May 31, 2010
txts or sumn
I have a friend, Padawan* -- actually, I'm kind of inheriting her. My other friend, JB, is LEAVING ME FOREVER when her hubby gets a call (i.e. goes to be a pastor at a church) in one of the Dakotas (forget which one, don't care, they're both far away). Padawan sits next to JB, and is awesome and smart-as-hell and young and a savvy dresser and instantly makes me cooler by just standing near me.
Anyway, Padawan and I are friends through JB, so when JB CRUELLY ABANDONS US, Padawan and I will no doubt be latching onto each other in our grief. Meanwhile, JB will be in Bumblefuck, Something Dakota, where there are no employment opportunities except Pastor or Forest Ranger, so she'll get to be all unemployed and slacker and lucky. Bitch.
And then in six months, Padawan and I will be all:
"JB who?"
"Remember? She used to wear the sweaters?"
"Ohhhh, right."
AAAAAAAAAAAANYway. Padawan. Me. Friends. And that's how I became privy to this little treasure trove of crazy. Padawan's cell phone number is, apparently, one number off from someone who... well, we'll just let the texts speak for themselves.
Text #1, received on a weekday afternoon:
Come blaze wit a sista. its liz
I'm not entirely certain, but I think the text can be translated as such:
I am inviting you to smoke marijuana with your fellow African American female. This is Elizabeth.
(Yes, I realize that I am racist for assuming that the text sender is black, but I've never heard any Chinese women refer to themselves as "sista," so I'm going with what I know.)
Mind you, Padawan is a responsible young adult and does not know anyone who spends their Tuesday afternoons getting stoned (because she hasn't met my extended family, yet), so she did not reply.
A little while later, she got another text from the same number:
We can sit outside or sumn. its jus me njoe
Apparently, Elizabeth and I have different cell phone providers because I get to use 140 characters in one text, and she only gets 43. Hence the very clever spelling of what I assume is supposed to be "something," and the lack of space between "n" and "joe." Personally, with such restrictions, I would go with an ampersand (&) instead of "n," but to each his own.
Padawan is really a kind-hearted person and did not want Elizabeth and Joseph to think that their stoner friend was ignoring them, or dead from some kind of overdose or a drug deal gone wrong, so she politely texted back:
You have the wrong number.
Now, you'd think that Padawan's use of correct spelling and grammer would be a tip-off that she's not one of their home girls. But she got this text in reply:
o da hell this is tj jim even told me
Hmmmm. Despite the lack of periods, I believe this is three sentences:
Oh, the hell it is the wrong number. You are T.J. Jim even told me that this is your number.
So Padawan tried again:
You have the wrong number. Please stop txting. I get wrong calls for that person often. Tell your friends, too. Thank you.
Well, that must've convinced them because she didn't hear anything strange for a few days.
And then she got this at 5:45 a.m.:
well thanks for leavin me with danny when i dont got any medicine for him to quit burning up really a good mom bitch
Huh. It would appear that Padawan's alter-phone-ego, TJ, is a mother. And a bad one. I would traslate this as:
Well, thank you for going off to smoke pot with your fellow African American females and leaving me with Danny when I don't have any medicine for his fever. You are a very good mother, bitch.
Clearly, this is sarcasm, and the texter does not really think that TJ is a good mother. But how did the texter get stuck with TJ's kid? Are they roommates? Lovers? Is the texter TJ's teenaged offspring, annoyed at being left with a baby?
Now I want to know more about these people! Does Danny get well? How many children does TJ have? Does Joe live with her? If so, in what capacity? I hope Padawan gets more texts.
And I promised her that I'd let her read this post before it goes live, since this is her first appearance on my blog, buuuuuuuuut... I think she'll be fine with it.
* She picked her own name.
Posted at 07:42 AM | Comments (0)May 27, 2010
Farmer Wenchie
On Wednesday, we had a bunch of out-of-town guests at work for some super-important meeting of highfalutin brainiacs who will change the world and bring about universal peace and prosperity. Which means that I got to use my 146 I.Q. and other mad skillz to play hostess, waitress, maid and chauffer. My fav.
