January 31, 2008
No Children, No Cry
There are many reasons why I don't have children. The main one has always been: I don't want some parasitic growth hanging off my leg for 18-22 years. Kids are smelly and weird and noisy. They break your stuff. And considering that, often the biggest dicksmacks are born into the nicest families, you're not guaranteed a good return on what is a GARGANTUAN investment.
The existance of Nephew, Girl Child, Boy Child and The Spare has had some effect on my personal anti-reproduction stance. Oh, they're totally noisy and weird and expensive, but they are also adorable and clever and hilarious.
Of course, not having my own children is still a good idea because I would homeschool them and make them do chores and learn table manners and go without the latest gadgets that all their friends have, so they would hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhate me.
Like Jerry does now.
One of the other bad things about being a parent is it makes you say stuff like, "Because I said so!" and, "What did I just say?" and, "If I have to tell you ONE MORE TIME...!" In short, it kind of forces you to be an asshole, and that's one thing that no one needs more of from me.
This weekend, Jerry came to stay because his parents went outta town to celebrate their anniversary. And I don't mind taking care of Jerry because, at 12 years old, he's completely low-maintanence. Just turn on the t.v. and remember to feed him every few hours -- voila! Child-rearing made easy.
The other reason that Jerry is no bother to have around is that, long ago, I seared into his brain two indelible truths: One, Nanny is not to be messed with. And two, Nanny is not to be argued with. Once he learned these -- and got past being three years old -- we got along like peas and carrots. Since going against the grain was only going to earn my wrath, he gave up and became an angel.
But that was then, and he's twelve now. In the seventh grade. So I shouldn't be surprised that he tested me this weekend, but I kind of was because it's been nearly a decade since our relationship has been anything but smooth and uncomplicated. I guess I didn't see the fledging testosterone-monster coming.
Sunday's activities broke down like this: Husband had to attend church and then a post-church meeting. Younger Step Daughter got dragged along to church. Jerry, being in confirmation class, is required to attend both Sunday school and church every week. I had to pick up Joe and attend a doll show.
What.
Barbie is my god. Have we forgotten this?
Since Sunday school starts fifteen minutes before Joe's bus arrives three blocks from church, I had plenty of time to drop Jerry off and get cash before meeting Joe. After Sunday school, the plan was for Jerry to meet Husband and YSD in the church pews by the choir for the second service. Simple, no?
Apparently, I wasn't paying attention all the times Jerry's Mom, K, told me about the trouble she's having getting Jerry to attend church and Sunday school and confirmation classes without a huge fight. I guess I thought that was her problem, not mine.
I am brilliant, yet not infallible.
At 12:30, my cell phone rang. I was deep in vintage Barbie territory at the time, so I hurried into the hallway, so as not to be The Huge Crack Baby Talking Loudly On My Phone In The Middle Of The Show. Doll shows tend to be pretty subdued, and any loud noises or sudden movements are frowned upon.
It was YSD calling me to inform me that she and Husband couldn't find Jerry, and he hadn't showed up for the church service.
PISSED doesn't even begin to cover it. That he would pull that shit when I wasn't around to beat him -- DAMN, that was frustrating!!! I mean, the reason Husband is so cool about watching Jerry while I'm off galavanting with my Gay is because Jerry is normally A Model Child! If he's gonna start being a teenager, that's going to curtail my social life! And people, Wenchie don't play that.
I hung up with YSD and immediately called Jerry's cell phone. No big surprise -- he didn't answer. I then called him home, just in case he'd... caught a ride home... for some reason. I don't know. I was really just putting off having to call his Mom and tell her that I lost her son.
Thank God YSD called right back and let me know that they'd found him, so that my panic could turn to rage because that's an emotion I'm much more familiar with. Oh, AND? He was up in the gym playing basketball when they found him.
So. Dead.
I had YSD hand her phone to Jerry, whom I told, in my scariest voice, "You are so on my poop list. You and I are going to have a serious talk when I get home."
