Happy 2013

2012 was a rough one and I'm certainly glad it is over.

As the year came to an end, things have started to look up.  That whole end of the world thing did not happen (worst apocalypse EVER), and I discovered online shopping really is the only way to go when one is doing their Christmas shopping (read the fine print so you do not get beat down by a courier looking for brokerage and customs taxes).

There are no resolutions this year.  It really seems rather pointless and feels like I am setting myself up for failure.  "Do better" is this year's mantra... just do better and be better, in all ways.

One of those ways is my commitment to getting those Pinterest projects done.  Tonight I made this very moist very delicious chicken.  Quick hint: make sure the chicken breasts are snug in the baking dish or the topping will slide off as the chicken comes close to being cooked.  This chicken goes great with pasta and vegetables like asparagus, mushrooms, onions, and peppers.

PS: Glad your back Captain Celery.  I have missed you dearly and love you still.  This year is our year.

Re-gifting Or How I Got Dust And Dog Hair For Christmas

It has taken me a while to address this issue because I have been doing research.  Apparently re-gifting is gaining in not only popularity but is becoming socially acceptable.

How the... ?

Am I the only one who thinks re-gifting is, well, cheap and shameful?  When did this sort of thing become acceptable?  When did it become something to be proud of?  When did you start thinking I want your garbage?  Somebody tell me this is recycling gone horribly wrong.

At least four of the gifts I received this past Christmas were re-gifted.  By the same person.  She was actually proud of what she had done.

P. R. O. U. D.

Here is the thing... I grew up dirt poor and came from the wrong side of the wrong side of the tracks.  Just down the road from the trailer park.  Literally.  I appreciate the value of a dollar, I understand that the barter system is alive and well, and that if you do not need something, you should pass it on to someone who can use it.

This is not to be understood as me giving you permission to give me your used and unwanted crap.

My research has revealed to me that some people re-gift at Christmas so they can reduce the expense of this over commercialized holiday.  I guess I can get behind that if the item is new, not originally from me, and something I could actually use or want.  However, I really do not want to be in the same room when you gleefully say, "I re-gifted it because who wants a gift basket full of nuts and crackers?"  I am still wondering what makes you think I want dirty, dusty, pop and dog hair encrusted fridge magnets.  Honestly, I would rather have nothing than your garbage in a gift box.  Wrapping your used and unwanted rubbish does not make it a gift.  It makes it an insult.

If you really want me to have something that you have already gently used, just give the thing to me.  Do not save it and make it a gift. Please do not continue to wrap your garbage and then pretend it is exactly what I wanted.

As a result of my research, here are some rules for you kids who insist on regifting:
-make sure the person receiving the gift does not know the person you originally got the gift from
-do not regift to the original gift giver
-regift brand new items only
-do not regift hand made/hand crafted or personalized gifts
-do not regift the item in the same wrapping paper/gift bag/gift box that you received the gift in
-do not tell the recipient that it is a regift
-make sure the recipient will like the gift

Is It Friday Yet?

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on January 06, 2010.)


I have been smoking at work. Go ahead, judge.


I’ve also been longing for last week where it was all about me and fresh pj’s. I thought I missed work. Turns out, not so much. The problem with going on Christmas break is that, while you are away, the paper gremlins come along and turd out faxes and mail all over the place and you are left to dig through piles of paper to find your desk. Rumor has it I still have a desk on the cube farm but its currently cleverly disguised as a paper holder. When you look at it from the right angle, my desk actually looks like piles of paper are levitating. All week I have been losing my mouse and keyboard which is cool with me because when I opened my email on Monday morning, there were 96 (not including spam) reasons to grab my stuff and go back home.


I think now would be a good time to adopt my niece's philosophy about asses and sofas.


When asked what she was going to do for Christmas break, my niece Janelle responded, “Park my arse on the sofa and read.” She’s eleven and deeply profound. Her verbage cracked me up. When I was half her age, I came home from school and ALLEGEDLY said a particular boy was a fecking koont (say it in your head with a Scottish accent. Uh huh, now you’re getting it). I cut Janelle some slack on this one because someone cut me slack when I was a kid and she didn’t rat me out to the Proper Authority Figures when I ALLEGEDLY said a sales clerk at Please Mum could go suck a bag of dicks.