Luckily, my friend K pulled me back from the brink of mass murder by inviting me to attend a gala charity event that evening in the heart of our hometown. Imagine -- peon Wenchie rubbing shoulders with the rich and philanthropic! Plus, free cocktails! We ate our way through the community's finer establishments, picking up complimentary coupons and margaritas on the way.
A lovely ending to a craptacular day, but in total, I spent thirteen hours on my feet in painful grown-up shoes. My hips, knees and ankles let me know exactly how much they didn't appreciate that kind of abuse, and I woke up the next morning nearly crippled.
(Can I still say "crippled?" Because saying that "I woke up the next morning nearly differently-abled" just doesn't sound as funny. Or does it? Well, just pick whichever one sounds funnier to you. Wenchie's Multiple-Choice-Humor Blog! Next week: Paint-By-Number Porn!)
Getting to my point, I was already pretty stiff and achey and aged by Saturday morning, when it was time to do our annual Mom's-Birthday-Plus-Mother's-Day spring planting over at Mommie Dearest's palatial homestead.
Husband and I went to Home Depot early, where it took him an hour to pick out seven plants. Seven. That's about 8.6 minutes per plant. Plus, we had to pick up several bags of mulch and some fertilizer. Otherwise known as POO. I had to drive with poo in my car.
Reason Number Twelve Why I Hate Gardening: There is poo involved. On purpose.
And in case you're wondering:
Reasons One through Eleven Why I Hate Gardening
1. Dirt.
2. Sun.
3. Sweating.
4. Kneeling.
5. Digging.
6. Bending over.
7. Bugs.
8. Worms.
9. Squatting.
10. Weeds.
11. Sun hats.
This is why my house is so clean, especially in the summer. I'd rather be doing ANYTHING than gardening.
Moving on.
By the time we arrived at Mom and Dad's, Dad was awake and in the mood to take advantage of a kindness. Tears are forming in my eyes as I think of how I can break this to you. My darlings. Your queen, your goddess, your beloved Wenchie... had to dig bushes out of the ground.
I know. I know! Try to be strong, kittens. Be strong for Mommy! I'm still having heart palpatations. I need you to be the wind beneath my wings right now.
I had to dig dirt. With a shovel. Do you know how to get a root ball out of the ground? You have to, like, put the shovel in the ground near it and then jump on the shovel. With the neighbors watching! It was humiliating.
Once the ground was prepped for planting, Husband made me help him put the plants in the ground. You know what that means? I had to dig in the dirt with my hands. LIKE AN ANIMAL.
*sob* It was horrible. Horrible!
Now I know why people used to die at age 30. Because they couldn't stand up straight! So if they fell over, while plowing or weeding or harvesting, they'd just have to lie there. Like a turtle. Limbs flailing. Unable to get back up because their center of gravity was all screwed up with the hunching.
Clearly, it is a testament to my love for my Mother that I would garden for her, uncomplaining, in quiet dignity and grace.
Posted at 06:31 AM | Comments (0)May 24, 2010
Lunch Orders
I leave the office building every, single day for lunch. I often go out to Potbelly's or Jason's with friends. But even when my friends are busy, I still get out and go home to eat lunch, and to take the dogs out.
Partly it's because preparing a lunch ahead of time is a huge hassle. I'm not five, so a PB&J and a juice box isn't going to cut it for me. I require more elaborate lunches, which would necessitate planning and shopping and prepping and special packaging for transport. Remember Molly Ringwald's sushi lunch in "The Breakfast Club?"
I would need something at that level. And alas, I have no maid to prepare it for me.
But mostly, I leave for lunch every day because I need to get the hell out of there. No, PhD Boss, I don't want to go grab a salad at the deli downstairs and eat in one of the meeting rooms with you. I get enough of you in an eight-hour day. I am not pining to spend yet another hour with you, trapped inside harvest-orange walls.
If you want to have lunch with me, you must leave the building. Sadly, he will not leave his email for the amount of time it takes to wolf down a tuna salad sammich, so he will never, EVER have the pleasure of my company during lunch.
