So, tonight Le Boy and I were watched a documentary about a lunatic Frenchman exploring the most dangerous place on Earth. Oddly enough, it was not a visitor's guide to Detroit, but a film about a dude in a submarine exploring the bottom of the ocean.
One of the shots was of all these phosphorescent jellyfish, blooping and floating through the sea. Watching their aimless, mindless, actions all I could think of was my co-workers. And calamari.
Which leads, logically, to the next thing, I want to corner the market on the aquatic beasties that inhabit the darkest depths of the ocean--floating around in super-heated toxic water, blind and thoughtless. I want to gather them up, raise them out of the depths. The lack of pressure will cause them to swell to many times their normal size and I will SELL them to snooty gastronomes and the Japanese for thousands of dollars a pound, never mind the fact that their flesh stinks of sulfur and tastes of briny rotten eggs.
Think about it.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Space Staples
So. Today was a day so bogged down in stupidity that I fully expected someone to whom I was speaking to actually drop dead in the middle of our conversation because he had forgotten to breathe. Had you been a party to the idiocy that I was, you would feel the same.
At one point during the during the day, stymied by the silly workplace prohibition against calling business vendors "cocksuckers," I stated aloud that I hoped the bank with whom I was dealing was heavily invested in mortgage backed securities, and that as a consequence, the women (read: dumb fucking whores) with whom I was dealing would lose their jobs and become homeless. And be forced to reside under a pile of old cheese.
Upon reflection, though, I think the most incredibly stupid conversation of my day was regarding someone who had snail-mailed documents that were desperately needed as soon as possible. Didn't fax them. Didn't e-mail them. Didn't even copy them before consigning them to the dubious care of the USPS. Why, you ask?
Because they were stapled.
Space staples. Coming soon to an Office Max near you.
At one point during the during the day, stymied by the silly workplace prohibition against calling business vendors "cocksuckers," I stated aloud that I hoped the bank with whom I was dealing was heavily invested in mortgage backed securities, and that as a consequence, the women (read: dumb fucking whores) with whom I was dealing would lose their jobs and become homeless. And be forced to reside under a pile of old cheese.
Upon reflection, though, I think the most incredibly stupid conversation of my day was regarding someone who had snail-mailed documents that were desperately needed as soon as possible. Didn't fax them. Didn't e-mail them. Didn't even copy them before consigning them to the dubious care of the USPS. Why, you ask?
Because they were stapled.
Space staples. Coming soon to an Office Max near you.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Pie, Bitches
I did it. Finally. I finally manned up and did it. I managed to put on my big girl panties and wash away the terrible stench of failure.
I made a pie. From scratch. Take that, bitches.
The last time I tried to make a pie, all hell broke loose. Flour was spilled; dough was thrown; I called apples motherfuckers. And when, finally, I dispatched my then husband to get frozen pie crust, the pie wasn't that good. It was runny and stupid and it pissed me off.
Today, though, the triumphant glow from my unclogged sink drain filled me with a strange sense of confidence. I wanted apple pie, and no pansy-assed frozen pie crust was going to do it for me.
And I did it.
Granted, my pie looked like a C effort in a Home Ec class for the emotionally disturbed, but it tasted pretty goddamn good. Further, I think I broke the code. I actually learned something this time, and I think I can do this again.
My god. The bitch can bake an apple pie. I'm officially perfect.
I made a pie. From scratch. Take that, bitches.
The last time I tried to make a pie, all hell broke loose. Flour was spilled; dough was thrown; I called apples motherfuckers. And when, finally, I dispatched my then husband to get frozen pie crust, the pie wasn't that good. It was runny and stupid and it pissed me off.
Today, though, the triumphant glow from my unclogged sink drain filled me with a strange sense of confidence. I wanted apple pie, and no pansy-assed frozen pie crust was going to do it for me.
And I did it.
Granted, my pie looked like a C effort in a Home Ec class for the emotionally disturbed, but it tasted pretty goddamn good. Further, I think I broke the code. I actually learned something this time, and I think I can do this again.
My god. The bitch can bake an apple pie. I'm officially perfect.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
For Your Viewing Pleasure
Okay.
I'm not too familiar with the bible, or too down with religion generally, but I gotta wonder . . .
Do you really think it's . . . appropriate . . . to liken Jesus to a toilet lid?
It's amazing what's on tv at 2 a.m. when you don't have cable . . .
I'm not too familiar with the bible, or too down with religion generally, but I gotta wonder . . .
Do you really think it's . . . appropriate . . . to liken Jesus to a toilet lid?
It's amazing what's on tv at 2 a.m. when you don't have cable . . .
