Is This Thing On?

Is anyone still out there? Jesus. It's been a long time since my last post and you know what? I still don't have anything relevant to say. Not that I'm going to let that stand in my way. I never have, why should I stop now?

Anyhoo... I'm back in my old post at Large Corporation making the world safe for data management and things are things. My cubicle this time around, although equipped with a delightful ass caressing, lumbar supporting, real deal, gen-u-wine Aeron chair, is tiny. Miniscule. The cube is teeny-tiny. Insulting. More insulting - they have taken internet access away from all of the contractors in the department. More humiliating than insulting I suppose, but what can you do? Certainly not check gmail, live-stream NPR, read blogs or get a weather forecast. It's a drag, a huge donkey cock suck if ever there was one although I do enjoy endlessly bitching about it to anyone who will listen, so there's that.

It's great to be working again, and trust me I don't forget it. I keep reminding myself of it every day.

Since Bag O'Mice and Hey Mr. DJ both retired guess who got assigned both of their workloads? It's me! Hooray! Actually, so far it hasn't been all that bad and I'm not nearly as swamped as you might think. Come to think of it, now that I'm fully aware of the scope of the projects they were working on I'm not sure at all what those two old coots were up to all day before they left.

At least in the case of Bag O'Mice it seems he must have spent around three quarters of his day puttering back and forth between his desk and the copier as I have discovered that the heaving, giant dossiers, nearly bursting at the seams that I inherited from him are mostly full of printed email correspondence. Yes. Apparently Bag O'Mice printed all of his emails. Jackass.

What else? People I actually got offered a job one week after I started working for Large Corporation again. Not a great job. In fact kind of a shitty job working for the state and I turned it down. It was the right thing to do. It boiled down to pay (although surprisingly it wasn't that much less), but also the work was not exactly what I would call stimulating. Filing. Data entry. Been there. Done that.

I would have felt totally differently about it if I hadn't taken the call from the state's HR lady while luxuriating in the awesomeness of my fabulous new designer office chair and sipping a gratis vente Starbucks in front of my two 20 inch flat screen monitors, which were at the moment displaying the very latest in database software technology.

During the interview, which by the way took place the week before at an office located in a run down strip mall in a questionable part of town, when I had asked them(because I come prepared for that shit so when they say "do you have any questions for us? I immediately whip out a printed list and go to town) what was their most challenging obstacle to accomplishing the long term goals of the department (eh? eh? a good one I think) they replied that it was that a lot of people balk at using a computer, not using the new software we just got, but the fact that they have to use a computer, like at all. This is not the place for me.

The whole interview experience was like that Sesame Street song, One of These Things Is Not Like the Others. I mean if you could have seen the other people who were interviewing - I got to see the competition because they corralled us all together in this big giant room while we waited our turns to meet with the HR people. It was like a casting call for creepy losers and pressed, dry cleaned, prissy me. A couple of the creepy losers were already doing the same job in a different city and were merely interviewing to be transferred, a formality I guess, and spent their time commiserating between themselves at top volume about what a shitty job it was.

So between listening to that, the disconcerting interview-ee holding pen concept and the fact that I had gone through the trouble of hot rollering my hair and wiggling into pantyhose and was sitting next to a rumpled man wearing scuffed white (white!) cowboy boots, enough pomade to wax a Buick who smelled like he hadn't washed his suit since the civil war, when I realized that we were all interviewing for the same position I almost bailed.

I don't normally like to think that I'm better than anyone else, maybe that I'm better off, but not better. But in this case, better, better off, either way I knew that I didn't belong there. I stayed for the interview, but the whole thing felt wrong, wrong, wrong and I knew that it would be a huge step down. Clearly some of those other folks needed that job worse than me and if that's a snobby thing to say - well I just don't care.

Did I mention that the job was shitty? Have I harped enough on that or do you need to hear about that some more? Oh and it wasn't even a permanent job. Yeah. Up to 2 years. Not even a guarantee of two years. Only possibly two years. To me I might as well stay at Large Corp where I have so many friends and a new comfy spaceship chair, challenging work that I enjoy and a small modicum of hope.

