After over a year of loyal receptionist service, I am very disappointed with Boss Lady’s new attitude towards me. Besides wigging out that I gave my official notice to someone else (I have half a dozen supervisors, so instead of sit them all down for a heart-to-heart, I cut straight to the most senior, the COO, and gave HIM my notice), she’s also been checking in on me periodically on the most simple tasks. I have a string of emails ensuring that my time sheet was submitted properly and that a package was sent out last week.
Mind you, my behavior hasn’t changed in the slightest. I’m not shirking responsibilities (including the editorial work that I’m not being paid for), I’m not taking obscenely long lunch breaks and I have yet to steal any major office equipment to sell on Ebay later when my rent is due. All I did was quit. I mean, c’mon, it’s not like I’m blogging when I should be filing expense reports.
Until now I mean. I figure if I’m going to be punished for offenses that I’m not committing then I aught to commit a few in order to settle the debt. Besides blogging, I intend on thieving a box of tissue from the supply closet tomorrow.
To bring us up to date, I was attacked by the flu and then a nasty chest cold, so I spent a solid week on the couch running a ridiculous fever and coughing up E. Bola juice. I’m mostly better now. Except for the sniffles which is why I need the thieved tissues.
The Evil Accounting Firm shipped Beau off to Florida last week but he came home to visit this weekend (on one of the ONLY planes to make the Orlando to Boston haul during Friday’s snow storm). Our lack of car for the time period and general laziness confined us to the suburbs instead of allowing us to venture into town. Still, we had a splendiferous time romping in the park where I was pelted with snowballs and allowed to pet other people’s dogs. This prompted a serious discussion of our own need for a canine companion. Considering my last day of work is March 14 and I expect to be unemployed for upwards of a month while I job search, it seems to be a convenient time to rescue a puppy. Or 2. Or 8.
We spent Saturday evening in the apartment continuing our search for the original video of 2 Girls, 1 Cup. For those not in the know, 2 Girls, 1 Cup is a current internet phenomenon. It is a pornographic video of 2 girls allegedly pooping into a cup, eating it, and puking. There are endless videos on You Tube of people’s reactions to the video and we feel very left out since we haven’t seen it. Plus, we’re those kids that would TOTALLY press a red button labeled “Do not push”. The official website puts us into an endless loop of asking for email addresses before it will download the video and we’re unable to find the original elsewhere. I’m sure viewing it will scar me for life but that is something I’m prepared to deal with.
Naturally, this led to a discussion of another favorite past time: perusing the “casual encounters” portion of craigslist and laughing heartily at the ads. Inspired by a previous conversation and our own warped minds, we considered posting the following spoof ad to see who responds: “Wanted: male or female to participate in Mr. & Mrs. Santa fantasy. We’ll be the Clauses. You’ll be Rudolph. Antlers to be provided.”
Mostly, we need to get out of the house more and stop being 10 year olds. A portion of this need will be met this weekend when I visit Beau in Florida. Since we plan on going to Sea World and then drinking around the world at Epcot, I expect that the second portion will not be satisfied.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Beau Goes
After five days of nursing me through a nasty case of the flu Beau has escaped my cesspool for the warmer climes of Florida. This means I am grumpy and moody and I'm sitting on the couch in his pajamas with the stuffed animal he bought for me at Sea World. What happened to Miss Independent?
I'm going to go moan to myself while eating the brownies he made me and listening to chick music. And if I have time later, I'm going to look for my balls.
I'm going to go moan to myself while eating the brownies he made me and listening to chick music. And if I have time later, I'm going to look for my balls.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
This Is How Much I Wasn't Kidding
Boy Toy, Beau, and Dangerous K suiting up for some serious go cart racing.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Reporting Live from the Drunk
Certain activities lend themselves to an atmosphere of redneckishness: go cart racing, pool, waiting in an empty supermarket parking lot at 10:30 pm while your boyfriend pees on a dumpster. I have partipicated in all of these today.
Beau, Mistress, Boy Toy and I ventured out to Braintree this evening to visit F1 Boston, the only go cart track in the general vicinity to the best of my knowledge. It was only a matter of time before we ended up there, considering Beau drives an Audi TT and Mistress' parents are both racecar drivers. Today was that fortuitous day.
Though once infamous for reckless driving, I've tamed in my road attitude. Now I'm more inclined to nag Beau into observing a 35 mph speed limit than pass in the shoulder, but that wasn't always the case. Having been raised in glorious NJ, I was once what one might call "a Jersey driver" in the sense that I was comfortable going 90 mph on the turnpike while rocking a Jersey sweep (for those not in the know, a Jersey sweep refers to a particularly dangerous driving maneuver in which one is stuck in the left lane behind a slow driver and moves to the middle lane to pass only to find a slow driver there too requiring a move to the far right lane to complete a pass before swerving all the way back to the left lane all in one clean movement at a minimum of 70 mph).
