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.)

Attention Perverts and Pedophiles!

If you are interested in confiscating a complete stranger's photos and online albums, it's quite simple. 

Yesterday, I tried to access an online photograph storage account I've had for many years.  The email address is not something I use anymore and I forgot the password.  Match made in hell.

To log me in, they asked online validation questions I could not answer.  The nickname of my oldest child?   Is that a joke?  They actually claimed I added that as a security question on June 3, 2009. Um, I doubt it since I have no children and my dog has 9000 nicknames I would be embarrassed to admit out loud other than to her.

 @#$()*&#@$@#(*$&)@#$&

I emailed their Customer Support team and here's part of the response I got -

"We will invite you to contact us via telephone so we can ask security questions about the account and determine that you are the owner, once we have reviewed that you are the owner of the account we will gladly update the E-mail address of your account so you can access it."

Great! More complicated trivia questions!  Metric conversions?  Periodical table of the elements?  Or maybe they should just ask why I have no nickname for my oldest child or why I have no children yet period. 

I assumed this would not go well but called anyway.

I was on hold for over 30 long minutes after selecting the "questions about the website" option. Apparently lots of other people forgot the town where their grandmother's neighbor was born (or something equally as ridiculous).  When I finally got a representative,  the pictures were transferred from my old email address to my new one in under 5 minutes.   He then (shockingly) validated my lack of confidence in Customer Service Reps by asking that I log in with my new email address and old password.  Hey, remember when I called because I LOST MY EFFING PASSWORD?  Pay attention or you won't get that promotion to Sr. Customer Service Rep you've been telling all your friends about.

I will admit, the process was fairly painless.  So I should be thrilled, right?
  
Not so much.  This was done with absolutely NO validation of my identity.  Comforting to know that pictures from my bachelorette party and birth of my nephew could easily be the property of, well, basically anyone.  Hopefully this guy wasn't trained at some giant school for budding Customer Service Professionals.  If he was, someone out there might actually own my car.  Or my house.  Or my body after I die.

Way to go, (rhymes with Adirondack) ______ Gallery! 




Yes, please give this guy unlimited access to the last 10 years of my life in easy-to-download images.



Mirror, Mirror Near the Stall

I'm sure some very important people selected the Seven Wonders of the World as we know them today.  Unfortunately, the ball was dropped with their omission of one critical location -

The women's bathroom on the 1st floor of Building A at my place of employment.

For starters, I walked in last week to find a magnifying mirror adhered to the regular old full length mirror.  Men, I hate to creep you out here but women use those things in the privacy of their own homes to extract stubborn pimples and pluck hairs that could not possibly be seen by the naked eye.  You do not need 10x magnification to put on lipstick in the office.  If you do, go visit a doctor because you are legally blind.  If I see someone using that mirror for something disgusting, I will rip it off the God damn wall and smash it on the floor.   I mean it.

Why find out how ugly you really are up close at work?  Save it for your own house.  And bring wine.

The funny thing is that I doubt facilities came up with this brilliant idea.  So who had the balls to customize the workplace restroom?  I'm certain a random employee thought they were entitled to make this personal accommodation and stuck it up there.  And good thing they did....clearly it will come up under the "initiative" category in their performance review.

I would not be surprised if the woman who made eye contact with me, said hello, then sat down NEXT to me (there are 9 stalls and they were all empty) and explosively farted 10 times in a row will be found retiling the floors next week.  Hell, why not change the fixtures to suit her needs?  Make it your happy place.  You are already comfortable enough to let it all out while people are just trying to peacefully pee and run.

I didn't stick around for longer than I had to, but I suspect it looked something like this.

But most interesting, and what is unfortunately becoming a nationwide epidemic....cell phone conversations on the toilet.  In the office?  Really?  Play a game of Angry Birds on the bowl in your own house but do not schedule doctors appointments from in there.  You have a desk phone, feel free to use it.  I insist.  And if the call is so damn personal, why call from the toilet?  We can all see your shoes, it's not like there's a big mystery if you hide in a stall.

We have several phone offenders...the one who throws her pants all the way to the floor so they are lying on the tile (and according to a very special episode of the Oprah Winfrey Show, bathroom floors are actually dirtier than toilet seats) and chats away regularly. 

