Tuesday. Not a Monday. Not "hump day." Not almost Friday. Most definitely not Friday. Tuesday is just a day of the week that we have to get through. The mission today was simple. Go to work, get some shit done and get the the gym on my lunch. Don't lose your temper and stay out of the drama. Achievable, by even my high standards of hoping today doesn't totally suck.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan until about 8:30am, when all hell broke loose in my stomach. I don't know what was wrong, but it was definitely...WRONG. No, I didn't shit myself, shit on the floor, on the wall, on the toilet seat, etc. even though this would have been my moment to shine. I didn't even take time to paint a poop pony on the bathroom wall. I'm just saying, I didn't feel well and things progressed to a semi-emergency state. As I was in the midst of the emergency, I thought to myself, what could have caused this? And then I think I found the culprit. Sunday, after "date night" with Shark Bait, I was jonsing for ice cream. We stopped and Shark Bait got me a Magnum ice cream bar. I was so excited. I carefully cracked and ate the chocolatey covering first so all that was left was the vanilla ice cream. Now I could make all sorts of obscene gestures with the ice cream bar while Shark Bait was driving. It's kind of my thing. It's juvenile, but whatever. Anyway, when I got to the vanilla, it was really grainy. There was no reason for it to be grainy. Good God. I was being poisoned, I know it. It was some sort of terrorist ice cream bar. I told Shark Bait, "I'm pretty sure I'm going to die from this. It make take a couple of days for the fever and blisters to show up, but I'm certain, I've just been terrorized by terrorists that want all fat people to die. Hell, all people that love ice cream to die. Shark Bait assured me this was not the case. I started to think about dying and how the last joy I had was eating that fucking ice cream bar that didn't even taste good. Hey terrorists, if you are going to target fat people, freaking upgrade your toxic formula. Make it delicious. Make me want more. What? Are you on a budget? I didn't know bio-warfare had a spending ceiling. Anyway, I did wake up Monday, and did note, by the way, that I had survived my first night before the real symptoms showed up. I'm too pretty for boils and welts on my face, but, it's my fate, what can I do? As I sat there, in my emergency state, I was sure this was stage one of my ice cream poisoning.
That's a long paragraph to say, I think the ice cream made me sick.
I got back to my desk, feeling lucky to be alive and that I hadn't shit my pants (which would have been nylons since I'm wearing a dress today...that would have been epic). Not sure which of those things brought me more joy, being alive or not shitting my pants...wow, did I just have a "senior moment?" Is that what it is going to be like at the old folks home? I'm walking around with the walking farts and it is a success story I lived through it and don't need a diaper change? But I digress. Upon arriving at my desk, I see I am being approached by what can only be the new batch of interns. We have high school interns now, in addition to the college interns. Now, I would love to be super mean about this, but we all know my voice can only be so loud these days. Let's say I was irritated. I don't have time for interns. They all want to do observations on our on-line reps and they need my help to get set up. Fine. I get them all settled and then another one shows up...and then another one. It's like I'm at the freaking mall. One of them comes over when she is done and says, "do you know where my laptop is? I'm supposed to pick one up." I said, "I don't know anything about a laptop, I don't have any for you." She says, "What should I do?" In my most supportive, helpful voice I said, "I suggest you go find whomever it is you work for and ask them." I do give her credit for persistence. She continued, "He said it's down here." I gave her two blinks and a dismissal as I went back to work, "Well, I don't have them, so I don't know what to tell you..." Even the interns that work in OTHER DEPARTMENTS think I am their mother. No. I'm not accepting any more puppies into my litter right now. This bitch has dried up. One of them even ran off with one of my headsets, so I sent an email to one of the gals that had brought them down earlier. She says, "what was the intern's name?" I wrote back, "I don't know. Collectively, they are "the interns." I don't expect to spend enough time with them to learn their names. It was one of them. Tall guy. Glasses." She agreed to question them later. Thank God. I don't have time for this. I hope they are potty trained.