It's funny though the feedback I got from different people that I talked to about it. Some people were like oooh a job with the state, like that in itself was a boondoggle. Even when I explained that it was a temporary, low paying, shitty job, some still insisted that it was a good opportunity and a "foot in the door". Perhaps I might feel it was a good opportunity if Large Corporation hadn't asked me to come back, or I was 21 and freshly out of college or didn't have a bachelor's degree and over 15 years of professional experience. To me it felt like a huge step in the wrong direction.

Anyhoo... (you get a bonus anyhoo because it's been so long since my last post) going back to Large Corporation has been like going to a family reunion only the people there are happy to see me and nice to me. It's been like putting on a pair of old slippers only not really because it smells better than my old slippers, which frankly still kind of smell like Cool Ranch Doritos even after I run them thru the wash.

Friends Like This

Making friends is so easy when you're a little kid. Pretty much all you have to do is live near someone your age and boom - companionship. It's like, hey nice bike, let's play fort. Easy.

As a grown up proximity alone does not a friendship make. I mean, I'm friendly with most of our neighbors, but I certainly don't want to invite them over to play fort, let alone talk to them for more than 5 minutes. I'm fond of the neighborly smile and wave from afar.

Even when I am able to determine that I have a few things in common with someone, I have to build up to committing to hang out, meet for dinner or drinks or what have you, and even then it's sketchy.

Making friends as an adult is a crap shoot. Start to make friends with a new person and even when things seem to be going great and you're getting along the next thing you know they try to recruit you to sell Amway for them, invite you to their next Klan meeting or try to get you baptized.

It can be terrifying because not only does this loony have your number, now they think that you are friends. Then I have to be the dick in the situation and be all like "I'm sorry I can't come to the quilting bee/cockfight/candle party, but I'm just crazy busy for the rest of my life."

The scariest thing anyone ever said to me in an overly eager tone was "we should be friends!"

Back off freak. It doesn't work that way, and besides you don't just blurt out a sentence like that. Weirdo.

I realize that I am dazzling to look at and have been entertaining you with my captivating, dry wit at this cocktail party non-stop. Don't get me wrong you've been a lovely audience, but I cannot make a commitment to a friendship based upon this encounter. I need facts. I need a list of hobbies and interests. I need to know that you are not going to go home from this party and dress your pet ferret up like Snow White and then leaf through your collection of clown porn.

Not to say that I'm not weird or that my friends aren't all freaks. I am weird and my friends are all weird, but we're all the same kind of weird, just in different ways. A certain je ne sais quoi of weird. Whatever it is - it works.

Anyhoo.. at this point I feel I'm rambling on a bit so I'm going to wrap it up. I'm sure you have deduced from reading this blog I don't have many close friends. The few that I do have live far away. I was missing them all very much this long Labor Day weekend and was thinking about how hard it is to make friends when you're an old weirdo and how lucky I am to have such great old weirdo friends.

Communication Breakdown

Churlita's recent post about texting and how some people either love it or hate it, inspired me to muddle over some other communication problems I have, or rather, problems I have with communication.

Communication Pet Peeve #1
MDH seems to think that I have the ability to hear him when we are on opposite sides of the house. He is wrong. I cannot.

I can however vaguely make out that he is speaking in a loud tone and it sounds like a question and ends with what sounds like the words Honey Bunny. This is how I can tell the difference between his frequent random yelling at the television and when he is speaking to me from 1800 square feet away and between 5 walls. Either way, I ignore, yet quietly curse him.

Communication Pet Peeve #2
Although I am guilty of doing this one sometimes myself, I hate it when people try to talk to me while they are yawning. I cannot understand it. I don't tend to think it's funny, especially when it's done over the phone. Everything sounds like "Rawr, yarf eeee rarrrf." I credit my friend Amy for first bringing this to my attention as she used to complain about her ex-huband yawn talking all the time and she ended up passing her peeve along to me.

