The True Meaning of Christmas

Christmas is not about celebrating the birth of our savior.



It is not about a quiet contemplation of the year, or a celebration with friends and loved ones.



It's not the about the bustle, or the songs, or the foods that evoke history and home.



It's not even about running around unto exhaustion so that you can suffer through the racist, homophobic garbage spewed by your in-laws. Garbage that is interspersed with "Why don't we see more of you?" guilt trips that you are forced to endure without the sweet blessing of a cocktail.

No. Christmas is about none of those things. Instead? Christmas is about this:



Jason and I received this as a present. I, literally, don't know what to say. The generosity leaves me speechless.

Car Sales 301

Lessons In Selling Cars To People Who Hate You

1. If I contact you by email, it is because I don't want to talk to you. I don't really want to talk to anyone. I am a curmudgeon, and people annoy me.

If I have sent you an email with a fucking question in it, and did not include a phone number, you can rest assured it's not because I don't know how to fill out a phone. Answer the question. Make me hate you less, and I will call YOU. Promise. Kisses.

2. If I am talking to you, you better not be a complete moron. If I ask you a question, come up with an answer. Today, some idiot who finally annoyed me into calling him by not answering my question via e-mail, I finally broke down called him because I didn't think I wanted this car after all, and just wanted someone to answer some questions so I could be sure. When the figures he was giving me were much higher than his closest competitor--the same car, basically, by a different maker--I told him so. He proceeded to ask me what incentives the other manufacturer was offering.

Fuck. I don't know. I don't give a shit. I care about the end numbers, not the ones in the middle. I spend my workweek babysitting salespeople. Why the fuck am I going to do it for me. And besides, isn't it your job as a dancing sales monkey to know what you're closest competitors are offering.

I now have new insight as to why the domestic automakers are made of fail.

3. If I come into the dealer, I am not interested in having a big cock waving contest with you. I don't get off on negotiation. I don't get off on listening to your shit. Talking to you does not make me feel good. It's a shitty fucking chore. The BEST way to make me happy is to reduce the amount of time we have to spend together. I spend 40 hours a week with douchey salespeople yammering at me, I sure as hell don't want to spend my off hours around it. Let's just wrap this up so I can get to the bar.

4. And finally, most importantly, do NOT insult my intelligence. The tits are mere accessories, and do not negatively impact my higher faculties. I'm spending my precious free time and will soon be spending my hard-earned money. Don't jerk me around and dodge answers to my questions and expect I won't notice.

Tonight, I was standing in a dealership, having just finished test driving the last vehicle I was interested in. I enjoyed the drive, whatever that means, I let the salesman know that I was deciding between this car and one from their close competitor that is comparably priced. So, yes. Price. What will you sell me this car for, Mr. Man? Impress me.

So he goes off to do whatever it is that they do before they come back with a number. I assume he took a good, healthy dump. And he gives me a figure which I know was a bit high, but whatevs. Then he goes on about how the number can come down, based on inventory, etc, and that if I wanted to buy tonight he was sure he could a car much closer to their invoice price.

Hrm. Okay then. I'm not signing on a car tonight. BUT! I intend to make a choice this week. I am BUYING A CAR. So. What's the price? What is the price, you fine crapping, dancing, sales monkey man?

Well, it depends on inventory, volume, etc.

I look around the showroom. The Boy and I were the only beating hearts in the joint not on the payroll.

*cricket*cricket*cricket*

Thanks, for your time.

Maybe I should have mentioned to him that the internet guy said they had surfeit of that model. That they were working to move them, that he would beat any written deal I brought him. And that the fucking piece of shit he'd just brought me was a full $800 above what I knew those things sold for.

Nah. Fuck it.

Professional Literacy

So, in my work as a Pink Collar Wage Slave I have long labored under the delusion that no matter how frustrating and idiotic my co-workers and bosses behavior is, no matter how non-sensical their decisions and incomprehensible their thought processes, no matter how banal their conversation and shallow their thoughts, that at the very least they were all literate.

Nope.

Yesterday, my two supervisors showed up at my desk with a look of great seriousness on their faces.

"We have a question, and you always have the answer."

"Um, ok"

"So, we have a Report with result X. Do we need to order Common Industry Specific Product to go with it?

*blink*blink*blink*

"Nope."

"Wow. Thanks!"

Now, I did know the answer to that question right off the top of my head. But really? It's wasted brain space. Why? Because the Report says what, if anything, else you need to get to go with it. Says so right there. In English. Plainly written.

*sigh*

So, I think I get a by when I TOTALLY LOST MY SHIT on my boss because I refuse to complete the GODDAMN TPS REPORT FOR EACH AND EVERY FILE.

Ugh. Monday one of the managers is supposed to sit with me for three hours to observe how we do our job. He's been the boatswain on this ship of fools for the past year, and so far all I know about him is he swaggers and glandhands like a total ex-fratboy choad.

Monday goal? Don't get fired for Christmas.

Fourth Quarter Quotes

Good times of late at Corporate Happy Funjob. . . after several months of slowdown while we assessed where fuck we had gone off track, we're quickly finding ourselves back in the thick of it.

One would think that in the months when were all basically told to sit in a corner and think about ourselves, my co-workers might have learned a thing or two and stopped behaving like such incredible idiots. One, though, would be wrong. It's like they've saved up all their fuckery for the moment that they would have a chance to unleash it.

Part of it is, I know, that I support sales people who are mostly all bunged up because they have been earning less during the months that we've been grounded. I am, to some extent, sympathetic. At the same time, though, most of these mouth breathers make tens of thousands of dollars more a year than I do because. . . Fuck. I have no idea. They don't either. I guess because they sell stuff? I know more and work harder, and the only thing most of these people can do without the support of my peers and I is wipe their own asses.

Ah, the joys of pink collar wage slavery. Another happy accident of accidentally fulfilling at typical gendered job.

Either way, though, production is now ramping up with nary a backward glance at lessons learned. This has, as a result, led to some FANTASTIC conversations between me, my co-workers, and my boss.

Things I have actually said in the past few weeks:

To my boss:
"I hope that isn't going to be our '09 goal, because it if it is, I'm not signing it. I refuse to acknowledge as a goal something I believe to be impossible."

"I'm applying for everything available in the company that isn't actually a demotion."

"I'm tired of the all stick, no carrot performance management philosophy we've adopted"

"No, I didn't look at it. Because I've accepted that we actually cannot be successful, it didn't seem worth my while to see where I'd failed."


To my co-worker, who wanted something by end of year:
"Hahahahaha. No. Not going to happen. If you think someone else can get it done for you, then by all means, request someone else. But they can't do it either. Give it up, let it go, tell the customer."