Don’t be all judgey. You would have done the same.


Perhaps you would have had more tact and said something less vulgar but who the hell asks for your name, address, phone number, email address, and work phone number when you are purchasing a shirt? And paying cash? I still have no idea why this rocket scientist who was cleverly disguised as a sales clerk wanted this information. When I asked her why she required this information as all I wanted to do was pay for a $10.00 shirt, I was the recipient of one of those minimum wage sighs, followed by the obligatory mall employee eye roll, and the embellished “now I have to work” banging of the finger on the delete key on the till. I’m sure I’ll be going straight to her version of consumer hell for adding wear and tear to her trailer park low budget press on nail manicure, but I will never understand why purchasing a shirt requires surrendering my personal information. Consequently, I dropped the “suck a bag of dicks” bomb, Janelle giggled, and I took solace in knowing karma was going to keep that snotty little girl working in a mall, lunching in a food court, and wearing a name tag for a living.


Stay in school kids.


I’m not going to lie, I didn’t do much on my break. Apparently, I put in one day at work . We started at 8.00 am and left at 1.00 pm. What was actually accomplished in that time was nominal but the good news is, Whoville got packed away and it doesn’t look like Christmas puked in certain offices any more.


What did I actually do for a week? I stayed up late and slept in a lot even though I was totally convinced this was going to be the week I was going reset my body clock. Hmmm not so much. . The week was really an homage to pajamas and snacking.


I was completely relaxed and romantic during the break too. I made love to my sofa, love seat, chair, computer chair and bed.


In an effort to feel like I had accomplished something, I did two things. First, if something was tucked away in a drawer or closet and I was annoyed by its existence, I put it in the middle of the room and found a permanent home or garbage can for that item. Secondly, I ripped apart a wardrobe that serves as a book shelf and desk and a catcher of all things I can’t be arsed to put away where they belong. I did this last August on my vacation too.


How the hell did I accumulate so much shit in four months?


When I did this exercise in August, I was determined to keep all my shit organized. When I was done cleaning, sorting, alphabetizing, purging, and shredding, the inside of the wardrobe looked lovely. It was a ode to organization. For a day. Maybe two. Chaos started with ATM receipts. I save them and reconcile them with my bank statements. I used to be really good at this. Used to be. Every month when my bank statement arrived, I would be on it that night, highlighting and shredding and it was all good. Now? Let’s just say that the ATM receipts that weren’t in the bottom of my purse or preventing my wallet from being closed, were in a crumpled pile in a Ziploc. Did I mention I spend a large portion of my day accounting and filing? Scandalous, I know. I’m down to two piles to sort out. And yes, one of those piles is four months of ATM receipts.


MAKE
Menu
Banana Strawberry Smoothie
Scones
Quinoa Porridge


BANANA STRAWBERRY SMOOTHIE
2 c. banana
2 c. strawberry
1 c. milk
1 c. strawberry or vanilla yogurt


-peel and slice bananas
-wash strawberries and cut tops off
-put fruit in blender or food processor with yogurt and milk
-blend to desired consistency and serve immediately


SCONES
¼ c. cold butter
1 ½ c. all purpose flour
¼ c. sugar
½ tsp. cinnamon
1 tbsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. baking soda
2 eggs
½ c. butter milk (if unavailable, add 2 tsp. lemon juice to 2% or skim milk)
1 c. fruit or cheese of choice


-preheat oven to 350 degrees
-combine dry ingredients
-beat one egg and combine it with the buttermilk
-thread the butter through the dry ingredients until texture is like gravel
-add the milk and egg mixture and mix
-add fruit or cheese; blend through batter
-mix and separate into two balls
-flatten the balls into two disks, five to six inches in diameter
-slice each disk into four sections and place on an ungreased cookie sheet
-beat the second egg and brush it on the scones as a glaze
-bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until the scones are brown


