Arghhhhhh!

Ok, I watched "Fat Actress" last night.

It sucked. Moving on.

Ok, so I didn't let it bother me that I got passed over for promotion at the office, again. Considering that the person I got bumped in favor of is the chief admins "best friend" (at least for now until said chief admin needs a sacrificial lamb) and her husband plays golf with the fella whose name is on the door I figured out a long time ago that she would be moving on up a lot faster in this organization than I would.

But then I got into the office a month ago and found this e-mail.

...we are changing your hours until {XXXXX} get more comfortable with her new job....

(and yeah, that is how much of a grasp of grammar the woman possesses)

Excuse me, but I'll put up $20.00 that says she's already comfortable with her new fucking paycheck.

I've expended all the energy I have to be pissed off about it. But it has changed the way I deal with work now. I really hate this shit, it's not what I signed on for. I have become that last one in, first one out joker that never sticks around for anything. I really could care less. Not that I was ever very good at not giving someone my honest opinion, I was at lest decent about sparing someone else's feelings. I don't make much effort to do that anymore.

Stuff that has zero to do with my life, now, instead of saying something along the lines of, "that's nice" or "well, I hope that works out well for her", now gets a "fascinating" or "not much I can do with that" and I find someplace else to go. If I can't can't have a level playing field at least I can have some physical distance and complete and total emotional detachment.

If I'd spent less time concentrating on college and more time concentrating on the fine art of kissing ass... who am I kidding, I'd still be in this same situation. My kids didn't go to school with the bosses kids and I never ordered anything from the bosses daughter when she was selling Tupperware, Pampered Chef, or any of the other wonderful home based businesses she's been in over the years. I tell myself that I am a good employee and deserve a shot at management because I come to work everyday, mind my own business and don't gossip (at least not much anyway) and keep my personal phone calls to a bare minimum. This is not the case. In retrospect I should have been running out of the office because my kid farted and belched at the same time in class, borrowing money from co-workers and running out because my utilities have been shut off, or borrowing money from the guy whose name is on the door because my teenage daughter who already has one child and really can't handle another needs an abortion. Not once, but twice.

But hey, I'm not bitter.

I'm not sure I'm ready to see that, yet.

Mike Logan is back.

Yeah, Law and Order Mike Logan, only this time he's on Law & Order: CI, in all his glorious plaid tie, American flag pin, rangy leather coat glory. But at least in CI he's got a girlfriend, of course he was bailing her out last night so she'll probably never be on the show again, but we can rest assured that Mike Logan isn't a closet homosexual.

I'm not sure I'm ready to see that.

I'm sure as hell that I wasn't ready to see him with all the makeup smeared all over his face.

Dude looked like fuckin' Dracula.

Free to Good Home!!

I thought something smelled mighty funky last night when I got home. I thought maybe I had left some laundry in the washer for a few days, but upon inspection the washer was found to be empty. But then again, I had been so grossed out by the peculiar body-odor of one of my lazier co-irkers earlier in the day that I figured my mind was just stuck in "he smells like dog-shit" mode and it was going to take a hot shower and some good prescription strength dope to get that smell out of my head.

Yeah, right.

Hours later, after I had spent most of my valuable t.v. time trying to convince myself that one of those fucking cats hadn't in fact taken a shit under my t. v. chair I go into the bathroom and get ready to take a shower and find out that one of those fucking cats had peed on the bathroom rug.

Then the little bastard threw up on it.

Or maybe somebody got sick, was in the process of throwing up and peed by accident.

Maybe somebody got sick, and somebody else came along and decided to cover the throw-up smell with pee. Mybe somebody peed and the smell was so bad that the next somebody that came along was overcome with nausea and threw up.

Who knows, the possibilities are mind boggling.

All I know is that I'm glad the washer was empty. I threw that befouled rug into it and chugged a healthy amount of ammonia in after it.

Thirty minutes later I was finally able to shower.

