostrate next to a public toilet covered in his own vomit, but it would seem foreshadowing is not to be ignored.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Cock bar? Huzzah!
What do you discuss with your friends over a quiet lunch in a family restaurant? Politics? The weather? Genital piercings? Us too. Or at least that's what we discuss when the German comes to town. I quite nearly choked on a nacho when he said "I got a piercing" because it was clearly not located on his face. Ever hopeful of seeing a man with a belly button ring, I asked about its location. That was the first mistake I made on Saturday.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Did I Mention I'm Double Parked?
We all know Beau works for an evil, evil accounting firm, but I don’t think I’ve ever spoken of my own gainful employment, except to relate tales of the scary bathroom and stairwell incidents. Maybe you noticed that my blogs are usually posted during work hours. Maybe you noticed the title to my link list at stage right. Maybe you even know me in real life. If any of these conditions are true, then you’ve probably figured out that I am a receptionist.
Further trivia running in generally the same vein:
Further trivia running in generally the same vein:
- I work for a magazine published by a college. We’ll call it Nerd Herd magazine.
- I took the position as a temp when I first moved to Boston to stay in the publishing realm and to hopefully weasel my way into the editorial department. Not much weaseling has occurred.
- I’m not a temp anymore. I’m a bona fide employee who can pay her bills and such.
- Yes, that means nothing better has come up.
- Yes, that’s a lie. Better things have come up, but I keep getting rejected because employers see right through my deceitful cover letters that extol my team player attitude/attention to detail/ability to spell without using a spell checker/desire to help my fellow man.
Today, I picked up the phone and was greeted with, “We’re out of Nerd Herd magazines.” I wanted to say “That’s nice” and hang up the phone but that’s how little receptionists like me get fired. So, instead, I connected her over to someone who might care.
An hour later I was awaiting the arrival of the phone lady (Luanne, as we shall call her) who apparently works for another of Nerd University’s departments and needs the magazine for distribution at an event tomorrow. Why, you might ask, did she wait until 1:00 pm the day before a large event to procure said items? We don’t know but she made it fairly clear that it was our fault.
When she showed up, I was still in Friendly Dangerous K mode, so I said something along the lines of “Hi Luanne! I have the magazines all ready for you” and motioned to come around the front desk with her stupid little wheely cart.
Luanne: That’s not 100 issues. The woman I talked to on the phone, Lisa, said that there would be 100.
Dangerous K: [Mind you, there’s no Lisa in my office] That’s odd, she told me to arrange for 30. Let me give my manager a ring. [ring ring ring] Hi? Bell? Luanne is here. She was expecting 100 issues.
Bell: 100? Ugh, do we even have 100?
Dangerous K: No
Bell: I’ll be right there
Dangerous K: [smiling with squinty eyes which means I really hate whoever I’m smiling at] She’ll be right up here to talk about it.
Luanne: I wouldn’t have come all the way over here and double parked for 30 copies. I’m double parked right now.
Dangerous K: [smile gets squintier] She's on her way from the back of the office right now to talk about it with you.
Luanne: Because I am double parked. Right now.
Then I lifted the extremely heavy box onto her little pull cart thing since it became apparent that she was not going to. At the exact moment that the box hit the cart, she released the handle so that the metal pole flew forward and slapped me in the forehead. I quickly stood up (because it really fucking hurt to get clocked in the head with a metal pole) and put my hand to my head as if to say "OW! It really fucking hurt to get clocked in the head with a metal pole".
Luanne: And I don’t want to get towed. Out front. Where my car is double parked.
Dangerous K: [so squinty can barely see, massaging forehead, teeth gritted] She's on her way up AT THIS VERY MOMENT.
I walked into the mail room to continue the drudgery with which I subsidize my daily existence but also to escape the bitching that continued.
Luanne: I can’t believe this. I came all this way and parked illegally to pick up 30 copies. I wouldn’t have come all this way for 30 copies [brief pause]. Oh, did that just hit you in the head? Because I’m double parked and I’m supposed to have 100 copies.
But Friendly Dangerous K was no longer listening. Friendly Dangerous K was quietly crying to herself in the mail room and rubbing the lump on her head. She sent Scary Dangerous K out in her place.
Dangerous K: [no more smiling] No matter how many times you say that I can't make her get up here any quicker.
Luckily, before my sass registered on Luanne’s face, Bell came around the corner and did what adults do best: be polite when they really just want to punch someone in the face. I have trouble doing that and it’s just one reason why I may never fully mature.
