Really Beast…You are Killing Me. February 6, 2012

Y’all.  I’ve had it today. It’s Monday, early afternoon, and I’m ready to punch a bitch.  And by bitch, I mean Beast.  Beast, my coworker, has been in rare form today…even for her.  Don’t know Beast?  Read here.

Here’s my morning:

• being told I wasn’t recycling right (I put it in the proper can.  How is the wrong?!)
•  forced to answer three phone lines at once while she filed her nails…literally.
• told I was looking haggard (I think she’s jealous, I have on my Tiffany blue cardigan with diamond looking buttons -  perfectly accented jewelry and shoes. I look freaking adorable.)
• critiqued endlessly on every single thing I did today thus far
• asked to quit typing so loudly (Now I’m doing it just to piss her off.)

Then, she went and pulled this:

Beast: So. What did you think of the National Anthem last night during the big game?

Me: honestly and truly, still attempting to be perky after all the above  Oh I thought she was great! I love her!

Beast: Hmh. Figures you’d think that.

Me: seething, blinking, remembering to breathe, forcing myself not to acknowledge her

Beast: Yea. She hit a couple notes that were wrong.  You know I have perfect pitch hearing.

Me: still ignoring

Beast: Hm. Well…you wouldn’t know anything about that. You don’t have a famous mom.

Me: OH SHUT THE HELL UP YOU STUPID PIECE OF LARD. ok, I just said that part in my mind…..Um, I thought she was great – and I also thought she looked adorable.

Beast: Really?!  HAHAHA. I hated her hair.  What is she, like 12? I guess you’d like that prissy girl.

Me: I do the death turn. This means I slowly turn my head, just my head, in your direction, give you the “shit is about to get real” look, then dare you to speak. 

Beast: Yea, you really do look awful today. What..you didn’t sleep again? Sucks to be you!

Me: Do. Not. Speak. To. Me. The. Rest. Of. The. Day. Understand?

Beast: Whatever prissy pants.

Me: Did I stutter? Lose the attitude….and the “Fear the Turtle” shirt. It’s juvenile and … it accentuates your stomach sweetie. I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for that one. But…. ya know.

So because of Beast, I’m revising the drinking game I initially created for her. I might need a new liver if I don’t.

One Beverage of your Choice:

• Every time Beast rolls back in her chair and you are unable to avoid speaking to her OR she looms at your desk and you break your vow of silence
• Each time she says, “You’re just wrong!” or heaves a heavy, disapproving sigh.
• Each time Beast cops a fake Southern accent
• Each time Beast leaves for over an hour and doesn’t tell you goodbye or where she’s going

One Shot:

• Every day I’m the first one here, last to leave
• Every time Beast says “Well, that’s not MY problem.”
• Every time Beast attempts to make you feel stupid, inferior or less beautiful than any human should…BEFORE noon.

Here is the tally for the day: 4 beverages and 6 shots.  Hmmm.  Maybe this still isn’t good for my liver….I need a new job y’all.

Meet Marci….At Your Own Risk January 10, 2012

As promised, here is part 2 of the holidays with PIC .  The evening was great, but it was the antics of one party guest that really made for party stories to last the year.

Introducing….Marci

PIC has a neighbor who is…shall we just say…lewd and crass, and that’s before she crosses over her thinly veiled line between buzzed and hammered.  For the purpose of the blog, I will call her Marci.

Marci has E.D.

Ok.  I know what you are thinking.  E.D. is NOT something any woman could have.  Nay. This isn’t THAT. And, please note that I’ve met Marci exactly once before.

Observe:

PIC: Hey…how long has Marci been in the bathroom?

Me: Um…. at least two songs ago (we were singing karaoke) you think she is sick?

PIC: shrugs and keeps singing Poker Face.

Time elapses…..

Marci: WOW.  You guys! You know what! I have explosive diarrhea. Like….. (Ok. For your sake and mine, I’m going to stop here and leave the detail she gave out.  Suffice it to say she was descriptive and it made me hurl a little.)

PIC and Me: exchange mortified looks, stop singing mid Adele.

Marci: GOD that was awful. I mean….

Me: ROLLING IN THE DEEEEEEEPPPPPPP (trying to drown her out)

Marci: What. What’d I say?  Like you don’t have that happen to you!