But my personal favorite is The Pregnant Girl with the Bluetooth Headset. 

Not only does she roam around with it in her ear all hours of the day, but she wears it into the bathroom.  She frequents the private handicapped stall and has extended conversations with family and friends.   And, without making myself look like a total weirdo, I often wonder what's going on in there since I witness this regularly.

Yes, this is the actual bathroom.  Nothing says inviting quite like a sign indicating the toilet doesn't flush automatically.

So here's my question....where exactly are you having the 30 minute conversions on your cell phone?  There is no chair in there other than the one with the big watery hole.  I like to think she stands next to the paper towel dispenser and uses the safety bar as an armrest.  If she sits on the floor (vomit), she should definitely be fired.  And immediately after delivery, the hospital should confiscate her baby because she makes very poor decisions.  (Although she spends so much time in there, chances are he/she will be born in that very bathroom.) 

Feel free to share your stories............

Shitake Happens

For a girl who hates costumes and Halloween, I sure do like event-inspired tee shirts for certain occasions.  To celebrate the NYC Marathon two years ago, I ironed clever phrases on 3 shirts. Why not embarrass my friends right along with me?

And yes, matching undershirts were also in attendance.

When I was 26, I actually made myself a tee shirt in marker to wear the day I got my wisdom teeth pulled.  I was terrified and thought it would be inspirational and make me laugh when the panic set in. Totally backfired -

1) The marker fumes were so bad I probably didn't even need anesthesia to knock me out
2) I wore it under a zipped sweatshirt because, after all, it really was only for me
3) My mother, finding this funny, tried to show the doctor when I was half passed out. 
4) Unrelated point but I was so out of it that I took the teeth home and told my now husband he should wear them on a necklace to our wedding.  (And yes, I realize how weird that is.  Surprising he still showed up at the church...sans tooth necklace.)

So for a recent trip to Napa with The Redhead (her first and she was SUPER excited), I figured shirts were in order. And I knew the EXACT place to order from.   A cute website with food/drink themed gifts and clothes, owned by the mother of a reality TV casting director I once met at a taping  (Not exactly my claim to fame but that's a story for another day).  When I met her she was was wearing a shirt that said....

I knew that day I'd order something eventually.  I love intelligent humor.

I ordered two shirts -

(her current living arrangement)

(part of my mantra for  2011)

Both were offered in only Maroon (as validated by the drop-down menu) and I went with our typical sizes.  I received confirmation my order was processed.  I then sent a response email about how I'd heard of them and how cute the website was.  I am actually thoughtful, believe it or not.

I waited by the mail like a kid looking for college acceptance letters.  Every day, no shirts.  Day before trip, no shirts.  After unsuccessfully trying the phone number (which was temporarily disconnected), I fired off my first email to customer service -

to          info@wearable____,com date      Fri, Jan 28, 2011 at 11:32 AM subject  my order

Hi,

I placed an order over a week ago. I planned on bringing two shirts on a trip this weekend and they're not here.  I tried calling your phone number and it has been temporarily disconnected.  I'm pretty disappointed.  Any update?

 

Three more days, nothing.  Second email -

to          info@wearable____,com date      Fri, February 4, 2011 at 5:14 PM subject my order (and my SECOND email)

Hi Wearable ____________,

Not sure what's going on over there but it's been 2 weeks, no tee shirts and your number is now permanently disconnected.  The vacation I ordered these shirts for was last week so I'm not sure what to do.  Plus you already charged my credit card.

Is anyone planning on answering?  I sure hope so since your website is very much open to taking orders.

Third email -

to          info@wearable____,com date      Tues, Feb 8, 2011 at 7:18 PM subject  Your ______ are NOT wearable

Three weeks, three emails, zero responses - good thing I have all sorts of free time to dispute the charge on my credit card.

I see other people have been posting Internet complaints about never receiving their products.  This makes me very confident I'll be receiving mine. I'd like to turn off my phone and stop responding to emails but we all know that's an asshole thing to do.  I guess you see no issue with it.

