I'm an Iceberg

I'm pretty pissy these days.  So much so, that my boss has noticed. I had canceled my therapy appointment due to other stuff going on and my boss informed me that I needed to call my therapist back and reschedule that appointment.  I guess I must seem on the edge.  I called my therapist and got my appointment back for today.

Today we talked about how much I feel angry and hateful.  I hate everyone that is happy, perky, active, achieving their dreams, losing weight, living a fun life.  I hate their guts.  Maybe not in my heart, but in my head, I do.  My therapist, the Rug Doctor, loves analogies.  She says I am like an iceberg.  Twenty percent of me is above water and angry.  This is the part everyone sees, the part I project.  The other 80% is under the water and is comprised of all the reasons I am angry on the surface.  The stress, anxiety, jealousy, vulnerability, sadness, fear, it's all there and it's driving the anger.  So, basically, all you skinny, happy, healthy, financially secure bitches are all wining and dining on your little boat called the Titanic of Life.  You are having sex all over the boat, eating whatever you want, wearing your diamonds.  Some skinny bitch wearing some big old amulet that is dangling in her robust cleavage is hanging over the front of the boat screaming that she is the king of the world with some heart throb standing behind her with a boner. (You can hear Celine Dion singing in the back ground ) I hate her guts.  I can't be her, so I'm going to destroy her.  Come here you big old Titanic of Life, come slam into this iceberg, let me show you what I think of your happy cruise of a lifetime.  Fuck off.  Oh, what is that? You're drowning?  That's sad, I hope you can push all those ugly people out of the life boats so you can get to safety.  Here, let me call my iceberg friends over to chill the water so you turn in to corpse-cicles.  I'm over you happy people.

No, I'm fine being an iceberg, really.  I've got all sorts of penguin friends that come over and climb all over me and shit on me.  Then, next thing you know, all these effing misfit toys show up and inhabit my cavernous hillsides.  Really, I'm okay with destroying the Titanic of Happiness, getting shit on by stupid penguins that just keep falling down over and over and using my iceberg ass for a slide for eternity, and then becoming the freaking land of misfit toys in hopes that some dentist with stupid hair and his mother trucking reindeer friend with a nose so bright show up and save the effing misfit toys when Santa gets word where they are.  That is just fine with me.

For the record, that probably isn't where the Rug Doctor was going with all that, but since she opened that door, I'm powerless to stop the train wreck of emotions that follow.  Speaking of trains, specifically runaway trains (aka, my train of thought), I told Rug Doctor about my anxiety when I see homeless people.  I'm torn between empathy and sadness and distrust.  I mean, some of those people are scammers out there on the corner.  Others are legit people that have fallen on hard times.  What if that is me someday?  What if I lose everything I have?  Financially, we are a mess right now, so what if it all goes to shit?  Then, that is me, my dog in a wheel chair, my pimp, Big Daddy, and there I am holding up a sign that says, "Homeless whore with a gimpy dog...anything helps, God Bless."  I'm wearing some wealthy bitches coat that she donated to the salvation army in 1986, I've got a half eaten hot dog in my pocket that I found in the dumpster behind Weinerschnitzel and a black eye from Big Daddy from putting up a fight when he took the $20 I earned blowing some crack head.  It's cold outside and I'm not sure where to go or what to do and I want more crack.  The other street whore bitches don't like me and I pretty much pray for a blizzard so I can walk out in it, curl up and die.  Rug Doctor just blinks at me.  I think my levels of crazy sometimes take her by surprise.  She says that scenario is unlikely to happen. She can't guarantee it won't, however, so the fear remains.

Here's the thing, I don't like being angry and feeling incapable of achieving the things I want to.  And don't tell me how I have achieved a lot over the last year.  I'm not buying that story.  I expect more from myself and this wishy washy ground of "I can't" is kicking my ass.  I'm angry.  I'm an iceberg.  And you bitches partying on the Titanic of Life, you better get your iceberg detection system checked.

Near, far...wherever you are....I  believe that the heart does go on...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKS5DwSC0fo

Barnacles are not plants?

I don't really know what was going on in the universe today, but people were weird.  It isn't a full moon, so that isn't it. There must be some other planetary thing going on.  My whole day was non-stop head shaking, but I won't bore you with all the details, I will just hit some of the highlights.

So, we have a few things going on at work.  First, my boss is on vacation, so I am baby-sitting her fill-in, Cross Fit Crazy. Secondly, we have new hires coming out of training and taking their first calls.  And thirdly, we are moving people around as we have just re-aligned our reporting structure.  All of this affects me in some way.