QUINOA PORRIDGE
½ c. quinoa
¼ tsp. cinnamon
1 ½ c. almond milk (or soy with 1 tsp. almond extract)
½ c. water
2 tbsp. brown sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1 pinch salt


-preheat saucepan over medium heat and measure in quinoa
-season with cinnamon and cook until toasted, stirring frequently
-pour in the almond milk, water, vanilla, and stir in the brown sugar and salt
-bring to a boil and cook over low heat until thick and grains are tender (about 25 minutes)
-add more water if liquid has dried up before porridge finishes cooking
-stir occasionally to prevent burning


THINK
You should not take part in your own persecution. – Bobby Seale


LISTEN
Pixie Lott – Cry Me Out
Dan Balan – Chica Bomb
The Buzzcocks – What Do I Get


READ
Chantel Simmons – Stuck in Downward Dog


WATCH
The Nature Of Things: The Everlasting Oasis


Start here:



VISIT
The future of books, here today… audible.com


GO GREEN
Have a swap meet with your friends. The idea is that everyone gets together and swaps belongings they no longer want or use. Anything left over immediately goes to a donation bin.

Merry Happy Christmas

Happy Almost Santa Day

My Brain Is Leaking

Today, I told Ali I was "just gonna hawt mess it through the day."

Not even sticky notes and pre-set alarms on my phone can save me.

Oh, you have no idea.

This past weekend officially turned my brain into leaking Swiss cheese.

Saturday consisted of six hours (I spelled it so there would be no confusion) at the mall with my nieces, getting their Christmas shopping done.  I love them.  I go to great lengths to be not only their aunt, but their mentor and confidante.  But after they caused a major health scare, and fiscally and emotionally bankrupted me realized it was dark out, it was time to go home.

Lessons learned?  The customer service clerks will place bets on how long before you return "The Green Monster" stroller...

(imagine it with not one, but two seats, being navigated through a boutique style store).  We lasted less than 15 minutes.  Food court water is four times as expensive as gas ($2.24 for 591 mL, gas is less than $1.00 a litre... you do the rest of the math).  The tooth fairy is now paying $5.00 a tooth.  $5.00  for a tooth that is currently working its way through my youngest niece's digestive tract because she swallowed it while eating chicken souvlaki.  Dinner at the food court should never involve the questions "Do I give her the Heimlich?" or "We have to make her puke."

It was only hour three when that went down.  Literally.

I had nothing left in the tank when we got home.  But I had wet sheets in the washer that I forgot to put in the dryer and actually dry so I could make my bed before we left for the Christmas Shopping Extravaganza.  When I realized I did not have any sheets to put on my bed, at least none that were dry, I seriously considered laying hand towels all over my bed so I could just lie down and die.

Yes, I was delirious.  No, I did not remember I have four sets of sheets stored in an vacuum packed bag under my bed.

I no longer had a brain to remember with.

Sunday was equally manic.

Four pails of fund raiser cookie dough.  I bought it thinking it would be a time saver and a great way for me and the girls to bond over baking for the holidays.  Okay, so the bonding part is shite.  The day before, I had surprised them with $120.00 each for their Christmas Shopping Extravaganza.  I had been saving some money every month for them.

But it was not free money.  Oh no it, came with emotional black mail and a shit load of rules because Auntie is not Mummy and trying to beat sense into little princesses while in public is currently socially unacceptable and really not an option Auntie cares to explore.