Granted, shit list loses some of its oomph when watered down to poop list, but I'm hoping that having to live In Fear Of The Unknown for four hours had the desired effect and instilled dread and doom in his adolesent heart. Because, aside from my lecture, that's all the punishment I was going to have time to inflict because I was taking him home right after dinner.
When I finally got home -- one vintage barbie and vintage outfit richer -- Jerry got the following scolding (and I'm paraphrasing, of course):
"I am sooooooooo not happy with that little stunt you pulled at church this morning. You were told exactly where to meet Husband and YSD, and you blew them off. They were there and had no idea where you were. And I don't believe for a minute that you were helping out in the nursery. If you were, then they wouldn't have found you playing basketball in the gym. And why were you playing basektball when you should have been actively looking for YSD, since she was your ride home?! I can't believe you were so rude to my husband and YSD. I expect you to treat them with the same respect that you've always treated me. I can't believe I'm even having to say this to you. You've never pulled anything like this before. I am so disappointed. You do anything like that next time you're here, and you're grounded. No t.v., no phone."
I'm exhausted just typing that. It's such a bore having to be the bitch. I hate that crap. But I knew I had to nip it in the bud or I'd be dealing with even more of it in the future. Parenting -- what an annoyance. No wonder my parents are one cherry short of a Manhattan. (Although, I secretly suspect that they're only pretending to be insane, in order to exact a little revenge...)
He wanted to flee with his older brother as soon as the lecture ended, but I wasn't letting him go that easily. I sent him downstairs to watch t.v. and stew for a while, and when he came up for dinner, I acted like nothing had happened.
I'm sure he'll hate me for a while for being so strict, but that doesn't mean I have to hold a grudge on him. Over, done with, gone. I made him a nice dinner and sent him on his way.
Tah-tah, Teen Jerry! See you in April! Please forget to pack the shenanigans when you come!
Posted at 12:08 PM | Comments (1)January 30, 2008
Reasons I Need This Job To Be Over Really, Really Soon
1. The more I stay here, the more I learn, so the more work they give me, and it's really cutting into my nail polishing time.
2. The items that friends have given me to eBay are taking up ridiculous amounts of space in my basement. My feng shui is so screwed up, I can hardly walk without falling down.
3. The air in this building is making me age prematurely. It's so dry that even my super-oily skin -- oily enough to produce zits on a 38 year old complexion -- shrivels up and dies after I've been sitting in my cube a mere half an hour. It's like I'm molting, for God's sake.
4. Billi is having to spend inordinate amounts of time alone with her own children, and that's just wrong.
5. I'm really, really bored.
6. I have, like, a dozen blogs that I've started and can't find time to finish. The ones that involve photos are just out of the question until I'm finally fired. I'm not going to get famous this way!
7. I miss driving out to have lunch with The Bitches from my old job. And I haven't seen New Girl, my little Bitch In Training, for so long! I'm sure she's forgotten all the ways of The Dark Side by now.
8. The longer I stay here, the more often I need to bake cookies in order to get through the day, and that's not helping my ass. I'm not saying Husband refuses to have sex with me -- I'm just saying that I haven't worn my jeans this tight since 1989.
9. Did I mention I'm bored?
Posted at 02:33 PM | Comments (1)January 25, 2008
Filthy, Yet Incredulous
I'm an excellent typist. Seriously, I'm freakin' fast, bay-bee. Which is, I guess, why my boss asked me to take minutes for a day-and-a-half meeting she had this week. Lots of people in from all over the country, brainstorming and consulting and all sorts of boring shit, which they will want to read about over and over in the coming years.
Whatever. It's a paycheck. And a free lunch. And all the free Kudos bars and bottled water I can consume.
They did this SWOT thing where they listed the program's Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. So I wrote them all down. Then they graphed those into Invest, Decide, Defend and Abandon. So I wrote all that down. Plus all the pompus, quasi-intellectual blather that when into it.