Me: YOU HAD MY HEART AND SOOOOOOULLLLL

PIC to me later:  I don’t think I’ve ever used the words explosive diarrhea out loud, especially if the room contained people I’d met once.  It makes me uneasy.  Let’s just say E.D. instead.  I used an entire can of Febreeze in the bathroom.

Me: And that was the least intrusive part of the night….

Marci Hurt My Hand

Marci: POW! she smacks the crap out of PIC’s butt.

PIC: OWWWWW!!!!

Marci: You know you like it.  POW!!! Another smack that I could hear across the room

PIC retaliates by smacking Marci’s butt with a karaoke box set of cds.

PIC to me: Ow. I hurt my hand and wrist.

Marci: Oh nice one! Smack it!

I move between PIC and Marci, take a long drink of wine, grab the mike and sing.  Marci dives toward PIC and bites her arm.

Marci: You like it. You know it.

PIC and I exchange looks again. I was about to tackle Marci.  I didn’t care if she was 50 pounds larger than me.  Smack my PIC one more time….she must have read my look, because she settled down….for the moment.

Marci Bites…Again

From another room:

OWWWW! WHY GOD WHY?

Giggle

I turn to see what happened.  Marci has fled to the bathroom again.  I walk into the room and see a stunned PIC.

Me: What?

PIC: Marci bit me… ON THE ASS.

Me: WHAT?!  She already bit your arm!

PIC: I have a bruise from that one already.

Me: What is her problem?

PIC: (with a frown on her sweet face) I don’t know, but she has E.D.

Marci went home shortly after, accompanied by PIC and I.  I half drug, half pushed Marci up the hill to her house.  Once she was in and PIC and I could return to normal, we rang in the wee hours of 2012 with lots of singing, some more wine, dancing like mad and laughing until my abs hurt the next morning.

At the first breakfast of 2012, PIC and I discussed Marci, her E.D. and her biting problem.  And as we looked down at our lovely breakfast….and back up at each other…..we quickly vowed NOT to discuss or bring up the term E.D. again. Ever.

PIC and I resolved that 2012 will be fantastic – filled with epic moments, belly laughs, car dancing, karaoke, wine slushies and blogging.  Cheers to 2012 – may it bring you happiness on every level.

Love,

Me

Where’s my Wine? December 12, 2011

I think today is going to be one of those special kinds of days….you know, the kind where it’s 5pm and you go WHAT the hell was that about – and where is my wine???

First of all, its Monday….in my busy season…and the holidays are coming. This calls for all sorts of trouble.  The first call of the day was from a young lady seeking contact information about another member.

Me: What’s the last name?

Caller: Levine, Lavato, Lava, Lobotomy

Me: Pardon?

Caller: Yeah. I can’t pronounce it or spell it.  It starts with an L and it sounds kind of famous.

Me: Ooo…k  then….

Note: The real last name was something like Lazavo. When I told this to PIC, she said, “She should have just said lasagna, that’s way closer than lobotomy.” I love my PIC…. 

*********************

Second call of the day:

Me: May I have your name, please?

Caller: Arian – like the nation, but spelled different.

Really??!? I don’t even know where to start with this one….

**********************

Third call of the day:

Caller: I have a problem with my portical.

Me: Login portal?

Caller: POR-TI-CAL, did I stutter?

Me: no ma’am

*******************

Before I share the last memory of my day, there are some important things to note: I am a ballet dancer (was for almost my whole life thus far) and have been in the Nutcracker and played all the lead rolls for more years than most people have even seen the Nutcracker. My boss knows this, hell – everyone I know knows this about me.  Even if this wasn’t the case, I swear to God I have not lived under a rock for the last 30 something years.

Me: Clara submitted a birthday on the OP calendar – she was born December 24. That’s pretty cool!

Boss: I bet she is named after Clara…in the Nutcracker.

Me: Haha- yes, I can certainly see that!

Boss: Because the Nutcracker’s main lead is a girl named Clara.

Me: pause: Yes….

Boss: And the Nutcracker takes place at Christmas.  Like our Clara’s birthday.

Me: longer hesitation pause: Um… yes.

Boss: So that’s the reason our Clara may be named Clara.