To a different boss:
Me: "No. I can't stay late."
OtherBoss: "Why not?"
Me: "I'm sorry. I misspoke. I CAN stay late, but I'm not going to. I didn't create this problem, and I don't think it is fixable at 4:30 on a Friday."

I guess I should watch my mouth and be nicer, but frankly unless I walked into the director's office and whipped a tit into his face I don't think I could get fired. It's kind of how my company rolls. Not to mention I know more than anyone on my team including my boss. I know everyone is replaceable, especially in this economy. However, really? They're too fucking lazy, better to put up with the mouthy bitch who knows everything.

The Quest For Project Shitheap 3.0

Somewhere below "gynecological examination" and "root canal" on my List of Things I Enjoy is car shopping.

However, the Nissan? It is dead. Fuck that fucking car in its fucking carhole. I'm still pissed because I can't even come to a decision about how to get its carcass out from in front of my house. It is, theoretically, still worth money. I guess. But it needs work and I am sure as shit not investing another dime in it.

If it weren't so cold I'd go outside and hit it with a stick.

Anyway, so without the Nissan we have only Ophelia the Saturn. This is a great little car, however, it has over 156,000 miles on it. I'm WAY too big of a chickenshit for this to be our sole source of transportation. That means that we either move someplace warm and walkable, or I gird my loins and shop for cars. If we had a traditionally gendered distribution of labor Chez Nous, I could dump this particular shit chore on The Boy. Alas, though, that's not how we roll.

Fortunately, I have good and generous friends who are willing to help with their knowledge and encouragement. So far, I've only been moderately annoyed with dealership minions, and I have yet to truly want to call someone a motherfucker. I am, to my mind, doing ok.

My sort of unique perspective as a car buyer in the current economy does not escape me. I can't walk by a radio and not hear something about the proposed domestic auto bailout, and I really, really know why the domestic car companies are doing so poorly.

Even now, after all this time, the domestic automakers are building shit. Seriously, there are hardly any domestic cars that I can even convince myself to test drive, and the one that is remotely tempting is basically a Toyota. Seriously. I was looking at a used car online that had less than 15,000 miles and was priced almost 50% less than the new cars I'm looking at, and I still am not sure I want to even test drive the damn thing. If it were a used version of one of the imports I am looking at, it would probably already be in the fucking driveway. Detroit has finally managed to build cars so unappealing that they practically can't give them away.

I say that my car is just a tool, a toaster on wheels, but seriously? I would never buy a toaster that fucking ugly.

Yuletide Dread

I've decided that my ongoing not posting is really me just doing what I can to seize a little bit of control in world of chaos. Like the way a toddler or a Republican will regress and insist on a binkie or resume pooping his diapers when things don't go his way.

Whatever. Fine. Damn.

Thanksgiving welcomed the return of the holiday season last week. The holidays are always kind of fraught for me. On the one hand, you have food, booze, friends and tradition. Generally, I'm pro all of those things. On the other hand, you have the fact that it's cold; it's dead; dark at 5:00 pm; and my family is all giddybonkers batshit insane. Normally, I can deal with my immediate family's particularly flavorful crazy blend. However, chuck in a couple of hours with the broader circle of the people to whom I'm related by blood or by unfortunate matrimonial choice (not mine, obvy), and in the best of years I'm ready to just stay the hell at home and extract tinsel from my cat's ass rather than face any more goddamn cheer.

This year, however, I'm just...really...adverse to the shenanigans. I know what it is that has brought this all to a head, I have finally come to the point in my life where I have virtually no hesitation telling people what I think or what I feel. Unless I'm actually on the fucking clock, I no longer choose to suffer fools gladly. Hell, even at the office I've stopped gluing glitter and flowers to the shit I say to people. I. Just. Don't. Fucking. Care.

I would like very much to avoid the cousin et al entirely, and I'm sure that by her my presence would not be missed. My grandmother, however, feels differently. For Thanksgiving, I attempted to avoid the situation by visiting Grandma on Friday, but due to the fact that that branch of the family tree lives in a veritable white trash compound, my aunt AND my cousin and some largish percentage of the brood all showed up at one point or another.

The fact that The Boy did not leave me is a testament to his faithfulness and his good heart. I would have probably dumped me for sure.

Even when not present, the cousin and her problems were a constant presence. Grandma, who is old and has earned break, mostly worries in the way of the old who can do nothing to aver the crisis that 1. she knows is coming, and 2. she feels keenly on behalf of the individual too stupid to see it for herself. In this as in pretty much all things, my grandma gets a pass.

However my aunt and the cousin herself have finally managed after 32 years to work their way all the way around to my last nerve. I'm about ready to give them my speech entitled Embrace the Truth for no other reason than that I can no longer Tolerate the Bullshit.

By this time, there are certainly those among you who might be wondering what could be so bad about this cousin. The reasons, alas, are too numerous for me to want to go into tonight. Also, and I admit this freely, some of the car wreck would not trouble you the reader as they do me--the poor fucker who shares, I dunno, a quarter helix or something.

Election Night, 2008.2

I am sitting in my bar, surrounded by some of my best friends, and we have a new president. There are young black men running down the street with political signs, yelling with happiness. There are strangers cheering at each other on the street.

President Obama. I like the way that sounds.

Can he solve all the problems? No. But at least. . . he'll try.

It's a good night to be an American because suddenly? The promises we tell our children are true.

Hey, Mandy? Wish you were here. It's a good night in the Lou.

Election Night, 2008.1

Drunker. We paused for the consumption of food. Slightly drunk. We've progressed to candy now.

I would like for Florida to do something to earn its keep, since all it has ever done is cause me pain.

Congratulations, Governor Nixon. Congratulations, Senator Hagan. Dole done got her weave snatched.

I suspect further updates might realize more typos. Sorry, yo'.

Election Night, 2008

So.

I am sitting here at Mangia, with The Husband and a motley array of lunatics, drinking and watching election results on our laptops. CNN, NPR, MSNBC, 538, and the Douchenozzles at Fox News—we are so fucking wired at this point that I we’re not even getting the same results at the same table.

I waited 2 hours and 45 minutes to vote this morning--a small price to pay for the chance that our culture can get a get out of pulling train for the bible beaters for the next 4 years.

Here’s to hoping, kids. I’m drinking tonight, regardless. Here’s to hoping we’re celebrating, not mourning again.

Go Obama. Get some.

On A Year Ago Yesterday

I realized today that the last time I ever talked to my friend Russell was a year ago yesterday. He came to my birthday party. We talked and drank, and we made plans to go out for dinner or drinks when I got back from a trip I had coming up.

I wanted to hear about his new girlfriend, and to talk to him about Jason.

Part of me feels terrible that I didn't recognize yesterday for the anniversary that it was. I know, though, that it doesn't exactly matter. If Russell could vote, he'd probably vote in favor of cocktails and butter.

