September 30, 2004
Stands with Pashmina
Okay, I'm a chick, so it was bound to happen. I have to talk a bit about "fashion." Which is a bit like Paris Hilton talking about Linux, but bear with me. (And, yes, I did have to make quote marks in the air when saying "fashion," like "art" and "self-control," because I just don't fucking get it.)
And no, I'm not going to mention Ugg boots or what the fuck was Tyra wearing last night on "America's Next Top Model".
I was just at Woodfield mall on my lunch break, buying a really expensive outfit that The Girl Child apparently could not make it to her fourth birthday without. This is what my life has been reduced to. I'm a sherpa. But she's ridiculously adorable, and if you saw her, you would do anything she wanted, so get off me.
And in the window at Nordstrom's is a mannequin wearing high-heeled moccasins (yes, yes, we'll get to that in a moment), argyle knee-socks and fishnets. Apparently because they couldn't get a real person to wear those three items at the same time.
Okay, first of all -- high-heeled moccasins? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of moccasins, which is to feel as if one isn't wearing shoes at all? Much like the high-heeled hiking boots of two years ago, they are even more fuckin' ugly than they are pointless. If Stands With Fist had to wear these things, she would have attempted suicide much sooner and much more successfully.
Needless to say, I will forgo the argyle socks and fishnets and stick with my jeans, clogs and hoodies. I'm a yawn, but at least I need to do a bit more than merely enter a room in order to embarrass myself... most days. Which is why I can't, for the life of me, imagine why a friend bought me a pashmina for Christmas. Yes, Christmas 2003. It's soft, a beautiful baby blue, and has remained in my drawer for nine months, neglected, like Pauly Shore's career.
I feel obligated to wear it. After all, the person who bought it for me obviously thinks I am much more colorful and sophisticated than I actually am. And for seeing me in such wonderful light, the least I could do is wear the darn thing.
But that would mean: a.) ironing it; and, b.) building an entire outfit around it. Both of which are beyond me.
Seriously, what the hell do you wear a pashmina with? I'm not even sure how to spell it, let alone coordinate it with other clothing items!
Maybe that's the problem at Nordstrom's. Maybe they have fashion-impared people like me doing their window displays, and that's why they end up with mannequins that look like Gwen Stefani and Sarah Jessica Parker's love child.
September 24, 2004
Decreasing Work Productivity
Well, my little minions, I have to take a short leave-of-absence from my blog. The Barbies told me so. No, seriously, it's a work thing. I'll be incommunicado until Thursday. Please, don't cry; it'll only make it more difficult. In the meantime, you may waste your employers' money with the following:
Dork Tower
**FLAGRANT NAME-DROPPING ALERT John Kovalic is a close, personal friend (read: pseudo-lover) of mine, and he makes his living drawing cartoons. How cool do you have to be to pull that off? The answer is here, my friends.
Seanbaby
He's sexy and arrogant and sarcastic! He's Blondie's Perfect Man Trifecta! (Second only to Bruce Campbell, of course.) His piece on homemade fireworks made me piss my pants. Check out his Photo Album, too, and then tell me you don't want to be his bitch.
Book of Ratings
He's just like you and me -- finding amusement in the pointless -- only his opinions are funny.
House of Wigs
Oh, if only I could blog the way he blogs. How I envy him. However, I have much better grammatical skills. So there. I take my victories where I can get them.
Catch you on the flip side, Cats and Kittens.
September 23, 2004
Turn Unwanted Crap Into Action Figures!
Ah, garage sales - obviously much more beneficial to the seller than the shopper. "Wait, wait - you're not only going to get this horrid crap outta my sight, but you're going to pay me for it?!" Of course, there is a catch: you must first locate and assemble said horrid crap.
I found, while spelunking in my basement, three computer keyboards, twenty pieces of luggage (we are two people), four complete sets of dishes (WTF?!). I'm, like, sexually aroused by the amount of S P A C E we now have in the basement.