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Halloween, A Requiem
Today my friend Russell died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Unfairly.
I was at work; it was about 20 minutes before my shift was to end and I was going back and forth on whether or not I was going to stay late or go home. As usual when I’m at work, my cell phone was on vibrate. I paused when it started to go off There are only about five people who call my phone on a regular basis and of those, the only ones I wanted to talk to would know I was still at work and were unlikely to be calling.
I checked the Caller ID. “Russell.”
“Huh,” I thought. “Maybe he’s seeing what I’m up to tonight. Fuck, I don’t want to go out. I hope he’s cool when I just say I’m planning to go hang at Jason and Dave’s. Maybe I can ask if he wants to stop by for a drink and grab dinner next week.”
“Hello?” I answer.
Then things got all fucked up. It wasn’t Russell trying to convince me to get dressed up and go out and celebrate Halloween. It was Russell’s girlfriend, calling to tell me that he had had a heart attack and died.
I met Russell when I was about 21. I was in the middle of my GAF (Goth As Fuck) phase, passing Monday nights at the Galaxy and countless other nights at Haven, aka The Coffeehouse of the Damned. It’s odd, really, but I don’t know exactly how we met. Were we introduced? Did he introduce himself? It would be just like him, but I can’t recall.
It’s sad, you know, when you recognize a lapse of memory that is going to bring you pain in days and weeks and forevers to come.
Anyway, we met. We chatted. At some point he crossed the threshold where I trusted him not to get me cut into little pieces and, when he vouched for a photographer who wanted to shoot me in my corset and full regalia, I went for it. I took my girlfriend and we scoped the place out, but the fact that I was willing to take Russell’s word that this dude (his name was Robert) wasn’t going to try to keep me as a pet says quite a bit about Russell.
The fact is, I trusted Russell on very little evidence. I just did—some gut instinct told me it was okay, and I was right. And when at one he asked me to come up to Haven to visit him some afternoon while he was working, I promised I would come that week
I showed up that Friday, at about quarter ‘til five--typical of me, especially at 21. I half-assed my word, getting there just under the wire to keep my promise.
We hung out. We talked. We made dinner plans; I tried to cancel because I was trying to catch a cat that was hiding out in a construction site. He offered to help, and then he made me pasta out of a jar with artichoke hearts and red chile flakes. At some point that evening, I realized he was interested in me as more than just friends. Maybe he told me so, but I don’t remember.
Time passed, as time does. We became a couple, after a fashion. We were doomed to fail on so very many levels. I was 21 and hell-bent on breaking my heart on the sharp rocks of unwise choices. He thought more of me at the time than I deserved. Kate Chopin describes her short story character Athenaise as someone who did not want to be “loved against her will.” That . . . is pretty damned apt.
Apt? Yes. But ultimately neither here nor there. Even had I not been emotionally retarded we were completely incompatible as a couple. We were never going to wind up doing anything but driving one another batshit. The fact that we wound up friends is, frankly, a small miracle.
We never really broke up, exactly. More I weakly protested that things weren’t well going and he deserved better, and he blew me off and told me I was underestimating myself, and eventually we would reach an exhausted impasse and go to bed. All the while, mind you, while maintaining an “open relationship” that only I took advantage of but was STILL too weak to call “bullshit” on and put an end to.
Eventually, though, we reached the end. I met The Fuckwit, and my on-again-off-again-not-quite-relationship with Russell ended. It wasn’t always pretty. There were hurt feelings and we knew more than enough to take one another off at the knees. At one point I, with all sincerity, offered to brain Russell with an ice cream scoop.
Yeah, the ice cream scoop was probably a low point.
But we managed to come back from that. Eventually, we became friends. Really. Weird, isn’t it?
And now he’s fucking gone. The sonofabitch couldn’t have weighed 100 pounds if you dredged him in flour (he was 5’2”; it made sense), and he ran like he was being chased, and he had a motherfucking heart-attack and died.
So.
A Short and Non-Inclusive List of Things for Which I Wish To Thank Russell, In No Particular Order
Russell had a front-row seat for my nervous breakdown at 22. He saw come almost apart at the seams while I assiduously hid it from all those around me. He did what he could; one can only imagine that the carnage would have been greater had he not been around.
I have been to New Orleans three times; one of those trips was with him and about 8 other people. That one was the best. It was, frankly, a good time. I got on a plane, still drunk, after traipsing around the French Quarter in high heels until the wee hours. That’s how it is done.
Green Curry Tofu, hot. Ultimately, it was Russell that turned me onto one of my favorite foods ever. Thai food, generally, but especially Green Curry Tofu, is like manna from heaven. I can still hear him, “Green Curry Tofu, extra tofu, hot, with snow peas, oh yeah.”