I just wish I had raised that cocktail to him. I will, though. He'd be for it.

Thirty-two

Here follows 32 things I know, in no particular order:

1. I know how to make a mean pie crust, a nummy cheesecake, and wicked spaghetti sauce and all its derivatives.

2. I know that yelling is probably not worth it.

3. I know that sometimes I'm going to yell anyway.

4. I know that there is no trait more despicable than cowardice.

5. I know how to fit in at a fancy cocktail party and a dive bar.

6. I know that Coco Chanel is right, generally, you should get ready and then take off one thing.

7. I know now that I quite like gimlets. Hooray for new cocktails.

8. I know that I have a glorious bosom. No really, trust me.

9. I know that sometimes, the evening calls for big hair.

10. I know I will land on my feet, even if I do hit all the branches on the way down.

11. I know that when in doubt it either most likely needs more garlic or more salt. Or both.

12. I know how to walk in heels. Even when drunk. I can even do the knee-on-knee-back drunk in heels propped stand. It’s what separates the women from the girls.

13. I know I’m no longer cute. Attractive, pretty, maybe even sexy—I’ll leave that up to someone else to determine—but not cute. Not sure I ever was, but I’ve outgrown it.

14. I know that, for the most part, I don’t give a shit.

15. That said, I know I don’t make enough to vote Republican. Don’t much expect I ever will.

16. I know that I prefer most animals to most people. Animals have purer motives, and are more likely to repay kindness with kindnesss.

17. I know that right now I’m underpaid and undervalued at work, but that’s okay because one day, when the economy picks up, I know they’ll be looking around like, “Why don’t she write?”

18. I know what it’s like to swim alone in the ocean at midnight. In March.

19. I know who my friends are.

20. I know that I’m incredibly, ridiculously, undeservedly lucky in having the friends I do.

21. I know, now, that’d I’d rather eat my own hair than break bread with someone I don’t like.

22. I know what boys like. I know what guys want.

23. I know I don’t give much of a shit what guys—or girls—want. I used to, but I quit.

24. I know I have lucked right the fuck out in finding The Boy.

25. I know that my family might be crazy, but any or all of them would eat through a room of assholes if that’s what it took to save me, and I know I’m lucky.

26. I know that if having a perfect body requires I surrender ice cream, then fuck a bunch of that.

27. I know how to cut in a wall, window, or baseboard when painting, without tape.

28. I know that I’ve made pretty fucking stupid mistakes, but I’m still here, and no one has died, so I better get over it.

29. I know that that having my heart broken has made me a better person.

30. I know that there is little better than sitting up too late with friends talking and laughing and drinking too much.

31. I know that just because someone likes to have sex with women, doesn’t mean he actually likes them.

32. I know that while wine and chocolate won’t solve my problems, they will in fact turn down the volume.

And, as a bonus, I know that I’m a year older, and arguably no wiser, but I’m looking forward to learning some new shit in year 33.

Post Presidential Debate v.1

John McCain causes terrible vaginal dryness and itching.

Seriously, I think my pussy hates him.

Here's to hoping I have something more intelligent, if not as succinct, to contribute tomorrow.

Post Veep Debate

Ohmyfuckinggod.

So, Sarah Palin. Let's talk about this.

She is a woman. Ovaries, breast, lipstick, woman. Check. And a wife. And a mother. Fine. Great. Whatever.

She's also a publicity stunt; a disaster; an insult. She sounds like a moron, with her "nookyouler" and her "up there." People keep talking about her like she's the second coming. She's "like us." She "folksy." She's "down to Earth."

Like who? Not like me. She's not like me. Oh wait! Do you mean she's like me in that she's uninformed and intellectually lazy? Then yeah. Okay, then she's like us. Except that she somehow thinks that a $5000 tax credit--to be paid for by taxing workers' employer paid-health benefits--will somehow work as comprehensive tax care.

Look. People thought Bush was folksy, and like us. LOOK AT WHERE WE ARE NOW! This is something we want to repeat? This? So great we want more?

"People are picking on her because she's a woman!"

Nope. People are picking on her because she's an asshat. She is Dan Quayle with a slightly better grasp on spelling. She's uninformed and unprepared. People are picking on her because she's ignorant.

I'm not proud she's running for V.P. because she's a woman and I happen to be as well. Instead, I'm embarrassed that people think she somehow deserves a pass because of the happenstance of her two X chromosomes. Does her inability to pronounce nuclear stem from a wandering uterus? Is that what causes her to support abstinence only education? Pray, do tell.

Sarah Palin doesn't make me embarrassed to be a woman. She makes me embarrassed to be an American. What does it say about us as a people that we would settle for her?

A Quick Post About Nothing

I should write about something.

I could, I suppose, write about the surprising failure of the mortgage bailout and what it means for our economy. Other people are already doing that, though. I can't really add anything to the hue and cry that hasn't already been said. Spending my days around shallow thinking armchair pseudo economist fucktards has pretty much sapped my desire to consider the matter further at this time. Suffice it to say that I'm not surprised it didn't pass. At this point, frankly, I'm really fucking hard to surprise.

I could write something happy; I could write about the wedding. It was a beautiful, wonderful day that was more fantastic than I could have hoped or had any right to wish for. At the same time, though. Wow. Those were some of the craziest, busiest, most exhausting and wonderful days ever. Frankly, just thinking about writing it all out exhausts me anew. I will get there eventually. Or I won't. Unless an editor wants to contact me and offer me money for my take on things, folks is just gonna have to wait.

I suppose I could talk more about my job. Let's see. I'm now up to 4 forms and 2 audits per each file, plus all the work that has to be done so I can complete all 4 forms and get to both audits. The fact is this, I've died and fucking gone to Office Space. I'm trying to embrace the notion that the universe is trying to shape me using the blunt skulls of my co-workers. Of course, what the universe is really doing is making me drink more and eat a lot of ice cream.

Meh. I'm in the doldrums, I think. Sort of this in-between place while I try to figure out what happens next. I guess I'll know what it crashes through the roof or bursts into flames in my driveway.

Morning Surprise

I woke up late this morning with a Benadryl hangover. All fuzzy-headed and drowsy, I walked into the kitchen . . .

Huh. What the hell is that in the water dish?

Huh. What the hell is that by the water bowl?

Huh. What the hell is thOH MY GOD WHO IS BLEEDING?

Pug check. Jack check. Bennet--was in her kennel all evening so unlikely but check her anyway. Sammi cat? Where are you, kitty? Ack!

She seems fine, now. Her rumpled-y ear is all swollen, and yes, bloody. However, she's been purring and cuddling and basically being herself. We'll be gong to the vet in just about an hour; I expect we might get a cat lampshade out of the deal. She's napping comfortable on The Boy.