To start off, my bosses fill in, Cross Fit Crazy, has some random hair going on now.  He keeps his head primarily shaved, but has it long on the top.  He's been growing it out.  The general consensus is that he needs to cut it, but no one wants to say anything.  His one buddy even went so far as to get a picture of Sonic the Hedgehog and put on his ID badge.  Today, Cross Fit Crazy says, "I have a problem, I need your help."  I have my admin hat on, and said, "okay, what's up?"  He says, "I need to know what to do about my hair."  All at once, about 10 different responses bounced to the edge of my tongue.  I  felt like I was being tested.  I replied, "Well, I'm not really a fan of what you have going on now, I think you should shave it.  I'm not saying it looks bad, but I like it better shaved off." Then another supervisor came up and gave her opinion, turns out she liked it.  I knew this was a desperate time, I had to stop this positive re-enforcement.  I spotted Valerina.  "Valerina, Cross Fit needs to know what to do with his hair, what do you think?"  Without skipping a beat she did this finger thing where she pointed at it like "oh no you didn't!" and said, "you need to shave it and don't let this happen again."  There. It was done.  I knew I could count on her.

As the day progressed, I kept getting requests from people moved into their new desks needing things,so I am buzzing around taking care of business.  I get stopped by one of the new girls  and she is standing there, no shoes on, licking a big spoon and she is giddy as a school girl and says, "Did you know that barnacles are not plants?  They are animals!  I JUST learned that!"  I looked at her and contemplated the last time I had thought about barnacles. Hmmm, let's see, 3rd grade?  I said, "Well, that is interesting news...dare I ask how this conversation about barnacles came up?"  Her and three other girls giggled and said, no, they couldn't talk about it.  Okay then. I started to think what they were talking about that they couldn't share, I immediately thought of sex, but then wondered what barnacles had to do with sex.  Maybe her boyfriend had something on his junk that looked like a barnacle?  Ah man, I can't go there, sick. I guess my mind went to the sex part right away, because I understand one of them was walking out a few weeks ago talking about how being effed up the ass is not okay.  These girls clearly lead lives that are way more exciting than mine.  Anyway, I continued on to someone else that needed help.  I relayed the barnacle story because I thought it was kind of funny.  I was asked, "Why do people tell you these things? How does that happen?"  I shrugged and guessed, "Because I am so approachable and friendly?"  We both laughed.  That must be it.

I go back to my desk and I have yet another request in my email.  This person wants stickers.  Wait, what? Stickers?  I email back to Sticker Boy, "What do you mean...stickers?"  He emails back, "you know, like the kind on our badges."  I take my badge out of it's holder.  Side story: as I take it out, a sensor device falls out of my Coach lanyard-badge-holder thingy.  It was a security device.  No wonder every friggin' store I go to sets off the damn sensor! No wonder my poster is probably up in back rooms all over the stores I frequent.  Well, at least that mystery is solved.  Anyway, I email Sticker Boy back and advise him that those stickers came from our security department.  I ask him what he needs the stickers for, because I do have address labels I could put our logo on.  He emails back and says that would work, but still won't tell me why.  I'm getting irritated, why does he need the mother trucking stickers???  I email back, "You still have not told me what you need them for."  He replies, "Just a random thought.  I don't NEED them right now.  Just need to know if I could get them."  He is still not telling me.  He is withholding information, in which I need to process how much of a lunatic he is.  I mean, "random thought?"  A random thought for me, is like, "hey wonder what I should make for dinner?"  "Should I cut my hair?"  "Should I drive into oncoming traffic? What would that feel like."  You know, real stuff.  Not, "I wonder if I can get some Glass Palace stickers."  I guess it will just have to be a mystery.  I think he wants to label everything at his desk, his car, his home...possibly his body.  I'm not giving him any effing stickers.

Then, my day gets exciting when someone from another state calls and wants to know who in my department reached out to their VIP.  Our person didn't give their VIP a name and now the VIP is waiting for our person to get back to them.  Well, shit, that isn't a lot to go on, so I activate the bat signal.  I send an email out to the entire center asking who contacted VIP - Joe Blow and to please let me know ASAP.  It was a long shot, but you never know.  Well, since it is my lucky day, I got a response right away.  Okay, mystery solved. I can now go on with my day.  Then, I get a second email from Seriously Confused.  Seriously Confused says that she talked to this VIP days ago and told that VIP to come downstairs and see  her when they got a chance, so why does this VIP want an email from her?  I wrote back advising Seriously, that this was not the same person and that she did not need to worry.  This VIP is from another state and doesn't work in our building.  I get another email back, "Then why do they want me to email them?"  I shook my head.  Was I not clear? I wrote back again, advising Seriously that she did not need to take any action as the person involved in the situation had come forward and is taking care of the situation.  I thought that settled it.  I get another email bordering on hysterical demanding to know why I had emailed her specifically and to let her know why she needed to email this VIP.  I was losing my effing mind.  I wrote back.  I used Caps Lock and advised her something along the lines of "This isn't about YOU. YOU do NOT need to take any action. I did not email YOU, I emailed the center. This is NOT your situation.  I do not know how to be more clear than to tell you that YOU DO NOT need to take any action."  I just finish my rampage when Camo Boy chimes in and says, "did you know you sent that email about that Joe Blow VIP to the whole center?  I didn't understand it."  I said, "No kidding, it was supposed to go to the whole center since I needed to know WHO IN THE EFF talked to him and I had zero info to go on!  Do you even read your frigging email? Now, sit down, shut up and take a call!!!  A-B-C your way out of this conversation and SIT DOWN."  Camo Boy says, "oh, I didn't really read it, I just scanned it." It was a two line email. Mother Trucker, a girl wants to punch people some days. And, so help me, if I come in tomorrow and have an email waiting for me advising me that Seriously needs to know what to do again, I will snap...crackle...and pop.

