Who Does That - Part XX

Having spent more than a week on vacation to visit Maverick's family for Thanksgiving, I've recently spent a lot of time mingling with the American "public". Everywhere from airports to train stations to shopping centers to restaurants to sidewalks to grocery stores. While I noticed an abundance of non-Emily Post acceptable behaviors in all of these areas, I want to concentrate on one in particular arena grossly lacking in general manners.

The extended time away included several visits to public restrooms. Now, I know what you must be thinking; "Oh I know the kind of disgusting person she's going after--the don't wash your hands person". That would be a good guess, but I'm going to skip right over the multitudes of disgusting germ spreaders I saw. That includes not talking about the very obviously seven to eight months pregnant woman, who I saw walk out of a stall and right out the door in the Minneapolis airport (I'm sure that must be one healthy baby she's cooking in there). Nope, not going to call her out. Nor will I mention the little heathens who I saw just throw their used paper towels on the sink in the T.D. Banknorth Garden bathroom, while mom watched over their acts and said nothing. Nope, not going to blog about that.

Instead, I'm going to tell you the following tale:

While eagerly snatching up the bargain deals at the L.L. Bean Outlet in Freeport, ME, I (as my grandmother would say) slipped into the little girls' room to tinkle. As I entered the ladies' room, I noticed the distinct sounds and odors of what was clearly a woman who'd enjoyed way too many beans with her lunch coming from the closed door stall second from the end. Naturally, I cringed a little and hurriedly made my way to the stall at the other end of the restroom, as far away from this situation as possible.

Hey, when a girl's got to make water, she's got to make water.

There I was rushing through my business so I could escape the very loud noises and obnoxious smells, when I heard a very strange BEEP.......BEEP......BEEP noise. This particular bathroom was tucked away upstairs in the outlet store, but located somewhat closesly to the only upstairs register. I was thinking that maybe the scanners were just really loud. Not so much. A few seconds later I heard Magic Bean lady say mid-toot, "Hello?". She proceeded to start a conversation with whatever poor sap was on the other end of that call, just tooting away. Not only was she choosing to have a phone conversation while she was on the shitter, but she was choosing to do it in a public restroom.

Who does that?

Good Intentions

An annual ritual in my department at work is for the staff to chip in money for a Christmas gift for our Vice President. Every year at about this time emails begin to bounce around regarding who will coordinate the purchasing gift, what type of gift we should buy and how much each person should contribute to the cause. This exact same procedure happened at my last employer as well.

Words cannot begin to describe how much this concept pisses me off.

I spend the last four to five weeks of every year trying to figure out how in the hell I will be able to afford to purchase gifts for my family and close friends (you know the people I love on many levels, and have been there for me through it all). As someone who only finished college two years ago, there's still not a lot of money on my pay stub every other week. What little is there I need to pay the credit card and student loans bills I racked up attending college. Not to forget the additional car note, insurance, rent, utilities, phone, gas, food and other basic survival needs to pay for. There's not a lot left after all of that. So trying to add in the cost of holiday gifts for the people I truly care about is no easy task. It takes of lot of creative thinking to land on something that shows you truly care about them, yet does not show how little cash you had to spend on the gift and still allows you to eat.

Now you want me to add on money for someone else? Someone whose salary I know has to be about four times as much as mine?

Don't get me wrong, I have mad respect for my VP. She has honestly been the best boss I've ever had. I've learned so much from her, and she's done countless things to help me, both professionally and personally. She's a great person. Truly, she is.

It's not that I think she is worthy of a gift. However, feeling forced into forking over money for a gift for her just makes me bitter. Bitter that it takes another $20-$30 (depending on how guilty my co-workers make me feel) away from possible gifts for my parents, Maverick or my brother and sister-in-law.

I always end feeling like this situation is Robin Hood in reverse, and it really grinds my gears!