Communication Pet Peeve #3
When someone calls and I am on the phone with my mother and the call waiting kicks in I do not answer it as my mother thinks that it is rude to put her on hold while I answer another call.

Whatever. I do this for her, she is my mother.

If I'm on the phone with anyone else besides my mom I use it. What grinds my nerves is when I'm on the phone with my mom, purposely not answering the call waiting and the person either keeps letting it ring or keeps calling back, kicking in the call waiting over and over and over and over. It usually turns out to be one of my brother's in law who urgently needs to discuss some Boston related sports issue with my husband. They always deny doing it.

Communication Pet Peeve #4
Getting calls from people who have no idea that they have called you. You can hear them in the background ordering from the Burger King drive thru, talking to someone else (perhaps they are talking about you), or maybe you just hear the vague sounds of paper rustling, music or talk radio.

This person is completely oblivious to the fact that they have called you from inside their purse or pocket and this asshole certainly has no idea that you were in the middle of a serious BM and went running to the phone with your pants around your ankles because you were expecting a call about a job interview.

No? Did that just happen to me? Oh well.

Anyhoo... I imagine that they sat down on their cell phone and accidentally dialed my number with their ass. I am also guilty of this one, but not since I got a flip phone.

Communication Pet Peeve #5
Getting text messages from people I barely know. I used to have a coworker who could never seem to email or call me like a normal person. She was always with the texting and it was always to tell me some bullshit that could have waited. The fact that I don't really understand the texting shorthand and it makes me feel old and farty increases the annoying factor by like 1000%.

Update 05/07/2008 6:24am - realized pre-coffee that in addition to Churlita I should probably credit Catherinette Singleton's recent call waiting post as providing inspiration as well...

The One That (I) Didn't (Drive) Get Away

I've been reading posts by Killer of Killer Rants about his (hilarious)experiences with online dating, which inspired me to rummage and rummage through my desk drawers in search of the only emails I ever printed (and bothered to save) between me and MDH when we first met 8 years ago on Match.com.

Yes. We are one of those revolting "success" story couples like you see in the commercials.

My handle was "Smarty Pants" but I can't tell you his because he still uses it in his professional endeavors and as an internet politico/pundit/mouth off. Can you believe it? He still has been using the same email address/handle for like 12 years.

I don't remember my exact profile, but it didn't contain a photo or any sexual content whatsoever. The only allusion I made to my looks was to say that I had all my own teeth, had blond hair and green eyes and that I could both see and touch my toes. I mentioned the importance of dental (making sure not to use the word "oral") hygiene and the regular flossing of ones teeth as a requirement to responding to my profile. A hopeless romantic, that's me.

At the time I was over the whole internet dating thing, having tried it vigorously the previous year. Although I'd had a lot of fun and met some interesting and really terrific men folk (an attorney, an English prof, an Historian who had recently published a cool book), I was not too keen on dating anyone because I was busy with school and enjoying an unencumbered lifestyle. I was merely dabbling in order to help a friend who was in a dating slump in order to show her how easy and fun online dating can be. I set up a profile so that she and I could peruse (and giggle over) the profiles of local men in order to (hopefully) prove there were some decent ones out there.

His profile was not impressive to me and seemed really goofy. It mentioned Elvis, a love of Guinness and "Ganja", international travel and being a "Corporate Slug". He wrote to me because my profile came up in his list of possibilities and I lived within a 10 mile radius of his apartment.

Anyhoo...

I'm going to reprint an email that I finally found in my messy desk, that I had written to him after we had corresponded a few times. After a few witty email volleys, I liked him and his writing style, but the email he had written to me prior to the response below contained a lot of sexual innuendo, which wasn't kosher or appropriate given the stage at which our correspondence was developing. I considered myself a real pro at dating, online or otherwise by this time, and knew that I wanted to meet and get to know a real person and not just have some slobbering fool for a quick hook up. I was then and remain, a lady after all.

