Checking Out...

Sad to say that my company of Nazis has finally blocked all blogger activity. It has been difficult to continue reading and writing posts, my preferred activity while I attempted to look busy working. I relied on both to keep my day from slipping into hell. There was no reason to jump out the window of the midtown high-rise when I was able to read the entertaining words of Intolerant, find out what I’m missing in New Hampshire through Jenafear, keep tabs on my buddy FLC, or laugh out loud at Liz. I also thank the many others who kept me alive.

I knew this day would come it was just a matter of time. I always thought it was tres bizarre that they’d let me connect to “Gofuckyourselfyoufuckingfuck.com” when Buttersnatch was still with us but they wouldn’t let me connect to iVillage. I’m actually surprised it took them so long to catch on.

This soul-sucking, anti-blogger industry has jumpstarted my job search for anything else anywhere in the world. More specifically; business I am currently unable to access at work located in New York City.

I will be back, new and improved, hopefully soon.

"GET OUT!" Dubs response when asked if she had any finance tips.

BUSTED!

There is a couple in my building I see often. We are always friendly but we’re not friends. For example, I can’t remember their names and it’s been far too long to ask now. Let’s call them Barbie and Ken because I don’t know them well enough to assign fitting nicknames.

About a month ago, Barbie switched from referencing Ken as her boyfriend to her fiancé. I congratulated her because it must have happened recently but I didn’t stick around for the when and how. That’s our relationship: passing in the hallways, behaving in a civil manner, no real interest in each other’s lives. We’ve maintained this for three years. It’s a shame because they are around my age and I’m sure they are fun, interesting, etc…but we have never taken that extra step to be better than neighboring acquaintances. No reason for tears, I have enough friends.

Recently on my walk home from work as I stood at the south-side intersection of 52nd and Park, I noticed Ken making out with someone across the street. Full on make-out. It was not Barbie. I looked away because I was embarrassed. Definitely not something I should have witnessed. As I started walking east, I also had the thought that perhaps it wasn’t Ken so no reason to think I saw something potentially scandalous. When I hit Lexington, Ken and I merged on the same block corner. Ken was the dude with his tongue down some women’s throat. He didn't know I saw him and I didn't mention it.

We chatted briefly. I congratulated him on his engagement and we discussed our holiday vacation trips. “Can’t wait until they start!” That sort of thing. (I spared him my I-hate-Christmas campaign.) I used Christmas shopping as the reason I had to end the escort and step into Nine West. It’s a long walk home and I could do without small talk.

Ken can make out with whomever he wants. It's none of my business and I don't plan on making it mine. I would never mention such sightings to Barbie. For all I know, they have an open relationship and she’s entertaining our super (which would explain why we have had the recent upgrade in our building’s exterminator visits.) If that were true, I definitely have to add them to my friend list. How does one ask that question after years commenting on the weather?

Now, because I’m sick and twisted, I feel like I have this secret that nobody should know. I’m almost excited when I see them together and can’t stop smiling. I’ve been told I have a shit eating grin with every smile, which is unfortunate, but I’m always thrilled when I have a valid reason for it's presence.

Keep in mind, I don’t feel sorry for her or think she should know (if it’s something she doesn’t already.) I’m sure they have a great relationship. The real question, if the tables were turned, would I want Barbie telling me my boyfriend or fiancé made out with someone else? I can’t decide but I think I’m leaning towards no.

Actual friends are under a different set of rules.

The Family Circus

Like anyone else with a decent sense of humor, I can’t stand the comic strip The Family Circus. This also means I don’t like when people share stories about their children that are “just so funny!” Or anything that uses the phrase, “kids say or do the darndest things.” I use this clever saying when Small Fry or the Fry Guys do anything stupid, but they are legally adults so it’s funny. Not humorous when the subject is under the age of 5. I thought that until I heard this story…

Bull Durham, a director at my company who looks exactly like Tim Robbins, was chatting away at a recent network event about his weekend. Apparently the family cat, Tabby, had been missing for an entire week and his 4-year-old son Junior whined for it every day. On Saturday, Bull found a dead cat on the side of a road in their neighborhood that looked exactly like Tabby. Bull went home for a shovel and garbage bag. He returned to the murder scene, scooped up Tabby and wrapped her in the body bag. No more Fresh Step Litter or Meow Mix necessary on the weekly grocery list. Poor Tabby, may she Rest In Peace.

At home, Junior was very upset about Tabby and death in general. The family held a proper funeral burying Tabby in the backyard with a few tears. I imagine at his young age, Junior has not read or seen Pet Cemetery and is a-okay with animals buried 50 feet beyond his bedroom window. They served Hi-C and Popsicles following the service sharing wonderful kitty stores. Junior went to sleep and woke up the next day understanding that Tabby was in a “better place.” The parents were pleased their son learned about death and the proper funeral protocol.

This important life lesson became a bit confusing when Tabby arrived home late Sunday night.