Today is just, well, hummmmmm

It's cold.

I'm bored.

I'm sitting here thiking about shagging Vincent D'Onofrio. I'd spend the rent at La Perla for that man.

Other than that, I've got nothin'.

This is not what I signed on for.

My co-worker is jabbering at me like a mother-fucking monkey on crank, about absolutely nothing.

My hands are cramping like hell.

My car pool is going to be running "just about an hour and a half late, you don't have to be anywhere until 7:00, right?"

You got the exact same invitation I did and it states to be there at 6:30.

Of course whenever we go someplace together, we are never on time. Anybody with half a brain would know that we won't be on time this time, but hey, I'm a dumbass.

Just shoot me.

I really want to go to law school?

It used to be a certainty.

Without question I knew that once certain obstacles were surmounted that I, yes, I was going to law school. That was what I wanted above all else.

And then it hit me. This morning, right between the eyes came the thought.

Court TV is fucking boring.

And just as a point of consideration, if I were to pursue law school and in fact become a lawyer, wouldn't at some time I be expected to appear in court for something?

It's going to take me at least seven more years to be finished with my undergradutae degree and law school. I can retire from this soul sucking job that I hate in ten years. If I spend too much time thinking about this, I think my right eye will explode.

Things are pretty fucking uncertain for me right now. I feel lost.

Just because it's time to celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus doesn't mean I'm going to wake up anytime soon and like hazelnut candy.

Hazelnuts, or as we used to call them, filberts.

I hate those fucking things.

I don't want them in candy, cookies, cake frosting, actually, all of the hazelnut trees could wither and die right now and fall off the face of the Earth en masse and I wouldn't be bothered.

So when one of the guys from the second floor office came down offering everybody a fabulous gold wrapped, our commercials are to haute for your t.v. but we'll show it to you anyway because you are such a heretic that you insist on saying the word filbert, piece of ground up hazelnut in some chocolate, I just smiled and said "no, thank you."

Could have heard a pin drop. As it was obvious that I was the ONLY person in the office who was not acquainted with the virtues of this filbert-based concoction, one of my co-workers sets out to convince me of it's worthiness.

"But you like chocolate." This statement makes perfect sense to her, it doesn't really follow for me however that just because I like chocolate means I am socially required to accept candy that I don't want. And the fella who is obviously trying to get rid of the filbert filled foulness smiles hopefully as he thrusts the little plastic tray back towards me.

"Well, yeah, but I don't like those." The fella with the tray looks at me like I'm crazy, then says goodbye as he walks off with his single piece of crusty crap filled chocolate glace crappola.

And all of this left me to wondering...

If that candy is such hot shit, why is he trying to get rid of it?

I skinned 2 cats alive this weekend.

I skinned 3 cats alive this weekend.

At least that's what anybody walking passed the house would think, in reality everybody got a BATH. They needed it, too.

But good Lord, listening to the three of them carrying on like they'd been placed on the rack and stretched out, I started to ask myself if it was worth it. Could I put up with a little bit of smelly rather than put up with a whole bunch of hollerin' and spittin'? Then I stopped to consider how friendly my middle baby, Harlow is. She gets up in my lap and purs when I'm reading, watching t.v., trying to do homework, etc., etc.

Nope, sorry, your behind is getting a scrub. She was the first victim, and while she raised Holy Hell through the floating clouds of non-tearing cat shampoo her little sister ran off for parts unknown and her older brother, who isn't very bright, came into the bathroom to see what was happening. He hung around watching the proceedings until it was his turn to get dunked, and that was when he started pitching a fit, trying to scratch and bite his way out of the tub. The little fucker got loose once and took off across the house, but his back feet slipped on the tile floor and he knocked himself even stupider (stupidest?) against the bar. I wagged a wet squalling cat back across the house and finished the operation.