Garage sales can be a test of one's social mores. For example, I must often ask myself, "How long do I have to keep a gift before getting rid of it?" Is the number of necessary years directly related to how much you like the person, or how often the person visits your house? Someone should come up with a mathematical equation to figure that out.
I made $115 off my unwanted junk. Take that, terrorists! Prior to the garage sale, that money was ear-marked for a Hard Rock Café Barbie. Is she not perfection? But since there are wretched scum out there who bought them all up the day they came out, with the sole purpose of selling them for huge profit - right along with their souls - they're only available on eBay and currently going for over $200. Now, I may be a weirdo, but I'm a thrifty weirdo, and 200 clams is insane for a fucking plastic doll.
(Yes, I was willing to pay $115, $125 even. How is that not insane for a plastic doll, you ask? Just shut up.)
Instead, I wandered over to Time and Space Toys, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but 12" "action figures," which is just a way of saying "Barbie dolls" so that straight boys will buy them, too.
Now, I love darling little Buffy, but she can't hold a candle to Barbie. Faith the Rogue Slayer, on the other hand, would take that candle, drip hot wax on Barbie's back and put the flame out on her forearm. So she's coming home with me.
Uh.
I so freaked myself out with that candle analogy that I can't find anything clever to say about Angel the Vampire with a Soul, except that my chiropractor looks just like him. Naturally, I'm throwing myself down the stairs tomorrow. Again.
Now I'm thinking about how I'm going to pose Faith and Angel. I don't think a chiropractor can help me.
Follow up: Husband got the stint out of his arm yesterday. He is now fully human... and fully functional. Let the revelries commence.
September 20, 2004
Part Three of Husband's Bizarre Illness: Robohusband
So I get Husband home, and the poor guy is understandably jones-ing for the shower that is five days overdue. But he can't shower because he has scary wounds on each arm - one, the lanced bite; the other, a stint. So it must be an improvised shower-bath for Stigmata Boy. However, we have neither drain plug (we're shower people) nor shower hose (because I'm a Hello Kitty! vibrator person).
Ah ha! But Mom has both those things! Let's go there! Now, I gotta tell ya, I was a bit wary of taking my bleeding, bruised, woozy husband to The Shower Stall of Death. This is the shower that attacked my mother in her most vulnerable state.
She had just gotten home from the hospital after a hysterectomy. And this was back in the day before "bikini" incisions, so she was stapled closed navel to pubes. Now, my parents have an old house with one of those freestanding, cast iron, tiger-claw-foot bathtubs. To facilitate showering, they have a shower curtain rod suspended from the ceiling. So Frankenbelly steps into the shower, turns on the water, and for the one and only time before or since, the entire contraption falls, leaving my mother wet, naked, barely able to stand up, covered in shower curtains. What are the odds?!
My fears turned out to be groundless, as they so often do, but you can see how the similarities between the two situations would cause me to eye the shower curtain rod suspiciously, can't you? Can't you? Oh, just humor me, people, it's not hard.
As I said, the bath was uneventful, except for Husband being deliriously happy (or perhaps that was the Darvoset?). And don't go getting any ideas that me bathing Husband was erotic or sensual or anything. It was kinda like hosing down the Bionic Man. Don't get water in his circuits!
Once home and settled in, Husband was still feeling pretty blah, so I tried to check on him frequently and keep him company. Mr. Type A wasn't happy about not going to work and not painting the chimney and not competing in the Iron Man. So it was up to me to keep him happily sedentary.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way to keep him happy," quipped Heather, in that said-the-actress-to-the-bishop way usually used by men.
And normally I'd laugh, but I was like, "There is no way I'm having sex with Picky McStinterson. It's just too creepy."
Seriously. The man is a cyborg. It's only a matter of time before the implanted gadgetry takes over his thought process and he attempts to assimilate me. Hey, I saw "First Contact"! And when that happens - as it will, my friends, mark my word - the last place I want to be is pinned under him.