Anyhoo, every day, I don my purse and sunglasses, and with car keys in hand, I head to the bank of elevators. And without fail, I run into some colleague who bids me to, "Have a good lunch!"
God, that annoys me to no end!!! It's such a non-communication. Like, "Hihowareyou." Or, "Hot enough for you?" They relay absolutely no information. They are verbal puke -- reflexive and utterly worthless.
Have a nice lunch. DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! Gee, I was planning on having a crappy lunch, but since you told me otherwise, I believe I will go with your idea for my lunch. Thanks for your well wishes! They certainly turned my day around!
Also? Duh. Of COURSE, I will have a good lunch. Even without your prompting, I will have a lunch that doesn't suck. Know why?
1. I wont be here.
2. There will be food. Food of my choosing. Food that someone else will cook for me and bring to me. That is the dictionary definition of "a good lunch."
So don't worry about me, co-workers! I can handle this lunch thingy all by myself! No need to throw your two cents in! Go choke on your microwavable, low-fat fish entree! And have a nice day.
Posted at 06:33 AM | Comments (1)May 20, 2010
The Levels of Office Attire
PhD Boss was waxing philosophic the other day...
PhD: It's so quiet. I wonder why it's so quiet around here.
PW: Um, could it be the impending sense of doom? Knowing that another round of lay-offs is a WHEN, not an IF?
PhD: Really?
PW: Or it could be the bitterness of knowing that, despite taking on the responsibilities of all the people who were laid-off, none of us are getting a raise for at least two years.
PhD: You think that's it?
PW: I know that's why I'm bitter.
PhD: Are you bitter?
PW: Have we met?
I was relating this story to my work-friend, JB -- yes, she and I hate all the same people -- and she said that she was noticing a definite decline in the appropriateness of what people are wearing to work.
Since JB and I are both facing probable impending unemployment -- she because her hubby will soon be taking a job in a galaxy far, far away; me because my contract expires on August 31 -- we decided we should probably document...
The Levels of Office Attire
Suits, Ties, Skirts
The upper-echelon of business wear. I have made my career decisions specifically to avoid having to wear tailored jackets and waist-to-toe nylons.
Button-Down Shirt, Dress Slacks
Okay, you're not full-on formal, but you're obviously still a contender.
Polo, Khakis
De rigour for business casual. The uniform of mid-level executives and Target employees alike.
Henleys & Corduroys, Hoodies & Jeans
Perhaps, if you dress them up with a bespangled scarf, no one will notice that you're losing interest.
Yoga Pants, T-Shirt with Necklace
When your job is slowly sucking your soul, you don't have to energy to take off your clothes before crawling into bed and going fetal for ten hours. (I have a fabulous necklace collection. Even PhD Boss has said so.)
Walking Around the Office with Shoes Off, Socks Optional
Some people spend so much time dicking around on Facebook, they forget they aren't at home.
Sweats or Shorts
I firmly believe that capris fit in here, especially when worn with flip-flops or Crocs, but some may argue. Those some are wrong.
Pajamas
Plaid, flannel pants. Oversized t-shirt. Bathrobe. Perpetual mug of coffee, optional. Did you know that, with Netflix, you can stream cartoons directly to your computer?
Bathrobe
JB: Wait. We just covered that.
PW: No, I mean bathrobe only. When you don't even care if people see your wang.
May 17, 2010
Why I Should Be Fired: Reason #42
So after a work day that literally included five minutes where me and PhD boss just sat and made stupid faces at each other on Skype (despite the fact that our desks are literally ten feet apart)...
"This is you. Du-huh-uh..."
"Well, this is you. Gar-rrr-llll..."
"Well, this is you. Uh-doiiiiieeeeee..."
...he says to me, "I should probably stop being so goofy at work. That's not cool for a boss."
So I says, "PhD, do you think I don't respect you because you're goofy sometimes?"
"Maybe..."
"Noooooooo, honey. I don't respect you because you're an idiot."
