Christmastime in the Emerald City











If this keeps up, I’m going to have to start drinking at work.  

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Idiot: “Hi. I’m here for an interview with ___________.”

Me: “Okay. Your name is _________, right? Okay, I’ll just take a copy of your resume, and you can have a seat.”

Idiot: “Oh. But I already sent them a copy of my resume.”

Me: “….Yeah. They like to have one on file? If you could just provide me with a copy, you can have a seat.”

Idiot is here to see a company who has instructed me to take a resume from all interviewees. Please note that I am not going to disregard these instructions at the request of an Idiot.

Idiot, with great effort, flips open some plastic binder, rifles through some paper, and hands me two pages, stapled. Her resume. There is also a third page, loose, identical to the first page of her resume, but missing a cartoon she has drawn so elegantly in the top right corner.

Idiot: “Just the first page. I’m going to give them a seperate reference page.”

Me, picking up the single sheet: “Do you mean this one?”

Idiot: “No, no, no.” Takes back the page. “That first page there. No, don’t take it apart. Can’t you make a photocopy of it?”

Me, gesturing to the incessantly ringing phone: “I can’t leave my desk right now. Do you just want to give me that loose page then?” (Since it is apparently a hideous offence to remove an unwanted staple…)

Idiot: “No, no, no. I want them to have the one with the cartoon on it.”

My brain: “You want them….to have a resume…with a cartoon on it? A shoddily laid out resume…somehow vamped up….with a drawing of some character…gesturing wildly…in front of a Maple Leaf bedazzled C.N. Tower? And this is…your resume…for a marketing position?”

Me: “….”

Idiot: “Just give them both pages then.”

Me: “Sure…”

Idiot sits down, fiddles. I call up her interviewer to inform him of Idiot’s presence. I hang up. I start typing. Idiot comes over and leans against my counter, watching me. Idiot is unaware of my absolute hatred for this, and seems unaffected by my stare of death.

Note: if you are an attractive male, you may attempt conversation. If I agree with your ‘attractive’ status, I will converse. If I disagree, I will stab you with my eyes, and you will sit back down immediately, or suffer certain emasculation.

Idiot: “So, are you scanning it into your computer?”

My brain: “Do you see a fucking scanner in front of me? Are you retarded? Do you think I just wave a page around in front of my computer screen and magically scan it in? Sit the fuck down! You are here for an interview! Sit down and shut the fuck up!”

Me: “No.”

Idiot: “Oh. Because I gave them a copy of my resume already. So I was just wondering why he needs another one.”

My brain: “STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Me: “Ma’am, they like me to ask every interviewee for a copy of their resume. I don’t ask questions. Okay?”

Idiot sits down and adjusts her 80’s hair and turquoise cotton sleeveless golf shirt. I retch. Interviewee, about ten years younger and dressed very smartly in a suit and tie (because, you know, it’s a business) comes out, greets her with friendly bellow, as do most people in law or marketing, picks up her resume, pauses. I snicker. Interviewee brings Idiot into his office.

I open up wordpress and begin typing furiously, because today is just too ridiculous to keep to myself.

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Also, for an extra sprinkling of fun, my boss is leaving early. Again. To go to her mothers birthday party. Sorry, her Mummy-Moo’s birthday party. The one she calls eight times a day. And lives next door to.

FUN!

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{September 24, 2007}   Cars are for ‘Tards

There are a few things that piss me off more than average. One of them is people lingering in my reception area. Actually, if I like you, this is more of a highlight of my day. But if I don’t like you, or don’t know you, it’s just going to piss me off. I’m pretty clear about it, so I’m not sure why people keep doing it.

Observe: Two separate men wander in at different times on different days. One of them is obnoxious, calls me baby, talks incessantly about how cool it is that both my glasses and my hair are purple, asks if I have had lunch. During this time, he is spinning a football in his hands, dropping it several times onto my desk. I eventually threaten to make him eat said football if he’s so interested in lunch. He then compliments my sarcasm. Stab!!!! Why are you still talking?