It's very personal, but what the fuck? You guys know most my business already.

From: autocc@match.com
To: anon.futurehusbandofthelady@match.com
Subject: WTF - Round the Mountain of Passion?? Jesus.

Dear Sir,

What's up with all the "mountain of passion" talk, horndog? Settle down man for god's sake. For all I know you look like Jesse Helms and clean your ears with your car keys, so chill out wouldja please? Besides you're making me blush and go all giggly.

Meanwhile for the less "touchy" topics (he had asked me about musical preferences and clubs I liked): I used to go to Blah Blah (a club he mentioned that he liked) when it was called Blah and located further north across from the Blippity Blah (a crappy diner). As a matter of fact, I used to live right behind it and went there all the time. I've seen so many shows there and the best thing about that place is that it's so small you may get to talk to the band later. I've seen Psychic TV there, They Might Be Giants, Throwing Muses, and many more! But as I'm sure you can guess from that line up, it was quite awhile ago. The last show I saw period, was Squirrel Nut Zippers at the Rhythm & Food Festival downtown, last summer. (Turns out MDH was at the same show and we were only about 10 feet apart.)

What did I read when I was at the lake? A biography of Sara and Gerald Murphy called Everybody Was So Young: A Lost Generation Love Story, and I also re-read a sci-fi selection of short stories by John Varley called The Ophiuchi Hotline. Yes. I'm a geek and I don't care who knows it. The houseboat trip was relaxing, private and secluded and the water was so clean I could see my feet when I was swimming. The water didn't smell like bait either.

What's your story? You seem to be putting down my town (Columbus) all the time, where are you from that's so great? Hmm? (Boston)

What kind of corporate slugging do you do? Do you have one of those weird important sounding titles that doesn't really mean anything and no one is really quite sure what you do? Like Vice President of Bean Counting, Rubberband Balls & Acquisitions? AND do you enjoy whatever it is that you do do?

Where have you done all of this traveling you go on and on about bigshot?

Pets?
Siblings?
Miracle Whip or Mayonnaise?
Coke or Pepsi?
Carpet or hardwood floors?

Who the hell are you anyway? Tell me some personal stuff and lay off the sexy talk.

As far as movies... there are a ton of (hopefully) good ones coming out this fall. Mumford is lookin' pretty good also Fight Club, Inside (or is it Being?) John Malcovich, American Beauty. Anyway, I tend to think movies are a bad idea for dates because you can't really talk, but it's a sure fire way to shut me up for a couple of hours.

I just re-read this one last time before hitting send and I'm hoping that I'm not coming off sounding like Alice from the Brady Bunch. Well, whatever, I'm much cuter than her.

Sincerely,
Ms. S. Pants

Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This #11 Special Fashion Edition

Muffin Top

Don't you like yourself? Don't you like the rest of us? Aren't you terribly uncomfortable? Don't you have a full length mirror? Doesn't anyone among your family and friends love you enough to tell you you look as if your jeans are cutting off all circulation to your liver and kidneys? This seems dangerous to me.

Not that I don't have some pants in my wardrobe that are a bit tight in the waist. I choose, however, to wear shirts that are long enough to cover up my big fat gut rather than short shirts that highlight my big fat gut.

I'm a people person.

Baggy Muscle Pants and Whatever You Call This Top
We get it dude, you're all muscle-y and shit. We get it. You work out 6 hours a day and eat raw eggs and hormones and have shelves full of giant containers of powdered protein on display for all to see in the finished basement bedroom of your mom's house. We get it, you enjoy showing us your giant arms and pink, taut nipples.

We get it.

You're a manly mass of buffness.

You're creeping everyone out.

By the way, when you dress like this everyone around you assumes you are a stupid meat head. I'm not saying body building is wrong or that you are a stupid meat head. I'm just saying keep it to yourself meat head and save this outfit for the gym.

Cover up.

Nobody wants to see your nips.