The Rules:
-no whining, crying, complaining, or pouting
-even though your mother thought it would be fun times for you to have bags of sugar coated candy before you came to be my responsibility for two days, there will be no yelling, screaming, or acting like you just sniffed coke and need to scale the palm trees by the fountain
-while you have it in your heads that you are the world's most precious princesses and believe all the contents of the mall should be going home with you, there will be no shopping for you... we are shopping for your family's Christmas gifts
-when you are paying for your gifts, say yes to a gift receipt, no to plastic bags, and thank the people who helped you
-if you cannot touch Auntie or the cart you are too far away
-if you need to pee, you have to say something before it is running down your leg because the magic of the universe places all public bathrooms on one side of the mall... and we will never be on that side when you have to go
-if you need to rest because your boots/shoes/sister/the general public/the shopping cart/the Christmas carols playing in the stores/the current tilt of the world on its axis is irritating you, please politely ask to have a break
-do not make Auntie want to smoke because it has cost her a crap load of money to quit
-should you find the urge to break the rules irresistible, please refer to Princess J's story of when she was four and Auntie made her drop everything and dragged her screaming ass out of the mall and back home because she was a bad princess who wanted everything... Auntie does not count to three and follows through on her threats
-please remember this list grows every year because of naughty behaviour and Auntie Claus can very easily take all the stuff back and get her money back

Oh, and by the way, tomorrow you will be baking cookies with Auntie and all preceding rules will still in effect.

I will not be in The Office tomorrow.  Why?  Because Auntie still has her own shopping to do.  Gifts and food.  Uh huh.  Dinner for about twenty and not a thing has been bought.  Including the bird.  Good news is, all the baking is done and I have my own Shopping Extravaganza down to two lists and four stores.

I am leaving at zero dark stupid.

Do not call.  Do not leave a message.

I am officially on auto pilot and I cannot remember how to retrieve my voice mail anymore.

PS:  I will be making these melted snowman cookies at some point.

Christmas Puked: The Eulogy

I called it.

The sacred wooden Christmas tree was awarded to Service on Friday.

I am not entirely sure their effort was award winning, but it clearly was not Christmas Puked, which I am certain disqualified Corporate from every and any contest being held during the Christmas season.

I already have my plans for a truly tacky Christmas Buddha on the drawing board.  Next year, my workspace is gonna be a Very Neon Buddhist Christmas.  The Office Troll can jump up her own ass if she doesn't like it.  People will flock to rub his belly and delight in the Christmas carols and random chants that play when you tickle his belly button.

I know.  If there was a Buddhist hell, I would be second in command.

It is also worth noting the game of Where's Waldo? died on Friday.

Please excuse me while I gloat.

Apostrophe Abuse

I started university as an English major.

I know what you are thinking.

Behave yourself.

I am the first to admit that I am not Shakespeare.  I am well aware that what I produce here is not some sweeping prose that should be bound in novel form, sold at all the major retailers, and nominated for all sorts of elitist awards.  No, that stuff is downstairs in a filing cabinet waiting for my undivided attention.

What I am doing here is an experiment in free thinking and free form writing; I had a professor in a third year creative writing course accuse me of not being able to do such a thing.  He also said some stuff about fear of being judged, fear of success, blah blah blah.

And Cassie dared me.  Double dirty dog dared me.  I really did not have a choice in the matter, did I?

While my writing here may suck like a hoover, I have written emails that should be framed and passed down through the generations.  My "snot-a-grams" are legendary.  I can peel paint with them, but I do try to be diplomatic about the issue at hand.  I am not always a total bitch from hell who desperately needs Ritalin a demanding cow but the lack of common sense I am inundated with before 9:00 am frustrates me.

(And just so there is no confusion, if I send an email to you and I call you or someone you know a paragon of incompetence, feel free to loosely translates that to I cannot believe you got to work today without a road map and a tour guide.  Seriously.  More often than I care to admit, I wonder that about some people.  I understand this is not at all diplomatic.  I am not proud of that nor am I happy about thinking that way about people, but there it is.)

So, when composing emails, I do my best to make sure they are grammatically correct before I click on the send button.  I have spell check and grammar check automatically do their thing before an email leaves my outbox because I my brain leaks and I cannot be trusted to always remember to do this myself.  Lastly, the punctuation in the emails I write is carefully pondered before the email is sent out into the inky blackness of the Internet.  I work at a corporate level for The Company.  People expect me to at least spell right and use fairly good grammar and punctuation.  And let's be honest, people appreciate spacing between sentences.  It makes your stuff readable.

What is my point?  Why have I grumbled on for so long?