Moving On Up

The holidays are sneaking up on me faster than a seven year old boy should run away from Michael Jackson. Don't get me wrong, I love Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's. I really, really do. Time with family, a few days away from work, getting to break out your fat pants for the gorge fests we Americans nonchalantly call dinners, bowl games, ginormous rings from the one you love in a little box under the tree (okay, okay, wishful thinking, but a girl can dream)--all treasures of the season. However, I always seem to find myself a little relieved when it's over.

I'm beginning to feel my usual stresses of the season. The anxiety of gift ideas (for me going out and picking up something isn't the problem, it's determining a suitable gift for someone to show them they mean something to me, yet the purchase of said item doesn't mean that come January I have to make my home in a box on the street corner). The "dear gawd, I need to exfoliate" feeling of drier skin. The dread of walking out of my apartment in the mornings, still half asleep, forced into exercise before noon (one of my biggest pet peeves) because I have to spend ten minutes scraping ice from the windows of my car. The annoyance of people who drive with wreaths on their cars--it's an automobile, not your home. The emotional torture of having to give your most Oscar worthy performance while you try to convince your grandma you really do love purple argyle leg warmers, and they'll be the perfect accessory for your work outfit on Monday, when you're actually just forced to drive all the way to GoodWill and donate them because your grandma didn't put a gift receipt in the box. The unexplainable pressure we all feel to have the most to die for New Year's Eve party to attend, otherwise you will be the social leper of the entire city, but you can't seem to find one to grace with your presence as they all seem to boast a cover charge equal to an entire month's rent.

All of these things add up. By the time the calendar turns to January 2nd I usually find myself spent, emotionally and checkbook-ally. But, guess what? This year I have a new stress point to add to that list.

I have come to realize that I am officially one of "the women" at the holiday dinners. The only problem with my graduation to the adult table is that I must now also become a member of the please bring a side dish club. Naturally, I have absolutely zero idea what in the hell I should make/buy/bring to any of the upcoming dinners. The worst part is that I am finding myself way over thinking this, especially the what do I bring to the dinner at Maverick's aunt's house part. I feel like it has to be something unbelievably tasty and memorable, in some sort of unnatural I really need to impress these people way. Which is just silly considering I've met the members of his family several times. For some reason though, I am stuck in this Paula Deen, Emily Post, June Cleaver realm of perfection.

Soooooooo, any ideas on a fantabulous appetizer type dish?

Who Does That - Part XIX

Seen at a local tourist attraction on Saturday, a young lady with an outfit that was just all sorts of wrong. Not as much the goth nature of the ensemble, as the fact that it's about four sizes too small.



Also worth noting is her companion who is not wearing a bra, and happily sporting breasts that rest on her stomach.

Who does that?

The First Step

Hi, my name is Hera and I'm a crabby bitch.

It all started in the spring. The receptionist at my work announced her departure, which meant I had to take on one of her duties as no one else was trained to perform the task. The goal, according to my VP, was for me to train her assistant to eventually take over the duties the receptionist left behind since that position would no longer be a part of our department. I thought "that's fine. I can handle a little extra work for a short period of time. It's only temporary and I'm happy to help if necessary".

Of course, the executive assistant announced her departure from the organization shortly after the receptionist left. At this point, I gained even more extra duties "in the interim" as the search for a new executive assistant got underway. Again, I thought "that's fine. I can handle a little extra work for a short period of time. It's only temporary and I'm happy to help if necessary".

The applicant search was excruciatingly long. It bled over into a co-worker's maternity leave and into what is the time of year I refer to as "hell on Earth" for my position. In essence, for the last four months I have been holding down three, sometimes four jobs--all during what is the absolute most stressful period for me even in a normal month.

As the time wore on I became a quite the bitch. Scratch that, the term I'm looking for is crabby bitch. At about month two I reached crabby, by the end of month three I was unbearably bitchy. The things that sent my mood South varied. Sometimes it was the mounting workload, sometimes it was the stupid questions I didn't have time to answer, sometimes it was the recognition of others' efforts while mine went unnoticed...again. Most days I hated everything about my job, my employer and 85% of my co-workers. I even brought my anger home on occasion--an extremely unfair thing for Maverick to put up with. However, he has weathered the storm as if it was nothing at all, and simply his job to make me feel like it's okay to uncontrollably sob at the drop of a green bean onto the kitchen floor.