September 17, 2004
Part Two of Husband's Bizarre Illness: EWWWWWW!
Not to brag, but last summer, they removed a ruptured appendix, 4 inches of intestine, and a mass the size of a softball through a 4-inch incision my abdomen. So I'm familiar with pain.
(And for your mental-viewing pleasure: Me turning down my waistband and measuring my scar, with a hot pink ruler, while sitting in my cubicle.)
I'm also familiar with the amount of complaining I did during my one-month illness (took that long for a diagnosis) and six-week recovery, which is approximately one-billionth of the complaining my husband has done in the past week. I say approximately because I'm still perfecting the algebraic formula to figure it out; I'm assuming it's closely related to the one I use to balance my checkbook.
But if Homer Simpson has taught us anything, it's that pain is funny when it happens to someone else. (I just realized how unfair that statement is, for Homer has taught us so much more than that.) And it's okay to laugh because I now know Hubby has a staph infection, and not West Nile or Lyme Disease.
Anyhoo, after the initial doubling of Husband's antibiotics, they finally upped it to the amount required to cure a grown elephant of leprosy, and the infection is responding. Woo-hoo! And yet this was not enough for the doctor. Nooooo, he wanted to lance the huge bump and see if anything came out. EWWWWWWWWWWWW!
And yet... I kind of understand this. Much like the satisfaction of popping a good, mirror-splattering zit. (Once, my boyfriend had a huge zit on his back - HUGE - and his sister and I argued over who got to pop it for him. She won, blood being thicker than other bodily fluids, apparently.)
However, if anyone wanted to stab an already-painful area on my body with a scalpel, I'd need a much better reason than curiosity. I'd also need some liocane. Lots and lots of liocane. But not Husband, no, he's no metrosexual. He said, "Just do it!" So the lump was lanced, and the doctor was perhaps overly excited about what issued forth.
Now for the icky part. Yes, even ickier than lancing pus-filled lumps. Husband had a stint or "pick" put into his arm. It's like an IV thing, only instead of just a needle into the vein, he's got a small tube going up his arm, across his chest and into his heart. GAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I can hardly write this without freaking out and doing the Get The Bugs Off Me Dance.
It'll stay in there for two weeks, so he can administer his own antibiotics once a day, instead of having an in-home nurse or going to the hospital every day. Which is kind of a cool thing, once you get past the whole IV-in-your-vein-all-the-time idea. Ewwwwwww!
The hardest part is not putting my fingers in my ears, closing my eyes and going "Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala!" whenever he's talking.
Monday: Part Three
September 16, 2004
Part One of Husband's Bizarre Illness: Get In the Damn Car
I'm a big fan of men - as anyone who has known me for more than 3 minutes will tell you - but they are stupid babies. Now, gentlemen, before you get all offended and pouty and threaten to withhold sex (okay, that's, like, the least-likely scenario ever), I have conclusive proof, as scientifically documented, by me, during Husband's recent hospital stay.
Conversation with Husband on a Wednesday, begun by me:
"You're home early. Office hit by a meteor?"
"I have a headache. And look at this huge mosquito bite!"
"Gee, honey, do you think they're in any way related?"
"No, it's just a headache."
"If you say so."
Thursday night, I go out. Husband goes to meeting, so I assume he's fine.
Conversation with Husband on a Friday, begun by me:
"You're home early."
"I have a headache, and a neckache, and a cough, and I fell asleep at my desk today. And yesterday, too. And lookit how huge this bite as gotten!"
"Get in the car."
"No, I'll call my doctor tomorrow, if I don't feel better."
"Get. In. The. Damn. Car."
Husband owns his own business and is your classic Type A personality. He NEVER comes home early, let alone twice in one week. Not even for a bootie call.
If his office did get hit by a meteor, he'd be sitting in the rubble, tapping on a keyboard connected to a melted, smoldering computer, with a quizzical look on his face. So why his need to leave work early didn't trigger in him the realization that he was probably dying, I can't imagine. Hence: Stupid. I took him to the ER.