My day progressed with several incidents that made me want to scream, but I am not at liberty to speak of such things. One of the things I will talk about that took up a large amount of time is that we have a file that is in a special drive. All of the supervisors and myself have access. If you are in there and have the file open, no one else can get into it to make changes. I went around and tortured each supervisor individually, which normally, I would enjoy, but this was making me crazy. I finally realized it was Cross Fit Crazy. I pointed at him and said, "YOU, get in your office, you are in that file!" He's like all breezy about it, "yeah, I had to check the schedules this morning." I proceeded to unleash the beast on him. I am chewing him up one side and down the other and he says, "You look really pretty today." These tactics don't work on me when I am on a rant. I told him to stop trying to sway me from my rant. "No, you really do...really pretty....I mean it." It was like I had my compliment force-field activated. Nothing could penetrate this rant. Nothing. I simply looked at him and said, "Get. Out. Of. The. File." He smiles and tries to be all breezy again. No. Not havin' it. Today is not his day. Tomorrow isn't looking good either. I cannot be buttered up. Unless he started throwing ice cream at me. Now THAT would have distracted me. He is going to need to get smarter about this.
That mission completed, I went out to hang up some posters. I'm minding my own business when a person approaches me, "Hey, I thought of you this morning...I was in the bathroom, in stall number one and you know how you have signs telling people to dispose of things properly? Well, someone had a big, bloody tampon in the toilet...I thought you'd like to know that." Instantly irritated, I looked at her and said,"Gee, thanks for sharing that with me, that's a great story." She says, "Well, I thought you'd find it humorous." I continued what I was doing and said snottily, "Yeah, because I just love it when everyone tells me about every gross thing that happens in stall number one. So glad you thought of me." And walked away. I hear her behind me, "Well, we love you..." THIS is love? I guess I'm confused about what love is. I need to go have a deep conversation with Forest Gump or something.
After that incident, I returned to my area and just sat there shaking my head. I said to Dish Guy, "Have you ever had a morning where - " He stopped me mid sentence, "Yes." Okay then, we are on the same page. And then it happened, as it often does, people were loitering around my desk and it came up that I should write a sitcom or book about this place. I advised them, that would surely lead to my demise as the admin, but we decided to pick stars that would play us in the movie or TV show anyway. I'm not sure who will play me. I mean, Melissa McCarthy would do a really good job, I think. Additionally, I decided, if it is a book that turns into a movie, the working title will be The Day I Shot Myself in the Head. Maybe I was inspired by the Outlander movie stand-up that had been left in front of my desk that had been staring me down. Or, maybe I was inspired by the need to put myself out of my misery today. I don't know.
As we closed out the conversation about the movie casting, Sick Python Arms delivered the mail. It's a Ladies Home Journal. Now, I'm going to tell you right now, I'm freaked out. First, several months back, out of the blue, Ladies Home Journal started sending me their magazine at my house on a regular basis. I never ordered it, no one ordered it for me. I figured it was a promotional deal, but they kept coming. I haven't seen one lately at home, so figured they gave up on me and stopped. Now, here it is AT WORK, addressed to ME. What the hell? How did the LHJ people find me here? How did they know? Is someone stalking me? What is happening? Why are they sending me their magazine? Is it from our CEO? Are there subliminal messages? Is it bugged? Like, on those little tear out cards that keep you from successfully turning the fucking page and keeping the previous page down, those things, stuffed between pages....are there tracking devices or bugs so they can hear my conversations at home and now at work? Do they just really want me to know about make-up, relationship and health tips? Are they trying to beautify this ugly world we live in? What is happening? I felt violated, like maybe I needed an escort to my truck. What if some "magazine server" dude said, "Are you Angry Pony? Here's your magazine" and then runs like hell? There is no safe place. No place to hide. If only I knew what their angle was. I must remain alert and aware of my surroundings. I mean, at least until I die from the ice cream bar that the terrorists planted the toxic biological warfare in. I guess it wouldn't hurt to read a magazine while I wait to die. At least I won't die on a Tuesday.