I was ready to call Citicards when I  received a package in my mailbox.  Well thankfully these shirts did NOT arrive on time and I packed an alternate outfit.  Not only are they so ugly (and randomly PINK with burgundy shoulders/trim - they look like little league uniforms) but they're SO SMALL and basically sleeveless.   I would not consider myself blessed in the boob category and the letters still stretched out the minute I put it on.  Plus, while the weather was lovely, it would surely be frowned upon if half my stomach was exposed any time I raised my arm to toast at the wineries.

Shitake does happen.  But I did not deserve this level of shitake for being nice enough to support a small business.  Next time I get my lazy ass back to the ironing board and make them myself. 

These Boots are Made for Stalking

I should have steered clear of celebrity nonsense after my very first star sighting.  I met Championship Boxer Joe Frazier about 25 years ago on a vacation at the Jersey Shore.  If someone is important enough to autograph my restaurant menu, they should really promote literacy by being able to spelling "boxer" correctly. It is probably embarrassing when an impatient 6 year old has no issue correcting you.

He totally got a pass on my name, but there is no "C" or "Z" in the spelling of his occupation.

Two and a half decades later, I'd consider myself a lukewarm follower of most things celebrity.  I watch Access Hollywood and read the occasional trash magazine.  I've been excited by having my picture taken with them and have even joined several Facebook pages honoring the rich and famous.  But what separates me from the (crazy) masses is my disinterest in stalking them or writing notes on their pages hoping they will respond and have Christmas dinner with my family. 

Today, however,  I thought it might be fun to briefly enter the world of obsessed fans.  I logged onto Facebook and pulled up one of my "liked" fan pages -

Reality TV Star status update - (453,888 page followers)

Praying for snow so I can wear my new snowboots! 

Over 400 comments and 602 "likes".  What are we liking, people?  Her boots?  Not possible since I wasted an unsuccessful 10 minutes searching for a picture of them. Maybe her status update?  It would get just as much approval if she said  "I am about to take a giant shit on your face".   Nobody seemed to realize their idol was NOT responding, even after hundreds of people begged her to do so.  "Show us your boots, we're dying to see them!"  (sigh) 

So I jumped in and posted lucky number 434 -   

Me - I find it absolutely fascinating that a comment about celebrity snow boots has 433 people interested enough to talk about it. (This will likely be followed by hate mail and my removal from  the (celebrity name) fan page but it's just mind blowing).2 minutes ago 1 

And yes, I "liked" my own comment.  Someone had to!

Immediately followed by -

K. Sanchez - NoooooNoooo! Lol 3 minutes ago ·1 

I also "liked" her comment because she was the only one who seemed to appreciate mine.

The best part?  I basically told these people they were crazy and it went unnoticed.  They just continued to talk about the weather and her boots.....

K. L. King - Come to Lees Summit Missouri, we have plenty of snow and I would love to see your new snowboots!  

(Sure you would...then you'll murder her and put them in a glass case in your living room along with her mittens and scarf.)

The nonsense went on and on.  So, purely for my own amusement, I decided to take it to a new level -

Me - If we're still talking about snow and/or snow boots, I love mine. Check them out!  

(And I posted a link to a photo of my own boots.)

Over an hour and not one person "liked" my boots. Whatever, I know they're adorable.

 
I got bored and switched to another page where a pregnant celebrity posted that she was in Hawaii.  And, to my utter amazement, she provided her actual location.  Not someone big enough for a giant entourage of security, plus she was on a romantic vacation with her husband.

The thread had a whopping 500+ responses.  If I were her, I'd do my best to place the one person who said "OMG, I'm actually heading to that exact place this week!" on some sort of terrorist no-fly list.   Selena's Fan Club President shot her outside her own apartment building - a secluded beach is probably way more risky.

This very apartment, actually. Not that she was asking for it but I'd avoid spending time there if I was unarmed.

If you are one of these people, it might be a good idea to dial it back just a little.   I walked in their shoes for at least 2 hours and it's not fun.  In fact, it's sort of creepy.  Losing sleep waiting for responses to postings like "I just NEED to know if this show is real" is ridiculous.  Let me help you out...it's not.  Time for a new hobby.