Speaking of manna from heaven, it was Russell who taught me to drink coffee. The man literally put me through Coffee Training, by the end of which I had gone from milky, caffeinated hummingbird water to being able to drink drip coffee black.
Russell was the first person who ever seemed to be attracted to me for my brain. Mostly, Russell was a smart guy who expected the people around him to be smart. During our years of acquaintance, he saw me do a lot (A LOT) of really dumb shit. To his credit, he managed to remain my friend without, really, ever overlooking the dumb shit. Mad props for his ability to forgive.
The Cocteau Twins. ‘Nuff said.
The Sandman. One of the most brilliant, interesting, engaging works of modern fiction I’ve encountered. It just so happens to have pictures.
Russell was the first person who tried to teach me to raise the expectations I had of others regarding their treatment of me. I can’t say that it took at the time, but the sure the fuck worked to plant the seed. It’s not his fault that I was a slow learner.
And finally, Tanqueray. Without which, this blog and my particular flavor of mourning would not be brought to you this evening.
My god, there is so much.
I saw Russell on my birthday. He brought his girlfriend. We chatted. He said something about getting together for dinner that week, but I told him it was bad because I had so much shit going on and that I would call him when I got back into town and things calmed down. I was thinking about calling him and trying to get together next week. Fucking oops.
I guess, after all, we won’t. That’s just something else for which to be sorry.
I was at work; it was about 20 minutes before my shift was to end and I was going back and forth on whether or not I was going to stay late or go home. As usual when I’m at work, my cell phone was on vibrate. I paused when it started to go off There are only about five people who call my phone on a regular basis and of those, the only ones I wanted to talk to would know I was still at work and were unlikely to be calling.
I checked the Caller ID. “Russell.”
“Huh,” I thought. “Maybe he’s seeing what I’m up to tonight. Fuck, I don’t want to go out. I hope he’s cool when I just say I’m planning to go hang at Jason and Dave’s. Maybe I can ask if he wants to stop by for a drink and grab dinner next week.”
“Hello?” I answer.
Then things got all fucked up. It wasn’t Russell trying to convince me to get dressed up and go out and celebrate Halloween. It was Russell’s girlfriend, calling to tell me that he had had a heart attack and died.
I met Russell when I was about 21. I was in the middle of my GAF (Goth As Fuck) phase, passing Monday nights at the Galaxy and countless other nights at Haven, aka The Coffeehouse of the Damned. It’s odd, really, but I don’t know exactly how we met. Were we introduced? Did he introduce himself? It would be just like him, but I can’t recall.
It’s sad, you know, when you recognize a lapse of memory that is going to bring you pain in days and weeks and forevers to come.
Anyway, we met. We chatted. At some point he crossed the threshold where I trusted him not to get me cut into little pieces and, when he vouched for a photographer who wanted to shoot me in my corset and full regalia, I went for it. I took my girlfriend and we scoped the place out, but the fact that I was willing to take Russell’s word that this dude (his name was Robert) wasn’t going to try to keep me as a pet says quite a bit about Russell.
The fact is, I trusted Russell on very little evidence. I just did—some gut instinct told me it was okay, and I was right. And when at one he asked me to come up to Haven to visit him some afternoon while he was working, I promised I would come that week
I showed up that Friday, at about quarter ‘til five--typical of me, especially at 21. I half-assed my word, getting there just under the wire to keep my promise.
We hung out. We talked. We made dinner plans; I tried to cancel because I was trying to catch a cat that was hiding out in a construction site. He offered to help, and then he made me pasta out of a jar with artichoke hearts and red chile flakes. At some point that evening, I realized he was interested in me as more than just friends. Maybe he told me so, but I don’t remember.
Time passed, as time does. We became a couple, after a fashion. We were doomed to fail on so very many levels. I was 21 and hell-bent on breaking my heart on the sharp rocks of unwise choices. He thought more of me at the time than I deserved. Kate Chopin describes her short story character Athenaise as someone who did not want to be “loved against her will.” That . . . is pretty damned apt.
Apt? Yes. But ultimately neither here nor there. Even had I not been emotionally retarded we were completely incompatible as a couple. We were never going to wind up doing anything but driving one another batshit. The fact that we wound up friends is, frankly, a small miracle.
We never really broke up, exactly. More I weakly protested that things weren’t well going and he deserved better, and he blew me off and told me I was underestimating myself, and eventually we would reach an exhausted impasse and go to bed. All the while, mind you, while maintaining an “open relationship” that only I took advantage of but was STILL too weak to call “bullshit” on and put an end to.