Just when I think I can start to wind down and all the people that need a chair, keyboard, printer, fax line, stickers, Clorox wipes and a lesson in "slow down and read your mother trucking emails," Cross Fit comes over and says, "hey, I need you to send an email..."  Sweet Jesus.  So, apparently tomorrow is "shorts day."  Hoo-friggin-ray.  I send out an email advising of the do's and don'ts of shorts.  I make a list for guys and a list for girls.  In the list for girls, one of the things I stated was, "Daisy Duke does not work here, don't even think about it. If your shorts were cut off by you or someone in a factory, just don't."  First reply back to my email after I send it out was, "So, you don't mention the Daisy Duke thing on the guys list, does that mean they can?"  I guess you can never be too specific.  If I see one guy wearing Daisy Dukes tomorrow, I will have failed.  I will turn around and walk out.  Now, I'm actually kind of worried about it.  Sweet Maryanne, these people don't even know what category to put a barnacle in?  What are the chances they understand the list is universal?  I'm screwed.  Some one is going to get me on  technicality, I know it. "Cassondra never said the boys couldn't wear short-shorts..."

Thank God tomorrow is Therapy Thursday is all I can say...

I'm Driftwood

It's raining today and I feel Fall coming on. I always get depressed in the Fall.  I don't know if I have seasonal disorder or if is some sort of subconscious thing, but lucky for me, it is therapy Thursday. I did try and rise above this morning by looking up motivational quotes.  Turns out, that just made me feel more depressed.  When you can't get motivated and then some random person writes two sentences about how you should be trying to be amazing or you will just suck and die (okay, it didn't say that in so many words, but that was the gist of it), it ruins your buzz. 

I was trying to shake off my funk when Four Feet of Fury walks in and says, "I have a project for you."  She is carrying a Keurig coffee maker, rubber gloves, tongs, goggles and other random items.  She continues, "I need a fan, too.  Come in my office."  This type of behavior should not surprise me at this point. Why can't I be more like her?  A little quirky and always up to something.  She is fun, I'll give her that.  She is one of those positive people though, one of those people I don't quite understand.  Oh well, maybe she will rub off on me.  Guess I better go see what we are going to do with those tongs and gloves (it's a long story, by the way, just had to make a video about how to make coffee if you are technology challenged).

The day progressed without any major drama, but I was glad when it was time to go to therapy. I have been feeling very stuck lately and I hoped we could talk through some of that. I had shared my previous blog about the fluffy tail skunk with the Rug Doctor and she had some analogies of her own to share.

In my blog about the skunk tail, I talked about how I didn't think I could get to positive self-actualization and how I didn't get people that were positive about things.  I seem to be stuck in this pattern of "it's never going to work, it's never going to happen." The Rug Doctor suggested that I have created this black and white world where I dwell in the black most of the time and view the white as impossible to achieve. What I need to do is explore the shades of gray (not 50 Shades of Gray, just to be clear..although, that might get me out of my rut...) and allow myself to make choices and acknowledge that sometimes I can do what I need to do, sometimes things do go well, sometimes today doesn't totally suck, sometimes today is good enough.  I feel like if I can't get to the "white world," then I will never be able to achieve my goals.  The Rug Doctor was quick to point out that the white world is not who I am.  I will never be self-actualized into the white world, and that is okay.  She said a lot of external factors that I can't control happen and I have to make choices on how I deal with that.  She was trying to find the right analogy.  We shared a quiet moment while I contemplated her statements.  I considered the possibility that I was not able to play in the gray area and wondered how I could explain it to her.

I finally said, "But what if I'm driftwood? What if I am this piece of dead wood just floating down the river, unable to change, unable to control my destiny?"  The Rug Doctor is big on the theory that everything changes and said that driftwood could change.  I said, "yeah, if I drift to shore and someone uses me for their fire.  They light me on fire, maybe make some smores, I get gooey marshmallow all over me, then some kid pokes me with a stick, some guy throws a beer can on me.  Then, later, as the fire goes out, some dog comes over and pisses on me and then they kick me back in the water.  Now, I'm a little more abused, a little more used and I'm floating again, retaining water, no less, and I can't control it."  Rug Doctor contemplated for just a moment and countered, "I have a friend that loves driftwood to put in her garden, what if she picks you up and takes you home?"  Without even thinking about it, I said, "Yeah, and then, there I am, sitting in her garden, slugs crawling all over me, friggin spiders, birds crap on me, weeds grow all over me and then I start to decompose in the cold, wet ground."  Rug Doctor looked a little pained and said, "I think we need a new analogy.  You are not driftwood.  Driftwood can't control it's destiny and you can."  I responded, "I'm driftwood."