The second is the sexy tattooed DUIer I’ve been going on about. Very quiet (a little too quiet – when I get your lawyer to tell you I think you’re totally hot, it’s perfectly alright to come ask for my number) and very polite. Did he walk in and say “Uh, I’m here to see that lawyer guy? Uh, I don’t remember his name…”? No, he didn’t. He walked in, gave me his name, then his proper name “Chuck…or Charles” and then sat down quietly, made a bit of conversation, and that was it.

I don’t understand. I’m a total bitch to the first one, and uber polite to the second one. Why is it that the retard is the one who keeps fucking talking? Grar.

Anyways. My second pet peeve is unnecessary driving. I don’t drive. I live downtown. I don’t leave downtown. I don’t need a fucking car, and stop trying to convince me otherwise.

Everybody please congratulate me on not stabbing this particular person last Friday who committed both of the above offences.

So he’s lingering in my reception area for no particular reason, as his meeting with whomever is over. He begins to complain about the cost of parking downstairs. I am completely unsympathetic. This is the cost of living folks, part of the joy of having a car. Maybe you live out in the middle of nowhere because you like fresh air and cheaper housing…this is the price you pay. Not my problem.

“I don’t drive,” I curtly inform him.

“Oh. Well, are you married?”

And it begins. What the hell? One, how is that any of your business, and two, what the fuck does that have to do with driving? “Um, no, I am not.”

“Well, if you were married, you would have a car.”

Would I now? I’m sorry, is this 1950? “Is that a fact?” I ask him.

“Well, all girls want a guy with a car.”

“Do they now?”

“Well, if a guy picks you up for a date, do you want him to pick you up in a car, or do you want to walk?”

At this point, I could launch into an expose on the dating mannerisms of downtown. First, you can walk just about everywhere. If it’s cold, there’s the TTC. If you take a car, you’ll end up paying more for parking and having to walk farther to get from the parking lot to your destination. It doesn’t make sense to drive downtown.

I also think of Chuck and/or Charles, who lives in Woodbridge, according to his lawyer. I don’t even know where the hell that is, because I don’t drive and highway reference points are therefore lost on me. But I can tell you that if he drove in, I wouldn’t be impressed. If he took the bus in, I’d be very impressed. So, again, no to cars.

I do not launch. I simply tell this brain-dead character: “Yeah, TTC.”

“But what if you want to go out of the city?”

“I live downtown. Why would I want to go out of the city?”

“But what if you want to go camping?”

“Why would I ever want to go camping?”

“To get fresh air! It’s lovely.”

“Yeah. I live downtown. I don’t leave downtown. The world stops at Bloor.”

“But what if you want fresh air?”

“Uh, I step outside.” What is it with outsiders who think downtown is covered in a constant pea-soup thick blanket of smog?

“You know where I live? Richmond Hill. I’ll never leave it, it’s the best place ever.”

I tune out here. Why the fuck would I want to live in Richmond Hill? For the cookie cutter houses? For the need to drive everywhere? To pay for a car, gas, insurance, parking, repairs? Really? When $100 a month covers all my transportation? Okay, $150 maybe, if I get lazy and take the occasional cab?

Then he mentions his lawn, and I tune back in.

“You have a lawn? That’s your argument for Richmond Hill? What do you need a lawn for? Seriously, what do you do with it? Do you frolick on it?”

“Well, no, but – ”

“Do you do anything with your lawn except compare it to your neighbours and wake up every Saturday morning, thinking ‘damn, I have to cut the lawn’?”

He appeared a little stunned…

Guess what folks? I live downtown. I generally don’t leave downtown. Your ways do not interest me. Why is it assumed that a gigantic house in some up-and-coming suburb is the ideal, the goal we are all working towards, and that those who live in apartments have somehow failed at a goal we never had?