I recently received an email at work that crawled up my ass and rolled around while simultaneously causing my brain to implode and then explode.  I am probably going to get in copious amounts of crap for posting the gem below but after I read it and my brain splatter was wiped off my cube walls, I decided it had to be shared.  It is just too good to not be out there with all the other bad emails from management types who think they are doing us a favour by gracing us with their presence.

Oh yeah, this was written by a manager.  Who is older than 19.  Way older but equally arrogant and hypocritical.

Enjoy.  Christmas came early this year!

"Subject: Clean Up



Hello All




As we are all aware, we have our Customer Appreciation day on Thursday.Could you please speak with the folks in your area's and make sure that all area's are clean , and work space i.e.: desk's etc are as clean as can be.We all want to show our client's our best.Appreciate your effort's , and remember , the Customer's will be the judge's for the Decoration Contest.Let's make it a tough call for them



Thanks Again" (period left out because it was never in the original email)

Some days are awesome, non?

Go back and read it again.

You are so welcome.

It is like a gift that keeps giving.  Every time I read it, I find something new.

All this from a man who held a seminar on how to use the in/out board.  Because, for all the years prior to his arrival that we have been using the in/out board, we have not been inning and outing properly, efficiently, or effectively.  True story.

I know how to use a in/out board, Sir Dicksmack.

Another thing you halfwit dunderhead ninny,  I know how to use an apostrophe.  Oh, and you should  know, the Grammar Police called on behalf of the Capitalization Nation.  They respectively want their commas and nouns back.
 
I have said it before.. I am not creative enough to make this stuff up.  I am a magnet for crazy.  At work, I just sit back and it lands in my inbox.  Or in my cube.  It is part of the reason I keep going back for the punishment.  I get paid to be a part of the world's best yet unknown soap opera/unscripted reality TV show, I get fuel to drive this blog and I get to smugly and quietly know I am better at something than someone else.

Yes, I am like that.

PS:  For the wonderful smart asses in my life, do not privately email this entry with the errors in grammar and spelling noted and fixed, punctuation amended.  Do not email me with suggestions for a letter grade if I was still in university.  Or intimate I should go back to the U of A and demand a refund on my tuition.  I will hold your Christmas gift hostage.  Oh, I so would.  Cos I am like that too.

Christmas Puked: Ground Zero

Well it finally happened.

Christmas puked.

Kids, do not forget what the sacred wooden Christmas tree looks like:

She is going to find a home in another department this year.

I don't know if I am on the inside of a candy cane or if the walls and ceilings are now suddenly swimming lanes...

... but I'm pretty sure I'm moving my desk back into the warehouse, even if it is in a shitty drafty corner that I have to share with an inflatable helicopter Santa (who by the way rawks with not one but two motorized propellers)....

Can you max out on bad taste?  Perhaps it is possible if you have an angel with the dead bird tree topper...

... or a "new" candle holder which I am pretty sure is in fact not "new".  Unless candle holders are now being sold as cat  hair holders or a two for one cat hair/candle combo.  Which would be awesome if you liked cats.  I do not.  Sadly the cat hair did not come through on the pic but the horror of the holder is painful enough, of this I am sure.

So the Office Troll (formally the Office Dweller) got her wish.  A projectile vomit Christmas.  What can you expect when this is ground zero:

The following are a few highlights.  I actually took over 35 pics when I was in there but I will not burn your retinas out with bad taste.  Brace yourselves, its gonna get icky.

Garland reindeer on doggie pee pads (okay maybe they are not pee pads but damn they look like it):

 A teddy bear Christmas tree but most of the teddy bears have fallen off so now it just looks like a dead headless body drunk buddy hugging bears while trekking through the neighbour's hedge:

We cannot forget Santa.  Especially when he is about three feet tall and wearing the Office Troll's glasses.  Which she is always losing.  One would imagine it is to be expected when said troll loses a dot matrix (oh yes you read that right) printer under a fake palm jungle and singing and dancing Christmas tree:

See, I told you I am not creative enough to make this shit up.  I get paid to go to the Land Of Crazy every day.  Every.  Day.