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan until about 8:30am, when all hell broke loose in my stomach. I don't know what was wrong, but it was definitely...WRONG. No, I didn't shit myself, shit on the floor, on the wall, on the toilet seat, etc. even though this would have been my moment to shine. I didn't even take time to paint a poop pony on the bathroom wall. I'm just saying, I didn't feel well and things progressed to a semi-emergency state. As I was in the midst of the emergency, I thought to myself, what could have caused this? And then I think I found the culprit. Sunday, after "date night" with Shark Bait, I was jonsing for ice cream. We stopped and Shark Bait got me a Magnum ice cream bar. I was so excited. I carefully cracked and ate the chocolatey covering first so all that was left was the vanilla ice cream. Now I could make all sorts of obscene gestures with the ice cream bar while Shark Bait was driving. It's kind of my thing. It's juvenile, but whatever. Anyway, when I got to the vanilla, it was really grainy. There was no reason for it to be grainy. Good God. I was being poisoned, I know it. It was some sort of terrorist ice cream bar. I told Shark Bait, "I'm pretty sure I'm going to die from this. It make take a couple of days for the fever and blisters to show up, but I'm certain, I've just been terrorized by terrorists that want all fat people to die. Hell, all people that love ice cream to die. Shark Bait assured me this was not the case. I started to think about dying and how the last joy I had was eating that fucking ice cream bar that didn't even taste good. Hey terrorists, if you are going to target fat people, freaking upgrade your toxic formula. Make it delicious. Make me want more. What? Are you on a budget? I didn't know bio-warfare had a spending ceiling. Anyway, I did wake up Monday, and did note, by the way, that I had survived my first night before the real symptoms showed up. I'm too pretty for boils and welts on my face, but, it's my fate, what can I do? As I sat there, in my emergency state, I was sure this was stage one of my ice cream poisoning.
That's a long paragraph to say, I think the ice cream made me sick.
I got back to my desk, feeling lucky to be alive and that I hadn't shit my pants (which would have been nylons since I'm wearing a dress today...that would have been epic). Not sure which of those things brought me more joy, being alive or not shitting my pants...wow, did I just have a "senior moment?" Is that what it is going to be like at the old folks home? I'm walking around with the walking farts and it is a success story I lived through it and don't need a diaper change? But I digress. Upon arriving at my desk, I see I am being approached by what can only be the new batch of interns. We have high school interns now, in addition to the college interns. Now, I would love to be super mean about this, but we all know my voice can only be so loud these days. Let's say I was irritated. I don't have time for interns. They all want to do observations on our on-line reps and they need my help to get set up. Fine. I get them all settled and then another one shows up...and then another one. It's like I'm at the freaking mall. One of them comes over when she is done and says, "do you know where my laptop is? I'm supposed to pick one up." I said, "I don't know anything about a laptop, I don't have any for you." She says, "What should I do?" In my most supportive, helpful voice I said, "I suggest you go find whomever it is you work for and ask them." I do give her credit for persistence. She continued, "He said it's down here." I gave her two blinks and a dismissal as I went back to work, "Well, I don't have them, so I don't know what to tell you..." Even the interns that work in OTHER DEPARTMENTS think I am their mother. No. I'm not accepting any more puppies into my litter right now. This bitch has dried up. One of them even ran off with one of my headsets, so I sent an email to one of the gals that had brought them down earlier. She says, "what was the intern's name?" I wrote back, "I don't know. Collectively, they are "the interns." I don't expect to spend enough time with them to learn their names. It was one of them. Tall guy. Glasses." She agreed to question them later. Thank God. I don't have time for this. I hope they are potty trained.
