Suck It Up

I misplace everything.  My wedding vows should have included him accepting that, at any given moment, his possessions might go missing.  Forever.

I don't like admitting it, but there is zero logic behind my frequent relocation of items.  Not long ago, I found a handset to our home telephone, face down in the kitchen sink. After laughing at myself and taking this picture, I accidentally left it there for another hour.  Why promptly remove electronic devices from sources of water?

Do not judge me - I clean that sink regularly.  A few noodles never killed anyone.

Two weeks ago,  the vacuum went missing.  Since the lovely women who clean our house on a bi-weekly basis purchased my same vacuum as a backup, I figured they took it home in error. After checking all the usual places (not the sink, that would just be ridiculous - or would it?), I gave up.  So on cleaning day, I left them a note.  And here was their response -

Easter would've been nicer with freshly cleaned carpets.  Just saying.

So I call them, assuming they misunderstood my VERY clear note.  Not the stick vacuum, but the full-sized one. Keep up, people...we are losing time.  I have (zero) vacuuming to do.

Before their next visit,  I sent an email to my husband with detailed instructions on how to address this issue in person.  He was working from home that day.  I said -

(Good luck having that conversation - remember, they bought the same one as a backup which is why I thought they might have taken it accidentally)

So for the second time, they are approached about taking my vacuum. And for the second time they confirm this did not happen. Now I'm just perplexed and fairly annoyed. 

Fast forward about 3 hours.  I am driving home from work, 90 minutes of terrible traffic. I'm tired and starving.  Husband is in a rush and calls asking if I've seen his car keys.  At first, I said no. Then knowing me, I looked around and realized I took them to work with me.  Along with my own keys.  No clue why.

(Insert fighting and texting.  He was mad that I was "inconsiderate".  I was mad that he called me inconsiderate - maybe irresponsibly scattered and a kidnapper of his stuff, but not inconsiderate!)

After running into the house and avoiding him, I basically walk directly into the missing vacuum.  Someone apparently put it in the middle of our dining room. I pretended like I didn't see it.  (It's red, and it's a vacuum.  Impossible to miss.)


Fast forward again, this time 1 hour.  Text appears on my phone - "Was that the missing vacuum in the dining room?"  Such a smart ass, I was so tempted to say "No, I've never seen that one in my life".  He found it in the garage (or so he says).

I should probably apologize to the people I accused (twice) of stealing my vacuum.  But honestly, I just don't feel like it.   I tried to apologize to my husband this week - a general one targeted at years of stolen/misplaced items.  Then I found out I borrowed something of his and left it in a completely stupid place again.  I tried.

Bad Hare Day

Earlier this week I had a dream that a hot pink Easter Bunny strangled me on my front lawn while my mom photographed it.  This is not surprising since the concept is totally weird.

I stole this picture from a Facebook friend and cropped out her kids. (I did ask her first although she had no choice regardless.)

Not bad.   That costume is good enough to ignore the likelihood of him being a pedophile

Here's the only picture I have of my childhood with me and the Easter Bunny -

I'm surprised I didn't try canceling the entire holiday after this.

WTF is that?  I understand things modernize but I'm sure people knew what a rabbit looked like 25 years ago.  The sad thing is that my parents probably paid for me to attend this event.  I'm actually wearing a party dress. Sorry Mom and Dad but you dropped the ball on this one.  I think you missed the invitation's fine print where it clearly stated they would not guarantee a legitimate bunny.  (I'm 99% certain this guy made an appearance on "To Catch a Predator" since then.)

Maybe I just don't remember, but does the Easter Bunny even have a story?  The Santa logistics are solid (if you are good parent, capable of answering any question a child has) but what is this guy's deal?  At least Santa asks what you want for Christmas.  I highly doubt the Easter Bunny asks what you want in your basket. Does he even speak?  Truthfully, I'm not sure what would be more traumatic - a conversation with a giant talking rabbit or an uncomfortably silent 3 minutes in the clutches of a filthy theme park character?

Parents, give your kids a break if they run screaming through the mall to avoid spending time with him.  And if they question his authenticity, just hand them some jelly beans and pretend you didn't hear the question.

Courage...Confidence...Character?

Enough with the bullshit, Girl Scouts of America.  Do I really need your inspirational words on my cookie boxes?  Just say what you really mean....cash...cash....cash.  Or maybe just cardio, calories and cellulite in my case.

The cookie selling badge.  That image should be replaced with a giant dollar sign.  Or a pig on a treadmill.

I never felt confident or courageous in my horrible scout outfit, especially since it was the 80's and my mom cut my hair super short.  (It's shocking how much a 6 year old can look like David Bowie given the right amount of hairspray.)