On the door was a sign: If You Have These Symptoms, Please Put On Face Mask Provided Below. There were 8 symptoms listed, and he had 7 of them. He put on a mask.
I have a letter from the attending nurse stating that I am, indeed, smarter than Husband and he should listen to me always, witnessed by a doctor and a security guard, and notarized. I'm having it framed.
Much hullabaloo later, they told us they were admitting him, so I went home to pack him a bag. When I got back to the ER, he was asleep. The nurse woke him up to take his blood pressure, which was 86 over 54.
"Wow!" she exclaimed. "That's a great resting heart rate! You must be an athlete or something!"
Husband beamed. I doubled over in hysterical laughter. Husband glared.
His resting heart rate just proves what I have always suspected - that he goes into a coma when he sleeps. How do you not hear a Dog vs. Raccoon commotion on the patio right outside the bedroom window? Seriously, how?!
My work being done, I went home, and Husband was soon given a bed. The next morning, the nurse came in to take blood and poke and prod... and humiliate.
"How much do you weigh?"
"Two-ten."
(dubious look)
"What?!"
"Two-forty, more like?"
"No!"
"Are you gonna make me get the scale?"
Holy crap. That bitch means business! Ends up Husband is 220, but at least his guess was closer than hers was. I guess they have to be very exact when figuring out how much drugs they can give him, but The Scale Incident (as it has come to be known) was apparently frivolous, as they offhandedly doubled his antibiotics the following day.
Tomorrow: Part Two
September 15, 2004
Drip On My Blouse and Tell Me That You Love Me
Let me just say that I am morally opposed to Kraft Easy Mac. I find the whole concept insulting.
Are we so stupid and inept as a nation that boiling water and adding milk and butter is too difficult for us to handle? We have to make Kraft Macaroni and Cheese even easier? Are we unable to watch butter melting and reality television at the same time? Does Dr. Phil have to come hold our hand while we stir the macaroni?
Seriously, it's a sad commentary on how completely retarded we have become.
Having said that, I love the stuff. Man, it's so salty and creamy! And loaded with carbs! How could I not love it?! Oh, fie, you delectible, mind-numbing, cheez-laden, overly-simplistic national commentary! Drip on my blouse and make me yours!
They should call it Easy Smac' because that's how addicted I am.
September 14, 2004
And Speaking of My Age...
...as we were, recently. If you'll remember.
Last week, I had to go to some lame school assembly for extra-curricular sports with Younger Step-Daughter, Case. Case recently entered the world of high school and will be playing soccer and badmitten. All other parents of said child were busy that night, so I had to go listen to "Blah blah blah good sportsmanship blah blah kids who play sports do better in school blah blah we have a great sports program blah blah blah."
Of course, being an ex-drama freak, all I could think of was, "Gee, if only the Concert Choir got as much funding, support and publicity as the football team." Bitter woman that I am. But that's not the point.
The point is, when we walked in, all the parents were handed a packet of materials, i.e. permission slip, rules of good conduct, whatever, I didn't read it. An attractive, younger woman, probably my age, was handing them out as we all filed past her into the gym. So I held out my hand, and she just gave me a look and handed one to the woman next to me.
Naturally, I'm thinking, "Oh, crap, did I steal her boyfriend in this very school 16 years ago?"
I just stood there with my hand out, and she goes, "Oh! You look good!"
Now I'm sure I stole her boyfriend, and she's trying to distract me while her sister is slashing my tires in the parking lot.
She finally handed me a packet and said, "I thought you were one of the students!"
YES!
I am a GODDESS! She thought I was ONE OF THE STUDENTS! I ROCK!
She had no grudge against me! I'd never even met her, which is why it was soooooooo easy for her to mistake me for a TEENAGER!
Of course, she could've just meant that I dress like crap, but since she was looking at my face and not my jeans and/or hoodie, I'm going with the whole I Look Half My Age thing.