My day progressed with several incidents that made me want to scream, but I am not at liberty to speak of such things. One of the things I will talk about that took up a large amount of time is that we have a file that is in a special drive. All of the supervisors and myself have access. If you are in there and have the file open, no one else can get into it to make changes. I went around and tortured each supervisor individually, which normally, I would enjoy, but this was making me crazy. I finally realized it was Cross Fit Crazy. I pointed at him and said, "YOU, get in your office, you are in that file!" He's like all breezy about it, "yeah, I had to check the schedules this morning." I proceeded to unleash the beast on him. I am chewing him up one side and down the other and he says, "You look really pretty today." These tactics don't work on me when I am on a rant. I told him to stop trying to sway me from my rant. "No, you really do...really pretty....I mean it." It was like I had my compliment force-field activated. Nothing could penetrate this rant. Nothing. I simply looked at him and said, "Get. Out. Of. The. File." He smiles and tries to be all breezy again. No. Not havin' it. Today is not his day. Tomorrow isn't looking good either. I cannot be buttered up. Unless he started throwing ice cream at me. Now THAT would have distracted me. He is going to need to get smarter about this.
That mission completed, I went out to hang up some posters. I'm minding my own business when a person approaches me, "Hey, I thought of you this morning...I was in the bathroom, in stall number one and you know how you have signs telling people to dispose of things properly? Well, someone had a big, bloody tampon in the toilet...I thought you'd like to know that." Instantly irritated, I looked at her and said,"Gee, thanks for sharing that with me, that's a great story." She says, "Well, I thought you'd find it humorous." I continued what I was doing and said snottily, "Yeah, because I just love it when everyone tells me about every gross thing that happens in stall number one. So glad you thought of me." And walked away. I hear her behind me, "Well, we love you..." THIS is love? I guess I'm confused about what love is. I need to go have a deep conversation with Forest Gump or something.
After that incident, I returned to my area and just sat there shaking my head. I said to Dish Guy, "Have you ever had a morning where - " He stopped me mid sentence, "Yes." Okay then, we are on the same page. And then it happened, as it often does, people were loitering around my desk and it came up that I should write a sitcom or book about this place. I advised them, that would surely lead to my demise as the admin, but we decided to pick stars that would play us in the movie or TV show anyway. I'm not sure who will play me. I mean, Melissa McCarthy would do a really good job, I think. Additionally, I decided, if it is a book that turns into a movie, the working title will be The Day I Shot Myself in the Head. Maybe I was inspired by the Outlander movie stand-up that had been left in front of my desk that had been staring me down. Or, maybe I was inspired by the need to put myself out of my misery today. I don't know.
As we closed out the conversation about the movie casting, Sick Python Arms delivered the mail. It's a Ladies Home Journal. Now, I'm going to tell you right now, I'm freaked out. First, several months back, out of the blue, Ladies Home Journal started sending me their magazine at my house on a regular basis. I never ordered it, no one ordered it for me. I figured it was a promotional deal, but they kept coming. I haven't seen one lately at home, so figured they gave up on me and stopped. Now, here it is AT WORK, addressed to ME. What the hell? How did the LHJ people find me here? How did they know? Is someone stalking me? What is happening? Why are they sending me their magazine? Is it from our CEO? Are there subliminal messages? Is it bugged? Like, on those little tear out cards that keep you from successfully turning the fucking page and keeping the previous page down, those things, stuffed between pages....are there tracking devices or bugs so they can hear my conversations at home and now at work? Do they just really want me to know about make-up, relationship and health tips? Are they trying to beautify this ugly world we live in? What is happening? I felt violated, like maybe I needed an escort to my truck. What if some "magazine server" dude said, "Are you Angry Pony? Here's your magazine" and then runs like hell? There is no safe place. No place to hide. If only I knew what their angle was. I must remain alert and aware of my surroundings. I mean, at least until I die from the ice cream bar that the terrorists planted the toxic biological warfare in. I guess it wouldn't hurt to read a magazine while I wait to die. At least I won't die on a Tuesday.
No comments:
Post a Comment