I had to watch the presidential address, because, as a liberal, feminist, socialist, communist, fascist, Nazi, politically confused elitist, when my Messiah speaks, I listen. Also, because if I didn't, my entire office would be talking about it today, and I would be outed as the clueless plebe who blew the night watching the "Cake Boss" marathon.
I was rewarded with Joe Wilson of South Carolina calling Barack Obama a liar from the safety of his padded seat. It's like he forgot for a moment that he wasn't on an episode of Dr. Phil. That happens to me sometimes.
Back in the day, Obama could have gone all Aaron Burr on his ass, or even Dick Cheney. That would have been sweet. But then we'd have all those people "thinking of the children" and everything, and we probably wouldn't even get to see it on TV. Americans are a bunch of weenies these days.
BTW: No one in my office even mentioned the speech. They were all probably watching the "Cake Boss" marathon.
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Gonna quit my day job...probably not
I made the Most Awesome Mac and Cheese in the World, and Dad. Devon and I were sitting around the table talking about nonsense when I was struck with brilliance: When I grow out of the noob zone in my crocheting, I'm going to open an Etsy store called the Dirty Hooker. It'll sell crocheted goods and other crafts, and it'll be totally awesome because hooker refers to both prostitution and crochet hooks, which are used to shape yarn into patterns, get it?
If any of you wankers steals my idea, I will cut you. No lie.
If any of you wankers steals my idea, I will cut you. No lie.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Hello, President Obama, we've been waiting for you
This morning, as we were getting ready for work, Devon noted that it would be nice to have a president who doesn't suck. I replied that, at the very least, it would be nice to have a president who isn't a war criminal.
Lots can and will happen over the next four years, and Obama might turn out to suck and be a war criminal, but for now, we get to start over. We've engendered a little goodwill from the rest of the world -- the kind of goodwill Bush pissed all over after 9/11, so that's a good start.
On inauguration day, I found out uncertainty lies ahead for my company. A year from now, a lot of people will be looking for work, if they can't jump ship before then. Maybe me, too. But I'd like to enjoy the feeling of hope a little longer before I worry about it.
And despite all Bush has done to ass-ram the spirit of the Constitution, today I still live in a country where I can call the president of the United States a war criminal, so it's not all bad.
Lots can and will happen over the next four years, and Obama might turn out to suck and be a war criminal, but for now, we get to start over. We've engendered a little goodwill from the rest of the world -- the kind of goodwill Bush pissed all over after 9/11, so that's a good start.
On inauguration day, I found out uncertainty lies ahead for my company. A year from now, a lot of people will be looking for work, if they can't jump ship before then. Maybe me, too. But I'd like to enjoy the feeling of hope a little longer before I worry about it.
And despite all Bush has done to ass-ram the spirit of the Constitution, today I still live in a country where I can call the president of the United States a war criminal, so it's not all bad.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
This post has 100% more cooch
Warning: If you're offended by blog posts about cooch, turn back now. This one has a whole lotta vagina.
In anticipation of No More Bush Day, I decided to go to the gynecologist and get my gear checked out. Truthfully, I would have done this anyway, because it's good to get your gear checked out. But the fact that my appointment fell a few days before the Big Event was still pretty neat.
I waited 90 minutes in the middle of a work day just to get into the exam room. Ninety minutes. To give you an idea of how long 90 minutes is, just in case you can't imagine that much time, 90 minutes is enough time to read two copies of Fit Pregnancy and half of Conceive magazine (because that's the kind of material you find in an OB/GYN office). Ninety minutes is also enough time to make my blood pressure go up to 120/90, which seemed to baffle the assistant, who couldn't figure out why I'd be a bit peeved about the fact that I was half an hour late getting back to work and I HADN'T EVEN GOTTEN INTO THE STIRRUPS YET.