By quitting time today, I had 11 pages of shit typed. Oh, and whenever they wanted to see what they had come up with, I had to go print shit off and make copies to distribute.
Right before the closing prayer, Kevin had to pipe up -- with his need to dominate every aspect of every event and every conversation -- and asked if "anyone had written down everything they had been talking about."
In a move that was probably less infused with decorum than the situation would have inspired in a non-Scorpio, I whirled around in my chair and gave him the filthiest -- and yet most incredulous -- look that I could possibly muster, and I said, "Have. We. Met?"
That son-of-a-douche-hole. What the hell does he think I was DOING for a day and a half? Picking my nose and blogging? Was I up there by CHOICE because listening to bureaucrats quibble over semantics is sooooooooo much better than the REAL work that has been piling up on my desk during my jury duty?!
WHAT?! THE?! FUCK?!
Half the room saw the look I gave him, and I'm glad. What a self-important jacktard that guy is. He wants us all to think, "Gee, Kevin, what a great idea! I wish I could have all this information for my very own!"
Well, then it's a good thing that my boss thought of that DAYS ago and asked me to take minutes. To write down all the important things said. On 11 single-spaced pages. To share with whomever wants to see it. SHITHEAD.
How dare he undermine my role there? How dare he call into question, in front of the whole committee, my work there? How dare he infuse them with the suspicion that -- gee, maybe she hasn't been writing everything down like we all assumed she was...?
Fortunately, I think most people in the room had ample opportunity to rub their two brain cells together and wonder, "Um, doesn't he know that Wenchie is here to take minutes? Because she has been openly thanked by the meeting coordinators several times. Was Kevin asleep?"
No, but his social skills are definitely deep in hibernation.
Dicksmack.
Posted at 04:36 PM | Comments (3)January 23, 2008
Again with the Eyeshadow
Instead of buying each other presents for birthdays and Christmas, Jerry's Mom K and I go do something with each other. Something like shopping or facials or pedicures -- you know, girlie crap. And that way, I'm guaranteed to see her at least three times a year. (She travels a lot.)
On Tuesday, for our belated Christmas (for which we made plans in November because that's how far in advance she has to plan), we went shopping at Woodfield and specifically, to Sephora for a "consultation," which is what you have to call it when you want them to do your make-up.
A little Sephora etiquette tip from me to you:
Sephora is not a salon, so if it's May or June, and you show up there with your hair in an up-do on a weekend and tell them you want someone to show you how to do your make-up, they're gonna tell you to go scratch.
But if you're an old lady in a hoodie and a ponytail on a Tuesday afternoon wanting to learn how to do a "smokey eye," well, they're bored and will show you. And then laugh at you.
So I sat down in the highchair, and the 20-year old Mascara Monster went to choose some eyeshadows for me.
PW: Um, I usually use brown or eggplant. I love the idea of grey, but I've never found a shade that looks good on me.
MM: Uh-huh.
PW: My eyes are a really weird color. They're like green-grey-blue. Grey eyeshadow tends to look blue on me.
MM: Well, I'm gonna use these. [brings over three shades of grey] They're a really true grey.
PW: You're the professional!
Five minutes and obscene amounts of eyeshadow later...
Other Sephora Chick: Oh, cool! Are you using teal?!
MM: What? NO! It's grey.
PW: Hand me the mirror.
You know, I've been the owner of my face for quite some time now, and I know what works. Grey doesn't work. Ever.
So I walked around the rest of the mall cleverly disguised as The Teal Whore Who Whore-ily Whored Her Way Through Teal Town. Thank God I didn't see anyone I knew.