The little one, June Bug, well, we had to find her before we could scrub her. There was no way she would answer repeated calls, whistles or chuck-chuck sounds we made. Whatever wookalars we were feeding her brother and sister to would just have to be satisfied with a two cat snack. I finally located her up under the dining room table and flushed her out with a broom towards the ready clucthes of my mom, who dunked her butt in the tub just like everybody else. Thank goodness June Bug is just too fat to heft herself out of the tub because that little beast put up one hell of a fight.

Of course, now that she's clean she's also the prissiest.

Beasts.

If you think that possibly I am busy and don't want to be bothered, you're probably correct.

Especially if I'm listening to a CD. Yep, the possibility exists that Neko Case and her Boyfriends are more interesting than you.

As a matter of fact, I'd say it was a certainty.

Hell, a Woody Woodpecker cartoon from the 1950's is more interesting that 99.9 % of the people I work with.

Humbug.

I screamed "Goddamn" a few minutes ago.

I shoved a door so hard on the way back to my desk that it shook on it's frame and then I was hateful to the twit on the other end of the line.

I feel so much better now.

Hows 'bout a tall, frosty glass of new and improved "Shut the Fuck Up"?

My co-irker talks. Constantly, about nothing.

Sometimes she just really annoys the shit out of me.

This shit is my career?

God, how I fucking hate this job.

I hate the work. I hate a good number of the people I work with. I hate all the people who utilize our services. I hate the pay, the hours, the working conditions and politics that exist in this scrubby asshole of an office.

In twelve years I can retire with full medical benefits. Given that I have a medical condition, I need to keep this job.

In twelve years I can finish my graduate degree. That shit takes a while going part-time at night.

And then I get to start all over working someplace else.

I just wonder how long it'll take me to start hating that job.

This shit is my career?

God, how I fucking hate this job.

I hate the work. I hate a good number of the people I work with. I hate all the people who utilize our services. I hate the pay, the hours, the working conditions and politics that exist in this scrubby asshole of an office.

In twelve years I can retire with full medical benefits. Given that I have a medical condition, I need to keep this job.

In twelve years I can finish my graduate degree. That shit takes a while going part-time at night.

And then I get to start all over working someplace else.

I just wonder how long it'll take me to start hating that job.

Ok, I am not down for revisionist history.

I was also raised to not speak ill of the dead, and although I don't always remember my upbringing the way I should, I am inspired to remark on the passing of Ronald Reagan.

Former President Ronald Reagan is dead.

Add that to the list of things that I won't be loosing any sleep over.

I lost an earring.

I've lost an earring.

People assure me that I'll find it when I get home because it probably fell out when I got dressed.

I know it was here at the job.

And of course it was part of a cute pair that I bought for myself, not some crappy pair that somebody else bought for me.

Damnit.

I feel like throwing a screaming fit right here in the middle of the office right now.

It wouldn't do a shit bit worth of good though.

It would only serve to reinforce some people's opinion that I really an a psycho-bitch that needs to be medicated.

Everybody please fuck off now.

Shut Up, Will You Just Please Shut The Hell UP?

I know, ok. I know.

Tony Randall is dead.

I'm sure he's more upset about it than you are.

Yeah, that soldier got a year in prison and a shitty discharge.

Hey, he got punished for being a dick and helping other people act like dicks, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it.

Ok, Texas executed a mentally ill man last night.

And I'm wondering what Danny Glover and Jesse Jackson are up to this afternoon, they sure ain't catching a flight outta the Lone Star State.

What I did last night that I look so tired today?

What I did last night isn't your fucking business, m'k?

Politics and Breakfast Sam-itches.

There is a little place in town, it's been here for as long as I can remember.

It's called the Do-Nut Hole, and used to be owned by a family that lived here in town forever, in fact, I went to high school with the owner's daughter. Many a day my Dad would drive thru to get me a bag of holes and a chocolate milk for the road. Unlike other kids who got hyped up on sugar, it mellowed me out.

