May 03, 2005
Lean Cuisines, Five for Ten Bucks
Today, I'm blogging about Heather's work because she's too chicken.
On Friday night, I was Heather's stunt boyfriend. D from work gave her two tickets to "Wicked" cuz he couldn't use them.
And let me just pause to say... FREE TICKETS TO "WICKED"!!! IT WAS WICKED AWESOME!!! RUN, DON'T WALK, TO THE ORIENTAL THEATRE!!!
Anyhoo, several weeks ago, D happened to mention in front of Heather and their co-worker, Andrea, that he had these tickets, which made Andrea sit up and beg and yap, "Heather, I'll totally take you!"
Now, mind you, Heather is not all that fond of Andrea. She's nice to her for the sake of office harmony, but Andrea is what is known in the workplace as a Hoverer. She'll submit a job ticket to Heather, and then come back and ask about it every hour.
So, in an act of passive-aggressiveness that I heartily endorse, for every time that Andrea asks, Heather moves her job ticket one place lower in the stack. Heh.
Well, apparently, D doesn't particularly care for Andrea, either, because he gave his "Wicked" tickets to Heather. And because Heather is a nice person, she considered inviting Andrea... for about a nanosecond. Then she put down the crack pipe and invited me. (Her boyfriend hates musicals, hence Wenchie the Stunt Boyfriend, and I love that gig because the benefits are awesome).
This morning, Heather got an email from Andrea. And then a split second later, she got another one with the subject line: PLEASE DELETE THAT LAST EMAIL! IT WAS MEANT FOR MY MOTHER!
Oh, c'mon. Who could resist that?! Well, Heather couldn't, and neither could you, be honest. Here's the email:
Hey Mom,
Just wanted to tell you I didn't end up saying anything to H today about the play. I did email her in the afternoon when I was bored b/c I ran out of options and she was a bit rude. But the funniest part was in the am when I asked her about a ticket and she started an email with trust me, if I had one, I'd give it to you or tell you....hahaaaaa.....yeah right....
D and I had a convo today too. Short but normal. I think he started it, but I had to be off to that stupid wkly to-do mtg so I didn't get any real info. We'll see...
And, Jewel had lean cuisines 5/$10! Amazing!
Love you,
Andrea
Heather laughed her ass off and, of course, immediately forwarded it to me.
PW: you should totally put it on your website!
H: she's too stupid to write something good.
H: and: who e-mails about groceries?
PW: the lean cuisine part is my favorite
H: totally.
PW: but what's really obnoxious is that it's written as if her Mom totally knows what's going on cuz she rags about you all the time
H: oh, I know. that's worse than if it was explicit, even.
PW: I still think you should it in your blog
H: tempting.
PW: want me to put it o my blog?
H: ooH! that's better!
H: (i've started a monster! Its' dooce Deux)
PW: and she says "H" in stead of Heather
PW: you must be a regular character in the drama of her life!
H: TOTALLY.
H: I'm going to flick boogers at her at recess. wanna come?
February 17, 2005
The Birds, the Bees & the Corn
Since I am now forbidden to blog about Anne’s mom or anything that happens at Anne’s house (mice), I have to blog about detassling corn. [Excerpt from an email from Anne: “P.S. My mother has taken to writing “No Blog!” in bold at the end of every e-mail she sends to me."]
Now, I work in an OFFICE in a fairly URBAN area, i.e. CHICAGO. The closest I’ve ever come to a farm is yelling “Moo!” at the cows while driving through Wisconsin, and I gotta say that 99% of the people I know are in the same boat.
So why the hell did the words “detassling corn” come up THREE TIMES in ONE DAY by three different people?! What are the odds?! I mean, unless one is a corn farmer or employed by a corn farmer, there’s just no call for it in normal conversation. It’s like, “Hand me that piano.” There’s just no call for it EVER.
So Anne came over to my desk to make sure I understand that I cannot blog about her mom (clean freak) and then stood there looking bored, obviously waiting to be entertained. So I told her about “detasseling corn,” which she found as inherently wrong as I did.
The she asked the obvious question, “What’s a corn tassle, anyway?”
Since it’s Anne and she would just hit me, I opted out of the obvious stripper joke forming in my mind and said, “Let’s ask Tim! He’s a hillbilly! He’d know!”
[Tim is one of my bosses, and he’s hot. And he’s from downstate Illinois, so he’s basically southern, as far as I’m concerned.]
To Tim’s protests, I said, “Dude, you’re wearing a Cosby sweater – therefore, you’re a hillbilly. Now what is detasseling corn?”
And, not surprisingly, he knew and proceeded to provide us with an explanation, complete with pictures of corn and stories of detassling corn with girls in bikinis.
At one point, Tim was like, “It’s to avoid…” and couldn’t find the word, so I said, “Pollenation?”
And he said yes, and both he and Anne looked mighty surprised and impressed with my great, big brain and vast knowledge of agricultural practices.
And then he goes, “So, yeah, basically, you’re deflowering the corn.”