I remained calm and gracious on the outside, while secretly doing my Happy Dance on the inside. It's somewhere between Snoopy's Suppertime Dance and a White Girl Club Dance, so you see why I kept it internal.
By the way, I'm wearing inappropriately-tight pants to work today. Eat your heart out.
September 10, 2004
Sleeping with the Enemy
Never, EVER watch Oprah reruns before you go to bed. Dude, I had nightmares. She had this germ expert on, and it was nothing short of blood-chillingly horrifying.
Like this one woman vacuumed up a food spill, didn't change the vacuum bag, and then infected her whole family with airborne salmonella every time she vacuumed after that. If that was my wife, I'd fuckin' kill her. Who vacuums up food spills?!
But the thing that really killed me was the pillows. Ms. Germ Expert says that you need to replace your pillows every one to three years. Why, you ask? Because after one to three years, more than HALF the weight of your pillow is dead dust mites.
(And how weird is it that I've had opportunity to mention dust mites in two consecutives entries?)
So you know I'm going to Target this weekend and buying all new pillows for everyone in the family. I'm a media sheep, I know, but why would Oprah lie? Oprah loves us!
And you know what really freaks me out? My Older Sister (who is eleven, yes, ELEVEN years older than me, and I can say that here cuz she'll never read this) has a pillow that she has had since high school. Do the math. We know that I'm at least 30, so sister is over 40. Which means she's had that damn pillow a minimum of 24 years! Christ, the pillow must be entirely made up of bug corpses by now! Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
I don't even wanna go in her house anymore.
September 09, 2004
Join Usssss...
As I alluded to a while back, my sister has recently become a Lord of the Rings geek and, even more so, a Billy Boyd stalker, er, I mean fan. Earth shattering news, by no means, but let's take a closer look, shall we?
When the first two LotR movies came out, she was either vastly pregnant with The Girl Child and had the bladder capacity of a dust mite, or she was playing dairy-cow to The Girl Child at regular intervals. Neither of which are epic-movie-viewing-friendly.
Yes, she's a mom. A stay-at-home, neighbor-chatting, coupon-clipping, sub-division-living, scrapbooking kind of gal. Mind you, she's not boring -- she's got a belch that'll drop a truck driver at 40 paces -- but she is down-to-earth and practical, and not given to silly things like comic books, GenCon, Barbies, Xena, etc., as I am. She humors my dorkiness.
On one of my visits to Pleasant Valley, I forcibly lent her the extended versions of "Fellowship of the Rings" and "The Two Towers," fully expecting sneers. A couple days later, I got The Call. The Call that heralded my sister's Descent Into Dorkiness.
She had stayed up 'til midnight watching FotR. Which would be no big whup, for someone whose Boy Child doesn't wake at 5:30 a.m., but hers does. So apparently, she liked it. (MWAH HA HAAAA!) And then, as she was watching TTT, the unthinkable happened. Her husband... paused in front of the t.v. Until that moment, he had, sight unseen, derided the movies as "that nerdy, D&D, wizard shit" (this from a Trekkie!). But, being male, he was instinctively drawn to the Battle at Helms Deep.
"What's this?"
"The Two Towers."
"That Lord of the Rings stuff?"
"Yep."
"...Can I watch?"
"Sure."
"Can we watch from the beginning?"
"Well, you won't understand it unless you see the first one, too."
So they both ended up watching both movies! I'm so proud! (RESISTANCE IS FUTILE!) Plus she would watch the DVD extra features while The Children were napping. I think she watched every damn piece of footage on those discs, including the Easter Eggs.
And that's when things started to get scary.
She bought the trilogy, in book form, plus "The Hobbit," and read them all. The chick who has had my Anne Rice novel for three years and won't read the long articles in "Glamour" read "TH," "FotR," "TTT" and "RotK" in a matter of months.