Eventually, though, we reached the end. I met The Fuckwit, and my on-again-off-again-not-quite-relationship with Russell ended. It wasn’t always pretty. There were hurt feelings and we knew more than enough to take one another off at the knees. At one point I, with all sincerity, offered to brain Russell with an ice cream scoop.
Yeah, the ice cream scoop was probably a low point.
But we managed to come back from that. Eventually, we became friends. Really. Weird, isn’t it?
And now he’s fucking gone. The sonofabitch couldn’t have weighed 100 pounds if you dredged him in flour (he was 5’2”; it made sense), and he ran like he was being chased, and he had a motherfucking heart-attack and died.
So.
A Short and Non-Inclusive List of Things for Which I Wish To Thank Russell, In No Particular Order
Russell had a front-row seat for my nervous breakdown at 22. He saw come almost apart at the seams while I assiduously hid it from all those around me. He did what he could; one can only imagine that the carnage would have been greater had he not been around.
I have been to New Orleans three times; one of those trips was with him and about 8 other people. That one was the best. It was, frankly, a good time. I got on a plane, still drunk, after traipsing around the French Quarter in high heels until the wee hours. That’s how it is done.
Green Curry Tofu, hot. Ultimately, it was Russell that turned me onto one of my favorite foods ever. Thai food, generally, but especially Green Curry Tofu, is like manna from heaven. I can still hear him, “Green Curry Tofu, extra tofu, hot, with snow peas, oh yeah.”
Speaking of manna from heaven, it was Russell who taught me to drink coffee. The man literally put me through Coffee Training, by the end of which I had gone from milky, caffeinated hummingbird water to being able to drink drip coffee black.
Russell was the first person who ever seemed to be attracted to me for my brain. Mostly, Russell was a smart guy who expected the people around him to be smart. During our years of acquaintance, he saw me do a lot (A LOT) of really dumb shit. To his credit, he managed to remain my friend without, really, ever overlooking the dumb shit. Mad props for his ability to forgive.
The Cocteau Twins. ‘Nuff said.
The Sandman. One of the most brilliant, interesting, engaging works of modern fiction I’ve encountered. It just so happens to have pictures.
Russell was the first person who tried to teach me to raise the expectations I had of others regarding their treatment of me. I can’t say that it took at the time, but the sure the fuck worked to plant the seed. It’s not his fault that I was a slow learner.
And finally, Tanqueray. Without which, this blog and my particular flavor of mourning would not be brought to you this evening.
My god, there is so much.
I saw Russell on my birthday. He brought his girlfriend. We chatted. He said something about getting together for dinner that week, but I told him it was bad because I had so much shit going on and that I would call him when I got back into town and things calmed down. I was thinking about calling him and trying to get together next week. Fucking oops.
I guess, after all, we won’t. That’s just something else for which to be sorry.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
So Many Shortcomings, So Little Time
So, The Liquor Fairy is off to trap bats. Sounds like a plan.
I have figured out why I’m not writing more, either here or in other areas of my life. It is, in fact, because the human psyche is built to tolerate so much fucking failure. When it all comes down to it, there is only so much failure that one human mind can endure before it crumbles under the weight of it.
And right now? A quick pit sniff tells me that I absolutely wreak of failure.
It’s not that I don’t already have more than a glancing familiarity with Mediocrity and its close cousin, Gross Incompetence. I have fallen out of more trees than most people are ever lucky enough to try to climb. Lately, though, I taste a new flavor of fucked—one that I must say I don’t much like. Suddenly, instead of the regular 32 Flavors and Then Some of screw-up to which I have historically subscribed, suddenly it’s like a Mochachino Chip Implosion of FuckedUppedNess. With sprinkles.
So, yeah. My job sucks. Sucks. SUuuuuuuuuucccccckkkks.
Everyone’s job sucks, you say? Well yes. Indeed. Indubitably.
Yesterday I spent 45 crying over approximately $12. Twelve. American. Dollars. Broken, crushed, snotting, tear-stained sobs over $12 that was the difference between the deal closing and getting off of my desk forever and . . . not.
The story is too long, not to mention too stupid, to relate. The short version—for real this time—is that I find myself in a situation where I have about three times the amount of work that can be handled by anyone in my position. Our software is the worst piece of shit I’ve ever had the misfortune of touching. I soothe myself by imagining tromping on the balls of the purchasing asshole who picked this thing. For variety I vary the shoes I’m wearing in the fantasy.
Were that not enough, I find myself in the fucking untenable position of explaining many of the finer points (and basics, frankly) of our industry to my co-workers so that they can continue to make more than $10,000 a year more than I do. Every time I help them to re-invent the wheel, I make more work for myself. I hate *everybody*.