I live downtown. It’s convenient. I can get everywhere, and I can get there faster than you can. Observe:

     best thai place in city: Me, five minutes walking. You, twenty minutes driving.

     vet: Me, five minutes walking. You, twenty minutes driving.

     hardware store to buy lawnmower: Me, ZERO MOTHERFUCKER! You, who the hell knows?

     bar: Me, five minutes walking to three of them, all trendy and awesome. You, one fucking thirty dollar drunken cab ride, you fucking loser.

     discount store: Me, five minutes to Honest Ed’s. You, twenty minutes in your tacky fucking gas-guzzling SUV to buy your skid of mayo.

And so on, and so forth.

I don’t want a house. I don’t need a guest bathroom. I don’t need a den and a living room. I don’t need a fucking yard to mow and rake. I don’t need to worry about fixing my own roof. I don’t want eavestroughs to dig slimy leaves out of. I don’t need a cottage. I wouldn’t mind a boat, but guess what? We’ve got several yacht clubs downtown, and they aren’t a four hour drive away. The Great Lakes are also bigger than your piddly pond, so I win again. I don’t want a Costco. I don’t want a cultureless school, and I don’t want my possible kids drinking in someone’s basement because there’s nothing to fucking do. I don’t want your pathetic suburban saplings as an excuse for trees. I don’t want your molesting fucking crossing guards. I don’t want a quiet cul-de-sac. I don’t want a two-car garage, and I certainly don’t need a fucking car!

I don’t need a car. I don’t want a car. If I won a car, I would sell it to some Richmond Hill schmuck, and use the money to fix up my apartment all funky like. Cars disgust me. Stop trying to tell me that I’m in denial and secretly wish to be just like you and the Jones’. I don’t…want…a car. You are tempting me to rent a car for the sole purpose of backing it up into yours to further demonstrate what a pain in the ass your car is to everybody, including you, but especially me.  

Cars fucking suck.



{September 18, 2007}   Today Is Kind of Awesome.

This morning we got a bill faxed in from our friends over at the phone company who constantly fuck up our phone lines. One of those internet phone fiascos. They tend to fuck up as in ‘stop receiving incoming calls’ or ‘all calls sound like they are coming through on a foreign mobile underwater’ or ‘various extensions are simply not working and everybody is pissed’. That kind of thing.

This bill came faxed in with a big desperate note handscrawled across the top. “Account overdue, please pay immediately!” or something along those lines. This bill was from July, which is when the phones were at their worst. The bill is also for over four thousand dollars. It also includes a random $600 ‘Miscellaneous’ charge. Under details, it simply says ‘miscellaneous’. Right. How about no?

To make it just that much more hilarious, I just spent the last forty-five minutes trying to explain to various clients why the phones were once again not working properly. A few of them actually came over to my desk and had the rare opportunity to watch me pick up the phone, only to have it keep ringing, completely oblivious to my action. They then watched as I continued to press the ‘answer’ button again and again and again, to absolutely no avail. Of course, I smiled through the whole thing.

So that was fun. Really.

One of our clients can be a tad wacky. To me, wacky is weird in a relatively harmless kind of way. I may furrow my brow and think ‘quoi?’ but it will rarely encite my full-fledged anger. This particular person will occasionally call me up and say ‘was that a call for meeee?’ My reply will be “um…sorry?” He’s getting calls on his phone, he’ll say. Oh. Well. Then yes, that was a call for you. It didn’t come through my switchboard, but yes, it was a call for you. Odd.

Well, anyways, slightly wacky person bought himself a box of cookies today, and then decided after a few that he was sick of them. Since he had chosen a box of raspberry Viva Puffs, one could hardly blame him. Did he simply put them in his drawer to consume on another day? No. No, he wandered over and decided I would appreciate them a little more fully.

He was right.

We’ve also got someone who sings to nobody in particular, and continues conversations after walking away. Again, to nobody in particular. It’s kind of like watching television at work.

Another bemusing character likes to explain in great detail the exciting world of international tax consulting. Including the variations between this years textbook and the last. You see there are memos and stuff that don’t go in until later, so ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. Anyways, he borrowed my metropass today to go the bank. This resulted in a hot chocolate. Sweeeeeeeet.