And then I laughed for five minutes. Hey, he's got no one to blame but himself for that one.
Posted at 06:15 AM | Comments (1)May 13, 2010
Am I Not Merciful?!
At 4:00 today, my vacation weekend officially begins. (Or earlier, if I can passive-aggressively talk PhD Boss into working from home today and make it seem like his idea. Yes, I am that good.)
Going up to Door Co. with Billi to stay a posh hotel, swoon over the cherry blossoms, and shop all the new inventory at our favorite boutiques and galleries. Yes, AGAIN. It just doesn't get old for me, people! I don't know why! It's probably my inability to form short-term memories...
So Billi called me on Monday. She always asks if I'm at work -- despite me being on 40-hours-per-week for quite some time now -- and then I say Yes, and then she talks for ten minutes anyway. I don't know why she even asks. She's just toying with me.
B: I'm on my way to the doctor.
PW: Oh, my God! Who's hurt?
B: I have a sore throat.
PW: Oh, thank God.
B: Hey!
PW: It's not one of the kids!
B: I think it's strep.
PW: WHAT?!
B: I've had it twice before, and this is what it feels like.
PW: Are you sure it's not H1N1?
B: It's not H1N1!
PW: Oh, my God, I HUGGED you yesterday! You were in my HOME! Touching my THINGS!
B: Shut up.
She's very cranky when she's sick.
Anyhoo, she's been on antibiotics for 48 hours now, so she's fine. She's FINE, I tell you! We are NOT cancelling our vacation! If I have to go to all the shops by myself and check back on her at the hotel room occassionally to make sure she hasn't swallowed her tongue, then that's what I'm doing. She's going.
I am not staying home just because she doesn't practice good hygiene in a house full of filthy rugrats.
[Extra points for correctly identifying the movie quote that is this post's title!]
May 10, 2010
Where the &*%@ Is Shenzhen?
My cousin, Ramone, works at a company whose name I'm not going to share, working with big machinery... making parts for stuff. I'm not being secretive; I seriously have no idea what he does for a living.
Anyhoo, he occassionally gets cold-call emails from companies overseas wanting to do business with his company. And because he knows that I love to mock, he forwards them along to me.
Like this one, from Shenzhen:
Dear Sir,How are you doing recently?
The weather in Shenzhen is becoming hot and hot these days,
I feel summer is coming though it is still spring.Today I would like to send some mold pictures for your reference,
They are molds for medical, TechCo made all of them.
And if you develop any new plastic parts or meet any technical problems,
please feel free to let me know, TechCo will be very happy to provide you big help.
Welcome to your inquiry,
we will give you our best quotation at the earliest time.
hope we will work together in the near future.
TechCo will spare no effort to make your project perfect.Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Have a nice day.
Best regards.Crystal Wan
Sales of Marketing Department
Ah, so many little gems in there. And no fewer than three sign-offs!
But clearly, the stand-out winner is "happy to provide you big help." Heap big help! Me help you long time!
Oh, like we didn't know I'm a racist! Okay, I'm posing a serious question here -- is thinking that all Catholic bishops look alike considered racist?
We recently rented our meeting space at work to a bunch of Catholic bishops. Father Mulligan came to me during their morning break and asked if he could have something faxed to him here. I said Sure and gave him our fax number. My instructions were to bring the fax to him in the meeting as soon as it arrived.
Yeah, cuz that's not intimidating at ALL, walking into a room of twenty bishops.
So the fax arrived. I hoisted up my pants and straightened my shirt and finger-combed my bangs, readying myself to interrupt the flow of the Holy Catholic Spirit. Hopefully, I wouldn't trip or be struck by lightening or anything. A rain of frogs is really hard to get out of the carpet.
Fax in hand, I peeked into the meeting room, looked around the room for Father Mulligan... and had no freakin' idea which one he was. Mind you, I'd just seen him less than an hour ago. But the room was FILLED with old, white, clean-shaved, white-haired men! I didn't know what to do!
Should I call, "Father Mulligan?" Should I clear my throat and wave the fax over my head? Should I go and find someone who knows Father Mulligan to point him out to me?