Holy shit, though. Fucking 5 plus feet of blood spatter in the morning before coffee? REALLY? Is this entirely necessary?

Spin FAIL

I have apparently gone retarded because it just took me 8 or 9 tries to log into Blogger. Frankly, going retarded will probably make much of my life easier--work especially.

Seriously, though, I'm guessing it's because everyone in the whole damn world is online talking smack about Sarah Palin. And why wouldn't they?

I have not watched the entire Katie Couric interview. I quite probably won't. You know? Because if you're going to be that fucking stupid at me, you're going to have to cut me a check. I don't suffer that amount of foolishness for free. I did catch the minute or so where she talked about how because she's governor of Alaska, and because Alaska shares a "maritime border" (that's the Bering Strait, to you and I) and land border with Canada, that she has foreign policy experience. By that logic, the meth lab up the block makes me a motherfucking chemical engineer.

She sounded so ridiculous I would have felt sorry for her except for, you know, bitch should fight her weight. For example, if I knew I was going to be campaigning for THE VICE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES, I would at least pull an all-nighter and come up with a better line of crap. I mean, shit, I can't respect someone too stupid use spin effectively.

Part of being a leader is the ability to shine a turd. Epic fucking fail.

So, Palin made me sad.

This makes me happy, though. Deep, happy, belly laughs.

Smile Pretty

I have discovered that, all to often, there is an positive correlation between the discomfort and embarrassment of an activity and its resultant beautifying properties.

Nothing, I think, proves this better than the tooth whitening strip. The Boy barely even attempts to hide his amusement as I walk around the house, *shlorking* up extraneous saliva and breathing through my mouth, pausing occasionally to spit into a sink.

Sadly, because of my disordered manner of swallowing, if I close my mouth I push the strips off my teeth. I don't know of a solution other than this one. These fuckers had better work, is all I'm sayin'.

Check Out the Pork and Beans

Sweet holy hell. Behold, my dream job.

People would looked at me funny for sniffing payphones, mashing Fig Newtons onto walls, and throwing pasta at crack houses to see if it would stick (yep--overnight), and along comes "Will It Blend?" to bring form and purpose to my childish visions.

Le sigh . . .

An Open Letter to Bommarito Nissan, et al.

To Whom It May Concern,

Perhaps the best measure of one's service is that determined by its comparison to others.

So, when I tell you that a trip to the Ferguson DMV on a Saturday in August was a painless joy in comparison to each and every interaction I have ever had with one of your staff, then I do hope you understand my full meeting.

Yours sincerely,
Future Toyota Customer

Extreme Elimination Challenge: Car Repair Addition

I have, as you may recall, mentioned my issues with my car before. To make a long story short, there is something wrong with it. The check engine light has been on on for, oh, about three years. It runs fine for a car that has 108,000+ miles and has always received absolutely indifferent maintenance. The engine is still fucking there, so whatever is wrong cannot, to my mind, be that goddamn important.

Unfortunately, though, I live in area that requires car emissions tests. Check engine light=fail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I made a good faith effort to try to cheat, but alas, it's not as easy as it used to be and I was unable to procure a crooked mechanic who would pass me for $50 cash and a photo of my boobs.

I was not for a moment naive enough to believe that this problem could actually be fixed. Two years ago I pissed about $600 into a hole before some clever lad worked out a cheat that got me through the test (a cheat I was unable to duplicate this time, god knows I tried). Instead I faced the problem head on.

I called the dealership and made an appointment. "Hi. Lemme tell you what's up. My car is not going to pass emissions. The check engine light is on because my car throws a code for a crank shaft positioning sensor--that's always been the issue, and I know it's still the issue because I've hooked it up to a code reader. There is nothing wrong with that sensor, it's been replaced at least twice. I don't expect you to fix whatever the problem is, I don't care what the problem is. I just need to spend $450 so that I can get an emissions waiver. Do what you need to do to make that happen, but that's what I want."

Sensor? Not broken. Car? Not broken. Customer? Not stupid.

Car gets dropped off last night, phone call this morning. The Mensa representative at the dealership called me to let me know my crank shaft positioning sensor is bad, and his Odyssey of the Mind partner in crime on the floor has all these theories as to why that might be.

*blink*

Listen up, Braintrust. The sensor probably isn't bad, because like I said, that's always been the code it's thrown. But go ahead and replace it. Whatever turns you on, buddy. Seriously, I'm at peace with my check engine light. Please do me the courtesy of not fucking insulting my intelligence in the meantime.

"I didn't realize you had this problem before."

Look, asshole. I'm not your girlfriend; try listening to me. I know I told you that because every conversation with you people scars me permanently.

"Well, when your check engine light came back on then, why didn't you bring it back in?"

Because I was out of cars to borrow! And because, like most higher order mammals, I can learn to recognize patterns. I bring car in. I spend money. Car stays broken. After three weeks, the novelty wore off.

"Well, we'll replace the sensor and go from there."

Mmmkay. Bye.

I sit at work trying to keep the Dipshittery Express from flying off the tracks while trying to decide if it would be unseemly for a 31 year old to take up cutting. The phone rings.

"Hi. This is Braintrust from the dealership. We put in the new crankshaft position sensor, and it didn't work."

Really? Shocking. Do continue.

"So we took it back out and put the old one in, and then our tech did some stuff, and it didn't work, and then he did something and then the engine didn't even work and we thought oh shit that's bad and then some other stuff happened and now he thinks he's a woman trapped in a man's body and this one time at band camp..."

Braintrust? Hey. Lemme make this easy for you. The car has 108,000+ miles on it and it runs. I'm not spending thousands of dollars so you guys can go spelunking under the hood. I am there to spend money for an emissions waiver. That's all. So tell you what. Tell JimBob he can do whatever he wants. Seriously. He can do whatever he wants until my bill reaches $445. At $445, I want him to put all the screws back, and get out of my car.

"Well, he says it could be this..."

Great. Fine. Get him out of my car when he's done $445 worth of work. Buh-bye.

A very little bit of time passes before Braintrust calls me back to let me know that I've already pretty much spent that money, and can pick up the car whenever.

Perfect! Great. Thursday is looking up.

But then I start to think. Despite my saying repeatedly that the SOLE reason I have for bringing my car in was to spend $450 for emissions work, I wonder if I did. I mean, he might have done other work that wouldn't count towards that $450, so maybe he needs to throw in an air filter or new hamster or something. I call.

Braintrust is gone and someone else answers. And I explain the situation.

"Well. I have your bill here, and it's $458."

That's fine. I just need to verify that enough of that is money that I've pissed away on you not fixing a problem that you can't identify.

"Braintrust is gone, you see. And the tech that worked on it left at 3:30. I can call Braintrust on his cell phone."