Luanne: Double parked… 100 copies… car illegally blocking traffic… more free shit now… etc, etc.
Bell: I’m sorry there seems to have been some miscommunication but we don’t have keep that many issues on hand. I've arranged to have the remainder delivered from our printer tomorrow morning to your office location.
I related my experience to Bell after Luanne left. We wondered aloud whether someone had hit Luanne in the head with a metal pole and were rewarded with giggles from the surrounding offices of editors, the creepiest peanut gallery in existence.
Two hours later, Luanne emailed Bell to let her know she’d only need 25 more copies (wait, 30 + 25 does not equal 100… does not compute) and she’ll be by in the morning to pick them up. I have informed my manager in writing of my intent to wear a bike helmet to avoid further incident.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Abacus from Hell, Part II
You will fear me or I will steal your boyfriend away and make him color in alternating cells of an infinite spread sheet FOR ALL ETERNITY Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The Abacus from Hell
I’ve had some weird jobs in my day.
I spent a summer during college working for a friend of the family who was a handy man. This means I changed a lot of door knobs, tightened a lot of leaky faucets, and built part of a deck. On a particularly blistering day in August, I took a break from playing with a sledge hammer to grab a bottle of water from the cooler. As my boss yelled “Not that bottle” in slow motion, I realized I had just chugged a good amount of gin and tonic. Then they took away my sledge hammer.
Another summer, I worked at a local grocery store chopping vegetables for the salad bar. On the plus side, I had an unlimited supply of croutons and the powerful bargaining tool of fresh strawberries which I traded for chicken fingers. There is a fascinating internal economy that exists between super market departments (though the seafood department kind of gets screwed on that one). On the downside, it means I once saw a coworker spill a vat of hardboiled eggs under the industrial sink where they collected all manner of debris. We were instructed to give them a quick rinse and put them on the salad bar anyway. So, ya know, avoid the eggs.
After college, I briefly fled the country to work as an illegal immigrant in England as a B-list celebrity nanny (for a director of B-movies, to be exact). Apparently, that job path is lucrative enough to afford a fancy-pants townhouse in an upscale area of London. I was essentially paid to take their 2-year-old to a variety of tourist traps as well as his regularly scheduled play dates, swimming lessons, and educational activities. But it wasn’t all Legos and cheese wiz. There were also dirty diapers, temper tantrums in public, and running up and down 5 flights of stairs for alternate wardrobe choices when his mother didn’t approve of his outfit.
But London is a story for another time, because none of the bad parts of these jobs could live up to the evil, evil accounting firm that employs Beau. The Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named is responsible for the following crimes against humanity:
1) Making Beau get home from work at 10:45 last night (and probably tonight as well) when he has a fever.
2) Forcing Beau to work under managers who have been renamed “Pirate Whore” and “Teabag” as a result of their charming personalities and who do not care that Beau has a fever and could easily be working from home instead of going out in the cold.
…and the coup de grâce…
3) Relocating Beau for a 6-week assignment in Florida. Yes, this means I may get to visit for free and yes, if that occurs I will be going directly to Sea World to feed the Hungry Hungry Stingrays but NO this does not mean Dangerous K approves. Dangerous K is a vengeful, angry blogger who wants to keep her Beau in the house where she can keep an eye on him and fuss over his lack of primary care physician and make him go fill up her cup of iced tea.
As such, I declare war on the Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. My wrath will not be appeased until justice is delivered in a terrifying and satisfactory way which may involve offering to get one of his managers a drink at the next holiday party and then putting a booger on the glass.
I spent a summer during college working for a friend of the family who was a handy man. This means I changed a lot of door knobs, tightened a lot of leaky faucets, and built part of a deck. On a particularly blistering day in August, I took a break from playing with a sledge hammer to grab a bottle of water from the cooler. As my boss yelled “Not that bottle” in slow motion, I realized I had just chugged a good amount of gin and tonic. Then they took away my sledge hammer.
Another summer, I worked at a local grocery store chopping vegetables for the salad bar. On the plus side, I had an unlimited supply of croutons and the powerful bargaining tool of fresh strawberries which I traded for chicken fingers. There is a fascinating internal economy that exists between super market departments (though the seafood department kind of gets screwed on that one). On the downside, it means I once saw a coworker spill a vat of hardboiled eggs under the industrial sink where they collected all manner of debris. We were instructed to give them a quick rinse and put them on the salad bar anyway. So, ya know, avoid the eggs.
