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:

• 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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.