Wait a sec. Don't you have an itemized invoice there? 'Cuz your little partner in crime told me I could pick the car up tonight.

"Well, let me call him on his cell and call you back."

I know then that this is going to end with someone getting called a motherfucker, and I'm equally confident that someone isn't going to be me.

"Hi, this is Mensa at the dealer."

Mmmhmmm?

"If what you're looking to do is pass emissions, then you can't pick your car up tonight. There are a couple of concerns..."

And that is when my left eyeball fell out of my head.

I don't CARE about your concerns. I don't CARE what the problem is. I told you people from the first conversation that I was knowingly throwing money into a hole to get an emissions waiver. I didn't believe for a second you would actually fix anything. THIS HANGS IT--AS GOD AS MY WITNESS I WILL NEVER BUY NISSAN AGAIN. I don't give a shit what you do to the car, I would be perfectly happy to give you $450 to buy your wife something that means she'll have to touch your penis. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS ANY SIMPLER THAN I HAVE.

"Whenever you go for an emissions waiver, everything has to be documented in a really specific way."

I cannot IMAGINE a parallel universe in which I gave a shit LESS. I told you what I wanted you to do and why. I was clear. I was specific. I was assertive. I don't know how to explain this any better, Fucko. You people make me want to cave in my own forehead with a ball-peen hammer.

"Your car will be ready tomorrow."

Awesome, and only 24 hours later than it should have been. No time at all, really, considering all the shit you didn't accomplish.

My conclusion is this: I really will not be buying another Nissan. The cars themselves are mostly fine, but they hire absolute fucktards to work for their dealers.

If they give me any shit tomorrow, I'm paying with the goddamn title; getting the emergency bridesmaid dress out of the trunk, and going over to the Toyota dealer.

On An Evening's Shopping

*sigh*

Okay, I think we covered this a couple of years ago but it seems to be time again.

Let's review:

1. Not all women with big boobs have a six pack and the hips of a ten-year-old boy.

2. Women with REAL big boobs often desire underwires. Otherwise, our tits are sad and smooshy. My boobs? Scoff at shelf bras

3. Curvy girls are not all elderly fatasses who should be forced to wear woolen swim muumuus.

I am getting married, for fuck's sake, and have a week in Mexico with various delightful alcoholic beverages being brought to me and my new husband to look forward to. MY TITS SHOULD LOOK GLORIOUS WHILE THIS IS GOING ON.

I have a demand. Someone needs to supply it. Otherwise capitalism fails. If I can't find a bathing suit, the terrorists have won.

What I Did Tonight.

This evening? I changed my own car battery?

I can make a pie. I make a mean motherfucking eggplant parmesan. And now? Now I can change a car battery.

I love The Boy, yes. But maybe the folks should negotiate for more goats in the bride price or something.

And you know what? This totally goes on the list on of Shit My Dad Was Right About. Working on cars sucks balls.

Car? Fail. Shitty TV FTW

So.

My car tags are expired. They have been expired for some time--such niceties often escape my notice. However, now that they've caught the notice of the PoPo, it finally merits attention. I figure if I don't do something about it quickly, I'm going to jail. And, unlike The Boy, I don't think that I'm bound for "Sexy Jail." I will just plan to continue doing all my underpants pillow fighting on chick date night while the menfolk game.

Now, the Bitchin' Sentra is not a bad little car. She starts. She runs. She blows hot or cool air on me per my request. She has never abandoned me by the side of the road. In short, she's 1000 times better than my previous boyfriends AND my ex-husband. That said, though, she's won't pass inspection. She didn't two years ago, she won't know. Stubborn bitch.

Short story long, there's a fucked up censor. Or not. The bloody thing has been replaced twice, that's not really what the problem is, and frankly I don't give a tinker's damn anyway. I really don't want to go $1000 in the hole to fix a problem on A CAR THAT RUNS.

Today? Computer fiddling, drive cycle following, blah blah blah. It's fucking JULY, and TOO HOT TO BE DRIVING AIMLESSLY IN TRAFFIC. And I still didn't pass.

Hot, tired, and cranky--I arrived home. Where there is a big tramp on Wife Swamp, and I'm waiting for SuperNanny to start. I don't have cable; I watch terrible television. I have come to like terrible television. I like to feel superior to people with their fucking functional, legal cars. Bastards.

The Weekend In Review

Not much going on, really, on the personal front.

Good weekend on the home front. Friday night was a quiet evening in, during which the boy and I finally devoted ourselves to our wedding contract. Despite the fact that The Boy and I are agnostic goyim, we decided to make a brit ahuvim part of our marriage. Oddly, two articulate and open people can actually have a pretty hard time saying "I expect this from you and from me in our marriage." We do, however, finally have it well in hand.

Saturday, baby shower of a family friend and his lovely wife. We attended their wedding last year, and now they're expecting. It's wild, really, he and I used to play Star Wars together--hell, our moms were pregnant together. Now he's going to be a DAD. How the FUCK does that happen?

Saturday night? Birthday party for T-Del and Bunny. A glorious night, October in July. Friends, good beer, yummy snacks. Bourbon slush, which is TOO TASTY and a damn shame I'd never heard of it before. Nothing like drunken chit-chat and just random, happy time.

Sunday? Couching. Not much of one anyway.

This is all a good thing, as it took the edge of the idiocy of today, and the week ahead.

Secretary of Japanese Game Shows

So, today Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson explained the mortgage crisis to people. Here, for your enjoyment, my literary interpretation.

"Because people are dumb, and bankers are greedy, there are a lot of motherfuckers who have houses they cannot afford. You know why? Because no damn money, divided by 12, equals BROKE. They are going to lose their houses. Can't help'em. Bummer. Thanks for coming, cocktails will not be served on the promenade deck."

On a lighter note, the best show in America is now on television. The Japanese really embrace the strengths of the medium of television--that is--the purveying of bright, loud, annoying shit. It would actually be better if we weren't burdened with the stupid mixing in of typical American reality show garbage. I'd rather just see flummoxed Americans getting yelled at in Japanese. That would be better than CANDY.

I Like My "Fuck You" Neat

So, until today, I'd felt we'd turned a real corner at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I had come to accept that I was, and was likely to remain, a corporate whore. I had made an uneasy peace with doing shit work for shit money, while using my considerable talents to try to provide camouflage for the uncovered asses all around me.

Like any golden age, it had to end. While knowing more than my boss has proven rewarding in its own way, it's not really my goal. Speaking slowly and using small words has its own charm, but really, it gets old. Except for the necessity of a constant exercise of self-control not to throttle the dimmest of my co-workers, my job had lost its zest.

And yeah. I am seriously under-fucking-paid. File monkeys who can barely alphabetize make as much as I do, and they let me make decisions regarding hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. The thought kind makes me tinkle my panties a little, too.

