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.

Mr. Hanky, My Not So Christmas Poo

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on March 19, 2010)

I don’t know what’s wrong with people. Who knew my poo would cause such a crisis in someone’s life.

When I poo, sometimes it’s stinky. And guess what, it happens to about 6 billion people every day, including you. Sometimes, it will happen twice if you have a healthy colon and a high fibre diet.

Soooo, when you get all puritanical because people are pooing in the office bathroom, my advice to you is to get over yourself and your aversion to feces. It's a friggin' bathroom and designed for some pretty specific uses, one of which happens to be pooing. Oh I know, you don’t fart in front of anybody and you only poo when you are completely isolated from society, but I’m fairly certain the only person in the world who shits glitter and baby powder is Lady Gaga. For your own sake, relax and ixnay the poo perturbation. Ya, I know, I had a poo in the office bathroom but the poo-approved bathrooms on the other side of the building are under renovation and, for the next four to six weeks, you will have to deal with it.

Now, when you came to my desk with the air freshner and acted like I had shat toxic waste (which I didn’t… for what its worth you only knew I poo’d cos I farted), that was precious. It must have pissed you off that I didn’t rush to admit I had poo’d in the poo-free bathrooms and then apologize profusely for ruining your day. Really, it wasn’t necessary, was it? We both know what your motivation was. Epic fail if you were trying to make a point. You should know it gave me great pleasure to smile and tell you the scent was nice (scent of the freshner, not my poo). Honestly, it took all I had not to laugh and ask you if you were the corporate shitologist but I realized after that thought left my brain but before it had left my mouth that I was really close to crossing the line.

I'm not sure what is more cryptic to me...
1] Your reaction to poo.
2] The fact that, on a regular basis, you shit in that poo-free bathroom yet the rest of us are forbidden to use the bathroom for one of its originally intended purposes.
3] How the hell a bathroom became a poo-free zone.

Just wondering out loud, ‘kay? Don't hate the pooper, hate your shitty game.

By the way, I still have gas from the turkey rice soup I had yesterday. Yes, still. You should also know, I’m bloated so there’s more farts and poo to come. It’s gonna be great. And now thanks to you, it will also be “meadow fresh”.

Random Sauce, Part Four

If you know how to use a pair of scissors like they are pliers or a surgical clamp, you work in an office.

~~~~~

Serena Ryder is ah may zing.

~~~~~

Sometimes all it takes is a really good cup of tea to turn a really bad day around.

~~~~~

Using 100 words to describe three beautiful things isn't as easy as you think.

~~~~~

Snow looks pretty at first.  After five months, it is depression actualized.

~~~~~

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.

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.

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.

It Is Not Your Birthday

(Written on November 12, 2010 at 9:18 am at work)

The birthday girl wanted Boston cream donuts and that is what she got. And croissants because she likes those too.  I have spent two months trying to find out what kind of cake she wanted.  I finally had to break down and ask her what she wanted.  She did not want cake.  She wanted Boston cream donuts.  Because she was craving them.  It is what SHE wanted.

I didn't buy plain donuts for the people who don't like donuts with chocolate on them because it is not their birthday. If it was, and I had drawn their name in the office birthday cake draw, I would have got them exactly what they wanted.  This particular birthday cake draw is not about what YOU want.

It is not your birthday.

So go back to your office and pout. Like you are doing right now.  Even though we waited for you for an extra half hour because you were upstairs in a meeting.  We waited because we knew you would be pissed off if we did not wait.  We waited because we did not want to have to deal with your pissocity.

Come to think of it, you are always pissed off.

This is why I do not go for lunch with you any more.  Or do anything with you outside of work.  Lately, you are not happy until you have annihilated someone.  I grew tired of that someone being me about six months ago.

Here's a big mushroom print for your forehead.

PS:  I will be wearing the blue cardigan set I bought about a month ago.  Weekly.  I don't care if you have the cardigan.  I didn't buy it to steal your thunder.  I didn't even know you owned it.  Quite frankly, it is way classier than the tat you usually buy.  I bought that colour because it wasn't purple.  Like the purple set I already own.

Your girl drama is getting really old.