Sure, Tim, you’re not a hillbilly. Uh-huh.
February 09, 2005
Barbie Watch 2005: Crisis Averted
After lunch, J in Marketing (who is also married to Husband's Ex, by the way -- I know, it's all so disgustingly incestuous) comes up to me and goes, "Um... there's a... Bondage Barbie... on my desk. Is it yours?"
No, Einstein, the janitor left it there. YES, IT'S MINE!!!
Idiot.
So her hands and feet are tied, and there's a gag on her, which is pretty funny. And I left her bound and gagged for all to see. For a while anyway. I don't think she minds, the little whore. And it makes my co-workers laugh.
Nothing conclusive on who did it (it wasn't J, trust me, the man has no sense of humor), but I think, based on traffic patterns at the time, it was probably a couple of the actuaries. Which is unusual for actuaries, you know, to have personalities.
Needless to say, the Barbies will be coming home with me on weekends from now on. Obviously, when forced to work weekends, people get a little wonky, and Barbie is just too tempting.
Posted at 10:20 AM | Comments (0)Barbie Watch 2005
Still no Barbie, and no note.
And when someone takes something personal off your desk, and you don't know who did it or when you're getting it back, I believe it's called stealing. I'm just sayin'.
Okay, ha ha, it was cute, but now I'm just irritated. It's the priniple of the thing, ya know? I don't take other people's stuff; leave my shit alone. And I'm sure they're thinking, "Oh, hee hee, stupid dumb doll." But you know, as with all collecting, every doll has a story and memories attached to it, especially the really good ones.
Like the one that's been stolen. She was my first Silkstone, and I got her at a doll show with Joe and Kara, after which we all went over to Kara's and fussed with our new stuff and ate Arby's and drank champagne. It was the last time Kara went to a show because then she had a baby and never goes anywhere anymore.
I mean, if they'd taken some crappy play-line doll, I wouldn't be so miffed. I still don't like my stuff being taken, but some generic doll wouldn't irritate me nearly as much as them taking something of value, both monetary and sentimental.
Sorry for the bitchy non-funniness. I have an actual funny blog in the works, I promise.
Now they're gonna have to buy me Barbie clothes to make it up to me.
Posted at 10:00 AM | Comments (0)February 08, 2005
I Work With Freaks
Okay, I bring a different Barbie to work every week. It's just not fair to leave her where no one can admire her! ("And she's calling them freaks?!" Yes, very clever of you to point that out. Shaddap.)
This week, it's my beloved, newly-acquired Hard Rock Barbie. Last week, it was my exquisitely beautiful Delphine Silkstone Barbie.
Only now, Delphine Barbie is gone. There was only a note where her regal snootiness had once stood in judgement of my entire cubicle.
"We have Barbie. If you ever want to see her again, buy candy. Lots of it. Load up the jars on Toni's desk! You know what we like! Oh, and a million dollars would be a good idea, too! The Kidnappers"
[Toni sits near me and is known for the jars of candy she keeps on her desk, which I contribute to regularly... because I partake of them regularly.]
Now, I gotta admit. As much as I'm freaked about one of my most expensive Barbies going missing, that's pretty fuckin' funny. And since it's not very often that anyone pulls one over on me, I gotta admire the culprit. I also must admire his/her Word skills, as he/she has varied the fonts so as it make it resemble words cut from a newspaper. Cute!
My main suspect is Nicholle (in cahoots with Anne, possibly) because a) they're demanding candy; b) they're demanding money; c) the demand of candy came before the demand of money; and d) it's something I would have done, and very few people here are as cool as me.
My other suspect is Tom because a) he's a total buttmunch.
I sent out an e-mail to my list of about 15 possible suspects:
"I got your note, and I'm going to Target after lunch, where I will get lots and lots of candy. I hope you are treating Barbie humanely."
To which I got this reply: "If Ken wasn't such a wuss, he'd be out searching for these low-lifes."
And while he does have a point, that kind of attitude isn't going to get Barbie back, now, is it?!
So what choice did I have? I went to Target and plopped down $12.50 for various chocolate tidbits, put them on Toni's desk and sent out a follow-up email:
"I'm back from Target, and Toni has a buttload of chocolate on her desk, as per your demand. Now hand over the dame. Don't make me bring in G.I. Joe and Xena."
Which provoked another unhelpful reply: "G.I. Joe is probably too busy going down on Xena, anyway."
Nice. So this morning, I arrived to find another note, in the same style:
"You have met our demands, nice lady. Barbie will be returned to you, unharmed, in do time!"
Yes, that's right, in do time. And now I can narrow my list of suspects to the small crop of hobos I work with, for whom English is a second language.
And no, Barbie still isn't back.
Posted at 09:55 AM | Comments (0)December 15, 2004
Actual Conversation Between My Boss and I
Boss: You know that, uh... sheet with, uh.. the...
Me: Two words? First syllable sounds like?
Boss: With the numbers on it! The phone numbers!
Me: The phone list, yeah.