I told her that I was at a loss as what I should do to get out of this rut.  I told her about being mooned at work by the gal that was wearing a short skirt and no panties.  I explained that gal likes to go nude and hangs out in a community that clothing was optional.  Maybe, I just needed to go hang out with her, get naked and smoke some pot until I didn't give a shit about anything.  I wonder if I could get into the "white zone" by just letting myself completely go.  Stoned and naked.  I think that is pretty much taking things to the extreme and  I don't know if the nakie community is ready for all this clothed or unclothed.  I can't be trusted to run around with naked people with all inhibitions completely out the window.  I'm pretty sure I would get my ass kicked for something I said, like, "hey, do you ever get slivers in your junk when you sit on wooden furniture?" or "how do you keep your boobs from flapping when the wind blows?"  I'm pretty sure I would get kicked out of the nakie community. (I have actually blogged about my thoughts on what happens in a nakie community before, here is the link if you need a refresher: http://angry-pony.blogspot.com/2012/07/im-not-ready-to-be-naked-in-public.html).

Anyway, it was a pretty uneventful session.  I'll just carry on and hope that my inner driftwood self emerges from the water as some unique piece that someone wants to admire - not so much that they put me in their sucky garden, but enough so that they don't let their dog piss on me.  It's the best I can hope for on this stormy Thursday evening.

Flat Skunk, Fluffy Tail

I haven't been blogging much lately.  So much I want to blog about, but it's just too risky to blog about certain things.  I have tons of inspiration at work each day, and yet, sadly, much of it must be left alone.  I've also not really been in the mood, but tonight, I felt inspired. I've had a day of the fax machine sending me blank faxes, the villagers surrounding my desk with their needy demands and more drama than you can see in a full season of America's Next Top Model.  And when I saw roadkill on the way home, I knew I needed to  write down some of my thoughts, no matter how unstable they may be.

A few days ago, there was a skunk hit on the road not far from our house.  It was horrible.  The smell was so bad you could taste it, you could not escape it.  Whomever hit that skunk did a good job of cleaning out the stink glands.  As I have driven by it each day, it has become a little flatter, a little less offensive.  The guts a little less graphic, the body shape a little less recognizable.  But the tail, the tail remains fluffy.  And I thought, what a great metaphor for life.  One day, you are walking around, full of life and stink, ready to take on the world, but then, you decide you are going to take a chance and check out the other side of the road.  WHAMO! Life kicks your ass. You stick your ass out there and spray like you've never sprayed before and guess what, your stink wasn't enough to win this battle. But your tail, it remains strong, you can squish that little skunks stink out, but you cannot kill the essence of the skunk.  That tail refuses to become roadkill, it poofs out in defiance.  I know that skunk is dead, but it's spirit, it's still there. You can't kill the spirit. I need to remember that fluffy tail and become inspired by it. No matter what is going on, I have to keep my stinky tail fluffy. 

There is also a person I know that has a son battling cancer. Life is pretty intense for her right now.  But she is trying to remain positive.  She told me the other day that she is taking a new approach. Like, whatever you think, that is what will happen.  So, if I believe I will win the lottery, I will. If I believe I will get a new job, I will, if I believe I'll lose weight, I will. (So far, I have believed that I will have another bowl of ice cream, and I did).  If she believes the cancer will be cured, it will.  I've heard it said that you bring on whatever your thoughts are.  Like, if you think you will get cancer and worry about it, you will.  Well, freaking great, I worry about that all the time!  But, I'm not supposed to think about it.  How can I not think about it now that I know worrying about it brings it on?  I mean, has my destiny already been written out?  Is it too late?  I have to think about it...I have to think this through, but what if thinking it through makes it happen? Now I'm worried about thinking.  Shit.  Clear the mechanism....I can only think positive thoughts.  Well, I'm screwed.  This isn't working.  What if I can't think only positive thoughts? I mean, we all know this is an impossible situation.  Just the other day, when it was therapy Thursday, I was telling my therapist that on top of everything else going on, I went to the dermatologist, and after she pulled my butt cheeks apart and looked for cancer in my butt crack, she said I am allergic to something and that I have to stop wearing make-up.  I said, "oh great, now I will be hideous on top of everything else."  My therapist laughed and said, "okay, I'm not laughing about you thinking you're hideous, that isn't funny, but your dark humor gets me every time."  Then she went on to say that instead of focusing on being hideous, I should look in the mirror and pick one thing that I have going for me on that day that I can draw some self worth or pride from.  For example, maybe my hair looks like shit and I have a new zit, but that freaking right eyebrow looks AMAZING!  Hold on to that pride all day.  You know, I can walk around cocking my right eyebrow like, "hey, how YOU doin'?"  You know, rock it.  Work it. Own it.  My effing right eyebrow is UNSTOPPABLE.  And don't get me started about the nail on my middle finger, it is having it's own Emmy Award red carpet experience, I should use it ALL DAY.