After college, I briefly fled the country to work as an illegal immigrant in England as a B-list celebrity nanny (for a director of B-movies, to be exact). Apparently, that job path is lucrative enough to afford a fancy-pants townhouse in an upscale area of London. I was essentially paid to take their 2-year-old to a variety of tourist traps as well as his regularly scheduled play dates, swimming lessons, and educational activities. But it wasn’t all Legos and cheese wiz. There were also dirty diapers, temper tantrums in public, and running up and down 5 flights of stairs for alternate wardrobe choices when his mother didn’t approve of his outfit.
But London is a story for another time, because none of the bad parts of these jobs could live up to the evil, evil accounting firm that employs Beau. The Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named is responsible for the following crimes against humanity:
1) Making Beau get home from work at 10:45 last night (and probably tonight as well) when he has a fever.
2) Forcing Beau to work under managers who have been renamed “Pirate Whore” and “Teabag” as a result of their charming personalities and who do not care that Beau has a fever and could easily be working from home instead of going out in the cold.
…and the coup de grâce…
3) Relocating Beau for a 6-week assignment in Florida. Yes, this means I may get to visit for free and yes, if that occurs I will be going directly to Sea World to feed the Hungry Hungry Stingrays but NO this does not mean Dangerous K approves. Dangerous K is a vengeful, angry blogger who wants to keep her Beau in the house where she can keep an eye on him and fuss over his lack of primary care physician and make him go fill up her cup of iced tea.
As such, I declare war on the Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. My wrath will not be appeased until justice is delivered in a terrifying and satisfactory way which may involve offering to get one of his managers a drink at the next holiday party and then putting a booger on the glass.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
New year, new addiction
Inspired by the New Year's resolutions of my friends and family members, I decided to join the ranks of the physically fit and begin to exercise.
No. No one will buy that.
After reading an article on the increasingly sedentary lifestyle of Americans leading to pandemic obesity and the related health risks, I've taken an interest in the well being of my body.
I can hear you laughing.
I grow weary of a life full of snack food, booze and TV and long to fill the void with physical activity.
Fine.
I recently bought a pencil skirt from Gap.com. I tried it on a few days ago and was displeased with what I saw in the mirror. It came to my attention that my waist is at least a size smaller than my hips/ass region meaning that though the waistband needs a drawstring, I'm still forced to take little, shuffling Geisha steps to avoid splitting the skirt down the back. Now, I'm quite happy with my body in all its Rubenesque glory. Loud and proud, I say! But I do take issue with the unauthorized expansion of certain body parts, especially any whose growth might be attributed to a phenomenon as wretched as "secretary spread." I don't aspire to the measurements of one of the stick bugs running about Hollywood, but I mean, a girl has her limits.
Unfortunately, I loathe exercise for the sake of exercise. I get bored in gyms, distracted during Pilates, and positively asthma-attacked on runs. I need to feel like I'm having fun but also conveniently burning off that ice cream sundae from last night. Hikes, tennis, swimming, all good things! All very difficult in the frozen tundra of a Massachusetts winter.
After struggling out of the pencil skirt, I considered this information and concluded that action must be taken despite adverse conditions. So, while Beau was still at work, I slipped into my sexiest bike-short/over sized T-shirt ensemble, dimmed the lights, and popped in a DVD: Shape Cardio: Bikini Body All Year Round. That's right. Aerobics. And, dear God, it was the best decision I've made all year.
For the first 3 minutes, I plodded along to the dance inspired sequences, feeling absolutely absurd and fearing that through some twist of fate, my uncoordinated flailing would end up on YouTube. You'll be happy to know that someone is still marketing the grapevine and yours truly is still buying it. I was about to hit stop on the choreographed seizure they call a fitness routine when the silliness kicked in.
I B-stepped and spun my way into a frenzied finish, giggling and clapping my little hands. The next evening, I got off the couch and got down with my bad self once again. When the chipper instructor complimented my hard work I thought "Yeah! Thanks! My sashays are really coming along." I'm absolutely hooked. AND IT COUNTS AS EXERCISE! I haven't gotten this much cardio since the summer in high school that I spent getting chased off the premises of an abandoned mental hospital by the cops.
Updates to come on the skirt. Go buy the DVD!
No. No one will buy that.
After reading an article on the increasingly sedentary lifestyle of Americans leading to pandemic obesity and the related health risks, I've taken an interest in the well being of my body.
I can hear you laughing.
I grow weary of a life full of snack food, booze and TV and long to fill the void with physical activity.
Fine.