Me: insert big, fake pageant grin, voice dripping in sarcasm: I totally get your point now. Thank you.

Boss: You are welcome. (And she’s serious y’all- she came and hugged me and warmly patted my arms.)

Me: continue to smile, all the while thinking OH MY GOD ARE YOU REALLY THAT FREAKING DENSE…or do you think I am?

*****

Where’s my wine?

Cheers,

Me

I Love a Parade November 29, 2011

So it is that time of year again.  The time when we all feel nice and cozy, get nostalgic for our pasts and wax poetic about our future in the new year.  There are also parades. I LOVE a good parade.  Nothing makes me happier than to smile and point at the people I used to be.  Yes readers, I was an avid “in the parade girl” until one horrible day….which I will devote an entire post in the immediate future.

This year, PIC and I went to the parade.  And, in true PIC style, a lot happened.  Some of it I am even able to share in pictures.

The first thing that happened was that we noticed we were on the wrong side of the street.  There was a happily buzzed brood across from us singing out of tune holiday songs, swaying to their own music and snapping photos.  Drinks? Check. Singing? Check check. Photos? CHECK! PIC and I were certainly on the wrong side of the street, but were shot a “behave ladies, it is only 11am” look.  So, we complied.

*I love snapping random photos.  So much so that Svetlana does this on her own accord.  Here is a picture of my PICs hair.  I didn’t take it, Svetlana did. But girl I see why! So pretty!

Doesn't she have beautiful hair???

The second thing that happened was PIC and I got all Stacey London/Clinton Kelly up in there.  The fashion adorned by these lovely parade watchers?  Something short of hideous.  No. Who am I kidding… it was hideous. I have photos, but I can’t post them because I fear for the poor people’s street cred.  Here is an idea of what we saw:

*A lady in a cat sweatshirt.  Nay. Not just any cat sweatshirt. This was a classy cat.  In rhinestones.  And glitter.  And…wait for it… puffy freakin’ paint y’all!  Kid. You. Not.  It was fantastic.

*A lady in what I assume are remnants of Grinch.  Green, dreaded up, furry matted boots. Oh hell honey…..

*A lady who ate a leopard.  Really. Because how can you make leopard print pants fit that tight unless you are 1) half leopard or 2) just ate a leopard.

*A child dressed like a little stripper. Yes.  The poor thing had on a skirt  that, even in my early 20s, I would have died before I wore out.  Leave a little something to the imagination for the boys right? But, yeah. Tiny short skirt, heels, and a tight top.  The crowing glory as it were? Her hair was all big and teased out.  I poked PIC and said “Look! Stripper in training!” She gave the “oh my that’s sad” look, and then we shot a dirty glare at her mother for letting her dress that way.

But arguably the best part of the parade was the dead bird. We shall call it Feathers. Because, well, that was all that was left. After PIC and I stop people watching, I zero in like a hawk on something slightly swaying in the middle of the parade route.  Feathers.  Rather, one wing of Feathers – wing up, saluting as one should in a parade….one last wave for the road.

Me: PIC! LOOK! Sweet baby moses is that a dead bird?

PIC: Yes. Yes it is.

Me: For the love of God, can’t they clean that up before the parade marches through?

PIC: Check it out! Look! Posse of girls heading straight for the dead bird!

Me: It’s waving to them like “Hey girlfriends! Wait for me!”

PIC: They are going to crush it.

The bird.

And this was what we actually heard (after girls successfully avoided the bird much to PIC and I’s dismay.)

Dead bird! Close call!

Me: They avoided it!

PIC: But the firetrucks won’t.

She was right.  But, we did see a girl drag her flag through Feathers and heave him on to the crowd a little, a kid on skates fall because he saw Feathers, a dog attempt to eat Feathers… and a brave police officer high step the hell out of Feathers.  But, for literally three quarters of the parade, Feathers maintained the wing wave.  Perhaps it was the wind as PIC said.  But I like to think it was the gentle spirit of Feathers giving one last goodbye to his beloved town parade.

Sad Days.

After the parade was over and Feathers was a memory, we headed home to make… what else…. dinner and wine slushies….followed by crazy karaoke and laughing until I cried.

Cheers!

Cheers to the holidays y’all!