Anyway, a few years ago the original owners sold out and hit the road. Can't say that I blame them, anyway a Korean man bought it, kept the same old menu for a long time and went on about the business of selling do-nuts. Lot's of people scoffed, the place would go down hill, it'll be closed in a year, won't be long before they start selling egg rolls.

And ten, maybe fifteen years later, Mr. Kim is still selling do-nuts. (Hey, the sign reads "DO-NUTS"), he's also selling the most wonderful croissaints stuffed with a slice of cheese, a pile of bacon and the thinnest, saltiest, pepperiest scrambled egg you've ever seen in your life. They are a heartattack wrapped up in a napkin, and every morning there are pickups, mini vans, clunkers and beaters lined up at the drive thru with people waiting to purchase the fine wares that Mr. Kim churns out of his kitchen.

That would be kitchens, becuase not only has Mr. Kim kept the original place going, he's expanding.

And there isn't an egg roll in sight.

Ok, two things happened at belly dance class last night.

First, my right foot started hurting like a mutha, at one point I really wanted to cry, or throw up, either way, I was sure that one or the other would happen. Niether one did.

Second, my instructor asked me if I'd ever thought about performing. Um, well, yeah, as a matter of fact I have, even though I had no plans to ever share that fact with another living human being.

So with that knowledge she hands me one of her weighted veils so I can practice what we've worked on last night, and tells me she'll bring some finger cymbals (zills, said either zi-ll or ze-el, I'm not sure which) next week because she'd really like to start me working on that. She would have let me borrow a pair of her dance shoes if possible, but given that she was blessed with (to me) freakishly small 7 1/2 feet, they won't stretch over my size 10 puddlejumpers. This woman is so generous with her personal possessions it's absolutley awe inspiring.

And I'm also supposed to find a piece of music I'd like to work with, something that's about three minutes long or something that we can cut down to three minutes. Oh, and she's bringing me some videos next week to watch. She's got all kinds of performances on tape and thinks they'll help me. Maybe we could do some improvisational work next week if we get through the lesson. We almost always get through the lesson because I'm the only student taking the six-thirty class.

But, honestly, I've never minded being the center of attention.

So, I brought my new Natacha Atlas CD to work and am listening to it, but everything is at least five minutes, so that ain't gonna fly.

I'll find something.

I wish I didn’t have all of this computer shit at my desk.

I just really do. I waste too much time looking at the internet, goofing off with Paint and the games that came installed in this stupid fucker and all the crap that people send me via e-mail.

Enough already. I don’t want a visit from the “Wishing Frog” or whatever the hell the good luck e-mail for this week is. If I actually had ten friends who went for that kind of shit to send it too, half of them wouldn’t be speaking to me at any given moment of time and the other half I would have no respect for because they pass around that internet spam shit. Please, please don’t send me any scanned images of prayer cards, if God really wants to send me a message, there are plenty of bushes in my front yard, he’ll set fire to one of them, thanks.

That spiteful pest known as Harlow Beans PhD., bit me this morning. It was my punishment for doing something so hateful as to spend the couple of extra minutes I had talking to her. Damn me. I ran my hand down her back and gave her tail a little twist, just like I do every Saturday morning when I don’t have to literally jump over her and run out the door. Anyway, I do it on a Wednesday morning and that spicy little tart latches onto my leg with her front paws and bites me. Look cat, the Sunday paper is still on the dining room table, maybe you should check the ads for a job and a new squat, cause if you keep this act up, we may have to re-evaluate your position in this organization.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I can’t concentrate on much lately. I need to be studying for that fecking Algebra exam instead of killing time with this shit and listening to Sarah Brightman. Shit, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra voluntarily. Jeez.

Ok, along with other things in the realm of impossibility, I have developed a silly-assed crush on a local human-interest reporter.



Now, why exactly this is, I don’t know. I’ve even found myself getting out more on the weekends and trying a couple of things I’ve seen in his reports, like belly-dancing. It’s weird, even for me.

Probably shouldn’t have even bothered to go there.