I guess what I'm really saying here, is that if I have to hold on to thoughts like, "hey good-looking, your nose hair is amazing today," how in the hell am I going to get to positive realization?  I don't freaking think so.  I am positive that all this being positive all the time crap isn't for me. Does that count as a victory?  Positive people freak me out.  I mean, not like spiders, but I don't get them.  I've said it before, I'll say it again, what the hell?  How can you walk around pretending to be happy all the time? Because I can assure you NO ONE is happy all the time.  It just isn't possible.  Why pretend?  I sure don't.  And people depend on that.  Like, if people ask how I am and I smile and give them a positive response, they ask if I'm okay.  It makes them visibly uncomfortable.  People want me to be sassy and real. I can't turn this corner to a positive way of life. The balance of the universe is at stake.  What if I self-actualized myself into a happy person?  Egad!  The zombies will immediately follow if this were to actually happen.  For the safety of man-kind, I must stay the course of Angry Pony.

However, what I can do, is draw inspiration from the dead skunk and his fluffy tail.  The tail that could not be flattened.  The tail that would not succumb to the hundreds of cars that would drive over it.  The tail that still smells of a skunks ass.  That tail is what life is about.  Life stinks, but we cannot give up.  We must live to fight another day, even when life knocks us down. You can't see this, but I'm waving a flag and humming Glory Glory Halleluiah, a single tear streaming down my face, like that Native American Indian sitting on his horse overlooking the garbage on his land in that one commercial when I was a kid.  This moment in time, it is as magical as a unicorn fart.  I'm almost self actualized just talking about this effing skunk tail!

That last part is kind of a  bunch of bullshit.  I just pulled the last couple of drags of ice cream out of the carton and I'm about ready to go put my pj's on and scratch something.  I'm freaking exhausted. You are going to have to self-actualize on your own.  I'm done.

Blog drought...over

Well, I have not blogged in quite a while.  Anyone that is Facebook friends with me knows that is probably largely due to my good dog Spanky being in a tough situation.  He has an injured back and the early prognosis is that he needed a surgery I could not afford or to be euthanized.  I have been crying and crying and trying to figure out what I can do to save my little dog or if I should make that hard decision.  Anyway, it has been all-consuming.  Add a little family drama, add a lot of stress at work and I've been a hot mess.  Nobody wants to read my "hot mess" blogs unless that mess is me, in Pranx, stuck in stall number one surrounded by feces smeared on the wall by the prior person and my bracelet is stuck to the back side of my Pranx.  That's the kind of mess my readers like.  Or, they like me really pissed off.  Today was such a day.

Today, I woke up to a Monday tired and cranky.  I had to get to work early as we were having another hiring open house.  These things don't run themselves.  I gotta make the magic happen.  And, by magic, I mean, make everything run smoothly without bitch-slapping or killing anyone.  The first strike to my day was wardrobe.  What I had thought I would wear just didn't look right. The area surrounding my closet is now mid-calf deep in rejects.  I finally decided on all black. It fit my mood.  I was dressed like an assassin, minus the ski mask. To add insult to injury, my hair wasn't working either.  Turns out there is only so many times you can flat-iron fine hair before it just splits and gives up.  Oh, and it is way over-due to be cut because I canceled my appointment in an effort to put more money towards the Spanky fund.

I arrived at work and realized I didn't have all the info I needed for the open house. Mother Trucker.  Strike two for the folks that are supposed to have that information to me on time.  It's too early to be scurrying around like a rat on a sinking ship, but alas, I am.  I'm also completely pissed off because these assassin pants don't have belt loops, so I have to wear my badge around my neck.  I'm walking around and that damn badge is flopping back and forth on my belly like a metronome. I don't think that happens to skinny girls, so now that is making me really mad.  I finally get ready and go up to the greeter table.  On my way, I notice squatters have taken over one of the rooms I have reserved for interviews.  Asshats.  I have a sign on the effing door!  Here I'm testing people to see if they are smart to work here and the ones that already work here CAN'T freaking read a sign!  I hate people!  I go to the greeter table and there are people there...and a bunch of kids?  What?  Who brings their kids to this type of function?  Luckily, the Dad took the kids outside when I set up shop.  Good, I didn't need to deal with that today.  Who knows, maybe they were going to apply for the job, too?  The huge rush of four people cleared out and then, there I was.  Just me and the table...and a bunch of chairs.  I had to do this for three hours this morning and another three this afternoon.  Not thrilled. It's great to know that a future at the Glass Palace draws them in like flies.  Like those big blow flies in the winter that barely move and you can walk up behind and thwick in the ass and kill them.

I don't have enough cell service to even check FB or email.  Instead I send an angry text to Valerina. I used the F word about four times in that message.  That made me feel slightly better, but not really that much. Then, just when I thought I might fall asleep, the janitor shows up with the vacuum cleaner.  Great, like I wanted to listen to that.  Mind you, this is the same janitor that I never see actually cleaning anything.  He pushes the cart around and parks it outside the bathrooms, but I have never seen actual cleaning take place.  Just the other day I walked past one of our training rooms and he was standing there taking a picture of himself with his cell phone.  I mean, I guess it is important to make sure the three pounds of gel you put in your hair is still there and if you are in a room without a mirror, you may as well just do a selfie.  Anyway, today, while I would just like some peace, he is vacuuming...right in front of me.  I guess I'll have to take back my nick name of "lazy janitor."