So, as part of my ongoing plan to better position myself on the fluffy corporate tuffet, I applied for a promotion. Since I'm bottle a bottle of wine into an evening spent at home in my underwear with a fiance who is petrified of my ever-accelerating mood swings, I think you by now have safely guessed that I did not get the job.

Considering who actually got the position, I can now see that my mistake has been my failure to veil my contempt behind a thick haze of pot smoke. Apparently, corporate enthusiasm is aided by weed. Who knew?

So, tonight? Drinking of wine and sour grapes. After I work through my considerable snit, I will decide if this is the path for me. I would have, and could have ROCKED this job. However, it might have required slightly more of a personality lobotomy than I am willing to obtain. So, really? Fuck it. Drink up, buttercup.

And, as a note, to my dumb CHFJ boss. Lady? We need to clear up some shit. One, I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I'm the least bit stupid, but that half eyelid look I give you is the result of indifference and a hangover, not low IQ. Two, although I am sick of being smarter than you are, I'm kind of used to it by now and it doesn't bother me. I'm pissed about the money. I don't work because I can't find better shit to do with my days, you dig? So don't expect me to thank you for the chance to continue underpaid. Three, don't blow sunshine up my ass. I'm pretty much a Kinsey 1 and I don't let The Boy blow sparklies up my ass; you sure as shit are not going to get an invite. Don't try to make me feel better about this shit--I know the score and I'm not buying it.

Update

So, the oven has begun working again.

Additional support for my Unified Theory of Inattention.

Wednesday

What happened today:

I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.

I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.

I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.

I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.

I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.

Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.

And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.

We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.

*sigh*

I'm going to bed.

Eat Me, Republicans

I started this post off in a much more restrained and civilized manner. I did. But it was wrong. It set the wrong tone; communicated the wrong message. So. Let me try again.

FUCK YOU, REPUBLICANS. FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I wish your mothers had, collectively, ABORTED your worthless fucking dick waving fucktard asses when they had the chance. The best part of you dried to the sheets on the unholy day of your conceptions. Fuckwit asshole fucks.

Last summer, I wrote at some length about Ledbetter v. Goodyear, in which the Supreme Court decided that in cases of pay discrimination under Title VII , a woman had 180 days from the day that discrimination took place (read: the first time someone screwed her over), not 180 days from the time she discovered the discrimination (read: when she realized she had an uninvited cock in her ass). Basically, continuing to underpay someone on the basis of their unfortunate vagina does not constitute a continuing intent to discriminate. I don't know what DOES, exactly, they don't get into that...because it's BULLSHIT.

Well, some members of Congress were paying attention. They realized that, well, that was NOT how Title VII was expected to work. That, as a matter of fact, using that method pretty much guaranteed that Title VII wouldn't work at all. Instead, they introduced the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, which was intended to return the act to the reading that had long been embraced by juries and courts, that is, that each paycheck constituted a NEW incident of intent to discriminate. Basically, the clock doesn't start ticking until 180 days after the asshole employer stops screwing his unwitting employee.

Well, the bill made it out of the House. It arrived in the Senate, where it died on the vine. Under threat of veto (big fucking shocker there) 41 Republicans, plus Harry Reid for some procedural reason that I don't understand but whatever, decided not to vote for cloture--thus preventing a vote and leaving the bill to languish ad infinitum.

Among the reasons for this asinine act is the Republican's altruistic urge to protect women from the grasping claws of trial lawyers. Tell you what, guys. You continue to protect the interests of religious wackos and the filthy rich, and I'll mind my own self-interest, 'kay? 'Kay. More info with fewer profanities here.

So, here's to you, Republican Senators, for making a mockery of justice and equality. Hell? I hear it's warm, and hard to get ice for champagne.

And, just so you know, Fucking McCain didn't vote--which is the same as voting against cloture and for killing the bill. I'm sure there are those among you who might be considering voting for McCain. That's fine and all, it's a free country. But please, for the love of god, don't fucking talk to me about it. Me and my vagina are SUPER pissed off right now and will take it very, very personally.

Quality of Life, CHFJ Style

Today we had yet another meeting at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I don't know why it still surprises me the sheer number of meetings that occur there and the subset of those to which my attendance is compulsory. It is abundantly clear that I have nothing to say that anyone wants to hear; a feeling which is, I must admit, mutual. Frankly, there isn't anything that they have to communicate which can't be done in writing, although admittedly the vast majority of e-mails are deleted unread.

I recommend a handout. If someone has gone to the trouble of collating, I'm going to at least give it a peek.

Anyway, this was to be a quick meeting about overtime and phone time, that is, the time we spend waiting for people to call from around the nation so that we can either tell them lies in a vain effort to appease them OR marvel at the mind-blowing stupidity of Americans. Since I'm actively cultivating indifference towards every aspect of my job that doesn't actually involve the part where I'm getting paid, I care little about the substance of the meeting--less because I had a pretty good idea what it was about.

So, we're all sitting around, and our supervisor comes in. Without excessive ado, she announces that because we work for a family-oriented company, and because her and the other middle-management goobers are worried about our "quality of life," they want us to cut back on overtime and don't want us to work any extra hours without their approval.

*blink*

I feel like I made real progress in my quest to behave appropriately in the corporate hive because I didn't actually snicker out loud. Puh-fucking-leez. These people would pimp my mother and sell my children into a sweatshop if they could make a buck doing so. It was a statement so utterly farcical on the face of it that I am astounded that she was able to suppress her laughter while she made it. Further undermining my already threadbare credulity is the not-uncommonly known fact that we've already blown through the overtime budget for the year.

Poor fucking planning, yo.

You know the weirdest part, though? Someone in the meeting actually kind of bought it.

*sigh*

On The Mortgage Crisis

So, I know I promised a full accounting of Floorpocalypse 2008*, but I'm still too close to the crisis to talk about it. If you don't like the way we run things around you, I encourage you to bitch about me on your own blogs. Or message me to complain...I look forward to ignoring you

Instead, I think I'm going to talk about something else that continues to annoy the holy living fuck out of me, the "mortgage crisis." I do reserve the right to veer at any time into more generalized bitching about people being fucktards, but let's just see where we wind up, 'kay? 'Kay.

Because you're reading this, I'm assuming you haven't recently woken from a coma. That being the case, I'm sure you're aware that the housing market in this country is well and truly fucked. Every day brings more and more bad news. Real estate was long considered one of the surest, safest places to invest one's money. I suppose this can be adequately explained by the intrinsic scarcity of land combined with the fact the folks need places to live and store their accretions of crap. Whether it's a rental or a ranch house, a home of some kind is a pretty fucking basic necessity. So what happened?

Stupid happened. In a big and important way.