While she was watching the DVDs, she would call me up and ask me stuff like, "Who is Celeborn again?" Or, "How are orcs different from uruk-hai?" While she was reading the books, she'd ask me a question, and I wouldn't even understand half the words in it! (I haven't read the books, yet. Don't hurt me! They are in the pile on my nightstand!)
I think it was after seeing "RotK" that her drooling, giggling, panty-throwing, hobbit-googling obsession started. Perhaps it was seeing sweet, little Pippin in that soldier of Gondor uniform that pushed her over the edge? Frankly, I'm afraid to ask. But it's hilarious to watch. I haven't seen her this worked up since Duran Duran came on the scene!
I got her a bumper sticker that says "My other ride is Billy Boyd," but I don't think her husband will let her put it on her car. However, I'm sure he will join us for a celebratory screening when the RotK extended DVD comes out! CAN'T WAIT!!!
(NOTE: I have not used names, in order to protect the innocent - mainly ME - from the wrath of The Sister. Ironically, we actually do call her kids The Boy Child and The Girl Child. As in, "Crap, The Girl Child is already up from her nap," and "I'll call you back; I gotta go beat The Boy Child.")
September 08, 2004
I Was Totally Heathered This Weekend
"Heathered?" you ask. I'll explain.
Based on the 1989 movie, "Heathers," the theory suggests that three girls absolutely cannot be friends. Two of them will inevitably end up ganging-up on the other one and/or shutting her out because "she thinks she's so cool," and really - what better way to build yourself up than tearing down someone else?
I admit, I did not coin the term; my co-worker did. I'm just amused that I have an opportunity to use it. Okay, more disgusted than amused because the movie is set in high school; however, the women concerned are 30+ years old.
Yes, two grown women invited me over just to exclude me from conversations and future plans. They barely even made eye-contact. I had to check several times to make sure I hadn't accidentally invoked my invisibility superpowers. Then they not-so-subtly insinuated that I'm not fun. Not fun?! Now that hurts.
Not my feelings, mind you, but my brain. It hurts to wonder why they'd been hanging out with me for three and a half years if I'm not fun. Is it some religious thing, in place of fasting or self-flagellation? I'm not sure exactly what brought about their sudden change of mind, but it was made manifest by a movie.
See, I don't think "The Sweetest Thing" is funny. I thought the countless accidental lesbian bits were forced and not at all as clever as, say, the misunderstandings in your average episode of "Three's Company."
Apparently, this lack of appreciation on my part is, in actuality, a serious character flaw, for which I can expect fountains of thinly-veiled derision while onlookers try to stifle their mocking laughter, the private joke obviously expected to go right over my blonde, clueless head. No, really. Really. This really happened. With grown-ups.
(Yes, I supposed saying "blonde, clueless" is redundant. Yes, you're hilarious.)
And imagine my surprise when, instead of waking up in a cold sweat and realizing I'd had another junior-high-anxiety dream, I was, in fact, mired in a reality from which I couldn't escape because someone else drove.
It was a horrible evening that left me feeling emotionally bitch-slapped. I was completely taken off-guard by the body-checking because I was playing croquet, and, HEY - where did all these hockey sticks come from?
Damn, it sucked.
And the actual reason for all this is as unclear to me as it was with Melinda and Eileen in the 5th grade. And leaves me feeling equally lost, broken and unworthy. Which is really unfair to the dozens of truly amazing people who think I'm the cat's pajamas. I'm sorry to dishonor all of them/you by letting a mere two people negate the opinions of such a vast and brilliant crowd.
You know, the reason I'm busy all the time isn't because I'm writing letters to my congressman or volunteering at a soup kitchen. Screw all that - I'm out socializing. I really am fun. No, really. Really. Okay, I'll suck it up and be more fun tomorrow, I promise.
Ho-Ho's will always love me.
(P.S. I would like to extend a heartfelt apology to my friend, Heather, who is a peach and would never Heather me, despite her name.)
(P.P.S. I would also like to thank the person who called me "delightfully funny" on a day I needed it most.)