Finally, my first session of three hours of torture is over.  I head back to my desk and Four Feet of Fury is there asking me how it went.  I told her I didn't think she wanted to hear anything I had to say.  She said she did.  I said, no she didn't.  She asked me to come in her office.  We shut the door. She told me to get it off my chest, let it out, tell her what's on my mind.  It isn't like she had to beg.  I can't really divulge what all was said behind those doors in the blog due to the sensitive nature of me calling people names, calling my company out on processes I find to be moronic and overall general feelings of despair I had.  I will tell you some of the words I used: fuck, stupid, bullshit, backwards, well, you get the drift. I vented and FFF allowed me to do so.  I bucked up and went back out to my desk.  I looked in the mirror to fix my lip gloss and notice I have some sort of red rash all the way around my mouth.  It looked like I had put clown paint around my mouth and wiped it off.  What the hell is that?  That's fantastic!  Now I look like I'm a washed up clown assassin...with bad hair...clown hair.  This just isn't my day.  I head to the restroom.  I go into stall number two, because stall number one is never a sanitary place to be and there is this, like, six-inch hair on the seat.  Why do I always have to fight some sort of bodily fluid or body hair?  Why can't I just pee in peace in a hygenic location?  What really made me mad is that it was a really long healthy strand of hair.  I have haggard, fried clown hair that I should be dropping like a long haired cat in a room full of velcro, but no, I'm not.  If I can control my hair folicals how come no one else can?  So discouraging.  Where is that mother trucking janitor now?  Probably doing a selfie in the lunchroom. 

I settled in for the afternoon session at the open house.  A few more folks showed up and then it was quiet again.  Sorority Intern came and hung out with me for a while.  I hate her guts (not really).  She is all young, thin, pretty, perky, smart, a snazzy dresser and I find out today she is the president of her sorority in college.  She might be perfect.   I wanted to lick her and see if she tasted like sugar, but that probably would get me fired for sure.  I looked at her and said, "Promise me you will never loose that sweet little spirit.  Go out and change the world, save yourself.  Don't be complacent and bitter. Continue to have hope in the human race.  Use your degree, don't ever settle.  Okay?"  She nodded and said, "okay."  There.  I did my good deed for the day.  I was spent.

At the end of a very long day, I took my assassin-clown-face-fried-hair home.  I was exhausted.  I get to do it all again tomorrow, which doesn't cheer me up.  The best part of the day, however, is when I walk in the door and there is my guy, there is my dog and  I remember, this is all that counts.  Doesn't mean tomorrow isn't going to piss me off, but for a brief moment, there was a sigh of relief. 

I better get to bed, I'm going to have get up early to wade through a lot of laundry to find a new assassin outfit and spend the appropriate amount of time frying my hair.  It isn't easy making that look work.  Not everyone can.  Don't be haters.

Payphones vs. Bathroom stalls...

I sent this email out to my work group on Tuesday.  My boss asked me to address this issue in my "Cassondra way."  I wrote this and sent it out. In an effort to maintain employment, I kept it PG-13, but I really would have liked to get into more detail.  It was well-received and I have had several people thank me for addressing this problem.  Additionally, word of my email has gone viral, apparently, and I have random people in the building, not in my department, that are now requesting to be added to my distro list when I send these types of emails out.  I told my boss today that I am going to start asking for royalties on this stuff.  Without further adieu, here is my email.

Payphones vs. Bathroom Stalls

It has been brought to my attention that there may be confusion about the difference between a phone booth and a bathroom stall.  I find visuals are helpful.

 

 

Picture the following scenario.  You have just gone into the bathroom.  You pick a stall, go in and do the seat cover rodeo.  Finally, you settle in.  Then you hear, “hello?”  You think it is odd someone is talking to you, but you respond, “…hello….”  Then you hear, “What time are you done?”  You suddenly find yourself with performance anxiety.  Why does the girl wearing sandals (that is in desperate need of a pedi) in the stall next to you care how long you are in there?  You respond, “I’m doing the best I can here…”  Then you hear, “Excuse me, could you be quiet, I’m trying to have a conversation here.”  Apparently, the girl in the stall next to you was not talking to you.  She was talking to her kid on her phone.  Awkward.

 

I don’t know how you all feel about “stall talk,” but I have had numerous people come up to me and ask me to address this.  Now, I’m not the cell phone police, but I will say, I have learned a lot in the bathroom that I really wish I hadn’t.  I don’t really like it. I really just want to do my thing, in peace, and then return to the natural habitat of my cubicle.  And also, you’ve had your hands on everything in the bathroom, used your phone and then proceeded out.  You are basically taking the bathroom with you when you leave.  Hey, I’m not gonna lie, I’ve Facebooked in there or texted someone, but at least I was quiet, and I washed my hands…and sanitized my phone. AND, No one had to know that I “liked” someone’s unicorn picture. 

 

I think maybe we need some music in there, like at Red Robin or something, but until we do, this is just a “Dear Cassondra” etiquette bulletin, maybe save those conversations for outside of the bathroom. 