After 15 minutes of more waiting in my socks and a front-opening medical gown, I finally got to see the nurse practitioner, who looked down at my chart and asked, "So, you're 38?" And I was like, "Hell, no," and now I need to qualify that, because it sounds like I think 38 is old, and a lot of people bigger than I am are going to kick my ass for calling them old. When I'm 38 I won't have any problem with being 38, but, until then, I'm all, "Dude, no!" But now that I think about it, I don't need to worry about all the people over 38, because they probably have arthritis and brittle bones and stuff.
When the poking and prodding was over, she mentioned that my pressure seemed a little high, and I insisted that it was probably fine, but she took it again, because it would be really bad form to have me drop dead of a heart attack on the way to the elevator. It was 98/70 that time, and she apologized for making me wait for so long, which was cool because I didn't even have to bitch about it. I just had to make it seem like I might die, which I wasn't even trying to do. And it's only now that I realize that Fitz totally played me.
Anyway, if you have a cooch and you haven't had it examined lately, you should totally do it. Just bring something to read.
In anticipation of No More Bush Day, I decided to go to the gynecologist and get my gear checked out. Truthfully, I would have done this anyway, because it's good to get your gear checked out. But the fact that my appointment fell a few days before the Big Event was still pretty neat.
I waited 90 minutes in the middle of a work day just to get into the exam room. Ninety minutes. To give you an idea of how long 90 minutes is, just in case you can't imagine that much time, 90 minutes is enough time to read two copies of Fit Pregnancy and half of Conceive magazine (because that's the kind of material you find in an OB/GYN office). Ninety minutes is also enough time to make my blood pressure go up to 120/90, which seemed to baffle the assistant, who couldn't figure out why I'd be a bit peeved about the fact that I was half an hour late getting back to work and I HADN'T EVEN GOTTEN INTO THE STIRRUPS YET.
After 15 minutes of more waiting in my socks and a front-opening medical gown, I finally got to see the nurse practitioner, who looked down at my chart and asked, "So, you're 38?" And I was like, "Hell, no," and now I need to qualify that, because it sounds like I think 38 is old, and a lot of people bigger than I am are going to kick my ass for calling them old. When I'm 38 I won't have any problem with being 38, but, until then, I'm all, "Dude, no!" But now that I think about it, I don't need to worry about all the people over 38, because they probably have arthritis and brittle bones and stuff.
When the poking and prodding was over, she mentioned that my pressure seemed a little high, and I insisted that it was probably fine, but she took it again, because it would be really bad form to have me drop dead of a heart attack on the way to the elevator. It was 98/70 that time, and she apologized for making me wait for so long, which was cool because I didn't even have to bitch about it. I just had to make it seem like I might die, which I wasn't even trying to do. And it's only now that I realize that Fitz totally played me.
Anyway, if you have a cooch and you haven't had it examined lately, you should totally do it. Just bring something to read.
Monday, January 12, 2009
I'm short-bus special
So I've been trying to figure out where I fall on the Data/Capri-Sun Intelligence Scale (with Data being super-smart and Capri-Sun being drinkable with a tiny straw).*
When I hang out with Devon and his friends and they talk about tech stuff, I feel like I have neurological damage. One time, when John, Devon and I were at a bar in Jersey, my eyes rolled into the back of my head, and I drooled a little into my Sam Adams Octoberfest. One of the benefits of being quiet most of the time is that you can have a 'tard seizure** and no one notices. I recognize the vocabulary and sentence structure as English, but the sentences have no meaning. Like "Window run bright and slow to tomorrow."
I have these seizures often.
Then, just when I think I'm too retarded** to be allowed out in public, I'm forced into a meeting to learn how to use the office phones. Yes, they are training us how to use phones. Next week, we are getting swank new phones with back-lit screens and 28 different ring tones. (They still can't figure out how to get us caller ID, which is sad, because if I had caller ID, I might answer my phone once in awhile.) At the training, half of my co-workers complained that the phones were too complicated. Soft keys are, apparently, too new-fangled for the average cube monkey.