Lots of people like to blame low interest rates; I can't imagine a parallel universe in which I cared any less, really, about the policies of former Fed Chair Alan Greenspan. I wouldn't want a job where I was somehow supposed to "steer" the US economy, as though such an absurd notion were even a remote possibility--might as well try to fucking test drive Greenland around the North Atlantic. I will weigh in on whether his fiscal policies were good or bad in my next life when I'm pursuing my PhD in economics. Or never. I like never, but I digress...

Bargain basement interest rates did, undoubtedly, contribute to the "housing bubble." When money is really cheap, it becomes possible to borrow more of it. Duh. The thing is, though, that's not what really caused the mortgage crisis, or even the housing bubble.

These things, you see, were actually caused by dummies who really, REALLY suck at math and really, REALLY excel at self-delusion.

Anyone who isn't storing his brains in a pouch duct-taped behind his scrotum (or in her vag...whatevs), should have looked at the housing market of the past few years and realized that was completely beyond the realm of possibility that houses were going to appreciate at, in some areas, double digit rates. Come. The fuck. On. The ONLY way your house should double in value in two years is if all the land to the West of you tumbles into the Pacific and you suddenly have beach frontage.

I'm not talking about a spectacular level of financial savvy, here. You don't need to read the financial trade rags to know that housing prices simply could not continue to gain the way they did in from, say, 2001 to 2005. You know why ANYONE can figure that out?

Because a shit-ton of borrowed money, even at a low interest rate, still winds up requiring a big damn monthly payment. Take the average salary in an area, divide by big damn monthly payment, and you have no one who can afford to live in a damn house. If people can't afford a home, they'll rent. Or move away. Housing prices get high enough, and no one will buy houses.

Which actually might have happened, if not for various "exotic" loan products and the dumb fucks who signed on the dotted lines.

Okay, quick PSA here. If someone asks you to sign something promising to repay tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars, and you don't understand what it says, DON'T for the love of god and all that is holy sign the damn thing. I'm not talking about all the legalese and whatnots, most mortgage paperwork is made entirely of equal amounts of nonsense and absolute shit. However, there are important bits. They have numbers on them. If the numbers don't make sense, or aren't what you thought you agreed to, or seem to have an unexpectedly large collection of zeros to the left of decimal, then walk away. Maybe shank a fucker with the pen on the way out.

Of course, people didn't do that. They were going to buy houses! Or refinance and put on a deck! A bigger kitchen! Designer Laser Vaginoplasty! As though the general idiocy of people running around off-leash isn't bad enough, banks jumped in to help them acquire absurdly overpriced houses that they could never hoped to afford using any sort of halfway normal loan product.

When finally even interest-only mortgages were not enough to help borrowers overreach to get into houses, banks came up with the so-called "pay-option" ARM products. The premise behind this loan is so stupid that I can hardly imagine the individual for whom it would be appropriate. Still thinking. Still nothing. Maybe people who are in their last year of residency to be a brain surgeon or a crotch redecorator and, as such, expect to realize a 500% jump in income in the next 6-12 months. Maybe.

Now, there are undoubtedly people out there who wound up with these loans who didn't ask for them, who didn't understand the, who didn't really want them. HOWEVER, these are also people who either willfully ignored the fact that the loan in question was substantially below market rates (as though they lived in a rarefied vacuum exempt from the machinations of market competition), or who didn't even bother finding out what a normal loan should have cost them. Whatever. Either way. Please report to the gonad irradiator so that my children never have to put up with your children.

Add to that people who knowingly lied on their loan applications, or allowed others to lie for them. Everybody goes on and on about stated and no-documentation loans and how awful they've turned out to be. Again, duh. If you have to LIE to get into a house, it probably doesn't bode well for you overall. These loans actually have legitimate uses, and if not used in the service of acquisitive morons they aren't necessarily bad. They are now, though, exceedingly difficult to get at all.

Yes, there were stupid loans and bad loan officers. There is plenty of blame to dole out to the loan companies and the banks and the dipshits who weren't paying attention as the lunatics took over the asylum.

Who, however, do I really blame?

I blame the people who didn't read their loan docs. The people who didn't ask a fucking question. The people who decided that somehow, someway, arithmetic just didn't count in their own special case. I blame the idiots who thought that $30,000 income = $300,000 house. Locally, I blame the morons who weren't going to be happy unless they had 4 bedrooms and 3 baths and brand new through and through. I blame the people who, pissing logic and reason the wind, made a series of incredibly stupid choices and who now, on the far side of it, don't even recognize their own culpability.

I have given this a lot of thought, more even then the average bear. I've concluded that a large proportion, possibly a majority, of people who are at risk of losing their homes actually DESERVE to lose them. Yep. You heard me right. Most people who are in this mess put themselves there, and did so either purposely or with so little actual thought as to border on the absurd.

As for whether or not to circumvent the actions of fate and try to save these morons from themselves, I'm somewhat torn. A small part of me does feel bad for the offspring of these unholy unions of greed and stupidity--these kids didn't ask to wind up losing their bedroom because Mom and Dad blow at math. A much larger part of me would like to see something keep things based only on self-interest--I would like my home to at least RETAIN its value (although in my area price gains were much more modest so the crash is not so keenly felt). I like my little 30-year fixed rate cottage, but I do hope to sell and move in the next few years.

That all said, though, I refer back to my earlier points regarding attempting to affect this economy, and to this article, which explains why some people would be foolish to pay their loans no matter what.

Now THAT, my friends, is what we call an unforeseen consequence.

*Credit The Boy for this well-turned phrase.

CarpetGeddon 2008

A full and detailed accounting of this entire catastrophe is to follow, complete with photos, but until then...two words.

Distressed urban.

Work with me, people

Note To Self

You know you're ready for spring when. . .

you walk by the shop window in the mall and see a pair of lovely pink wedges and your first instinct is to lick the glass.

Fucktard, Holding on Two

I found myself in the unenviable position today of having to rely on someone who MAY or MAY NOT have suffered traumatic brain injury in the past month or so in order to do my job. After not one, not two, but SIX requests for this person to do HIS job so that I could do MINE, I finally called one of his employees and asked HER to do it. I would have, by the by, done that in first place, but the demented fucker with a dent in his head just kept answering the goddamned phone.

I spent about 20 minutes this morning thinking about taking up cutting like some emo 13-year-old. Is that weird? That seems weird to me. . .

Career Suicide

Well, I am now most of the way through a bottle of wine, and I feel like I can say the following with some degree of authority.

Today totally sucked donkey balls.

5 months of failure is about 4 months too many, and finally, after yet another doomed process is implemented with nary a thought to the monkeys who are going to have to actually use it, I completely lost my shit. Lost. My. Shit. Sobbing, howling, OH-MY -GOD-DOES-SHE-HAVE-SNOT-ON-HER-SLEEVE? lost my shit.