So where does one work with all this Christmas glory exploding around them?  Allegedly in this space:

And Martha Stewart wept.

To be honest, I was getting all twitchy and holy-shit-my-A.D.D.-is-making-me-stabby when I was taking these pics.

Remember my desk?

Yes.  O.C.D. and A.D.D. live here.  I will cut a bitch if that dusty, mildewy, fur ball infested crap lands on my desk.  For really.  I like that my desk is clean and reasonably clutter free. 

Turns out I could work for Martha.

The only thing that can stay is Dick Tree.

 At first glance, you do not see it.  But it is a big corporate mushroom print.  I would like to take credit it, but it was The Temp who came up with this masterpiece:

And what does this have to do with "Where's Waldo?"  Who the fuck knows.  What does "Where's Waldo?" have to do with Christmas?

Exxackerly.

Christmas Puked On Waldo: A Holiday Love Story

Where's Waldo?

He's at The Office.

Christmas puked on him.  And all over The Office.

It is a little bit my fault.  Kinda.  Sorta.  I just wanted to hide the beige monster.  Who knew it would turn The Office into some seasonal guide on how not to decorate?

First, the back story.

I used to sit in a shitty cubicle on the main hall.  I am now around the corner in an equally shitty mind numbing, spirit crushing cube...

... with a view (and a kettle)...

Above one portion of all the cubes on The Farm is a "cubbie" (which is code for a place to put your shit so we don't have to look at it.).  Behold the beige monster majesty...

There is just no way to hide it.  Unless you wrap it.  Which is exactly what I did my first Christmas with The Company.

Nobody told me that El Presidente was Mr. Christmas Decorator Extraordinaire.  I had no idea what kind of dragon I had poked.  I did not know there were motorized train sets and motion sensitive decorations in his office.  Nobody, NOBODY gave me the damn memo.

Now each department has a $200.00 budget.  It used to be $350.00 but we are in a recession people!  We cannot get new cubes on The Cube Farm, but we have a Christmas decorating budget.  Le sigh.

And a contest.  Did I happen to mention the contest?

Oh la! the contest for the sacred wooden Christmas tree.  It is fierce.

What started as a bit of fun and mocking between me and El Presidente resulted in Whoville last year.  Yes, complete with bent Christmas tree and a ten foot inflatable Grinch.  No, seriously....

Corporate (the Cube Farmers and I) have won the contest for all four years running.  Beat that bitches!  And yes it was four, we've only had the sacred wooden Christmas tree for three.  Suck it losers!

While I would like to say that we are just really creative and love Christmas, the reality is this... it is all about prevention.  You see, we have a co-worker who is an Office Dweller, Possessor Of A Door That Closes And Walls That Go To The Ceiling (noooooo I'm not even a little bit jealous, noooooo) and she has and entire skid of decorations.

Yes, a SKID.  Four feet long, four feet deep, about five feet high.  You do the math.  Uh huh.

All of our creativity is an effort to keep Christmas from puking out of her office into the rest of the corporate offices and The Cube Farm.  It would be okay but the reality is her stuff is dusty, dated, cheap, and smells like old lady crotch.  No, really.  It is some nasty ass funk.

After creating the majesty that was Whoville last year, we are spent, burnt out and this Cube Farmer some of us do not give a shit what the theme is this year as long as it is not "Christmas Puked."

My fellow Buddhist and Cube Farmer neighbour and I suggested an atheist Christmas.  Or clearing the place out and just having a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  Or having a Very Muslim Christmas with each cube representing an oil rich nation and the manger going in the country that has more desert than oil.

Those drama queens do not have a sense of humour.  Or irony.  Or social commentary.  Or congruence and polarization.

The suggestion of a Very Muslim Christmas went over like a lead balloon even though we were just trying to be all inclusive and give a proper shout out to our Muslim brethren.  Dead air.  Crickets.  No love for that idea.  None.  I had my hopes set high. I wanted to be Libya so I could get my Gaddafi on.  I got the crazy down to a science.

