You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
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.
Soooo let me get this straight, this dood in Florida gets pulled over, the cops find coke stuffed in his ass and he has the audacity to say it wasn't his?
Really really.
I understand that at some point he admits the powder is his but what plane of reality do you have to be on to say (and seriously expect people to believe) that bags of coke currently residing in your poop shoot don't belong to you? How high do you have to be to get to that plane of reality? Clearly this dood is actively engaged in quality control and his shit is goooood. Or magic Colombian faeries had their way with his anus.
No, it could totally happen. We would all have to be high on LSD and having a *mushroom* burger for lunch, chasing it with heroin vitamin water, but it could totally happen.
Back in The Day, I may have had a problem or two with the cops. Allegedly. At least that story Kells and I told the cops was vaguely believable. Our Oscars haven't arrived yet, but we were so on that night.
Allegedly.
Here is the truth, all of which can be substantiated by at least two other people. It was my last night in town. I had been drinking all the vodka in two bars a few cocktails. We were on the way to drop my drunk ass off at my uncle's. The driver of the vehicle did realize, in a rare moment of clarity, that when you finally admit you suck ass at driving a standard and want to switch drivers, you cannot pull into the outside lane of the road without signaling and stop a car in the middle of an intersection, especially when the light is green and a police car is part of on coming traffic. The driver also realized she would have been better suited to make a quick right hand turn, pull the car over and turn on the hazard lights so the switch could be made. And finally, yes, we all realized we were incredibly lucky to have left the particular bar we had been at, narrowly missing a biker stabbing a dope fiend to death.
Its Prince George on a Saturday night... that's how they roll.
What may or may not have been true was that the driver of the car was test driving the car. At 3:30 am on a Saturday/Sunday. Because it may or may not have been for sale. At 3:30 am. And that the driver was sober enough to do so. No, I'm not proud of that so eff off. I know its bad to drive with drunks. If its any consolation, I was already shitting myself before the cops pulled us over.
What also may or may not have been true is that Kells was sober enough to drive the rest of the way. And was asking 6K for a car she wants to be buried in. Allegedly. You can also chose to believe or discount that I was sitting in the back of a sports car, with my head stuck out the driver's window, chatting away, telling the cop (did I mention the cop was female? And RCMP? I know. Hiiiissssssssssss) how drunk I was (lots of heavy vodka breaths as to distract and distort... allegedly), and sad it was my last night in town but how super stoked I was that I didn't get dead in the parking lot cos it would suck ass if I got dead by a biker. Or a dope fiend. Or something like that. Its a bit fuzzy around the edges.
The truest part of the whole story is that Kells got a phone call from the lady cop on Monday, wondering if the car was still for sale because she was interested in taking it for a test drive but was a bit concerned that it was a standard and she, the lady cop, was pretty rusty driving a standard. And would Kells be willing to negotiate the price. Uh huh. For really.
So now, I really do understand that desperate people do desperate things. That being said, if you have something like coke stuffed up the crack of your ass, its possession honey. Actually, if you have anything stuffed up your ass, you're possessing it.
Nothing alleged can get you out of that.
