Wednesday, March 30, 2011

It's like a Frappuccino (or maybe not because I don't really know what those are since I never go to Starbucks, but I think they're blended coffees? If not, that's totally what I meant, so just go with it.)

Work friends….it’s such an odd relationship, isn’t it? I mean, you want to be friendly with the people you work with, yet sometimes there’s a need to have the whole “you need to get off your ass and do a better job because I can’t do my job effectively if you’re not doing your job effectively” talk and that’s just not very friendly, huh?

One of the main reasons that work friendships are sometimes awkward is because, when you work with lots of women, work friendships can be just another way for the Mean Girls to attempt to assert their dominance over weaker females. And really? I survived high school….who needs all that noise?!? No, I need a special blend of “friend”, “mom/sister”, “boss” and “drill sergeant” in my work friends.

I need friends at work who:

-will tell me when I have a giant booger in my nose…especially if it’s 2:30 in the afternoon and I’ve obviously been walking around with this freakin’ thing all damn day!

-will tell me that a 45 minute lunch break is sufficient and I need to go back to my office and get some shit done instead of eating all of her M&M’s out of the little dish on her desk as we discuss our weekend plans.

-will acknowledge that I do not, in fact, look fine without make-up on. It’s okay…really…I know that I don’t look just the same with make-up as I do without it. Don’t bullshit me, but recognize that if I’m not wearing make-up at work, it’s probably just because I’m having a crappy day. So while it’s okay to agree that I look rough, don’t rub it in.

-will also acknowledge that the outfit I’m wearing A) does not match, B) is no longer in style, or C) highlights my muffin top. I need to know if I look like a total idiot and I’m more than willing to clean out the ol’ closet now and again.

-will give me some sort of signal during a meeting with either our bosses or some other important people and I’m making a total ass out of myself by talking about the entirely wrong situation or person…which has totally happened….like twice.

-will not judge me for being late for work for the 487th day in a row because there was some sort of livestock emergency at my house. Hey, shit happens when you own horses, okay? They’re not the smartest creatures on the planet and tend to get themselves into bizarre situations involving wire, running loose or bleeding profusely. They’re worse than kids…seriously…but they don’t puke….which is nice, because I’m not a fan…of puke. Horses? Yes. Puke? No.

-will also not judge me for being late for work just because I still cannot get my shit together in the mornings and while I recognize that I’m 30 freakin’ years old and have only been working for 15 freakin’ years so you’d think by now I’d have some sort of routine down in the morning? I don’t. So don’t judge. I already get it from my kid’s principal who just *happens* to greet me at the door as I’m pushing her into line with her class so that it kinda looks like she’s been there the whole time…..I don’t need it from you.

-understand my need for snacks mid-morning and mid-afternoon and will keep a steady supply handy so that I do not go hungry. Yes, I have snacks in my office, but I don’t want them. Why? Well, because they just don’t taste as good as yours.

-are able to recognize that I manage to meet deadlines at work, be attentive and focused at meetings and maintain an air of professionalism at work, yet a phone call from my kid sick in the nurse’s office throws me straight into “Mom Freak Out Mode”. I’m a “mom who works”, not a “working mom”.

-will have no problems covering for me when I gotta run see my kid be a hill of snow in the kindergarten music program….and who will not hesitate to ask me to cover for her when she needs to run eat “Muffins with Mom” with her kid. Moms who work need to support each other as much as possible! Oh, and talking crap about it after agreeing to cover for me? LAME.

See? It’s a complicated relationship.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

I wonder how smart you really have to be to get into Mensa.

I got this email from my sister and I have no idea if there's really such a thing as the "Washington Post's Mensa Invitational" or not (somebody google it and find out).  BUT...this is still really flippin' funny.

The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again invited readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are the winners:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus : A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxicaton : Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation : Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone ( n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy : Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
7. Giraffiti : Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm : The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte : To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis : A degenerate disease.
11. Karmageddon : It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido : All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16 Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor ( n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Most of the time - and this includes naps - I'm an F-18

An open letter to crazy celebrities everywhere:

Hi. You don’t know me, but when I’m done telling you about my fantastic services, you will want to! I am about to give you the deal of a lifetime!

Are you tired of all these pesky news interviews about your mental breakdowns? Want to make sure you’re showing how “normal” famous people are? Feeling like everything you say gets misquoted or used out of context by the media?

Then you need to hire ME!

No, I’m not a “life-coach”. I’m not a “motivational speaker”, “mental health professional” or “physician”. I’m not even a “sober friend”…because let’s all just be honest here, those things haven’t worked, right?? Right. So what you need is what I’m offering!