Thank God Father Mulligan finally waved to the stupid, racist secretary staring like a deer in the headlights of an Ford F150. There was no way I was gonna figure that shit out on my own.
Posted at 06:39 AM | Comments (0)May 06, 2010
The Basis of Work Friendships
Recently, at an all-staff meeting at work, I was invited to sit with the cool girls when an older, VERY-out lesbian waved me over to an empty chair next to her shouting, "Come sit in the gay section!"
On that particular day, "the gay section" was made up of three women: one of whom I know well, one I know a little bit, and one I don't know at all. Kind of like Goldilocks and the Three Dykes. (I don't know where all the gay men were sitting. Perhaps in the Snow Hag and the Seven Fags section?)
So I sat next to Gretchen -- the one who called me over, the one I only know kinda-sorta -- and as the presentations wore on, our running commentary became increasingly unprofessional. How nice to discover a kindred spirit, snarky and jaded.
At one point, her disdain became very specific, towards a member of the H.R. department (my sworn enemy, as you know).
But then she stopped herself mid-sentence and said, "Hmm. We need to find out if we hate the same people."
After I stopped laughing, I thought, How sweet. She doesn't want to offend me by talking smack about someone who might be a friend of mine.
And then I realized, Bitch, please. She just doesn't want me narc-ing on her to someone who might be a friend of mine.
But what really struck me was the bare-bones truth of that statement. For isn't that pretty much what all work-friendships are based on -- hating the same people? At least initially. Think about it. When you start a job, people are pretty nice.
But then, as they get used to you, their real personalities come out, until you are forced to look around and find the one person to whom you can whisper conspiratorially, "Jeebus E. Cheese, these people are the candy in the big piñata of crazy!"
Indeed, perhaps Gretchen and I should have lunch and reconcile our enemies lists...
Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (2)May 03, 2010
I Haven't Experienced Linear Thought In Three Months
I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!
Oh my gawd, you guys, I can't blog at work anymore. I'm actually, I think, kinda important. I answered a phone call from the freakin' VATICAN last month. And this isn't even me-exaggerating-for-the-sake-of-humor; I'm totally legit here. (Did you know that even their low-level secretaries are cardinals? Dude was like, "This is Secretary Cardinal Brian Mueller." Seriously? I think I need a title change.)
And now that I'm trained to work on our website and spend half my days mucking around in HTML, I have become the person I feared -- the person who says, "When I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is sit in front of the computer." My blood ran cold just typing that!
I know I've been neglecting you lately, precious blog, precious admirers. And it would be easy to just shrug and say, "Oh, well, I'm busy. Out of my control!" And then snuggle my box of sangria on the couch while watching everything that National Geographic ever produced about ancient Egypt.
BUT NO! I will persevere! When the going gets tough, the tough get blogging! How do I think I'm going to get a novel written if I can't even commit to two measly blog posts a week?! I'm being tested. So here's some crap that's been rattling around my noggin lately.
* * * * *
If you leave a comment and tell me that I'm interesting, informative, or an excellent source of news, I'm going to assume that you are a spam robot. Also, if your name is zxcvbnm.
* * * * *
A few days ago, I was dead tired at 2pm. Not like I-had-pasta-for-lunch-and-need-a-carb-nap tired. More like my-plane-just-landed-in-Japan-and-I-haven't-had-solid-sleep-in-37-hours tired. It was weird. I actually went home after work and slept for two and a half hours, got up, ate dinner, watched "Dirty Dancing" (Damn, I'd forgotten how fucking hot that movie is!), and then went back to sleep for the entire night!
Now, I know that some people feel like they are a woman trapped inside a man's body. Or, there's the old joke, "Somewhere inside this fat body is a skinny person trying to get out!" So, is it possible to be, like, I'm a New Zealander trapped inside a Chicagoan's body? Because my internal clock just isn't on midwestern time. Is there such thing as an internal biological global shift?
If not, I am hereby copyrighting it and claiming all rights. Maybe I'll start a support group...
Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (1)