September 07, 2004
Oompa Loompas Cannot Type 120 Words a Minute
Okay, I have to vent.
I'm a secretary. I like my job. My bosses appreciate and respect me. My job, as I see it, is to make their lives easier so that they can concentrate on the company big picture. I get paid well for my position, I work a 37.5-hour week, and when I leave the office, I take no stress with me. I'm staying here for as long as they'll let me.
On Thursday, a man from another department, about my age, came over to my cubicle. Now, he has never even said Hello to me in the hallway, let alone addressed me on purpose, so I was intrigued.
"Are you in tomorrow?" he asked.
"No, I'm not," I answered, since Friday was my Summer Day. (Four-day weekend! Woo-hoo!) "Are you trying to ask me out?"
He stared at me blankly, the ironic humor obviously lost on him.
"Is there anything I can help you with today?" I offered kindly, always happy to help my co-workers.
"No, I need to send a fax to your boss tomorrow."
Said boss (I have 5 people that I support) left for our office in Missouri on Thursday.
Now, at this point, it may have dawned on you, o clever readers, what he was getting at. I, however, have this silly idea that all men are created equal, having read it somewhere or other.
He pondered a moment and asked me if the other secretary near me was going to be in. I told him I didn't know, and as I was wondering if he can really be thinking what I think he's thinking, he confirmed it with:
"I really need someone to send this fax for me."
Oh, NOW I get it. Duh! [forehead slap] He's not support staff, so he is FAR too important to send a fax, which is, apparently, women's work. We lowly minions are put here on this earth to serve and grovel to him. He thinks I'm a fucking Oompa Loompa.
Now, I know me. I know what kind of person I am. Which is why I summoned strength from gods I don't even believe in to stop myself from saying, "Why don't you just send it yourself?"
Because, I know that, had I let that little gem outta my mouth, it wouldn't have ended until he had three Ninja throwing stars embedded in his forehead.
I also refrained from pointing out that he is obviously spending more time trying to find someone to fax the thing for him than he would just faxing it his damn self.
And then asked me for the fax number. As if he doesn't have the same exact address and number database on his computer that I have. The information is, literally, three mouse-clicks away, but he chose to walk all the way over and ask me to e-mail it to him. Seriously, I'm gonna fucking kick his ass.
September 01, 2004
Colossal Waste of My Time
It's a miracle that I'm here to write another blog entry, instead of at the hospital, having a self-inflicted sharpened pencil safely removed from my juggler. All-Employee Conference, thy name is Boredom.
I work for an insurance company. However, most of my co-workers, while remaining essential to the company, know nothing about insurance. They are accountants, I.T. nerds, finance experts, lawyers, HR gurus and support staff (a.k.a. secretaries). Granted, the lawyers and some of the accountants know basic insurance crap, but they're hardly experts.
So to whom did the management ship a dump truck full of money, to come and give us an 8-hour training session? These yabbos. Yes, I said eight hours. Eight hours of my life that I'll never get back.
To kill some time (but not nearly enough), I doodled, planned my meals and shopping list for the week, and wrote down the words/phrases in the lecture that I hated most:
1. Nuggets
2. Tyranny
3. Linkages
4. Sampler platter
5. Deployment
6. Plug 'n' play
7. Histogram
8. Whiz-bang
9. Actionable
10. Action item
Please, what the fuck is an "action item"? Isn't it an oxymoron, like verb noun? It makes no sense! And frankly, when I think "sampler platter," I think hot wings and potato skins, not insurance lectures. It was quite unfair to get my hopes up like that.
Then for the evening "entertainment" -- and I mean that in the loosest possible sense of the word - there was a hypnotist. Sebastian Black. Basically, a mortician with a speech impediment and a heavy New York Accent.
Christ, why didn't they just get a fucking mime if they wanted to continue with the Boring the Employees to Death?! Or a plate-twirling, balloon-animal-making clown, for God's sake?!