Boy, things have changed in the world of developing America's youth.  Being a girl scout back in my day was like training for an Ironman Competition.  We didn't just sit in front of the grocery store selling cookies to people who just bought other cookies five minutes prior. I remember hustling around the neighborhood for weeks selling to neighbors.  My family didn't buy 400 boxes while I sat at home on my ass.  I actually SOLD cookies.  Apparently I sold enough to still remember not one but 2 former names of Samoas (Caramel Delites and Jubilee).  And nobody was afraid of  kidnapping or child molesters.   As long as I made money for their organization, they were totally comfortable having me ring doorbells in a skirt and thigh high socks.  

Yes, that's me.  A trend setter at the tender age of 6.  Only girl with brown socks.

Why was I walking over a wooden bridge while 5 other people watched?   Probably part of a giant obstacle course.  I bet that leader was using a stopwatch to time us all.  Slowest ones kicked out of the troop - can't risk losing out on cookie sales during peak season by sending out a fat kid or one with asthma.  

According to their website -

Q: Who can sell Girl Scout Cookies?
A: All girl members, including Girl Scout Daisies, may participate in the Girl Scout Cookie Activity. Although parents and Girl Scout adults may assist girls, it is the girl who closes the sale, sets learning and sales goals, and learns the entrepreneurial skills that are part of the program.

Really? I bought mine off a colleague's desk.  Her kids didn't even show up to hand them out and thank me for my contribution. 

Apparently each "Girl Scout troop will earn $.55 for every box of cookies the troop sells."   Troops decide together how to best use their proceeds from completing a community service project to taking a trip.

If I am ever a troop leader, it's not a group decision.  Top seller decides. Everyone else either comes along for the ride or stays home.  Bad enough every kid who plays tee ball these days gets a trophy, even if they suck and their team comes in last.


I will continue to support their cause simply because toasted coconut + chocolate + caramel = heaven
But they might be forced to hear stories about my days at Girl Scout camp before it had Wi-Fi.

To All the Girls I've Loved Before....

(No, I was never a lesbian.  Sorry to disappoint readers who assumed this would be a confession about my secret former life.)

I just realized Administrative Professionals Week is nearing.  Great time to reflect on the fact that my track record with coordinators/administrative assistants has been worse than Murphy Brown's.  And yes, I'm dating myself by mentioning a TV show from the 90s but it was one of my favorites.  And for those of you who are too young or lame (sorry to my UK friends who have no clue what the hell I'm talking about) to get the reference - Pee Wee Herman was her 76th secretary and turned out to be the best one.  Get my point?

If Pee Wee ever rode into my office on his big red bike and reported for duty, I'd probably be thrilled. Chances are it would have been a serious improvement from what I was dealing with. 

Frankly, I might even settle for this version of him.  Everybody makes mistakes.

I am not a snob nor do I currently have someone in that capacity.  But there have been times that my job required some coordination behind the scenes.  And when it has, I've typically shared that resource with a number of people equally as unfortunate as I was.

My last coordinator supported a fairly large group of people.  After she had a near mental breakdown in the office, I confiscated her badge and computer and sent her home (with instructions not to come back).  I had absolutely no authority to do this but figured I was doing the company a service.  Nobody ever thanked me but they probably just forgot to. She has not answered any of my texts since that week.  I hope she's okay.

The one before her was, shall I say seasoned?  Is that the politically correct term for someone too old to understand how voicemail works?  She told me it was too complicated to record an outgoing greeting "through the computer".  I'm not even sure what type of logic led her down that path but I guess it was no surprise.  Technology was not her best friend.  She had a folder in her email inbox titled "email".  Aren't they all emails?

This is the actual phone.  Not very confusing in my opinion.

During a conversation about my codeine cough medicine, she actually asked if I had ever been under the influence of a controlled substance.  At least she was thoughtful enough to suggest that I buy prunes because it might cause constipation.  Real bonding moment.

One thing about the two I just described - very nice people.  And I can usually tolerate nice and crazy.  It's the bitchy/crazy ones that I have no time for.  A while back someone told me she was not doing anything that didn't directly affect her life.  If that doesn't scream team player, I don't know what does.  I was bullied into nominating her for awards just for doing her normal day-to-day job.  It's not much different than giving my dog treats when she shits outside.

Another refused to pay any bills.  And her job was to pay bills, by the way.  Anything she was disinterested in dealing with was my responsibility because I made more money than her.  And that is not an assumption I am making.  She used those exact words once when I asked for her help.  I know my boss is reading this so it's a good time to point out that I agree with her logic.  (Hey, worth a shot.)