And although I completely committed "career" suicide today...because no boss, no matter how ethically suspect, wants to hear an employee compare her shit job with her failed first marriage.

Whatever. No comparison, really. None of my exes have ever fucked me as much as my job does.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...

So, yeah. It's been like 70-odd days since I last posted anything. Except for pointing out that my life is pretty fucking uninteresting and admitting I'm a lazy slob, there isn't much I can do about that. I will take this opportunity to suggest that have found yourself sorely missing my participation in the blogosphere, then perhaps you should explore new avenues with your psychiatrist--what you have must not be working.

I guess there are a few things that have dragged me from the morass. Today, as I was sitting in a Corporate Happy Fun Meeting and contemplating burning myself with lit cigarettes, I came to the conclusion that yes, I do have a dead-end pink-collar wage slave job for which I'm grossly underpaid and hideously overworked, but that I might as well try to mine it for humor. Or an opportunity to judge others. Or both. Whatever.

As though the ongoing, slow motion car wreck that is my job isn't enough to make any sane person (which I'm not) batshit crazy (which I most assuredly am), I'm also planning a wedding.

Now, lest you get the wrong idea, I am pleased as punch about marrying The Boy. Further, since I know that many of the misanthropes who read this blog are also future guests, I want it to be clear that I'm happy to be celebrating our commitment through the public statement of our vows and the steady hemorrhaging of money.

All kidding aside...I am totally excited about this whole getting married thing, and I GLADLY declined the offer to elope. That said, planning a wedding has put me back into the mix with other people planning weddings, which means that I spend a decent amount of time surrounded by people who have completely surrendered the restraints of this Earth and are floating around in some sort of la la land covered in tulle and lacking Google. I want to share the stupid with you, my readers.

And, as though having a stupid job and a big fucking party to throw weren't enough, I'm about ready to embrace some home improvement projects. The roommate is moving out; The Boy is moving in; and the carpet needs to go see The Jesus. It would seem, I guess, that my brain is fucking melted--I KNOW nothing good can come of this.
But...I seem powerless to stop.

Of course, at least I'm not in their shoes.

Yeah. The next couple of months should be awesome, interspersed with the occasional hospitalization.

Plays Well With Others

So yeah. I was totally going to look over the initial version of my annual review tonight, but decided instead that I would rather not spend the evening all pissed off. I mean, I'm sure the review is probably fine, but I'm equally sure that it doesn't say that I "have demonstrated competence at walking on water." Since at this point I think that's a fair assessment of my skills, both the performing of miracles AND the constant dying for sins of others,I know I'm just going to be disappointed.

Further, I figured out today that even if I got a 10% raise (a patent impossibility, don't you think), I would still consider myself underpaid by many thousands of dollars. This made me laugh out loud in my cube in a manner that frightened my co-workers. As far as I'm concerned the entire exercise is pointless, but whatever. The boss people have to do that so that they in turn can be pointlessly reviewed and unfairly compensated in the future. It's the circle of life.

I do know that says is that I need to work on remaining more positive on the floor. I suppose that means it's time to up my medication and start douching with rainbows. JOY!

On Civility

It would appear that there are any number of adults out running around off-leash who need a refresher course in truth, consequences, and the art of the apology. I know, I know, it’s been a long time since Sandbox when this shit was all originally covered, but that’s why I’m here. Here follows a quick primer on . . .

Civil Interaction One-Oh-Fucking-One

1. Own your shit.
When you were a kid and you hit little Sarah Jane in the head with a plastic bucket in the sandbox, it is un-bloody-likely that Teacher let you off when you said, “I don’t know what happened.” No. You got The Look until you admitted the fact that you did just take a swipe at your little mate in the sandbox, which leads to the fact that . . .

2. Behaviors have consequences.
Or at least they should. Behave like a fucking douche, and expect to be treated accordingly. Using our example, when you clobbered little Sarah Jane with the plastic bucket, she cried and Teacher probably snatched you up by your chubby little kid arm and gave you a stern talking before positioning you with your runny little nose in a corner. After you had used that invaluable time to examine the architectural wonder of two joined walls, you were probably advised to. . .

3. Apologize for fucking up.
Returning to our example, it is likely that after you had ample opportunity to “think about what you have done,” you were told to apologize to young Sarah Jane. It doesn’t matter that young Miss S.J. has since moved onto a snack of lime Kool-Aid and graham crackers and has put you and your little plastic affront quite out of her head. No, your little stunt still warrants an apology. Further, the apology has a set form, along the lines of “I’m sorry I hit you with a bucket and hurt you.” Attempting a variation on “I’m sorry you made me hit you with a bucket,” would get your little snot-nose deposited right back in Asshole Kid Corner.

This, my friends, is really the trellis around which most human interaction ought to wrap itself. Look around, you’ll see these principles at work in the workplace, in the public, and in your personal life. Learn them, practice them, know them, embrace them.

Tune in later, when we cover advanced lessons, such as Cleanliness May Not Be Next to Godliness, But It Is A Helluva Lot Better Than Wallowing In Filth.

On New Years

Welcome to 2008.

In my lifetime, I've made two New Year's Resolutions that stuck. When I was 15, I resolved to quit eating meat. That one stuck--from the I was 14 time I was a lacto-ovo vegetarian for 14 years, and I still don't eat things that are warm-blooded.

Last year, I resolved to spend more time in bars. THAT one, I must say, has gone like clockwork. In the past year, I have passed countless perfectly good evenings in smoky bars only to wake the next morning reeking so of juniper scented-gin that squirrels followed me. It has been, I must say, brilliant.

This year, though, I don't have much in the way of resolutions. Oh, sure. I can stand some self-improvement. I could eat better. I could exercise more. I sure as shit won't resolve to drink less as that will undo all the hard work of last year, but that still leaves plenty of personal improvement possibilities.

2007, it turns out, was a pretty good year. Sure, there was the unmitigated horror of Corporate Happy Fun job, but at this point I've decided that god hates a quitter and I'm staying until the place makes me start burning myself with lit cigarettes. Sure, one of my co-workers apparently gave up reading for the New Year, but fuck it.

On December 31st, 2006 The Boy tried to chat me up. I was drunk, and felt kicked like a dog, and frankly? I thought he was just fucking with me. By December 31, 2007. I was sitting next to him at a wonderful dinner, waiting to kiss him at midnight. It was, I think, a fantastic turn of events, brought about in no small part by the aforementioned bars and gin, and the fact that when given the choice, I took the chance on turning "right to go make out."

So, maybe that's my resolution. Just as much gin, and more right turns.* Might as well take some more chances. They've worked out so far.



*No more making open spots on my make-out dance card. Don't cry for me Argentina, though. . . we're getting married.