So I’m sitting at my desk eating cookies and drinking chocolate and making fun of inept companies. How could the day get any more awesome?

Easily. On the subway today, there was a crazy B.O. lady who was not only smelling her mittens, but talking to them as well. Also, I have a drunk person sitting in my reception area right now. And I’ll be getting drunk later on tonight. With nachos. I fucking love nachos.

Also, I just got booked for another $100/day makeup gig. Extra money, how cool is that? Speaking of extra money, the recent corporate buyout has resulted in my last paycheque being about %40 bigger. I can pay my hydro! And buy clothes!

And, and, and, the traffic ticket court agent dude who usually has idiots show up? He had a particularly hot idiot show up the other day. Kind of looks like this:

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The, um, not blue one. Tattooed elbows, oh my god. He’s expected back this week, and apparently plans to say hello to yours truly (and thinks yours truly is hot.) Sweetbombs.

Today, life is awesome. Today, in celebration of it being awesome, I am wearing my favourite accessory: a bracelet made from the bass string of the above pictured Nikki Sixx of Motley Crue hotness. Sweeeeeeet.

Anyone who tries to ruin my day by being sober or retarded can fuck off and die.



{September 18, 2007}   More Fucktardery, Just for Kicks.

These are just a few things that would normally cause me to shake with inwardly-held stabbing urges, but for some reason are just really making me laugh. Really, I consider this post to be a success story in my ongoing effort to keep my snarkism to myself at times.

Example One (Mildly Amusing):

I get a call this morning for one of our traffic ticket lawyers. Now, keeping with the general anonymity I try to uphold here, I won’t give the name of the company. However, the name of the company clearly indicates that it deals specifically with traffic issues, and other legal matters relating to the street. And such. Yes.

This is how the conversation went:

Caller: “Um, hi. Um, I’m calling? Because I’m in the process of buying a house? And, um, I need a lawyer to do, um, I don’t know, whatever it is they do? I – hahahaha – I don’t really know.”

Me: “…..”

Caller: “So, um, is there anyone I can speak to?”

Me: “….one moment please.”

My brain: “Yes. Well done. Clearly you don’t know. If you knew, well, anything really, you might have the sense to not call a traffic lawyer about your, um, house? Sorry, hooouuuuuuuse. Nasally valley girl whining houuuuuuuuuuuse? Yeah. Shut up.”

Example Two (Eye Twitching):

Last Friday, I was standing under a bus shelter in the pouring rain waiting for the Dufferin bus. Now, for those who live in Toronto, we all know the Dufferin bus is…well, rather special. For those who have never had the pleasure, let us consider an earlier specimen of the Dufferin bus rider:

Age: approximately 15-17

Weight: fat

Skin: white and pasty

Hair: awful, as in corn-rowed up to the top of the head, with a sloppy french braid protruding forthwith…there may have been a scrunchie involved somewhere.

Accessories: gigantic braided gold heart shaped monstrosities dangling from hideously strained earlobes; other accessories often include baby phat purses and jackets, playboy playmate nose rings, often a baby and/or babydaddy.

Clothes: thuggish and too small, elegantly countering the attempt at dressing things up with the earrings.

Attitude: specfuckingtacular.

So, this is your average white-trash Dufferin bus rider. I was wedged in next to a pair of them. Glittery eyeshadow up the ying-yang, braces and the loudest fucking pair of mouths you could possibly witness on a thirteen year old. And the gum. I now understand what my dad meant when he used the term ‘Chiclet Chomper’.

Their extremely poignant conversation involved a recent run in with a 7/11 clerk. This 7/11 clerk had accused our young friend of tasting a product and then putting it back. Our friend insists she had only smelled it, and demanded that the clerk give her ‘the goddammned fucking freezie’ that she had paid for. The clerk wanted her to pay for the other item. Our friend didn’t have any ‘goddamned money, so what the fuck was she supposed to do, huh?’ It progressed to shrieking about ‘go see the security camera’ and ‘get off my property’ and ‘so I stepped outside the door and was like ‘what are you gonna do bitch, ’cause I smelled something?’ like whatever.’ Special.