Beau pumped up my Jersey driver status before arriving at F1 saying that my newfound paranoia would be overruled once I found myself behind the wheel again. I maintained I would spend my time on the racetrack in the right lane going a reasonable speed with my blinker going. Let's just guess who was right, as always. Like I've said, it's a curse.
We arrived at the hanger-cum-racetrack shortly before the other couple. It gave us time to watch the incoming crowds of teenagers and mullet clad adults. We became increasingly concerned upon seeing a group of 40something men wearing personalized racing gear. "I'm not going to wear a race suit, right?" was all I could squeak out before the others arrived. After registering, paying and signing a waiver promising we weren't drunk and/or wouldn't sue them if we lost a limb on their premises, we were ushered into a closet where we were presented with a rack of orange jump suits. Now, I understand the need for shared bowling shoes, but I draw the line at communal clothing. Having already paid, Beau ignored my horror stricken face and shoved me towards the clothes rack where I selected a size larger than I'd like to admit because these hips don't lie and they also don't fit into ANYTHING.
We viewed a brief safety video that I don't recall because I spent the entire time poking Mistress and telling her she looked like a giant condom in her "head sock" (also communal). Soon, we were ushered out to the track where I was pleased to see I had been assigned to the 2nd car in the line up. A ha. I had an edge on the others. Had. Past tense. Very past tense.
Within seconds of leaving the gate on our practice lap the first stranger passed me. I was content to floor my souped up lawn mower on the straight aways and brake going around the corners. Screw you guys. I'm responsible now. But despite my conscientious driving, some asshole hit me going through the Z-turn, causing his car to spin out and my car to come to a complete halt against his. I looked up through the visor of my super sexy helmet to make eye contact with Beau who was clearly pleased with himself.
Needless to say, I have official paperwork declaring myself the worst driver in the bunch. I ranked 10th place out of 10. That includes the old woman who beat my ass by at least 15 seconds. The race was long over when I pulled across the finish line.
As a consolation prize, I earned cheap drinks and a few games of pool. Halfway through my first loss, it occurred to me that I’m just not cut out for some low brow activities despite my penchant for hard liquor and rowdiness. Though I carried the Beau/DK team during game #2, it seemed the odds were stacked against me. Could it be that, in fact, I ain’t no red neck woman?!
We came back to Suburbia for dinner and drinks which were generally uneventful despite frightening a wholesome looking couple at the next table over with a loud discussion involving strap-ons. A pleasant evening was passed until we walked back to the Boy Toys car where Beau declared himself physically incapable of waiting any longer to take a wiz. He rounded a corner of the nearest building while we courteously waited outside in the accumulating snow until it seemed that too many minutes had passed.
“What? Is he crapping back there?” I asked which sent Mistress running around the corner to confirm, no, he was indeed not pooping in a parking lot.
We’re home safe now where Beau is happily sleeping and I am nursing my last rumncoke of the evening and contemplating showering and burning any of my personal possessions that may have come in contact with something referred to as a “head sock.”
Beau, Mistress, Boy Toy and I ventured out to Braintree this evening to visit F1 Boston, the only go cart track in the general vicinity to the best of my knowledge. It was only a matter of time before we ended up there, considering Beau drives an Audi TT and Mistress' parents are both racecar drivers. Today was that fortuitous day.
Though once infamous for reckless driving, I've tamed in my road attitude. Now I'm more inclined to nag Beau into observing a 35 mph speed limit than pass in the shoulder, but that wasn't always the case. Having been raised in glorious NJ, I was once what one might call "a Jersey driver" in the sense that I was comfortable going 90 mph on the turnpike while rocking a Jersey sweep (for those not in the know, a Jersey sweep refers to a particularly dangerous driving maneuver in which one is stuck in the left lane behind a slow driver and moves to the middle lane to pass only to find a slow driver there too requiring a move to the far right lane to complete a pass before swerving all the way back to the left lane all in one clean movement at a minimum of 70 mph).
Beau pumped up my Jersey driver status before arriving at F1 saying that my newfound paranoia would be overruled once I found myself behind the wheel again. I maintained I would spend my time on the racetrack in the right lane going a reasonable speed with my blinker going. Let's just guess who was right, as always. Like I've said, it's a curse.
We arrived at the hanger-cum-racetrack shortly before the other couple. It gave us time to watch the incoming crowds of teenagers and mullet clad adults. We became increasingly concerned upon seeing a group of 40something men wearing personalized racing gear. "I'm not going to wear a race suit, right?" was all I could squeak out before the others arrived. After registering, paying and signing a waiver promising we weren't drunk and/or wouldn't sue them if we lost a limb on their premises, we were ushered into a closet where we were presented with a rack of orange jump suits. Now, I understand the need for shared bowling shoes, but I draw the line at communal clothing. Having already paid, Beau ignored my horror stricken face and shoved me towards the clothes rack where I selected a size larger than I'd like to admit because these hips don't lie and they also don't fit into ANYTHING.