Another Manic Monday October 18, 2011

Dear Readers,

This week will be tough for me.  So, for the few of you that read me regularly, this post is for you.  If I do not post for a bit, I have not been taken by a chupacabra, zombies, gangster squirrels or anything of the like.  And if I do post more frequently, those aforementioned ideas are also not applicable, rather I have likely just temporarily lost my mind.

No, nothing quite as exciting or random, I just have a crazy work week in store.  See, we all get breaks. But when your boss is absentminded enough to give more than one person a break simultaneously? Well, that leaves me holding the proverbial bag.  In our busy time.  With a new database.  With a new software system. This means I will be doing the job of 3 this whole week.  Fun right?  Well, it could be.  I guess we will have to see.  I’m fresh into the first hours, and yet here I sit blogging. I’m procrastinating already, which may not be a good sign. I foresee late nights in my future. (Do not give me that look! I do have work ethic!!! I will totally get all my work done.  However, it may…or may not…be between regular 9-5 hours.)

I had a nice, restful weekend to prepare for all of this.  And, I currently have a nice bottle of pinot grigo chilling in the fridge for me upon my return home.  I am sure I’ll have some witty anecdotes that I will begin as drafts and post later on.  Or right then.  Whatever strikes me right.

Until then, the inevitable must happen: work. Wish me luck.  Toast to me if it’s that time wherever you are when you read this. I’ll be doing the same come 6pm….or whenever it is I wrap it up here.

Love,

Me

P.S. I realize that it is now Tuesday.  I think this is indicative of the next three days.  Or four.  Or something. I’ve lost count. And, incidentally, I did go home to the welcome arms of the pinot grigio.

PIC Night October 17, 2011

PIC (my partner in crime for you new readers) and I went to a local franchise for dinner the other night.  We now have new nicknames, and I don’t think I can go back again soon, but we’ll get to that.

We picked the said restaurant because I have a massive affinity for eating like a rabbit.  I can’t get enough of this place’s salad.  I have eaten four bowls, one sitting, all alone.  No lie!  And if you knew what I eat on a normal basis? You’d be like Oh Holy Cow!! Trust.

Anyway, PIC and I head to the restaurant, singing Beyonce because….that’s just what we do.  While waiting, we had a glass of wine, vaginas properly lifted, and toasted to girl’s night.

Eventually we are lead to an arbitrary table in the back.  We sit.  Then, PIC and I look around and see what I’m pretty sure was a wrap party for some reality teenage mommy show.  There were six moms, all with kids under 1 year, all look less than 21 (although two were drinking wine, but I am not sure they were carded.) Not judging (ok maybe I a little), but here is the conversation we overhear:

Mom 1: I can’t believe I am an old mom.  I didn’t have my first kid til I was 17.

Mom 2: Totally. I was 15 with my first and I was almost too old.

Mom 3: I couldn’t do it if I was an old mom at like 25. How would you have the energy?

Mom 4: Right? This one (she passes her baby like a football to a mom across from her), he’s more than I can handle. And with his sister at home hitting the terrible 2s? God, I don’t know what I’d do if I were old.

PIC and I: Oh. My. Dear. God.

There was so much wrong with that entire conversation.  We didn’t know what to say first, so we took the less obvious route.

Me: Did she just call us old?

PIC: Yeah.

Me: REALLY!?

PIC: WTF.  Yeah.

Me: They think WE are old?  I mean, having a baby before you can legally drink or vote is super smart, right?

PIC: I know right? This is really bad reality TV.

Me: I KNOW! But much more sad because they are like RIGHT THERE. (watching one mom swill down a glass of wine like it’s a festive fruit punch) Do you think she’s really 21?

PIC: I have no idea.  She doesn’t look it.  Seriously, this is sad….

Me: But it’s like watching animals feed at the zoo.  I know I should stop watching, but I just can’t. And the way they talk! I would clutch my pearls if I had any on.

I realize that if I don’t stop looking, I will be drawn in and forced to comment. We don’t want another hippy hippo episode right?  Finally, I avert my eyes, and look at the table to my left.  MORE babies and young moms, although these have husbands in tow.

Me: Really!?  More babies!?

PIC: They sat us in the fertile section!