Teeshirts & Sweatshirts with Airbrushed Animals and/or Gothic/Sci-Fi Scenes

It's OK to have a passion for unicorns, kittens, wolves, eagles, tigers, scantily clad women wearing fur bikinis and carrying swords.

Whatever it is you're into it's totally fine.

But if you wear these types of shirts and wonder why you can't get laid it's because you are wearing these types of shirts and all the people you may like to have sex with think you are an enormous douche.

Fashion Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post reflect the views and opinions of one middle aged, overweight, bitter and shoddily clad lady, currently writing this post in black sweatpants with a green stripe down the side and a safety orange, long sleeved LL Bean t-shirt that she has been wearing for 2 days straight.* The fashion views and opinions expressed in the blog are completely without merit as the middle aged, overweight slobbo writing it does not as yet, have her own column in Vogue or W Magazine and is not likely to ever have such any time soon or ever. The lady writing this blog does not claim to be an expert on fashion by any stretch of the imagination. Not at all. She merely states (in her personal opinion) the obvious for the purposes of humor and can only hope that those of you out there who may be reading the blog share her often condescending and imperialist viewpoint and sense of humor. If you hold a differing view to the ridiculous pieces of shit clothing choices above please feel free to offer up your opposing view in the comments.

*Please note the slovenly lady in question would never leave the house in the outfit described due to the magnetic attraction between her full length mirror and the giant stick up her ass.

Ass Fatties

I'm always trying to expand my horizons and learn new things. You may know this about me already. And what is the point of knowledge or wisdom if it is not shared? So in the spirit of enlightenment I give you the new vocabulary word I learned this weekend from my poor dear old best friend Amy. I'm pretty sure she made it up, but I'm hoping that it will catch on.

Typical of me it is not what you may think it is and comes with a long-winded back story. Skip to the end if you can't commit. I have highlighted the good part in red for the skippers among you. And by the way - it's totally disgusting and you may be better off not knowing.

Amy has recently remarried happily to a lovely man who adores her completely and of whom MDH and I wholly approve. We'll call him Ted. Prior to this marriage, Amy and her young daughter, who we'll call Little Baby Lion (LBL for short), have lived for the last 2 years alone in girlish bliss. Toilet seats permanently in the down position and tidy, tidy, tidy.

Prior to that they lived with her now ex-husband Assface, who was an anal retentive, overly tidy and organized son of a cunt. The toilet seats were permanently down and all about the house tidy, tidy, tidy. In fact their home was never tidied to Assface's full satisfaction so when she had had all of the bullshit and anal retentiveness she could take, Amy and young LBL moved out.

I don't mean to trivialize her divorce. There were a hundred more reasons for the split besides his aggressive disapproval of her cleaning style. We don't need to get into them here. At least not today. I'm being kind by describing Assface as a son of a cunt.

When Amy married Ted this past June she and young LBL moved into his house with his 2 teenage boys, M is 13 and K is 15. The three males had been living alone together without female supervision for a very long time. The way that men who were raised by women who wait on them hand and foot and their subsequent progeny is very different from the way that my dear Amy (and me too by the way) had been living for her entire life. The boys lived like little piggies and Amy has had to swoop in and the muck the stalls out, so to speak before it was fit for her and LBL to live in.

I walked into the newly blended family's home for the first time on Saturday night ready for anything after the nightmare stories she had been telling me since moving there in June. A pantry full of books and papers and several years worth of greasy stalactites growing from the roof of the microwave, just to name a few. To my surprise I found the house looking and smelling totally fresh and fine. In fact her stylish furniture and decor makes the place look great.

She said now that the house is clean and organized she's working on new behaviors for all the boys, Ted included. She described it as living with 3 people who don't have any fingers or fine motor skills. Paws for hands, if you will. Objects are dropped, thrown and left to rot. Coats are tossed on top of other coats hanging neatly in closets, or thrown onto the closet floor. Wet, sweaty clothes removed and left mouldering on the carpet or sofa. Wet washcloths wadded into moldy balls. The list of disgusting boy habits goes on and on.