Junior was thrilled that his precious cat really did have nine lives. Bull was not so thrilled that he disposed of somebody else’s road kill on his property or that his son now believes in life after death. Tough to teach the reality when the kid witnessed it first hand.

Currently, Junior spends most of his days burying trucks, stuffed animals, and household items in the backyard waiting for them to come back to life. Bull or Mrs. Durham didn’t realize until the remote control went missing.

I think it’s hilarious. Fucking kids.

Bah Humbug

There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to come out with it. I fucking hate Christmas. I’m sorry, but I do. I really do. Phew…that’s a tough one to put in writing or say aloud where people can hear me. I’d like to go stand outside the Rockefeller tree and scream it but that’s a little extreme. And the consequence involves elves.

I know it’s the time of year to be a little bit nicer to everyone and more compassionate about those less fortunate. That’s fine. Do we have to do it with a Santa hat and bells?

I think I enjoyed the holiday when I was young but that was really only because of the presents. I didn’t enjoy the decorations, the carols, the shopping, the forced merry and bright crap, I just have always thought it was that…crap. Perhaps I’m still angry that I was never cast as Mary in my church’s nativity play. I was always one of the animals because I couldn’t sing. If you were cast as a donkey several years in a row, you’d hate Christmas too.

At work in our last department meeting, some women who will be known as Retard suggested we draw for Secret Santas. I laughed because I thought she was joking. Our director wasn’t sure how to respond to such a ludicrous idea so I helped. “On behalf of our department that is 40% Jewish and 80% male, I vote no way in hell.” I talked to Retard afterwards and tried to control the are-you-serious tone I’m known for. She thought it was a good idea because department morale seemed low. I explained morale was low because we were just told our bonuses are going to suck and our department restructure demoted several people. A bag of red and green M&Ms from a Secret Santa that is possibly their new supervisor won’t help. (For those who care, I was not demoted.)

Just when I didn’t think this holiday could annoy me more, Blanche forwards an email with the subject “MAIL SERVICES HOLIDAY COLLECTION.” She was asking if, like her, we were required to contribute $30-$45 dollars to the mail people at our offices. What? No, I’m currently not forced to give more money than I spend on my siblings for the holiday to people who are actually employed. I would rather put $45 in the red bucket outside Macy’s. She’ll give the money because it is bonus season and the mail people are nice but it’s the obligation that’s irritating. And the person at their company who decided this was a necessary act of kindness. How about the company pays them more?

My trip home this Christmas totaled over $1000. Before I bought the ticket I called home and asked if I could visit when it didn’t cost a Mail Services paycheck. Mom didn’t like that much because Christmas is the time to be with family. News to me. My mom isn’t sentimental, she refuses to attend family reunions, she actually pays to have a Christmas tree delivered decorated because none of us can be bothered with the task of hanging ornaments ourselves, but when I say I would rather come home in January where prices are reasonable suddenly she’s Mrs. Claus. I bought the ticket because it isn’t worth the fight.

Before I actually morph into Ebenezer Scrooge I will say I do like a few things about the holidays. The endless parties, the Nutcracker, and Egg Nog (preferably spiked but I'm dangerous to be around when consumed.) Happy Holidays!

WIPEOUT!!!!

I’ve never been a particular graceful woman, sober or drunk, but I have been able to avoid tripping over myself in the workplace for over 2 years. That impressive streak has now come to an end.

On the way to the bathroom, right in front of Small Fry, my heel caught in the cuff of my pant leg and I went crashing to the floor. I crashed HARD. I’m pretty sure I have a rug burn on my cheek. It was a full on face plant. I don’t embarrass easy so I laughed, stood up, and continued to the bathroom as if nothing happened.

Back at my desk, nobody mentioned it and I thought for sure Small Fry would give me shit about it. Nothing. That’s almost worse. I would rather laugh about it with the eye witness because if I were to be on the receiving end of such a viewing pleasure I wouldn’t be able to shut up about it until he either killed me or himself. Too bad. I shrugged and didn’t bring it up. It was soon forgotten. (Aside from the raw design on my right cheek.)

Later in the day Small Fry’s pal Willow started chatting about his high school days when he won State Champion for Wrestling. My response, ewwwww, men rolling around with men in leotards is icky-pooh! He threatened to kick my ass. I said cauliflower ear wouldn’t go with my outfit, maybe tomorrow. He started talking about his sweet moves which inspired Small Fry to interrupt with, “I think she’s got you beat with her diving squirrel. She has perfected that move. She didn’t even break her hip.”

I haven’t stopped laughing. He doesn’t seem all that bright and yet the dude is a witty whipper snapper. Love him. It recently dawned on me that he reminds me of my summer laughing with Little Brother. (Reminder, Puddy’s little brother not mine.) Hmmm…Little Brother. I miss him. That leads me to the question, do I swing by Eugene, Oregon in search of LB or do I seduce SF?

And if I chose the latter, which line do I use? 1. So…do you fancy squirrels? 2. Hey Small Fry, do you like ketch-up or need a little Dubs sauce? 3. And by the way, my hips never break.