No longer.

The executive assistant position has not only been filled, but the person holding down that job now seems to be (almost) trained and self-sufficient in the tasks I needed to be able to get that position responsible for once again. Great hire too. I think this person will be an extremely good fit for the organization. Just in time for my busiest time of year to be almost over as well. I'm back down to just about one and a half jobs. The stress level is way down. Thankfully. I've come to realize that a) I simply could not handle that amount of stress any longer, b) I was about to have a complete and utter mental/nervous breakdown, c) I have got to get back to my old happy self--being miserable every day is just not a way to live.

So there it is. I'm a crabby bitch. Rather, I have been a crabby bitch lately, but as of this moment I apologize for my crabby bitchyness and I will no longer be a crabby bitch.

With that in mind, I'm off to celebrate Halloween with some of my favorite people in the whole world--Maverick and my BFF.

Yes, I went junior high on you! It's the spirit of the kid holiday. It's taken over me.

Muse

Having been inspired I thought I would share my love for autumn. Being a not so closeted, warm weather, beach bum at heart most people would think that I loathe the onset of winter. On the contrary, you'll be shocked to learn that I actually welcome it. Just as I'm sure Britney is hiding her longing to return to the days of Cheetos and barefooted gas station restroom stops, I conceal my love for the comforts of cooler temperatures. Not anymore. Here are my twenty great things about the change of seasons.

1. Piping hot soup in a bread bowl.

2. Vibrant yellow leaves covering an entire tree.

3. Postseason baseball.

4. Warm, comfy and yet uber sexy sweaters.

5. Little kids in Halloween costumes.

6. Apple cider.

7. Snuggling up on the couch with a blanket, Maverick and watching a movie.

8. Anticipating a huge Thanksgiving dinner.

9. Football.

10. Flaunting my fetish for gloves, scarves and winter hats.

11. Mums.

12. Enjoying time with my wonderful family on the holidays.

13. My favorite TV shows are back from summer vacation.

14. The Heisman Watch.

15. Overusing the Crock-Pot.

16. Gift shopping for the people I love.

17. Hockey.

18. The indescribably comforting feeling of being cocooned under three blankets.

19. Pumpkin carving.

20. Wondering what will be inside the neatly wrapped box(es) under the tree in December.


Who knew there was such a sucker for cheesy nice things hiding under my tomboy persona?!

Coming Out of the Dark

Wow. It has been eleven months since my last blog post. Well, technically in those eleven months I have visited Blogger a few times and typed out a post, but never published it. At any rate, that's just awful. I've been very lazy. There is really no other way to say it. To my faithful readers, both of you, I sincerely apologize. I will no longer be a slacker.

Who Does That - Part XVIII

Social networking sites, we've all heard of this phenomenon taking over the world. People frequent these sites to network, keep up with friends and family, meet new people and severely procrastinate on life's tasks. It's truly a great thing. Personally, I waste thirty minutes to an hour at work everyday on these sites. Keeps me sane, provides humor and adds to that procrastination factor we all know and love. However, there is a large majority of people who frequent these sites just to be fucking idiots.

On one particular social networking site, that rhymes with Schmacebook, people create groups. These groups were designed to unite people with common interests. In reality, what they've become is a cesspool for fucking idiot behavior. Case and point, the incessant creating of groups with some variation of the name "I Lost My Phone, I Need Your Phone Number".