I recently bought a pencil skirt from Gap.com. I tried it on a few days ago and was displeased with what I saw in the mirror. It came to my attention that my waist is at least a size smaller than my hips/ass region meaning that though the waistband needs a drawstring, I'm still forced to take little, shuffling Geisha steps to avoid splitting the skirt down the back. Now, I'm quite happy with my body in all its Rubenesque glory. Loud and proud, I say! But I do take issue with the unauthorized expansion of certain body parts, especially any whose growth might be attributed to a phenomenon as wretched as "secretary spread." I don't aspire to the measurements of one of the stick bugs running about Hollywood, but I mean, a girl has her limits.
Unfortunately, I loathe exercise for the sake of exercise. I get bored in gyms, distracted during Pilates, and positively asthma-attacked on runs. I need to feel like I'm having fun but also conveniently burning off that ice cream sundae from last night. Hikes, tennis, swimming, all good things! All very difficult in the frozen tundra of a Massachusetts winter.
After struggling out of the pencil skirt, I considered this information and concluded that action must be taken despite adverse conditions. So, while Beau was still at work, I slipped into my sexiest bike-short/over sized T-shirt ensemble, dimmed the lights, and popped in a DVD: Shape Cardio: Bikini Body All Year Round. That's right. Aerobics. And, dear God, it was the best decision I've made all year.
For the first 3 minutes, I plodded along to the dance inspired sequences, feeling absolutely absurd and fearing that through some twist of fate, my uncoordinated flailing would end up on YouTube. You'll be happy to know that someone is still marketing the grapevine and yours truly is still buying it. I was about to hit stop on the choreographed seizure they call a fitness routine when the silliness kicked in.
I B-stepped and spun my way into a frenzied finish, giggling and clapping my little hands. The next evening, I got off the couch and got down with my bad self once again. When the chipper instructor complimented my hard work I thought "Yeah! Thanks! My sashays are really coming along." I'm absolutely hooked. AND IT COUNTS AS EXERCISE! I haven't gotten this much cardio since the summer in high school that I spent getting chased off the premises of an abandoned mental hospital by the cops.
Updates to come on the skirt. Go buy the DVD!
Thursday, January 10, 2008
YOU CANNOT SILENCE THE PROLETARIAT
Sometimes the promise of the snooze button is the only thing that convinces me to set my alarm at night. Sometimes I get a little carried away with it. In college, I was known to snooze my way through class by hitting the button for upwards of 3 hours. This morning, I did justice to the golden days by snoozing until 7:30, which gave me 20 minutes to make myself presentable to the outside world before running out the door.
Despite the time constraints, I flicked on the morning news to keep me company as I bustled about brushing my teeth and making a slap dash breakfast of a round veggie burger in a hotdog bun. While I struggled into my boots I caught the end of possibly the greatest segment ever to appear on Fox’s morning news: a report of a green organism with tentacles found living in the sewers.
Whilst discussing said monster with coworkers over a cup of coffee, it became apparent that no one else had seen the report. As the quiet shuffling of feet began, it also became apparent that no one believed that this news story existed. I started catching those side long glances that your superiors throw to one another when their underling is flapping her arms and describing the gelatinous creature dwelling under the sidewalks. When I complained to Bologna early this afternoon, she likewise, called me crazy, which is not unlike her because what’s more important than siding with your only full blooded sibling? Oh I don’t know. Maybe EATING OUT OF THE MAN’S HAND!
So, I committed a solid hour of company time to hunting down the story. I was unable to find a lead on the Fox-Boston website or by googling any of the following word combinations: “organism living in Boston sewer”, “creature Boston tentacles”, or “Boston sewer monster”. Since I am well aware of my own sanity, there was only one explanation for the sudden disappearance of the story that I witnessed with my own eyes only hours earlier: a government cover up. The Feds came in and hushed the brave local journalists of Fox with threats of audits and shin-breaking or possibly with the donation of an exorbitant sum of unmarked bills. These possibilities loomed on the horizon as I railed against the Man by typing lengthy IMs to Bologna in all capital letters while she called me a lunatic.
Ever hateful of admitting defeat, I continued my research by expanding my search until, lo and behold, I stumbled upon the truth. It was hiding in Denver’s sewer not Boston’s, but the details do not concern me so long as the overall idea is the same. They identified the monster as a Bryozoan, a 350-million year old primitive animal species. It is reportedly not harmful so they’ve decided to allow it to continue living in the sewer WHICH IS FUCKING AWESOME.
Tomorrow morning, I will cheerfully wake up on time knowing that there are Bryozoans possibly living in my sewer too because if that’s not a reason to live, I don’t know what is.