Posted at 05:48 PM | Comments (2)January 21, 2008
Wild Harvest Chicken
Husband wanted chicken pot pie for dinner last night, so I sent him to Jewel for the ingredients. Dude comes home with Wild Harvest Chicken, called so because it is:
American Humane Association Free Farmed Certified
"Meets the American Humane Association standards for farm animals which require that animals be raised in ways which reduce stress, and with adequate shelter, comfortable resting areas, sufficient space, proper facilities and the ability to express normal behavior."
What. The. Fuck.
People. These are chickens.
What do they need "comfortable resting areas" for? So they can kick back after a long day at the steel mill? Do they really want me to believe that chickens need ways to manage the "stress" they feel from spending hours pecking at the ground?
These are CHICKENS, for the love of God!
For this I'm paying $4.34 a pound? Because my chicken became plump and delicious in a vibrating recliner? Is that really necessary?
I rolled my eyes so hard, I think I sprained my retina.
Now, I can't remember the last time I was anywhere near a live chicken -- and I'd like to keep it that way, being no fan of things winged and feathered -- but Husband worked on a chicken farm for a while growing up.
Which, right there, that makes me laugh. I mean, me and my friends worked at McDonald's or the local movie theatre or Fannie May or what-have-you. But Husband and his friends worked on chicken farms, they harvested corn, they tilled fields, and they thought it was normal. That just cracks me up.
Anyhoo Husband worked on a chicken farm, so I will bow to his authority on all things chicken. And he said that chickens are the meanest, smelliest, noisiest creatures God ever put on this earth. He hated that job.
Judging from his testimony, I believe that chickens are the last animal that we want to see "expressing normal behavior." Normal for chickens is mean, smelly and noisy. I want to know that the chicken I buy was properly caged and repressed while waiting to find "adequate shelter" in my stomach.
Posted at 05:12 PM | Comments (5)January 17, 2008
Just a Small Town Girl, Livin' In a Lonely World
I find myself looking forward to seeing what the council for the defense is wearing each day. She's just so damn immaculately attired every single day. I'm in total awe of her. On Tuesday, her headband coordinated with her shoes, and not even in a gay, matchy-matchy, Barbie kind of way. She's so subtley exquisite, I can't even explain. She's driving me crazy with covetous love.
Today, she wore a lavender-grey suit, a pearl choker, and winter-white shoes with a gold buckle. It was like, Oh, look at the subdued hues and subtle accessories and OH MY GOD, WHAT AN ADORABLE SURPRISE THOSE SHOES ARE!
I love her. She's edgey and feminine without being pretentious. I hope she wears her hair in a bun again tomorrow. With the black-rimmed glasses, she does Sexy Librarian almost as well as Heather.
She's my little refuge of loveliness in an otherwise bitter and stark experience. She is the only light that can balance the following, my list of:
Things That Suck About This Whole Experience... Allegedly
1. Peeing. Someone with a bladder as small as mine just isn't cut out for jury duty. After my morning frappuccino and cereal, I normally pee every 45 minutes until noon. I'm sure the other jurors think I have a bladder infection. Thank God for extended sidebars.
2. Pooping. The sudden change in my daily routine is wreaking havoc on my colon. Instead of pooping once or twice a day, at regular intervals, like a normal person, I'm pooping a Buick every other day. Not good.
3. The wind. No matter what direction you are walking in the Loop, you are always walking into the wind. This is especially true when it is sleeting.
4. People on the train. The people who put their coat, their bag and one leg up on the seat so that no one else can sit next to them should be thrown off the train by the conductor. No questions asked.
5. The jurors' bathroom. It is echo-y and opens right into the jury room. Perhaps it is not shyness, but the forced intimacy that prevents any of them from looking me in the eye...
6. The college kids. God help the future of the world in the hands of these mealy, meek, poetry-writing pussies. How will they run the country when they can't even wash their hair? There are four of them on the jury, and three of them cringe when I try to talk to them. Seriously, they make me puke. I want them all to drop and give me twenty. (The only person on the jury who will actually converse with me is a handsome, black young man. Go figure.)