Me: I hope to GOD that doesn’t rub off.  I have enough right now with cats and a turtle.

We eat a little. I order more than just rabbit food because I realize I’m starving.

PIC: (She begins to giggle, which sets me into giggles.) OMG! Do you see that couple behind me!?  She begins humming.

Me: Wow.  They are…..unique. What are you humming?

PIC: The theme from Odd Couple.

Me: BAHAHAHA! (I should note here that this couple was a tiny man of like 6 ft 2, 160; she was like 5 ft 2, 180.  Between laughs, I gasp. I. Can’t. Stop. Laughing.)

At this point, our waiter has boxed our food. He quietly lays it on the table.  And, a new set of nicknames are born: behold.

Wheat Mush and Rav? Really? Could I have a less attractive name on my box please?

One look at the boxes and I roar with laughter. I have tears streaming down my face and this makes my PIC laugh too. The restaurant is looking at us like we are uncivilized, and our waiter very insistently asks us not so steal his super fantastic light up pen as he scurries away.  At first I was like – um, do I look like a thief? But, then PIC reminded me that it is a light-up-fantastic pen… and I DO like a fancy pen….so maybe the waiter was right in insisting we not steal his pen.  I digress, but we did not steal the pen.

Wheat Mush? Oh for God’s sake….. could you not find a better way to say whole wheat pasta and mushrooms?  How about wheat w/ shroom? Rav.  Ok. I get that. But, my name is forevermore Wheat Mush.  Hers, Rav.  I’ll deal with it because it makes me laugh, but please don’t put that on my tombstone.

The Humble Pig. August 15, 2011

I went on an outing with PIC.  The only photo of the night that I can share is below.

After the both of us had a particularly bad week, we determined a girl night was in store.

After singing Beyoncé to the top of our lungs (as all girl nights SHOULD begin), the conversation turned to being humble, and then being patient (two qualities I sadly have too much of?)  Then, I spotted the most perfect pig. Ever.  She was like me: in a dress looking quite humble and patient.  PIC dutifully stopped traffic as I snapped the picture. God bless her for her patience with me!

Patient Pig in Pink

This is the point my PIC was likely wondering why I was oddly mute.  Feeling quite close to the pig, I named her Priscilla.  Why? It seemed appropriate.  I think she sent me her name telepathically because we ARE so close.  I began to wonder why Priscilla was grey.  Here is the conversation in my head:

Me: Aren’t all little pigs usually pink?

Brain: That would clash with her pink dress.

Me: Oh… wait. Is THAT why her dress is pink?

Brain: Oh dear.  Maybe she was born grey and insists on wearing pink to fit in!

Me: Oh God! Poor Priscilla!

Brain: THAT must be why she is patient and humble….because she doesn’t fit in!

Me: Priscilla.  I must buy you, paint you pink, and then let you pick out any color dress you want.

Brain: Wait.  Maybe she LIKES standing out as a grey pig.

Me: No.  She doesn’t.  If she did, she would not be so humble.  She would have worn a color less unassuming than pink, perhaps a nice Chartreuse or Persimmon.  And, she would be sporting fabulous shoes.

Brain: Why isn’t she wearing shoes? She clearly walks upright.

Me: Damn them. Someone has stolen her Jimmy Choo’s.

Brain: And her Birkin.

Me: That would certainly make me humble….and patient if said assailant was holding them in front of me.  Perhaps Priscilla IS in fact a diva?

Brain: She is wearing pearls….We are too smart for our own good.  We are on to you Priscilla.

Little did I know this would turn out to be an omen for the rest of the evening.

Damn you endcaps! July 29, 2011

Me: I needed cat food and wine. Oh look batteries are on sale. I need some for my remote. Oh! And for my bathroom radio. Cool. I’m so happy the store had these on endcap display!

Cashier: um. Big plans for the night?

I check out what I bought….. Shit! I look like a single woman going home to cats and a vibrator!!

Me: Yes. Actually. I am heading to a party for a…well known family. They have a specific list of things for me to do. It’s all very hush hush.

Cashier: ummmmm.ok. Have fun. Don’t drown the cats.

Me: um. Ok. Thanks for the advice.

Cashier: any time.

Moral of the story: endcaps are the devil.