For what it is worth, no matter how far into the depths of hell you cast me, and even though I do not believe in 99% of Christian dogma, I know Baby Jesus was not down with racism.  Surely MC JC (Messiah Cometh, Jesus Christ... use it, don't abuse it) would have delighted in an ironic juxtaposition of multicultural celebration and consumerism.  No?  Well, I do think the Bible is Christian mythology and the whole idea of immaculate conception is a steaming pile of doo-doo, so what do I know?

Sadly, Santa will not be visiting an oil rich Islamic state this year when he comes to The Cube Farm.  Turns out drama queens do not like religious based controversy.  Oh, they will fuck their co-workers in their spare time at work or after work, but they Just.  Say.  No. to intelligent, thought provoking controversy.  Fraidy cats.

Next year, my fellow Buddhist and Cube Farmer neighbour and I are bringing in a huge Buddha with a gigantic Santa hat on his head.  With lights that are synced to chants.  And a candy cane bodhi tree.  And popcorn string malas.  Our side of The Cube Farm is going to be a Very Buddhist Christmas.

So what will Santa be visiting you ask?  Well it is supposed to look like a giant candy cane (it so does not) but it is really a game of Where's Waldo? (it so is).  I know, totally has everything to do with the spirit of Christmas.  Imagine it, the three wise men roll up to the manger... gold, frankincense, myrrh, and a Where's Waldo?  book.  It could have totally happened.  Just on papyrus and in Aramaic.

There will be pictures tomorrow as they were still "striping" the place when I left today.  To be honest, we are just one dry heave away from Christmas puking.  Seriously.

In the mean time, I will be plotting where to hide Waldo the next time I find him.

Hey, I gotta get my kicks from somewhere.  You saw where I sit all day.

Dresses, Dances, And Dalliances

It happened innocently enough. I was going to the showroom with some paper work for the order desk. El Presidente held the door open for me. Then summoned me to have a private word.

In my head, I was jumping off the building thinking, "Fuck my life this better not be about the office romance rumors because I do not want to know who is fucking who and where in the building they are doing it and I do not want to know because he is disgusting and she is the type who gives men a reason to call women bitches and ho's. I just do not want to be a part of drama.  And I do not want to have to lick a dog's ass to get the image of them humping out of my head."

I started praying to baby Jesus. Who I do not believe in.  Well maybe the part about the hippie running around the countryside rapping about cool ways to get along in the world but not the virgin birth messiah guy.  It is too far for even my imagination to stretch.

*Inhaling my last breath, bracing myself*

You know, I'm upset with you.  You better come to the Christmas party.

I'm not.

Come and get drunk with me.

I don't drink. (For really.)

Then come and smile.

Fuck my life.

No I did not say that. And I am not going dress shopping to go to some melodrama at a country club in another town.  Yes, another town.

Here's why I really do not want to go to this annual gong show.

On a daily basis, there is too much drama in where I work. Add alcohol, alleged ingestion of any number of contrabands, and we leave the realm of soap opera and head straight for shitty late night drama.  Think Jersey Shore but with mostly over thirty and snow banks instead of beaches.

Where I work is full of cliques.  And they get tighter when spouses and glitter are involved.  It is not fun for me to go sit in a room full that and be given the cold shoulder for most of the night.  Last year, my table was great and the random crazy punk rock girl in the bathroom that helped me pour myself back into my sausage casing with my Spanx was awesome, but most of them were, for the most part, indifferent and uncouth lushes on a binge paid for by The Company.  I did not exist on their planet.  Until I was leaving.  Then the drunken, "Haaaayyyy wur you going huh?  Ya can't leave yet." crap started.

Can somebody tell me what happened to the two drink maximum at the office party rule?

It is like having four hours of your life stolen from you.

Having said that, this year would be the year to go to the office Christmas party. There is a secret office romance that is about to become very public. Same guy as before, different idiot girl. She was warned and he is just a drunk prick with a hard on for anything with long legs.  I do not feel sorry for either of them. The shit is totally going to hit the fan when upstairs finds out. And I would not be surprised if it happened over dinner.

Maybe I need to rethink this dress thing.