 

Disclaimer: This email was not intended to offend anyone, hurt anyone’s feelings or be a smack-down. If you were offended, maybe we can text each other about it next time we are in the bathroom.  Send me your number.

Cotton candy at work, not recommended...

This week was bound to be hell.  There was no way to stop it.  We have executives visiting. The ones I am "responsible for" are my bosses boss and then that bosses boss. They are like, way important. I have been working on their agendas for a couple of weeks and rolling with the punches of last minute changes, etc.  It goes with the territory, it's the job.  Doesn't mean I have to always like it, but I get that is my job.

I started out the week telling my boss I would be a stepford admin and be all smiles and be gracious.  It's what they pay me to do.  Monday was crazy stressful preparing for the visit. Yesterday was long and exhausting with their arrival, but all in all, it went well.  Today, tested my patience, my stepford smile and my ability to not take hostages.

Today was the day we were going to show the VIP's how much fun we have in the center and how engaged we are.  To express this, we are doing a carnival theme.  We are talking cotton candy machine, clowns, caricatures and even a visit from our mascot (which I previously advised you was a cow named Bob).  Now, when I saw the cotton candy machine being assembled, I said, "You know, that is going to set off the fire alarm, I don't feel good about this."  I showed them where the fire sensor was.  It just so happens they were set up right under it.  I told them they should move it out, or get a fan or do something and that it needed to be supervised at all times and be run for short periods of time.  This isn't my first rodeo, we had a popcorn machine set off the alarm before.  What are the chances a cotton candy machine would?  My boss was equally skeptical.  We agreed to let things proceed as long  as they had a fan.  I had bigger things to worry about.

I spent most of my morning running all over the center wrangling VIP's, taking them from meeting to meeting, monitoring their agenda's running up and down the stairs three million times.  I was getting crabby. Not so much stepford admin right now, more like Cybil with multiple personalities.  As I was on one of my missions, they said, "come over and get your picture done by the caricature guy."  Fine.  I sit down and he is like, "smile big."  I don't have a big smile, I told him so. He kept giving me crap about it.  How bout I draw a picture of his lifeless body on the floor?  He complains the whole time he is drawing me that he can hardly draw me because of my lack of smile and my sour attitude.  Fuck off, caricature guy. I don't need this crap.  I'm gonna shove a cotton candy stick up your ass.  He shows me the finished product.  Suffice to say, it was not swoon-worthy.  Big ol fat cheeks.  I hate his guts.  I walked over to my desk and passed my boss and yelled, "I really enjoyed being hassled by the caricature guy, that was super fun!  I don't have time for this!" She blinked and kept walking.

I had a vein pulsating in the right side of my neck and a weird stabbing pain in my shoulder. I could just picture it, it was going to blow out and spurt blood all over.  I only have Snoopy bandages at work. In all likelihood, I would die if it does explode. As I am sitting there eating lunch and wondering if I will, in fact, explode, here comes Bob the mascot and a clown.  I asked them to get away.  Let's be honest, I didn't ask, I told. They were undeterred. Bob puts his hand around my shoulder, almost groping my boob.  I told the clown, "do not take my picture when I have food in my mouth."  I glared at them.  "oh,come now, smile."  I repeated, "I told you not to take my picture."  Click! Mother Trucker.  Why doesn't anyone listen to me?  Then the clown says, "oh, that's not a very good picture."  No shit, Sherlock, I told you NOT to. 
Apparently, clowns are deaf.  I didn't get the memo on that.

Pretty soon the Dish Guy and his boss, Cheetos & Taki's come over.  We exchanged witty banter and I was telling Cheetos & Takis how Dish Guy was showing me how to be "street."  I showed him some gestures that showed my pimp-daddyness.  Apparently, one of my gestures was off a bit.  I was supposed to be "pourin it out to my homies" but instead it looked like I was suggesting someone needed to whack off.  Woops.  I'm just a simple girl from the farm.  I'd better stick to the one gesture I'm sure of, and that is the international sign for "you are #1."  I can't cut a break today.

Next thing I know, the VIP's are missing in action and I have to find them.  I'm tearing around trying to locate them, up and down the mother trucking stairs.  Did I mention there are five floors?  I know some people don't realize we have a fifth floor, but we do. I'm pissed.  I didn't make that mother trucking agenda to have them go free style on me and go rogue in the building.  I made that agenda and they are going to follow it. As I walk past the cotton candy machine, I considered just putting my head in there and turning it on.  See how the coroner likes that.  Fuck you, I died in a ball of cotton candy.  I'm walking around and all I hear is, "Cassondra I need this..." "Cassondra do you know about that..."  "Cassondra can you do this..."  If I hear my name one more time, I'm going to snap. My neck is pulsating and I am pretty sure everyone can see and hear it.

In between chaos is all the other shit that happens during the day. Like, I schedule a meeting for a group of people and some of the people are mean to the other people.  It's like West Side Fucking Story.  Grow the fuck up.  Stop being an asshat to your co-workers.  Petty bullshit.  Then I find out someone had a three-way with someone else.  I didn't need to know that. Why do I have to know that?  Why is it always the ones you least expect that kind of behavior from?  I'm not judging, just...how does that get out?  How does the hotline network find out?  Will and I can barely handle each other and don't even like it when the dogs watch, a three-way?  No.  With a co-worker? HELL NO.  I've seen their bathroom habits, no way.