Me: “…..”

My brain to her: “You dumb fucking twit! All she had to do was call the cops and use the word ‘hooligan.’ Then, at the very least, your obnoxious day would be ruined by a ride home to your ineffective mother. A few years from now, it’s more likely you’d be taken on a magical journey to Cherry Beach for phone book justice. Read a fucking book! And spit out your gum.”

My brain to self: “Don’t say a word…she’ll snark back. And you don’t want to piss off a kid with braces. Those things split knuckles. Don’t…say…a word…”

Example Three (Snarkiness Tumbles Out):

Some idiot came in to see someone about something that I really wasn’t paying attention to, because the idiot stumbled in after five pm. I do not care if I am still at my desk tidying things up, it is past five. What are you doing showing up and expecting anybody to be in the office?

I guess my tone conveyed my disregard for his woes, because he began to explain. I hate explaining. I don’t care why you are doing what you are doing. If you’re being a fucktard, I hate you. Get out.

Him: “Oh. I’m sorry, but I came here, and I was looking for the suite number. But my memory tells me that it was in the other building.”

Our building is connected via a lobby to another, identical building. Strangely enough, as soon as you step into the lobby, there is a giant sign that says “this address is this way, and that address is that way.” One is left, one is right. I don’t know how people keep managing to fuck it up, but they do.

Me: “Yeah. It’s in this building. Just like the last time you were here.”

Him: “But my memory tells me that it’s in the other building.”

Me: “Your memory is wrong, sir!”

My brain: “GAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! STABBY STAB STAB!!!”

Jesus fucking christ! It’s bad enough that I get people arguing with me about what number they’ve called (But the phone book says this number is for Human Rights Canada! Yeah, well, I can assure you, it isn’t…this is a travel agency…yes, I know where I work, thanks.) but now I get people arguing with me about the physical location of where I’m sitting? Are you seriously trying to convince me that my office switched buildings overnight and I was somehow unaware?

Dude, break out the fucking weed, that’s too deep for my brain.

Conclusion:

Well…I guess it’s not a total success story. I was clearly a bitch to that last fellow. But I could have been worse. And I guess the moral of the story is that I would be a much happier person if I was just stoned all the time. Then I’d be as dumb as everybody else, and maybe it would all make sense. And I’m going to avoid 7/11’s.



{September 14, 2007}   How I Feel Everyday.

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Okay. You know what? Fuck everybody else. I am fucking awesome, and everybody else who doesn’t agree with how awesome and always right I am can go fucking fuck themselves. My farts smell like fucking cinnamon buns, I am so fucking awesome.

(I also like the word fuck, because nothing else comes quite as close.)

Fuck not getting easily upset and letting things fucking piss me off. Fuck not wanting to walk into someones office and stab them in the ugly fucking face. Fuck my doctor for giving me fucking antidepressants to cure my homicidal tendencies and making me feel like I’m coming down from fucking crack ALL DAY LONG. Hello?!!?!?! Did you not hear me? I said I’m so fucking awesome, my farts smell like CINNAMON BUNS!!!!!! I asked for something to make me less angry, or at least make me less angry about not being allowed to punch people in the throat! Do I sound depressed to you?! I’m so fucking happy most days, I might as well have ice cream coming out of my face. It’s just that most days, it would make me even happier to remove someone less awesome than me from the face of the earth, preferrably with a great deal of violence.

These fucking fucktards, who have been fucktarded before, are being even more fucktarded now. I got an email from my fucktard of a boss, who is leaving early to go scope out a fucking car instead of maybe dealing with various shit-and-fan collisions, to credit these fucktards the dollar fucking thirty two that they decided they didn’t feel like spending on their fucking postage.