Learning the hard way...

Doritos recently relocated to the Los Angeles area. She has a great job, reliable car, steady school schedule, and decent boyfriend. She’s as happy as they come. A regular 30-year-old woman living the dream.

In a recent apartment search, Decent tagged along and at the end claimed, “I could never live with you.” They had never talked about it and although it crossed Doritos mind, she hadn’t mentioned it. She didn’t argue and continued to search for a small one-bedroom paradise until she found something that fit with her happy life, living alone.

Like most women, Doritos started to analyze why Decent felt it was necessary to express that he could NEVER live with her. What the hell is wrong with her? And it’s not like she asked him! Why would he say that? He has some nerve and blah, blah, blah. After a week of complaining to her girlfriends, she got over it. Their relationship was the same good time it had been before the odd statement so she let it go.

After one particular evening of having a good time and letting it go, Doritos realized she forgot her cell phone in his apartment. They agreed she would stop by after work to pick it up. He mentioned he had a friend at his place but she wouldn’t be interrupting anything.

Doritos arrived and ran into his friend, some guy Decent knew that she had met before. Friend explained that Decent was at his car if she wanted to talk to him. He seemed nervous that she wanted to go into the apartment. Since she has a key (yes, Decent who would NEVER live with her, gave her a key to his place) she explained to Friend that she just had to pick up something and moved to the apartment door to continue her business.

The apartment had some new décor since her departure that morning. Every table surface was covered with little baggies of marijuana grouped together in bunches to conduct a proper inventory. She was shocked and freaked out but needed to find her cell phone. It was located in the bathroom along with a full bathtub of Mary Jane waiting to be distributed in the baggie groups along with their friends in the living room. Doritos surveyed the scene and realized suddenly why Decent could NEVER live with her. He appaently played Weeds in his free time.

As upsetting as it was, she broke up with him. Doritos has a five-year plan that includes marriage and children, not potential jail time and drug wars. Who knew, “Are you a drug dealer?” was a necessary question to ask when you meet someone new. She had learned the hard way to ask, “Are you married?” or “Do you live with your mother?” Add the new one to the list.

Doritos was also upset that during the 6 months they dated, they split everything 50/50. If he’s wheeling and dealing dope on the side, shouldn’t he have enough money to pick up the dinner bill every now and then? The answer is yes.

Can I pass as a 22 year old?

Survey says….NO.

The truth became apparent recently. To be specific…
Date: 11/16/06
Time: 6:04 pm
Place: Hawaiian Tropics in Times Square

Small Fry started working in an area near mine a few weeks ago. Since his start date we’ve become “friends” and spend most of the day joking around over IM. I would say flirting but because he’s almost 7 years younger than me it just seems wrong. He’s a good looking kid for sure. In fact if I was in my early 50s he is EXACTLY what I would be on the hunt for to satisfy my Mrs. Robinson fantasies.

He invited me out with his friends for happy hour after work last week. I don’t think he thought I would actually say yes, but I was itching for a night of drinking and my friends had to work late so I thought, “Why not?” I now have an answer to that question.

It dawned on me shortly after I consumed my first drink that I’ve never hung out with guys that have just graduated from college, those in the 22-25 age range. When I was that age I hung out with men at least 30 and older. And the fantastic male friends I have now are my age, but I didn’t start to hang out with them until we were 26. It’s hard to believe they would ever act like Small Fry and the Fry Guys.

I hung around the bar with five 22 year olds who can’t hold their liquor and can barely afford to tip the bartender. I can’t remember the last time I had 3 shots of tequila before 6:30 pm but I’ll recall this experience if it ever happens again. By 9:00 pm all of them were stumbling, drooling, and groping the cute waitresses. Small Fry was nearly passed out on my shoulder and the other 4 were telling girls about their college fraternity days. They kept slapping each other high five and doing some other hand gesture that I assume is their gang, aka brother, sign.

I needed to be seriously drunk to hang around these kids and I didn’t feel like the straight liquor was doing the trick. I ended up babysitting, literally, Small Fry who required an escort to Penn Station. As I basically carried him there, he told me about his ex-girlfriend who he recently broke up with because she was too concerned with the “shallow things in life.” I don’t even know what that means and he couldn’t explain it, really. He kept saying, “ya know?” Since we spent the evening hitting on the young flesh in hula skirts I kind of thought discussions of “shallow” were out of place. Was he trying to prove he was mature? This cougar ain’t impressed.

In the end, I confirmed I can still drink like I’m 22, have a tolerance of an old drunk, and recover like road-kill. I walked into work the next day looking like I had been dragged behind the taxi instead of riding safely inside. Meanwhile Small Fry apparently fell asleep on the train and woke up in Rockaway Beach without his wallet but still managed to arrive to work on time looking shiny and new. Little shit.

I received emails all day rehashing the high points of the night. I am now “one of the Fry Guys.” Or their mother. I guess the best part of the evening was when a kid hit on me and I said, “call me when you get some pubes, okay?”