So to all you people with more than "adequate" level support staff - buy them a present or bake cookies between April 24-30 at the absolute minimum. And if they, like a special person I remember fondly, say they're above receiving a gift on that day,  just offer to buy lunch.  Then spit in it.

The Devil Wears Shoulder Pads

About three weeks ago, I got an email asking for a story submission about a time "you knew you had to quit your job".   Well, I could not type fast enough.   But after uncovering the fine print (requiring I provide a photo, my name and the company name), I was out.  If my story was published with that level of detail, the person I am about to describe would somehow find out.  And she'd surely kill me.  And probably all of you for (kind of) knowing me.
 
But since I hate wasting a good story.....

"People are crying" is how I described our office environment to my boss.  Poor guy went on unexpected medical leave only a few weeks after my arrival and I tried to be sympathetic. After all, he did bring me there with a level of positivity that few people ever have about a job.  And I actually do like him (oddly enough I work for him again now).  But I was at the end of a very short ledge and, unless I left, I'd surely make the news for doing something drastic.  If I recall correctly, one of my dearest friends gave him a friendly "FUCK YOU" when they met at my wedding. It was hard on everyone.

My torture at this mid-sized Insurance Company lasted 6 long months.  In his absence, I was left in the death grip of a woman who had the chemical makeup of a serial killer. Allow me to paint a quick picture for you - she was a terrorist disguised as an early 90s daytime soap opera star.  Even if someone is brilliant, it's hard to take them seriously with shoulder pads sewn into every one of their outfits. She wore bright red lipstick and was that scary pale only a woman with poison flowing through her veins could be.

So yeah, kind of like this - but she was 10x as horrible of a person. 

And I mean horrible like razor blades in Halloween candy horrible.  In my time spent there, one position turned over 3 times.  3 TIMES.  I don't remember most names/faces after blocking out the memories but at least 10 people quit our department while I was there.  One of which was my friend who left in about 6 weeks.  It was not for the faint of heart.

Sometimes grown women would break down crying in my office.   I'd probably laugh a little at them if didn't also cry myself.   Once after crashing into another driver on my way to work.  The woman I hit screamed at me for taking a second to look at the damage on my own car (probably a friend or relative of the soulless Nazi in my office).    Then once when I had to return to the building at 10pm in my pajamas on Halloween to make sure I locked the door after being the last one out.   With my luck a stapler would have gotten stolen and she'd revoke my bathroom privileges to teach me a lesson.  Not worth the risk.

A few other highlights included being asked to verify my coordinator was pregnant (this was an HR department), being whispered to in meetings with the appropriate things to say out loud, direction on the best font to use on my spreadsheets.  This was not my first job nor did I ever agree with the crap she was feeding me.  But it wasn't worth the energy of fighting back, especially since she typically loved to make you look dumb in a room full of colleagues. One of her victims sent anonymous hate mail to the office highlighting the irony in her ability to judge people while her son's name appeared in the local police blotter.

Always imagined it looking  like one of these scary ransom notes.  Wishful thinking.

The breaking point came when she verbally assaulted me because I was unable to dislodge one of her documents from my printer. I will never know why I was personally responsible for her printing needs but clearly I was the worst possible choice.  I resigned a few weeks later and nobody really asked why.  And it was especially comfortable when she suggested an exit interview in her office.  I sat there sweating for about 45 minutes, confirming her suggestions as to why I was leaving while she wrote down every word.  Being on trial for murder would probably be less stressful.  I swear it probably said I loved it there and was just relocating to another country.

The best part of the entire story is that, years later, someone reported the department as a "hostile work environment" through the Whistleblower Hotline. This led to investigation and ultimately a forced resignation by our fearless leader.  

Last I heard she was employed by an alcoholic beverages distributor.  Since she is not at all fun (drunk or otherwise) I will make the assumption that decision makers were tipping the bottle during her interview process.

Up In the Air

Over the years, I’ve been very fortunate in the airplane neighbor department.   (A quick nod to my electrician – a blog follower and lovely person who I met on a flight around 2008.  He and his friend saved my life while we were trapped on the runway for 3 hours with no food. Well, they had no food after I ate their entire bag of mini Oreos without technically asking.)

I know, "golden Oreos" sound gross. But beggars can't be choosers. 

This week, however, my luck changed.  My airplane neighbor was horrendous.  Zero chance of the trip ending in an exchange of contact information and misty eyes/sad hearts while passing through customs.  Sometimes you just know things won't go well, and I knew right away.