Boss: You know the fax number listed on there? Does that go to this fax machine by us?
Me: No. Only J knows that number.
Boss: Well, where does it go then?
Me: To the main fax machine in the mail room.
Boss: Okay. So, if I get a fax, who picks it up?
Me: Whoever is there at the time, and they put it in our mail slot.
Boss: We have a mail slot? Where?
Me: You know those big, grey shelves in the mail room? There's one marked Underwriitng.
Boss: And that's us?
Me: That's us.
Boss: And who picks up our stuff?
Me: I do. Several times a day.
Swear. To. God. And this man is a V.P.
Of course, he knows how inept he is with simple stuff. And frankly, I think it's kinda of charming that he can't make two-sided copies or use his speakerphone. Because it means job security for me.
And as long as my job consists of ridiculously simple tasks that make the boss think I'm a fucking genius, well, I just couldn't ask for a better job, could I?
November 05, 2004
An Open Announcement To Everything I Work With
No, I do not know where my Boss is.
I do not have x-ray vision, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't be spending so much time in a place filled with so many unattractive people. So if you are standing at my cubicle and cannot see if my Boss is in his office from where you are, than neither can I.
My Boss does not notify me when he leaves his office. Nor does he give an estimated time of his return. He does not say:
"I'm going to lunch.""I am going to the bathroom, but I only have to pee, so I'll be back in just a minute."
"I'm going home for a couple hours because I don't trust my teenaged daughter to be home alone."
"I'm going to meander around the office and stop for conversation at random cubicles, so that when my wife calls, you have to jog up and down the halls to find me."
If he's in a meeting, that I can find out, as well as when the meeting is scheduled to be over. But then again, you have the same exact calendar system that my Boss and I have, so you can find that out just as easily yourself, from your own desk. Without interrupting me because I'm busy reading Dooce, for Pete's sake!
October 27, 2004
A Story About What an Asshole I Am
Okay, enough of harshing everyone's buzz.
When I first started working here, Little Sister worked in the I.T. department along with Brother-In-Law (not her husband, but Older Sister's Husband), so I always ate lunch with the I.T. department. They are, by far, the coolest department in the whole company (which is not to say that my department isn't damn cool, but the overwhelming Southerners-to-Yankees ratio can often leave one... confused).
Let me put it this way. You know why I have AOL IM and games and complete internet access with no blocked sites on my work computer? Because the people downloading porn and trolling for hotties at work are all in I.T. They are overworked, underpaid, perverted, abused, bitter and vengeful, and I love them all dearly.
Soon after I started, the I.T. dept. got a new employee. His name is irrelevant because, the first time I saw him, I called him Doogie, and it stuck. He started eating lunch with us, natch.
When Doogie first joined us, he was a wiggly, eager, sweet little puppy, the youngest in the company. He would giggle a lot and admonish us for using our lunch hour to discuss the freaks that we work with. Then his girlfriend, too, came to work and eat with us. She soon became Mrs. Doogie, and she's even sweeter and more naïve than he.
Over the years, I'm proud to say, we have broken Doogie. He is no longer taken aback by my shameless flirting, but now grumbles impatiently when I try to make him blush. He has less hair and more butt. He can talk shit like a pro and hates every single person who has ever called the Help Desk. So basically, every single person.
Now let me tell you about Anne and Nicholle. We're the Pink Ladies on crack. Ever see "Kill Bill," where Lucy Liu's character is walking in slow motion down the hall, flanked by her bodyguard and personal assistant? Yeah, that's us, only Caucasian. And burlier. (I so want to live in a Quentin Tarantino film, but more on that another time.) We're your typical nightmare, and when co-workers see us walking together, the reaction is always, "Uh oh."
Every morning at 10:00, we do a lap around the building, which is half a mile. It's nice to get some fresh air and dish and bitch and regale each other with amusing anecdotes. (You hate us, don't you? Yeah, I kinda hate us, too.) Today, after I warned them that we'll be getting a memo from Gary about proper refrigerator usage because he caught me putting a yogurt in the executive refrigerator, Nicholle brought up an exciting topic.
N: "Have you guys seen The New Doogie?"
Me: "What? No!"
A: "Yeah, I didn't know we had someone younger than Doogie working here!"
N: "And they travel around together! It's hilarious! We have to go check him out."
Anne can't be bothered with such girlie silliness, since she's single and doesn't want to appear to be on the make, I guess. But Nicholle and I quite unabashedly tracked down New Doogie in Brother-In-Law's cube.
Me: [to B.I.L.] "Oh. I came by to gossip, but you're obviously busy."
ND: "Gossip is wrong."
Me: [half a chuckle] "You're so young."
ND: "I just shaved my goatee last night!"
At this point, I have to walk away because I'm about to bust out laughing, and Nicholle is already peeing in her pants. His goatee defense was killing me! It's like he sensed we were the Alpha Females and instinctively craved our acceptance. How adorable!
{sigh} We're going to have such a good time breaking his spirit.
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?!