I start dreading Monday after brunch on Sunday. I would be dreading tomorrow right now, but I’m a bit tipsy so I don’t actually care. Every day is much like shoving a little hedgehog backwards up my ass, and then poking it in the nose so it gets all spiny. Except hedgehogs are kind of cute, and there is nothing at all cute about my day and the douchebags I am forced to spend it with.
I pray for Death, but Death doesn’t listen.
No. Seriously. I had my wee mini breakdown, followed by pizza and wine and romantic comedy on DVD. I also locked myself out of my house and had to cut open the kitchen screen and crawl through. (Plus last night I fucking punched myself in the eye because my pets are ginormous fatasses who need to NOT sleep on their mommy’s covers.)
I got up today. I went to work. I have decided that for awhile most questions are going to have to be addressed to my PEZ dispenser (“Ask the PEZ head!”). Tomorrow will be the same thing. Things will either get better or will get replaced..
In the meantime, though, I have to scrape up energy. To exercise. To write. To clean my house. Because right now? At the end of each day? All I want is to sit, and stare, and hide my face against The Boy’s neck and get ready to force myself to do it again.
You know what really sucks for me, though? I think there was a chance that I might have been okay at this job if I had only been given some portion of the tools necessary to do it. That’s saying a lot for me. Mostly, jobs are just something I do while I try to find another job. This one? I could have been good at it.
I have figured out why I’m not writing more, either here or in other areas of my life. It is, in fact, because the human psyche is built to tolerate so much fucking failure. When it all comes down to it, there is only so much failure that one human mind can endure before it crumbles under the weight of it.
And right now? A quick pit sniff tells me that I absolutely wreak of failure.
It’s not that I don’t already have more than a glancing familiarity with Mediocrity and its close cousin, Gross Incompetence. I have fallen out of more trees than most people are ever lucky enough to try to climb. Lately, though, I taste a new flavor of fucked—one that I must say I don’t much like. Suddenly, instead of the regular 32 Flavors and Then Some of screw-up to which I have historically subscribed, suddenly it’s like a Mochachino Chip Implosion of FuckedUppedNess. With sprinkles.
So, yeah. My job sucks. Sucks. SUuuuuuuuuucccccckkkks.
Everyone’s job sucks, you say? Well yes. Indeed. Indubitably.
Yesterday I spent 45 crying over approximately $12. Twelve. American. Dollars. Broken, crushed, snotting, tear-stained sobs over $12 that was the difference between the deal closing and getting off of my desk forever and . . . not.
The story is too long, not to mention too stupid, to relate. The short version—for real this time—is that I find myself in a situation where I have about three times the amount of work that can be handled by anyone in my position. Our software is the worst piece of shit I’ve ever had the misfortune of touching. I soothe myself by imagining tromping on the balls of the purchasing asshole who picked this thing. For variety I vary the shoes I’m wearing in the fantasy.
Were that not enough, I find myself in the fucking untenable position of explaining many of the finer points (and basics, frankly) of our industry to my co-workers so that they can continue to make more than $10,000 a year more than I do. Every time I help them to re-invent the wheel, I make more work for myself. I hate *everybody*.
I start dreading Monday after brunch on Sunday. I would be dreading tomorrow right now, but I’m a bit tipsy so I don’t actually care. Every day is much like shoving a little hedgehog backwards up my ass, and then poking it in the nose so it gets all spiny. Except hedgehogs are kind of cute, and there is nothing at all cute about my day and the douchebags I am forced to spend it with.
I pray for Death, but Death doesn’t listen.
No. Seriously. I had my wee mini breakdown, followed by pizza and wine and romantic comedy on DVD. I also locked myself out of my house and had to cut open the kitchen screen and crawl through. (Plus last night I fucking punched myself in the eye because my pets are ginormous fatasses who need to NOT sleep on their mommy’s covers.)
I got up today. I went to work. I have decided that for awhile most questions are going to have to be addressed to my PEZ dispenser (“Ask the PEZ head!”). Tomorrow will be the same thing. Things will either get better or will get replaced..
In the meantime, though, I have to scrape up energy. To exercise. To write. To clean my house. Because right now? At the end of each day? All I want is to sit, and stare, and hide my face against The Boy’s neck and get ready to force myself to do it again.
You know what really sucks for me, though? I think there was a chance that I might have been okay at this job if I had only been given some portion of the tools necessary to do it. That’s saying a lot for me. Mostly, jobs are just something I do while I try to find another job. This one? I could have been good at it.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
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