We viewed a brief safety video that I don't recall because I spent the entire time poking Mistress and telling her she looked like a giant condom in her "head sock" (also communal). Soon, we were ushered out to the track where I was pleased to see I had been assigned to the 2nd car in the line up. A ha. I had an edge on the others. Had. Past tense. Very past tense.
Within seconds of leaving the gate on our practice lap the first stranger passed me. I was content to floor my souped up lawn mower on the straight aways and brake going around the corners. Screw you guys. I'm responsible now. But despite my conscientious driving, some asshole hit me going through the Z-turn, causing his car to spin out and my car to come to a complete halt against his. I looked up through the visor of my super sexy helmet to make eye contact with Beau who was clearly pleased with himself.
Needless to say, I have official paperwork declaring myself the worst driver in the bunch. I ranked 10th place out of 10. That includes the old woman who beat my ass by at least 15 seconds. The race was long over when I pulled across the finish line.
As a consolation prize, I earned cheap drinks and a few games of pool. Halfway through my first loss, it occurred to me that I’m just not cut out for some low brow activities despite my penchant for hard liquor and rowdiness. Though I carried the Beau/DK team during game #2, it seemed the odds were stacked against me. Could it be that, in fact, I ain’t no red neck woman?!
We came back to Suburbia for dinner and drinks which were generally uneventful despite frightening a wholesome looking couple at the next table over with a loud discussion involving strap-ons. A pleasant evening was passed until we walked back to the Boy Toys car where Beau declared himself physically incapable of waiting any longer to take a wiz. He rounded a corner of the nearest building while we courteously waited outside in the accumulating snow until it seemed that too many minutes had passed.
“What? Is he crapping back there?” I asked which sent Mistress running around the corner to confirm, no, he was indeed not pooping in a parking lot.
We’re home safe now where Beau is happily sleeping and I am nursing my last rumncoke of the evening and contemplating showering and burning any of my personal possessions that may have come in contact with something referred to as a “head sock.”
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Coyoday
Tuesdays are worthless. They contribute nothing to the week. Even Mondays with that fresh-start feeling have a solid position. Wednesdays mark midweek, Thursday through Saturday are designated drinking days and Sunday is for lounging about with a hangover. But Tuesday? Fucking useless.
Yesterday was not only a miserable Tuesday but also cold, gray, and rainy. To brighten an otherwise dreary morning, I struggled into my new pencil skirt and was happy that it finally fit. Mostly. It restricts my leg movement making it necessary to take tiny, shuffling steps. Bending over is out of the question and I was seriously concerned yesterday that the skirt would split if I farted. But damn did my ass look fine.
I hobbled out to Beau’s busted red Chrysler attempting to balance my cup of coffee, purse, tote, and umbrella when Animal Planet attacked from across the street.
Before we reached the car, a large mammal barreled out of our across-the-street neighbor’s backyard. By large mammal, I mean a brown-gray canine the size of a German Sheppard. In the moments when its trajectory appeared to be pointed directly at us, I quickly weighed the options of fight or flight. Flight was impossible due to the skirt handicap so I resolved to encage in fisticuffs with a wild dog if needs be. Luckily, it veered to avoid us and went down the middle of the street towards some very surprised looking commuters before turning right at the corner towards the park. Once safely in the car, we concluded that it must have been a coyote since it was too big to be a fox, too small to be a wolf and much too wild looking to be a stray mutt. What it was doing in the Boston suburbs is beyond me.
The entire event took maybe 10 to 15 seconds. But, being Tuesday, that fraction of a minute was the most interesting thing that was going to happen so I spent the entire day dwelling on it. Eventually, I tired of Googling coyote pictures and thought that my entertainment had come to an end.
Instead, my brain suddenly snapped into hyper drive, I assume because my skirt was restricting blood flow to my legs and therefore, feeding my head with an increased volume of oxygen and Diet Coke. In the midst of the power surge, I remembered that the origin of the coyote was my neighbor's yard. This is the neighbor who left a nasty-gram on Beau’s car after the last snow storm. Beau returned late from work one night and found someone else parked in the spot he had lovingly dug out, so, with no other options, he took someone else’s spot. The next morning we found a note on the windshield that said something like “Dear neighbor - dig out your own parking space next time”. We crumbled it up and threw it in the backseat since these people are clearly tools, but if I can find it, I’ll post a picture tomorrow.