7. The guy who smiles. There's one guy on the jury who has a small smile permanently stamped on his face. It's creepy and wrong. I don't trust him. Next time I'm called to jury duty, it'll probably be for his trial.
Friday, we hear closing arguments and then start deliberations. I want to be foreman. I also hope everyone agrees with me right off the bat so I don't have to start cracking skulls.
I am NOT going back there on Tuesday! K and I are going to Sephora to get our make-up done and buy eye shadow. I want to learn how to apply "The Smokey Eye!"
Posted at 09:03 PM | Comments (2)Fairness
This is what passes for coherent conversation in the Wenchie household.
Husband: What are you eating?
PW: [mumbling thru a full mouth] Nufeen.
H: Is that pudding?
PW: Y-- Noooooooooo.
H: Are you eating the last pudding???
PW: [sigh] Yes.
H: No fair!
PW: How is it not fair that I remembered there was one more pudding left and you didn't?
H: Your brain is younger than mine!
PW: Well,... you lose weight easier than me!
H: What does that have to do with anything?
PW: I don't know, but it really pisses me off!
H: Can I have the rest of your pudding?
PW: No.
Posted at 06:42 AM | Comments (0)January 15, 2008
Boston Legal Is a LIE
This morning, I left the house at 8:10 to catch the train downtown. I finally stuck my key in my front door at 5:40 this evening, well after it had gotten dark. And cold.
If I told you I spent three hours today actually listening to testimony, I would be exaggerating.
What the deuce is with all the sidebars??? Denny Crane doesn't need this many sidebars! Unless, of course, it's to proposition the judge or opposing council, which, I assure you, these lawyers would rather die than do.
At one point, after the billionth objection, council for the defense (whom I love because Lord that woman dresses magnificently!) actually rolled her eyes and said, "Jesus Christ!" It was awesome.
Court today started at 9:30. And yet, it was 10:50 before the jury was let into the court room. The book I started yesterday at jury selection? I've almost finished. Gonna have to bring a fresh one with me.
Around 3:45 this afternoon (after having been told to wait in the hallway at 3:00), the judge called us back to dismiss us for the day. Because apparently, the two lawyers have issues they couldn't resolve in the remaining hour and a half.
People, these are DAYS of my LIFE here! DAYS that I will NEVER get back! Days without the internet! Emails left unanswered! Personal belongings left unauctioned! Blogs left unposted! Purses left unpurchased!
Thank God that Sue has Verizon, like me, so I can text her unlimitedly for some kind of amusement. Hey, who else has Verizon?
As we were leaving, the judge told us to be sure to be at the court house by 9:15 the following morning, "Because I want to start right at 9:30."
Waitami'ute, waitami'ute. Did you, yer honor, of the hour-and-twenty-minute-late-start, just admonish US, the consistently prompt jury, to arrive early? Because I know that all y'all ain't gonna be ready to let us into that damn room at 9:30, SO STOP PRETENDING!!!
$17.20 a day, divided by three hours of actual work is still way less than I'm worth. Doesn't she know who I am?!
Posted at 08:27 PM | Comments (2)January 14, 2008
I May Never Poop Again
Sitting on a wooden bench for eight hours today has permanently impacted my sphincter. Not to mention the damage it wreaked on my lower back. Jesus, I'm old.
So, yeah, I got called for jury duty Monday and managed to remain on the bench all day... only to be sworn in at 4:45. Fifteen minutes AFTER we were supposed to be sent home for the day!
The judge said it was the longest jury selection she's ever been a part of. That does not bode well. She also predicted this case lasting the rest of the week. I'm not sure my colon can take it.
So don't expect much blogging this week. Beatrix's story will have to wait a little longer.
Well, at least the woman who smelled like diarrhea was sent home.
Posted at 10:05 PM | Comments (0)January 13, 2008
Happy 40th, Brad
Billi's husband, Brad, turned 40 three days after Christmas. Which, as we all know, is the suckiest time of year to have a birthday because Jeebus really hogs the spotlight, so Billi had a big party for him on Saturday night.