What happens, 95% of the time, is that every person with a registered Schmacebook account can view these groups. Yet, people still go there and post their phone number for all the world to see. So not only are you subjected to viewing the antics of the 8,532 new "I can't get over high school and I'm obsessed with feeling like I win popularity contests, so I need to whore my phone number out for more entries into my contacts, who I will never call anyway, but I need to have that appearance" group creaters everyday, but you're also forced to view the antics of approximately 102,354 dumbass girls on the site. These chicks (yes, they deserve that moniker for being so fucking stupid) post their fucking phone number for all the psychotic, stalking, sexually assaulting weirdos on Schmacebook to obtain.

Do not adjust your monitors. Yes, you read that correctly. Along with providing their full name, their school or employer, their age, their dorm or apartment building and photographic proof of their love for combining streetwalker outfits and alcohol (all things they could choose not to provide), they also provide their fucking phone number!

Who does that?

Analyze This

Last night I dreamed Maverick and I had a white convertible. Not sure what make, just that it was a white convertible. We drove around a lot in our convertible with our pet elephant, Murphy. Murphy liked Strawberry Limeades from Sonic. The entire dream was us and our elephant going from Sonic to Sonic, drinking Strawberry goodness at each one.

Take a Number

Four out of every five women are disrespectful, catty, bitches and I absolutely loathe them. Take a look around and count. Are you number four, or number five?

Hocus Pocus

Who Does That - Part XVII

*Blue Light Special*
It's a Friday two for the price of one.

Subway, the home of quick, healthy sandwiches for the working woman on the go. It's not a place where one goes to study rocket science. You walk in, you pick your bread, your sandwich contents, your cheese, your veggies and condiments, you pay and bam, you're done. From the time the lady, excuse me, "Sandwich Artist" asks you what you want until you pay, and are out the door, should really be no longer three or four minutes, tops.

That is unless the woman in front of you is ordering four sandwiches for the people in her office and appears to have never seen a light bulb let alone an actual "Sandwich Artist". Listen lady, if it's going to take you five trillion light years to order your freaking sandwiches then step aside and let those of us with a meeting, and work to do, go ahead of you while you stand there amazed that bread can be sliced.

When one exits said Subway they don't want to be forced to listen to annoying sorority girl walking down the sidewalk discussing the, um, merits of her one night stand while she makes her walk of shame. To said girl lacking any shred of self-respect--since you're talking at decibal 6,792 I can hear your entire disgusting ass conversation so let me just answer all of your questions for you. I'm really sorry that your lack of self-confidence made you feel the need to buy your friends, but does that really mean you need to go seeking approval via meaningless sex with some guy you don't know, who sure as hell won't be calling you later today. If you want him to call you later then why don't you make him believe for at least one night that you have a little dignity. I know we all like to get off every now and then, but is it really worth the Crabs you'll be scratching later tonight? Buy yourself a Purple Penetrator, you'll be much happier in the end. However, if you really can't enjoy the merits of yourself then why don't you learn to save your conversation for your sorority house, rather than one of the busiest sidewalks in the city?

Who does that?

Fifteen Pieces of Flair

Sometimes it's just hard to stay focused. You can only see the weekend ahead of you. You could care less about reconciling the budget report sent to you by the comptroller. You don't really want to answer the questions of your staff because you've already showed them how to do it eight times. You just want to be at your holiday weekend destination, enjoying your family, savoring that big pulled pork sandwich with homemade cole slaw from your brother the BBQ king's grill, throwing back a few Pabst Blue Ribbons, laughing hysterically at the redneck ways of your surroundings, while simultaneously loving the huge amounts of Southern hospitality. You truly understand that human beings were not meant to sit in little cubicles staring at computer screens all day, filling out useless forms and listening to eight different bosses drone on about about mission statements

Case in point - the way I spent my morning, wasting time on a "popular social networking website", that allows millions of people to procrastinate the workday away, everyday, by posting useless survey bulletins like this one:

Date:	Aug 31, 2007 10:07 AM
Subject:	If they take my stapler then I'll set the building on fire.
	Any student can write a survey about their favorite class, or their secret crush, or how nice their car is that their parents paid for. This is the survey for us that are already grown up. 1. Do you have a college degree? Yes 2. What was the amount of your last electric bill? $63 3. Do you have life insurance? Some kind of policy through work. 4. How many hours per week do you work? I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work. 5. Have you ever attended a Toastmasters event? PC Load Letter? What the fuck does that mean? 6. What is your commute to work each day (one way)? 7 miles, 15-20 minutes depending on traffic. 7. Favorite Place for Happy Hour? Chotchkie's is pretty sweet. 8. What time do you get up in the morning for work? 7 ish 9. What is your definition of sleeping in late? 10:00 10. Do you check your cholesterol on a yearly basis? no 11. How large was your first cell phone? Medium sized 12. Does your employer provide good health insurance? It's not terrible, but not great either. 13. Did you use the internet to write a research paper? Yes 14. Have you attended a HS reunion? No 15. How many jobs have you held in your professional career? 5 16. Have you ever been fired or laid off from a job? Laid off 17. What is your favorite drink? Non-alcoholic, fountain Dr. Pepper. Liquor, Bellini or a Chambord Sour. Beer, Samuel Adams Winter, although Michelob Light is quickly making a rise on the list. 18. What is the most expensive bottle of wine that you have in your residence? Probably around $15. 19. Have you been divorced? No 20. How old were you when you stopped getting ID'd for Alcohol? I still do. 21. Favorite casino? Well, I haven't been to Vegas, but I do really like one of the riverboats here. 22. Are you happier now than when you were in high school? I was always happy, but I'm definitely happier with Maverick in my life. 23 Did you ever have Hypercolor shirts? No 24. Do you remember when Michael Jackson was black and was attracted to older people? Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just the girl who claims that I am the one. But the kid is not my son. 25. Do you remember when MTV actually played music videos? Yes 26. Have you had a will made? No 27. What music was in your cd / cassette player when you were 16? It wasn't that no-talent ass clown Michael Bolton. 28. Favorite fancy / upscale restaurant? One of the local celebrity's places. 29. How long has it been since you attended a kegger? About a year 30. Where were you when you found out about 9-11? At work. I'd just been delivered flowers because I was trying to have a birthday. 31. Do you have any children yet? No 32. Do you think the "younger crowd" will read this? Sure, why not.

Asshat

As you, my loyal readers, should surely know I am a lifelong Cardinals fan. Contrary to what people might think Maverick's loyalty to another team does not sway me one bit. We've both become closeted fans of the other's team, but that team will never take the spot of our first baseball loves. Throughout my entire life (no, I'm still not telling just how long that is) the one constant has been my love for the Cardinals. I truly bleed red; Cardinals red.

However that doesn't mean there are not things about the team that I don't hate. For instance, there's a certain man -- scratch that -- there's a certain immature, pompous, annoying, overly cocky, overpaid, defensive abomination, offensive hacker, undeserving, beneficiary of serious nepotism, asshat patrolling left field in Busch Stadium who fits this bill. To put it mildly I cannot stand Chris Duncan. Trust me when I say these feelings are not those of just the casual fan observing his play. Yes, I think he sucks donkey balls as a ball player, but mostly my personal interactions (yes, plural) with him have been horrific. Everything from watching him be a drunken idiot to witnessing him attempt to pick up my friends with the worst "don't you know who I am" type lines to seeing him be asked to leave bars to rude interactions with fans just wanting to say hello.

For those of you who missed it let me share with you what he felt was a grown up, appropriate World Series celebration activity. During the clubhouse party Mr. I Got My Job Because I Share My Daddy's Last Name decided it would be a good idea to pose using the World Series Trophy as a penis. Do not adjust your screens, you read that correctly. Chris Duncan really did dry hump the trophy, just like a 12 year old boy. What a douchebag.

To my extreme satisfaction the Riverfront Times has been doing an excellent job of making a fool out of this jackass the entire season. In case you have not had the pleasure of enjoying this weekly masterpiece, please do so now.