It is now afternoon and I go looking for the Big Cheese again.  I'm irritated.  I take one of our visiting executive guys from Dish TV, Cheetos & Taki's, to go see the Big Cheese.  While I am walking through our aisle ways I am dodging these stupid bird houses we have hanging from the ceiling.  They are all part of our whimsical summer theme decorations.  I reach up and peg that thing hard.  Well, Cheetos & Taki's is right behind me.  Woops.  I didn't really think that through.  I turned around, "you okay?"  He responds, "uh, yeah, just missed me."  Bad judgement on my part.  So noted. We continue our walk upstairs where I have Big Cheese located in an office.  She comes walking out towards us.  I said, "I'm bringing you Cheetos & Taki's."  She says, "The agenda says we are to meet in Four Feet of Fury's office."  I said, "yes, well, that was because I didn't know if I could get you this office for sure up here, so since you have that, you can use that."  She says, "No, it says Four Feet of Fury's office, that is where we will meet."  So, we all walk back downstairs.  Seriously?  Seriously.  I get her back down there and she says, "Where is Four Feet of Fury?"  I advised her that FFF was in a meeting with her boss, Banana Fanna.  Big Cheese asked me to go see if FFF wanted to be in the meeting she was having.  I walk back upstairs where FFF is with Banana Fanna.  Mother Trucker.  Turns out FFF doesn't want to be in the meeting with Big Cheese.  I go back downstairs and tell Big Cheese she doesn't want to come. She says, "Okay, that's fine."  Really?  It was a big deal a few minutes ago.  Sigh.

I sat there at my desk and decided to bite on some Goldfish crackers.  I needed to bite someone's head off. My neck was still pulsating.  Before I knew it, 30 minutes had passed and it was time to move the VIP's again.  I get them all settled on different floors, using the stairs 300 more times. I walk in to our area and the cotton candy machine is going again.  I stop and look.  Blue smoke is billowing up.  This isn't good. No one wants to hear that this is bad.  I just stand there for a moment and then thought, "it's out of my hands."  I didn't even get back to my desk and the fire alarm went off.  I knew it. I fuckin' knew it.  No one listens to the admin.  My boss, FFF comes flying out of her office.  Terror was in her eyes.  She knew the jig was up.  Executives are looking over the railing.  The clown and the mascot are quickly dismantling the cotton candy machine like no one will ever guess it was there.  People are mobbing everywhere heading for the exits.  We head outside, there is nothing more to do except wait for the lashing. As we stand there waiting for the fire department, I see my bosses face.  It's white, she wants to throw up and cry at the same time, I can tell.  This is not how you impress your boss.  I should have told her what my name means in greek mythology, but now was not the time.

But just so you know...
(In Greek mythology, Cassandra (Greek Κασσάνδρα, also Κασάνδρα)^[1] was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. Her beauty caused Apollo to grant her the gift of prophecy. In an alternative version, she spent a night at Apollo's temple, at which time the temple snakes licked her ears clean so that she was able to hear the future (this is a recurring theme in Greek mythology, though sometimes it brings an ability to understand the language of animals rather than an ability to know the future).^[2] When Cassandra refused Apollo's attempted seduction, he placed a curse on her so that her predictions and those of all her descendants would not be believed. She is a figure both of the epic tradition and of tragedy.)

Finally, the building was cleared and we went back in.  She walked up to me and put her hand out and said, "Well, it was nice working with you."  I said, "I know, I'm gonna miss you."  She laughed and said, "hey, you could have at least tried to cheer me up."  I told her she would be fine.  She went into her office and I instant messaged her, "Do you think I should update Big Cheeses agenda and add the fire drill?"  I heard her laughing in there and she said yes.  It would only be my 100th change to the fucking agenda.  I asked the Executive Admin upstairs if it was bad form to announce a Fire Sale on Cotton Candy...Everything Must Go!  She thought it was a great idea.  Come on, that's funny.

You know what isn't funny?  The damn elevators stopped working and everyone figured I needed to handle it.  Do I look like a fucking elevator technician?  I call the front desk and he advises me that yes, it's true the elevators don't work and that they don't know when they will work again...and that we don't think there are any bodies in them.  That is fanfuckingtastic.  Look, I've walked up and down those damn stairs all day, all the other lazy mother truckers can too, get over it.  

I finally had seen my fill of adventures in babysitting VIP's, so I asked FFF if I could go home.  She said I could and I packed up my crap and got the hell out of there, taking those stairs one last time for the night.
Holy crap, what a day.  I have one more day of this VIP stuff.  I hope my artery can take it. 

Oh, and one final note, the same people that brainstormed the cotton candy machine also have a popcorn popper reserved for us for tomorrow.  I told them no fucking way.  They are going to give the sno-cone machine a try.  Should be harmless...right?  What's the number for 9-1-1 again?