It was an 80s theme party, so the music was totally bitchen and rad, and I was breathtaking in my Forenza sweater and legwarmers. I even grew a giant zit in my forehead, for that authentic Wenchie-circa-1985 feeling.
Brad was resplendant in pink shirt and tan Members Only jacket. Billi's hair was as big as... well, honestly, it was never as big in the 80s as it was on Saturday night because both Billi and I had short hair for most of the 80s. Try that mental picture on for size. Horrifying, no?
Madonna and the lead singer from Poison were the best costumes there,... but I digest. I'm here to talk about Brad and how incredibly, mind-blowingly wasted he was.
Now, Brad likes to enjoy an ocassional beer or two because he has three children in the single-digit age group. But because he has three small children, he very rarely over-indulges, and certainly never in their presence. Well, the kiddies were at Nana and Papa's house Saturday night. You know where this is going.
Or at least, you THINK you do...
But this post is going down a path much more dark than barfing or headaches or waking up in a bathtub full of your own bodily products. Lo, this post is about -- Drunken Affection.
Dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!
We may have gifted Brad two classic Michael Jackson albums and a how-to book on taking care of his aging body, but he gave me the greatest gift of all.
When it came time for Husband and I skeedaddle outta there (they were about to start the wife-swapping, and I didn't want any fights to break out over who got me), I went to say good-night to the birthday boy.
Who promptly planted a BIG ol' smackaroo -- on my lips -- and told me HE LOVES ME!
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
[huge intake of breath]
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Oh, man, that was awkward. See, Brad's the kind of guy who shows his affection very rarely. If ever. And certainly not to me.
In fact, I'm not entirely sure he ever actually feels affection. I think he might have smiled once, but it also could have been gas.
Yes, I definately intend to rub his face in this for the rest of his life. Or at least until he sits on my head and farts.
Posted at 09:29 PM | Comments (2)January 10, 2008
I Am, Apparently, ReMarried
So I've been playing Marry-Fuck-Kill with Smokey, who says, "It's the best game ever!" A ringing endorsement, indeed. I can't believe she lived to be 28 and has never heard of it. I have so much to teach her.
We've been playing with themes: "Asian Action Heros," "Dead Fat Guys," "Black Comedians," etc. So I gave her three "Religious Leaders." Here's her response:
kill the pope. if it were john paul that'd be one thing but i don't like this benedict guy. he seems like an asshole hard ass. fuck the dali lama. he's probably into some tantric shit and could teach me a thing or two. marry bishop hanson because he's adorable and looks like santa. and english is his first language.
Needless to say, Smokey is totally fucked in the afterlife.
She then gave me "World Leaders," where I ended up marrying Tony Blair, and she remarked that that would be like marrying a woman. Which led to a whole conversation about how it would be awesome to marry a woman because your jewelry and purse selection would double, and your housework would be cut in half.
But apparently, I can't marry Tony Blair or any other woman because I'm already married to one.
PW: Ohmigod, I have to blog that story. That's totally hilarious.
My Wife: Well, okay, but change my name.
PW: What should I change it to?
MW: Beatrix.
PW: Done.
TWO HOURS LATER
MW: So I have to ask you something.
PW: What.
MW: When I told you what name I wanted to be called in your blog, why didn't you ask me how I came up with it?
PW: Oh my God. Are we married now?
MW: I'm serious! I was thinking about it, and I'm like, Isn't she wondering where I got that name?
PW: You are so my wife!
MW: So you didn't wonder?
PW: Well, I figured it was probably from some book you like, right?
MW: Now I'm not going to tell you.
PW: Oh, for God's sake. Can I still write the blog?
I'm still not sure if she was serious or joking... but I'm still going to write about the story she told me.