Who Does That - Part XVI

Ahh, the dog days of summer are upon us. A time to bask in the sun, enjoy some hearty barbecue, drink frosty beverages by the pool and loathe the humidity all at the same time. Everything, and everyone, is happier in the summer. Things just glow with a beautiful light. Or so it seems.

Then there you are standing at the counter at the local Walgreen's, patiently waiting to pick up your prescription, when you notice the person in front of you and their stank ass, flaky skinned, brittle toe nailed, dirt covered feet hanging out for all the world to see.

Just because it's hot outside does not give you permission to subject others to your lack of self grooming. If you don't like pedicures, can't afford them, or just plain can't make yourself take care of your bodily hygiene then please do not make the rest of want to hurl by sporting this disgusting trait as if it's some sort of runway fashion.

Who does that?

Freedom

It's my last day working in the hell hole. Everyone rejoice with me!

Just under one month until I move a little over 200 miles away and still no place to live. Does anyone have a box I can borrow?

Weekday Update

I was offered the job. After some negotiation, I accepted the position and will be relocating within about a month. Lots of items on the to do list for this one, but don't fret I'll be back with plenty to add over the weekend.

The Lady in the Magic Box

As you, my loyal readers, are aware, I have been searching for a new job for awhile now. Over the last several months, I've had contact from headhunters, a couple interviews and several phone interviews with potential employers.

Through this process I've learned a lot about myself and where I want to take my career. I've also accomplished some great networking and had the pleasure of getting acquainted with some wonderful people. However, the positions that have been available haven't exactly been the right fit. I've been extended offers that were not something I could see myself being happy doing, and I've found positions I really liked, but didn't like the location, not enough experience, etc. I'm hoping this is about to change.

This morning I interviewed with an organization I truly believe in. I am very familiar with their work, and I fully support their cause. It's the kind of place you wake up happy to go to work, proud that you are a part of such a good cause. The position is one that I am completely qualified for. My experience is more than sufficient. It would be a step up from my current level; more of a management type role. But I know I'm ready for it.

The interview went well. It was held via video-conference with the VP, who could not get away from her office at another one of their campuses. I must admit interviewing with a television was quite bizarre, but I immediately felt a sense of comfort with the VP. This feels like the right fit; let's just hope they feel the same way.

I should hear from her by Wednesday of next week, for a second interview one week from today. Keep your fingers crossed that interview goes just as well.

If You Were an Appliance

Interview tomorrow at 11:00 am. I hate to admit it, but I'm a little nervous. I hate all those interview questions. No jinxies, so I'll provide more details once it's over.

Wish me luck.

Who Does That -- Part XV

After dating a little over a year, my friends Marcia and Doug recently decided to stop seeing each other. This has been a rather difficult transition for Marcia, as Doug was her first real relationship and she became quite attached.

Against the advice of many of her friends, Marcia continues to have contact with Doug. She answers his texts messages, she speaks with him on the phone, she sends emails back and forth while they're working, she is even still friendly with his buddies. This nonsense continues to add to her heartache. It does nothing more than give her false hope of a future reconciliation.

Doug is perpetuating this situation by being a narcissistic fucktard. Since he and Marcia decided to part ways he has been pursuing another acquaintance of mine, Molly Slutpants. However, he denies anything is brewing with Ms. Slutpants and keeps contacting Marcia to keep her on the back burner.

This past weekend Doug and his fucktard buddies took Molly Slutpants and a few of her closest hookerific friends to his family's lake cabin. Around 2:30 AM Sunday, Doug called Marcia. When she answered the phone he simply asked her, "are you horny?". Much to this friend's happy surprise, Marcia rebuffed his horrible attempt to lure her back in.

It has since come to light that on Saturday night Doug attempted to get Molly Slutpants in his bed with him. Perhaps her last name is not completely fitting, as she apparently only messed around with him a little and left him feeling a tad "blue". This can only lead one to believe that Doug contacted Marcia in the middle of the night as he thought he had a guaranteed cure for his horny problems. What a fucktard thing to do.

Who does that?