Despite the time constraints, I flicked on the morning news to keep me company as I bustled about brushing my teeth and making a slap dash breakfast of a round veggie burger in a hotdog bun. While I struggled into my boots I caught the end of possibly the greatest segment ever to appear on Fox’s morning news: a report of a green organism with tentacles found living in the sewers.
Whilst discussing said monster with coworkers over a cup of coffee, it became apparent that no one else had seen the report. As the quiet shuffling of feet began, it also became apparent that no one believed that this news story existed. I started catching those side long glances that your superiors throw to one another when their underling is flapping her arms and describing the gelatinous creature dwelling under the sidewalks. When I complained to Bologna early this afternoon, she likewise, called me crazy, which is not unlike her because what’s more important than siding with your only full blooded sibling? Oh I don’t know. Maybe EATING OUT OF THE MAN’S HAND!
So, I committed a solid hour of company time to hunting down the story. I was unable to find a lead on the Fox-Boston website or by googling any of the following word combinations: “organism living in Boston sewer”, “creature Boston tentacles”, or “Boston sewer monster”. Since I am well aware of my own sanity, there was only one explanation for the sudden disappearance of the story that I witnessed with my own eyes only hours earlier: a government cover up. The Feds came in and hushed the brave local journalists of Fox with threats of audits and shin-breaking or possibly with the donation of an exorbitant sum of unmarked bills. These possibilities loomed on the horizon as I railed against the Man by typing lengthy IMs to Bologna in all capital letters while she called me a lunatic.
Ever hateful of admitting defeat, I continued my research by expanding my search until, lo and behold, I stumbled upon the truth. It was hiding in Denver’s sewer not Boston’s, but the details do not concern me so long as the overall idea is the same. They identified the monster as a Bryozoan, a 350-million year old primitive animal species. It is reportedly not harmful so they’ve decided to allow it to continue living in the sewer WHICH IS FUCKING AWESOME.
Tomorrow morning, I will cheerfully wake up on time knowing that there are Bryozoans possibly living in my sewer too because if that’s not a reason to live, I don’t know what is.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
It's not hypochondria if there's really something wrong with you
Turns out it isn't a third cold. It's bronchitis. For the past 2 days I've been bundled up in my flannel PJs under the Mystery Blanket* and drinking Tussin like a teenager with no good connections. I wrote an entry yesterday before Beau got home from work to entertain me. Suffice it to say, it described my activities as playing Enya on loop and attempting to rename the teaspoon. I have nothing to show for my efforts but I am now a fan of Lemon Zinger.
*The Mystery Blanket is a blue and white striped knitted blanket of unknown origins. It appeared in a box of my possessions when I moved out of my father’s home after college. As far as I know, it is not mine. No one in the family knits and no one will claim responsibility for it. While contemplating this fact in my Tussined state, I drew a parallel between the Mystery Blanket and Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, which, you may remember, was a similar enigma when it first appeared. To test this theory, I threw the Mystery Blanket over my head and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Several minutes later, still able to clearly see my reflection, I resolved to scale back on my subjective dosing methods and not ask Beau for help in further experimentation.
*The Mystery Blanket is a blue and white striped knitted blanket of unknown origins. It appeared in a box of my possessions when I moved out of my father’s home after college. As far as I know, it is not mine. No one in the family knits and no one will claim responsibility for it. While contemplating this fact in my Tussined state, I drew a parallel between the Mystery Blanket and Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, which, you may remember, was a similar enigma when it first appeared. To test this theory, I threw the Mystery Blanket over my head and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Several minutes later, still able to clearly see my reflection, I resolved to scale back on my subjective dosing methods and not ask Beau for help in further experimentation.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Don't worry - I'm not deep enough for this to be a metaphor
On the surface, I may appear pulled together in my little twin sweater sets and A-line skirts, but inside, I'm just a tattered mess.
Exhibit A: Circa 11:00 this morning, the underwire portion of my bra poked its way out of the fabric. I have readjusted it multiple times but it refuses to stay put. As such, it is now wearing a hole in the side of my lady-lump, the process of which is beginning to cross from "uncomfortable" to "moderately painful". Thankfully, Beau will be here any minute to pick me up from work and I whole heartedly intend to free-boob in the car.