Posted at 12:00 PM | Comments (0)January 09, 2008
No Comment
Channel 5 had two vans parked in front of my Starbuck's this morning. Yes, my Starbuck's. I walk in, and everyone is like, "Norm!" And the caffiene monkey starts my order before I even get to the register.
And I enjoy such order in my life. I like my desk paper-pile-free. I like my closets organized by size and my cupboards by color. I park in the same space every morning. And my coffee order rarely strays from Venti Cafe Vanilla Frappucinno Light, No Whip.
I like my mornings quiet and as void of human interaction as possible.
The last thing I want to see at 7:00 a.m. is a pertly-dressed, orange-skinned woman smiling enthusiastically and standing next to a t.v. camera, which is shining a brighter-than-daylight beam directly into my corneas. Especially before I've had even a sip of caffiene.
I managed to avoid Pert Orange Lady on my way into the store because she was accosting a woman walking her two dogs, who told her, "I don't want to be on camera looking like this."
And looking at her, I couldn't blame her. But I thought about it and came to the conclusion that, on weekdays at least, 7:00 a.m. is pretty much the perfect time for me to be on camera. My make-up is flawless. My hair is newly-brushed. My clothes are void of crumbs and spillage.
Taking into consideration how good I looked at that moment, I began thinking about what I would say on camera, as the girl made my drink.
"What are they asking people about, anyway?" I asked her.
"Hillary."
Oh, for fuck's sake. Of course they are. I decided against getting anything to eat because I didn't want to puke it up.
Exiting the building, my vanilla bean-specked magic elixir in my hand, keys ready in the other, I saw that Pert Orange Lady and Camera Beast were standing right behind my car. There was no escaping them.
Why did I want to escape them, you're wondering? Because I don't enjoy talking politics. Ever. To anyone. While talking religion can sometimes have an undercurrent of shared spirituality, even when people disagree on the specifics, politics is based on Control, Power and Hatred.
People are too entrenched in their team and beliefs. One can grow and change in their ideas about God, but one rarely undigs his or her heels when it comes to Liberal vs. Conservative. So I simply refuse to engage. I'm not going to change anyone's mind, no one is likely to change mine, so why step in a big pile?
I have many friends who, I know, have political views that differ greatly from mine. And I adore them anyway. And I want them to continue to like me anyway. Group hug!
That's why I rarely bring up politics on my blog. In fact, I think I've mentioned it only once before, in passing. I'm just making an exception today because I can't think of anything else to write about. And because it's so rare that I turn down an opportunity to be on t.v.
The Pert Orange Lady perked up when she saw the I was, by necessity, making a bee-line directly for her. Apparently, she was having a hard time stopping people to chit-chat on their way to work. Imagine that.
"Good morning! Can I ask you a quick--"
"HAAAAAAAAATE HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" I sang loudly.
She couldn't get away from my car fast enough. Crazy singing lady with the big gas-guzzling, carbon-footprint-enlarging SUV might run her over.
Posted at 09:53 AM | Comments (3)January 08, 2008
Wenchie's Dad Reads Her Blog for the First Time
I am continuously amazed that the content of my blog doesn't appear to phase my mother. Not only does she never mention my stubborn use of all words crude 'n' rude, but it is truly a testimony to the unconditional love of a mother that she hasn't written me out of her will. As far as I know.
The benevolence of my mother:
Mom: I made Daddy read your latest blog entry. He enjoyed it.
PW: Which one? Uh oh. Did I say Fuck or Vagina? Am I grounded?
Mom: It was the one about the Christmas rush. I haven't shown him any of your other blogs, but he thought that one was cute. I want him to keep being naive about his middle daughter. You're welcome.
Posted at 10:51 AM | Comments (0)January 03, 2008
Introducing Kevin
As is true with every place of business in every corner of the earth, we've got one real asshole in this department. Kevin. Luckily, I haven't had much to do with him so far. And yet, in what limited time I've spent with him, I've still been able to reach the following conclusions with little or no effort:
1. He enjoys invading the personal space of young and/or attractive women.
2. He likes to have Smokey and I do things for him that he could have done by himself faster because it makes him feel important.