Anyway, with this in mind, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing that the coyote took a massive poop on their porch or ate their youngest child. Or ate their youngest child and THEN pooped him out on their porch.
It was a good Tuesday indeed.
Yesterday was not only a miserable Tuesday but also cold, gray, and rainy. To brighten an otherwise dreary morning, I struggled into my new pencil skirt and was happy that it finally fit. Mostly. It restricts my leg movement making it necessary to take tiny, shuffling steps. Bending over is out of the question and I was seriously concerned yesterday that the skirt would split if I farted. But damn did my ass look fine.
I hobbled out to Beau’s busted red Chrysler attempting to balance my cup of coffee, purse, tote, and umbrella when Animal Planet attacked from across the street.
Before we reached the car, a large mammal barreled out of our across-the-street neighbor’s backyard. By large mammal, I mean a brown-gray canine the size of a German Sheppard. In the moments when its trajectory appeared to be pointed directly at us, I quickly weighed the options of fight or flight. Flight was impossible due to the skirt handicap so I resolved to encage in fisticuffs with a wild dog if needs be. Luckily, it veered to avoid us and went down the middle of the street towards some very surprised looking commuters before turning right at the corner towards the park. Once safely in the car, we concluded that it must have been a coyote since it was too big to be a fox, too small to be a wolf and much too wild looking to be a stray mutt. What it was doing in the Boston suburbs is beyond me.
The entire event took maybe 10 to 15 seconds. But, being Tuesday, that fraction of a minute was the most interesting thing that was going to happen so I spent the entire day dwelling on it. Eventually, I tired of Googling coyote pictures and thought that my entertainment had come to an end.
Instead, my brain suddenly snapped into hyper drive, I assume because my skirt was restricting blood flow to my legs and therefore, feeding my head with an increased volume of oxygen and Diet Coke. In the midst of the power surge, I remembered that the origin of the coyote was my neighbor's yard. This is the neighbor who left a nasty-gram on Beau’s car after the last snow storm. Beau returned late from work one night and found someone else parked in the spot he had lovingly dug out, so, with no other options, he took someone else’s spot. The next morning we found a note on the windshield that said something like “Dear neighbor - dig out your own parking space next time”. We crumbled it up and threw it in the backseat since these people are clearly tools, but if I can find it, I’ll post a picture tomorrow.
Anyway, with this in mind, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing that the coyote took a massive poop on their porch or ate their youngest child. Or ate their youngest child and THEN pooped him out on their porch.
It was a good Tuesday indeed.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Reporting Live from the Dirty Jerz
If I had to pick just one reason why I hate public transportation, it would have to be the public. Above and beyond inconveniences caused by delays, uncomfortable seats, outrageous prices, and bad service, one can always depend on the inconsiderate, unwashed masses to make traveling into a living nightmare. Instead of leaning on one another for support during these troubling times, the general public is often Enemy Number One.
I am consistently dissapointed, nay, horrified by my encounters with the GP. After a five hour train ride from Boston to NJ in which I was subjected to close proximity with a variety of unsavory types, I propose for the consideration of the US government (and specifically the TSA) the following regulations for the well being of folks like you and me:
- Cell Phone Restrictions: Conversations are to be kept to a bare minimum not to exceed a maximum of three minutes. Permissible topics include transportation delays, estimated time of arrival, emergency situations, and important reminders (eg "Don't forget to pick up the kids/dry cleaning/rum"). I do NOT want to hear about tomorrow's 10:00 AM meeting, your sorority sisters, lengthy family arguments involving intimate details of your personal life, last Tuesday's episode of The Hills, or your plans for the Super Bowl.
- Volume Regulations in General: Keep it to a whisper and this includes your goddamn iPod. If I liked R Kelly then I'd put him on MY iPod. Furthermore, if you are under 21 and traveling with friends, know that the rest of us are coming from a long eight hour day of work. We don't think your rebellious loudness is cool. Stop showing off for the adults. You make us wish your parents had had access to Plan B.
- Personal Space Control: See this?
The area in red represents my seat. I paid for ALL of it. You may not share it with your love handles, stretched legs, or shopping bags. If you require more room then go purchase some. I intend on using all $63 of my train seat. If you insist on invading my domain, I will calculate the percentage of my ticket you are occupying, add a $50 annoyance tax, and help myself to your wallet when you run to the bathroom. - Hygiene Requirements: Sometime in the 24 hours leading up to boarding public transportation, a full shower must be accomplished. This includes use of soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and deodorant. A thorough dousing of Axe body spray DOES NOT COUNT as bathing.
But alas, until the government starts paying attention to my many letters of suggestion, a word to the wary traveler: arm yourself with an iPod of Enya, a fashion magazine full of perfume ads to discreetly stick your nose in, and a glare of pure rage.
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