Think about it! You’re walking down the street, rubbing your newly shaved head, thinking about “Winning” and how you can get your ankle bracelet off and BAM! Microphone and camera in your face! “What can you tell us about shaving your head? Where are your children? Are you seeing a doctor? Why are you wearing a tutu?” And you’re thinking “Ohmigod, what do I do??” and just as you are about to start ranting about being a warlock full of tiger’s blood and not of this territory, enter me, your shut-the-hell-up friend! With a clamped hand over your mouth and a quick “Shut the hell up!” I help you salvage what’s left of your career! Think of all the perks to having a shut-the-hell-up friend! Picture it: Your dad calls to tell you he’s taking over control of your assets because you’re completely out of control and just as you’re about to tell him you wrote him out of your will and left everything to the homeless lady who feeds pigeons in the park because you found out that she’s an extraterrestrial from a different time zone? “Shut the hell up!” And just like that, Dad helps you get your shit together and you make a killer CD/movie/song/Broadway debut.

Now, given your highly developed sense of self-preservation, you may be asking, “What’s the catch?” or “How much is this gonna cost me?” Well, my mentally incapacitated future celebrity rehab fodder, only a small payment of $500,000 dollars. I figure with that amount, I can have you trained to curb your ranting desires and you’ll start hearing “Shut the hell up” in your sleep within 3 months. Three months and I can have you back to your sweet, charming, pre-crazy days. A simple investment of the funds formerly used to pay off the paparazzi for those shots of you bashing in your ex’s car window with an umbrella while wearing a New Kids on the Block tee-shirt and singing the theme song from the Smurfs.

Three months, $500,000 and a lifetime of continuing your um, “art”….you do the math.

Don’t delay! Get your shut-the-hell-up friend TODAY!


Note to “shut-the-hell-up!” self

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Rat house

I have been on my own for a while now. I moved out of my parents house when I was 17 to go to college and only went home one summer after that. I’ve lived in estrogen-filled dorms, crappy apartments and mobile homes out in the middle of nowhere with my horse and my dogs. None of those, as yet, compare to the year I spent in the Rat House.

I had just gotten my first full-time, real-salary job and my girlfriend, Jill, was doing a paid internship at a physical therapist’s office in town. So we decided to live together for at least a year until both of us figured out where we wanted to end up on a more permanent basis. The physical therapists she was interning with had just bought some property in town on which to build a new office. However the zoning/permit stuff was going to take a while, so they offered to rent the existing house to us for a year before they tore it down to build the new office building. It was CHEAP. It had hardwood floors and one of those really cool old bathtubs with the claw feet.

….and that’s pretty much the best things about it.

It had NO central air or heat (let me remind you, dear readers, that Texas has three seasons, “Summer”, “Almost Summer” and “Really Fucking Cold”). Did I mention it was CHEAP??

It also had no kitchen cabinets. Like none. For the first weeks we lived in it, we just shoved food wherever you could find to store it….which may have been in the claw-foot bathtub. Luckily, I was dating a guy who was handy (that’s what she said) and he built us cabinets for it.

But THE absolute worst thing about this house was something we didn’t discover until we had been there for a few months. We had repainted, installed cabinets and done a few other things to help make the place a little more livable for the year we knew we would be staying. Then, we realized we had a mouse. *shudder*

We found the telltale signs of holes in the cereal boxes and droppings in the drawers. Okay, a mouse, no big deal, we thought. We’ll by some traps, get some peanut butter and kill the stupid things and be done. I grew up in the country and my dad wasn’t around much, so you know, I had done my fair share of mouse trapping. Cool. We got this.

Um, no….we did not, in fact, “have this”.

We set 6 traps and the next morning? All 6 of them were popped, with no dead mouse bodies in them. *shudder*

Okay….so maybe we need bigger traps? Nope. Didn’t work.

Hmmm…maybe we need to let a guy come handle it? Okay, let’s try that.

So we told my roommate’s boyfriend that he had to spend the night at our house and when he heard the traps snap, he was to run to the kitchen and kill the rodents. I think his plan was to beat them with a baseball bat. Don’t ask me why this sounded like a good plan….we drank a lot in those days.  In hindsight, I'm not sure why we picked this particular guy to come and handle it...he was a botany major and kind of a enjoyed "special brownies" on occasion.  Not exactly "Rodent Rambo"....but whatever, he was available since he was hooking up with my roommate.

So he spends the night.  Then, I am awakened by the sound of the trap snapping shut.  I immediately grab my cell phone, which is on my nightstand, and call my roommate to find out what’s going on. (Um, yes, she was just across the hall, but with untrappable mice on the loose, I was NOT setting foot off the bed in the dark). *shudder*

Then I hear, “Oh shit!” and footsteps running down the hall from the kitchen back to her room!

Jill…what’s up? What did Joey say?? What happened?? Did he get them??”

*muffled voices*

Um, Joey said we don’t have a mouse problem, we have a RAT problem…and not just 'a' rat…we have 'many' rats.”

RATS?!?!! In our kitchen?!?!?! Oh hell no! I’m outta here!” *shudder*

We all packed up and went to Joey’s house for the rest of the night. We called the landlord, told her the whole story and she assured us she would take care of getting an exterminator out to deal with the rats.

End of story: They caught SIX GIANT WOODRATS IN OUR ATTIC!!!

There is no rent that is CHEAP enough to make me live with RATS. *shudder*