We were on flight to Heathrow in seats facing one other.  Our introduction started when he proceeded to remove his shoes in my section then throw all his items through my seating area into his.  A simple solution would probably include walking to his own seat and just placing them down. He told me "I feel like I'm in a prison" - this was funny because he had an empty seat to his right and also apparently had ample room to stretch body parts into my comfort zone to the left.

As long as you cough when the shutter goes off, they can't tell.

Just in case you are wondering, there is no better time to unbutton your shirt and scratch yourself for at least ten minutes, freeing mountains of chest hair (sans undershirt of course). The next logical step is to recline the seat and relax, making sure to fully expose your sweaty pit stains.  Then when you enter your Zen-like state, you should use the hot towel to wipe your sweaty face dramatically and enjoy a quick snort/cough combination into it. Then promptly place it on top of our divider so I can hope it will fall and grace me with traces of your DNA.

Did I mention he smelled?  And not even of body odor but like cologne that is only applied before a Middle School Dance.  And not by the kids.  By the janitor who is trying to pick up a single mom in the parking lot.  My nephews wouldn’t even wear that crap. But hey, at least he got his moneys' worth because that scent lingered for a solid 7 hours.

I'm glad there was something stuck in his beard, deep on the bottom under his chin, because at that angle I could see it clearly from my seat.  I really had to flex my mental muscles to try guessing what it could be.   For you wrestling fans, picture Captain Lou Albano…but this was not an elastic band.  It was definitely a crumb from breakfast or some type of soap-like residue that has been forming a ball for a few weeks.

When this guy's beard is more manicured than yours, it's time to take a hard look at your life.

The suffering stopped as soon as I got the green light to raise the partition separating our faces.  Until, of course, the damn thing wouldn’t stay up.  So not only did I tell this guy he was gross by way of opaque shield but I had to hold it up for 10 minutes figuring out what was wrong with it.  He finally reached over and pulled it into lock position himself.  And yes, it’s slightly uncomfortable when you require help with the hiding process from the person you are trying to hide from.  It’s sort of like asking a guy during a bad date to please delete your phone number/email promptly and not to try finding you on Facebook.

Luckily I made it home with no grossness in the adjacent seats.  But be certain that if he was even in my row, I would have screamed "rape".

"Where's the Rest of Ya?"

56.

My boss believes it's the age when people are allowed to say/do whatever they want.

Interesting answer since I always reserved that type of behavior for 80+.  After 8 decades of life, I want the option to be complete insane and wear tacky clothing if I so choose.   But 56?  Last time I checked, that isn't even old (although as a kid I actually thought most people died in their 50s).

I asked him the question based purely on the fact that, more and more, I am encountering ballsy old people.  Maybe I'm less tolerant from having no living grandparents since 2nd grade.  But there is clearly a point where all socially accepted behavior becomes a thing of the past.  (We all got temporary exemptions on Spring Break trips, in case you were wondering.)

Apparently the writers of Family Guy agree with me.

A few years back I actually had to switch rows on an airplane because a old woman said "she really needed" my seat.  She just decided that being old gave her the right to claim it and refused to get up.  Saying she'd consider switching later in the flight did not make up for my new spot in the middle seat, by the way.  (Although I really didn't need to sit near my husband en route to an island trip for our anniversary.  Good thing I was not at all supported by the flight crew.)

I'm sure there are things they don't fully understand - for example, the concept of therapy dogs. Back in the day, nobody offered you a Golden Retriever for support during difficult times.  You were either beaten into normalcy with a wooden spoon or sent away to "summer camp".  So why was I surprised watching an old dude in a velour sweatsuit and sunglasses (inside the mall) point and stare at a lady and her dog? Eventually he approached her and I cringed.  I can't imagine how the conversation went since it was awkward enough to watch from 20 feet away.  Probably something like "What is wrong with you?  Are you blind?  I'm 93 and can walk without a dog.  He shouldn't be near the food court."  

Unless you are no longer capable of making rational decisions (as determined by your doctor and/or children).

Since the transformation from perky boobs to wrinkled skin bags is so gradual, do they not notice the difference in their physical appearance? Unlikely since they are typically the first people to point out things that are wrong with everyone else.  A total stranger in Nordstrom (982 years old at the absolute youngest) asked me how I was able to wear the heels I was trying on "with that bunion". Until that point, I thought my feet were fine.

I know we're all not getting any younger and will be the same way eventually.  But please, when appropriate, keep your old people on leashes and don't let them out after dark unattended.

**While writing this post, I got an email about a grandmother who attempted to smuggle a butcher knife onto an airplane.  The excuse was that she uses it to sharpen her eyebrow pencil.  (She gets a lifetime pass in my book because that is actually awesome.)