As she was describing her new lifestyle as wife and stepmother she suddenly blurted out, "and don't get me started on the ass fatties", and then she answered her chiming cell phone, leaving me in suspense for about 6 minutes while she chatted.

When she got off the phone I was nearly bursting into flames. What the fuck is an "ass fattie"? Don't leave me hanging like this please, please, please.

An "ass fattie" is the nickname that Amy has given to the errant pieces of toilet paper that get rolled into marijuana-cigarette shaped tubes from aggressive paw like ass wiping. Certain brands of toilet paper, such as Charmin or White Cloud, increase the likelihood of the occurrence of ass fatties.

I should qualify here that she has no issues with the ass fatties as such, and in fact acknowledges having experienced them on occasion herself. (I have no comment and wish to plead the 5th.) She does however take great offense to having to pick other peoples ass fatties up off of the bathroom floor.

Her argument is persuasive and I too now believe that one should be aware of the existence of one's own ass fatties and dispose of them properly before they are seen by your stepmother.

Chuck A What?

Michigan is just simply a terrible place to be unemployed. The job market here is skimpy, especially for someone with my very obscure specialty. I've given up all hope of finding anything remotely similar to the work that I am supremely qualified for here.

In order to adapt to my environment I've expanded my horizons and have been applying to all kinds of jobs. Mainly things of an Analyst persuasion, things that don't involve any travel, and also some Office Manager, Admin Assistant stuff just so I feel like I've applied for something. I even created a special resume that highlights my old Office Manager job experience from before I had my degree.

The thing about finding jobs these days is that it mostly seems to take place online. The search, the application, the cover letter, the emailed auto-response. When I apply for something online I immediately check my email to make sure that I get that auto response. Otherwise I have no way of knowing whether or not, well anything. You send out all this personal information about yourself into the ether and then get nothing back but an impersonal blurb, a very reassuring impersonal blurb, if you are lucky and the places you apply have any manners what-so-ever.

The following is an auto response email that sets my ass to chapping each time I get it, which is each time I apply for administrative assistant jobs with a certain employment agency I've created an account with:

"We found your resume online and would be interested in speaking with you further regarding your qualifications and experience."

I read this first sentence of the message and even though it's from the employment agency about a job that I probably don't want, I say to myself, "Yeah!! Finally, somebody noticed me!"

Then I read the next sentence and I want to chuck a turd through their window.

"If you are within the (local) area you will be considered for opportunities as they arise, however at the current time the job market is not bearing your skill set."

This message by the way is usually received 2 or 3 days after I applied to the posting and have already gotten the auto-response telling me they have received my application successfully.

So which is it assholes? Do you want to speak with me or are you telling me to take a hike? I can take rejection. Really, I can. But don't get my hopes all up about your shitty* job and then make me disappointed a few words later that I'm not suitable for it.

I sent them an email back about it (seriously, I did and this is real):

Hello Employment Agency,
I'm a bit confused by this email. I get it every time I apply for a job on your website. It says two very different things. First that you would be interested in speaking with me further, and then that there's nothing for me. The first sentence gets my hopes up then in the next breath I'm all bummed out. So which is it? Are you interested in speaking with me or not?
Thanks for reading this!

The Lady

and this was their response:

Dear Lady,
The response you received was not an auto-response. It came from one of our staffing managers, who after reviewing your resume had determined that your current skill set was not what we were looking for at that time. Although, it may have been interesting to us, it just wasn't what we were looking for at that particular time.
I do hope this helps explain things.
Thanks,
Employment Agency

Initially this exchange made me feel pretty smug, but over time has only fueled the paranoia described in the post below.

*I was a receptionist, office manger, secretary, admin assistant for many, many years, so am in no way saying those types of jobs are shitty. They certainly are not. I'm merely saying that having to apply for all over again, a job you previously performed full time while studying your ass off nights and weekends for 6 years to get out of doing, is shitty.