I suppose I can see the problem. Soft keys require a certain psychological flexibility. One minute this key means "call forward," and the next it means "transfer call to a nonexistent extension where caller will listen to pre-recorded music for 20 minutes, then be cut off." It's like dream interpretation. One minute that "naked at the office" dream symbolizes vulnerability, and the next it means you're a sick pervert who shouldn't be allowed near elementary schools.
The lesson in all this is to always carry a beer to catch your 'tard drool. **
* I lost faith in IQ testing when everyone I knew claimed to have an IQ of at least 140.
** I know. People aren't allowed to use this word anymore. Sorry. ***
*** I'm not really sorry.
When I hang out with Devon and his friends and they talk about tech stuff, I feel like I have neurological damage. One time, when John, Devon and I were at a bar in Jersey, my eyes rolled into the back of my head, and I drooled a little into my Sam Adams Octoberfest. One of the benefits of being quiet most of the time is that you can have a 'tard seizure** and no one notices. I recognize the vocabulary and sentence structure as English, but the sentences have no meaning. Like "Window run bright and slow to tomorrow."
I have these seizures often.
Then, just when I think I'm too retarded** to be allowed out in public, I'm forced into a meeting to learn how to use the office phones. Yes, they are training us how to use phones. Next week, we are getting swank new phones with back-lit screens and 28 different ring tones. (They still can't figure out how to get us caller ID, which is sad, because if I had caller ID, I might answer my phone once in awhile.) At the training, half of my co-workers complained that the phones were too complicated. Soft keys are, apparently, too new-fangled for the average cube monkey.
I suppose I can see the problem. Soft keys require a certain psychological flexibility. One minute this key means "call forward," and the next it means "transfer call to a nonexistent extension where caller will listen to pre-recorded music for 20 minutes, then be cut off." It's like dream interpretation. One minute that "naked at the office" dream symbolizes vulnerability, and the next it means you're a sick pervert who shouldn't be allowed near elementary schools.
The lesson in all this is to always carry a beer to catch your 'tard drool. **
* I lost faith in IQ testing when everyone I knew claimed to have an IQ of at least 140.
** I know. People aren't allowed to use this word anymore. Sorry. ***
*** I'm not really sorry.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Turning lemons into lemonade
We did the yearly Secret Santa gift exchange, which goes off pretty much the same way every year: I organize it, everybody waits until three minutes before gift time to run out and get a Starbucks gift card, one dude forgets, and we all wander away shaking our heads. Then I vow to myself to never organize this crap again.
I got a large bag of holiday M&Ms, a jar of black-currant jelly and a wooden Christmas-tree ornament from my boss. The ornament makes sense. My entire paycheck goes toward keeping IT quiet about my Smurf-porn addiction, so I can't buy ornaments of my own. The M&Ms and jelly are clear signs that my boss wants me to be a thousand pounds and gasping for air every time I get up to pee. But it could have been worse: They could have been those personalized M&Ms that say things like "I banged your mom" and "Clean out your desk by this afternoon." As for the jelly: My aunt's 89th birthday is tomorrow, and I didn't have a gift yet, so it's all cool.
On a completely unrelated note: I promised myself a long, long time ago that I would never go to meetings that were summaries of other meetings. I had to keep that promise today.
I got a large bag of holiday M&Ms, a jar of black-currant jelly and a wooden Christmas-tree ornament from my boss. The ornament makes sense. My entire paycheck goes toward keeping IT quiet about my Smurf-porn addiction, so I can't buy ornaments of my own. The M&Ms and jelly are clear signs that my boss wants me to be a thousand pounds and gasping for air every time I get up to pee. But it could have been worse: They could have been those personalized M&Ms that say things like "I banged your mom" and "Clean out your desk by this afternoon." As for the jelly: My aunt's 89th birthday is tomorrow, and I didn't have a gift yet, so it's all cool.
On a completely unrelated note: I promised myself a long, long time ago that I would never go to meetings that were summaries of other meetings. I had to keep that promise today.
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