3. He hasn't called the IT dept. in the 6 months that his computer won't print because he enjoys emailing things to Smokey and I so we can print them for him.
4. He's a thoughtless, arrogant douchebag, greatly lacking in any social skills.
Kevin's latest game is to email Smokey a dozen times in one afternoon, bombarding her with ridiculous, pointless requests for the convention that she was just going to "book a block of rooms for" and is now completely running single-handedly.
(Man, this guy really makes me talk in run-on sentences.)
Requests made of Smokey:
1. Make sure they get a conference room with really big windows.
2. Reserve the hotel shuttle to take them to wherever they decide to have dinner [I'm pretty sure hotel shuttles aren't taxis].
3. Make sure that the pad of paper at everyone's seat is 100% recycled paper.
4. Contact security and fill out a hundred forms because the building closes at 6:00 p.m. and they want to meet until 6:30 p.m.
Today, I received from him an Excel spreadsheet, 13 pages long, single-spaced. However, I received no instructions to go along with said spreadsheet.
No, the instructions were given to my boss, so she could pass them along to me. Because, you see, not only am I too lowly for him to contact me directly without tainting his holy aura, but I am too stupid to read directions in an email and must have them explained to me very... very... slowly. Preferrably with flash cards.
The instructions are to look up every one of the 600+ organization on the spreadsheet in our Big Book of Organizations, find their in-house code number, and enter it into the spreadsheet.
Well, first of all, I'm not flipping through pages when I can get the info online in two clicks. Secondly, what kind of bullshit busywork is this, anyway?! Jesus H. Data-Entering Christ, I'm not a monkey! Go get some college kid home on winter break to do this shit!
So I start the tedious crap, like a good little trained monkey, and I find that, in some sections of the list, the organization names don't match up with the addresses. They're one off, i.e. the correct organization name is in the cell above where it should be.
My boss heard me swearing, so I told her the problem. She's like, "Can you still do the list?" I'm like, "Yeah, I'll just make sure the addresses and names match up and change them where they don't. But it's gonna take me longer."
And she was cool and thanked me and tossed me a Snausage. Later, I overheard her talking on the phone, and I knew she was talking to Kevin because I heard her explaining the one-off problem. She was like, "Okay, I'll switch you over to Wenchie," blatantly ignoring my vigorous head-shaking.
Greeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
PW: Hi.
K: Hi!
PW: ...
K: So how were your holidays?
PW: Very nice.
K: ...
PW: ... [You wanted to talk to me, dipshit. So talk!]
K: So you're working on that spreadsheet?
PW: Yeah.
K: Do you know how to fix that? Because I can explain it to you.
PW: [Seethe, seethe, seethe.] Well, I would just cut and paste the whole column one cell down, except that it only happens in random sections of the spreadsheet, so they have to be corrected individually as I go.
K: Oh. I think I know how that happened. I deleted some rows that didn't need to be on there. You know how you go into Edit and then Delete?
PW: [Are you kidding me? You open up the Edit drop-down every time you delete something? Don't you know there are at least three quicker ways???] Uh-huh.
K: I must've done something wrong when I was doing that.
PW: [YA THINK!?] Oh. [You don't know how to delete a row without fucking it up, and you wanted to walk me through cutting and pasting, asshole???]
K: ...
PW: So when do you want this done by?
K: Well, I was hoping to have something by next week.
PW: No problem. [And since you didn't specify which of the five days next week you want it, you'll get it on Friday. Fucktard.]
I'm on number 187. I'll be done by Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning, but he doesn't need to know that. I'm almost looking forward to the day when he pushes me from Passive-Aggressive to just plain Aggressive. Because you know that day is coming.
Posted at 03:37 PM | Comments (3)