Exhibit B: Sometime over the course of last night, my insides liquefied and began pouring out my nose. Yes, it's winter. Yes, colds are common. But this is the 3rd cold I've had since the beginning of December (unless it's the same vicious virus that periodically goes into remission before coming back to ruin my weekend) and I'm getting really tired of it. In addition, runny noses are particularly troublesome because of my darling sister, Bologna, and a little fib she told me when I was a wee lass. She informed me that snot is brain leaking out your nose. So from an early age, I made a concerted effort to keep as much of it in as possible by sniffling it in as opposed to blowing it out. I have since discovered that this is not in fact true, but try as I might, I am still an avid sniffler. This makes me an even grosser and more annoying coworker than usual. Plus, actively giving oneself post-nasal drip means I'll be nauseous and unable to consume alcohol for an indeterminate amount of time. On the upside, no one wants to stand near me on the subway while I'm snorting my own mucus. Especially when I make eye contact.
Exhibit C: On my way home Wednesday evening, I had just begun to climb up the steep, black-ice-covered hill between the train station and my house juggling a bag of groceries as well as my own personal effects (which Beau will tell you are vast - similar to those of a nomadic desert-dwelling tribe except without the handy camel) when my underwear just kind of... gave up. Initially, I was very sad when the elastic died since I was pretty sure I was wearing my one and only pair of polka dotted knickers. Much sadder was the thought that the article of clothing closest to my loins had just lost the will to live. But the mourning period was brief (hehehe, brief). Mere moments later it became apparent that it was not enough for my favorite pair of skivvies to die. No. They were dead and rapidly leaving. Thankfully, I was wearing a belted pant ensemble and not a skirt, so they made it as far as the bottom on my cheeks but had no where to go from there, despite their desperate straining for the light at the end of my trousers. At that point, even if I could have simultaneously juggled the multiple bags, hiked up my knee length coat, and reached in deep enough to seize the offending garment, I would still have had to contend with the looks of the many commuters nearby. Instead I just trudged along praying that my belt wouldn't snap next.
I need a solid weekend of drinking excessive NyQuil and shopping on Victoriassecret.com. Together, I think I have a chance of beating this godforsaken affliction.
Exhibit A: Circa 11:00 this morning, the underwire portion of my bra poked its way out of the fabric. I have readjusted it multiple times but it refuses to stay put. As such, it is now wearing a hole in the side of my lady-lump, the process of which is beginning to cross from "uncomfortable" to "moderately painful". Thankfully, Beau will be here any minute to pick me up from work and I whole heartedly intend to free-boob in the car.
Exhibit B: Sometime over the course of last night, my insides liquefied and began pouring out my nose. Yes, it's winter. Yes, colds are common. But this is the 3rd cold I've had since the beginning of December (unless it's the same vicious virus that periodically goes into remission before coming back to ruin my weekend) and I'm getting really tired of it. In addition, runny noses are particularly troublesome because of my darling sister, Bologna, and a little fib she told me when I was a wee lass. She informed me that snot is brain leaking out your nose. So from an early age, I made a concerted effort to keep as much of it in as possible by sniffling it in as opposed to blowing it out. I have since discovered that this is not in fact true, but try as I might, I am still an avid sniffler. This makes me an even grosser and more annoying coworker than usual. Plus, actively giving oneself post-nasal drip means I'll be nauseous and unable to consume alcohol for an indeterminate amount of time. On the upside, no one wants to stand near me on the subway while I'm snorting my own mucus. Especially when I make eye contact.
Exhibit C: On my way home Wednesday evening, I had just begun to climb up the steep, black-ice-covered hill between the train station and my house juggling a bag of groceries as well as my own personal effects (which Beau will tell you are vast - similar to those of a nomadic desert-dwelling tribe except without the handy camel) when my underwear just kind of... gave up. Initially, I was very sad when the elastic died since I was pretty sure I was wearing my one and only pair of polka dotted knickers. Much sadder was the thought that the article of clothing closest to my loins had just lost the will to live. But the mourning period was brief (hehehe, brief). Mere moments later it became apparent that it was not enough for my favorite pair of skivvies to die. No. They were dead and rapidly leaving. Thankfully, I was wearing a belted pant ensemble and not a skirt, so they made it as far as the bottom on my cheeks but had no where to go from there, despite their desperate straining for the light at the end of my trousers. At that point, even if I could have simultaneously juggled the multiple bags, hiked up my knee length coat, and reached in deep enough to seize the offending garment, I would still have had to contend with the looks of the many commuters nearby. Instead I just trudged along praying that my belt wouldn't snap next.
I need a solid weekend of drinking excessive NyQuil and shopping on Victoriassecret.com. Together, I think I have a chance of beating this godforsaken affliction.
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