I’m going to interrupt here to apologize to any of my colleagues (ie: clients whose rent pays my salary) who might read this. Obviously, you are not fucktards, or you wouldn’t be allowed to read my blog. I try very hard not to get this angry over insignificant matters, like something amounting to less than a twoonie that will not come out of my pocket anyways. I try very hard to bring back my whatever-will-be-will-be seventeen year old self whose biggest fucking problem was a calculus test that I knew wouldn’t be a problem six months later.

However, I have to deal with fucktards each and every day, probably well past six months from now, and today I want to kick several fucktards in the teeth for making a huge-ass fucking deal about a tiny amount of money, thereby ruining my fucking anger-susceptible day. You sons of bitches pay two thousand dollars a month for your fucking office, and you are kicking up shit over the cost of a fucking McNugget!!!! 

Some other retard kicked up a fuss because she got billed for mail we fedexed to her house, as per her fucking instructions. When she complained that she didn’t realize how much it would cost, we told her ‘fuck you, it’s not our fucking problem you didn’t read your list of billable services or think to make any inquiries about their cost.’ Obviously, not in those exact terms. It’s my job to answer your phones and sort your fucking mail, not hold your hand. Assmongers.

But no. These fucktards demanded that they get a credit memo on their next months rent for a dollar-fucking-thirty-two, or else…WHAT?!?! That’s what I would like to know, really, seeing as how I am not the fucking manager and do not have a say in these corporate fucking decisions. What did they threaten to do if we did not supply them with this money?

It doesn’t matter that I have done my job by recording the precise date and time of their usage of our services. It doesn’t matter that the error was theirs – they do not wish to pay for their forgetfulness. Apparently we are allowed to give in to whoever whines the loudest. Because not only do we have to give them their money back, so they can spend it at fucking Kentucky Fried Chicken or wherever else you can get anything for that much money, but I have fucking INSTRUCTIONS to follow regarding their mail from here on in. If by any chance, their retard of a fucking employee forgets to stamp their uber important fucking mail, I am supposed to weed it out of the envelopes dumped in there by the sixty something other people who rent offices here. Furthermore, it’s some apparent mystery why I didn’t do this in the first place. Thank you for fucking telling me that it doesn’t matter whether or not I do my job fucking properly.

Do you think I have fucking time to make sure your asswipe employees do their job on top of my own?! It’s very fucking simple – you put the mail in the basket and it gets stamped. Not. Fucking. Difficult. And I can follow fucking instructions: I’m going to be late tomorrow, calls to my cell phone, give this package to so and so, tell my clients I’ll be out of the office on Tuesday, some guy whose name nobody can fucking pronounce will be in to see so and so in such and such a room, make sure there’s catering. For dozens of people at a time. As I’ve said, I am awesome, and am told that on a regular basis by clients and visitors amazed with my abilities.

But these particular fucking jerkfaces are 1) giving me instructions that don’t make fucking sense, and 2) assuming that I was supposed to read their fucking minds all along. I’m sorry, but it’s fucking difficult to conduct telepathy with a fucking unshelled peanut or cymbal crashing monkey, whichever image is most appealing as a symbol of a lack of fucking brainpower. How the fuckass am I supposed to know that you didn’t really mean to put an unstamped envelope into a basket full of unstamped envelopes waiting to be fucking stamped?!?!

This would all be fucking bad enough and cause for me to walk in there and kick some cheap asses for making me waste time and money on printing off reports to indicate that yes indeed, we stamped one fucking envelope for them, and then wasting more time and money and paper and ink printing off a fucking credit report (not done by me, in all fairness, but by equally astounded Sassy Friend), all of which wastes far more than a dollar and a bit. Really, it would be bad enough right there.

But no, fucktard himself comes out from behind his mail-mistamping minions and walks up to my fucking desk with a big shiteating grin to ask me what time the fucking mail gets picked up every day. (We are now talking about incoming mail, as opposed to outgoing mail. Keep up.) Your mail, I inform him with a massive smile, is sorted and in your individual mail receptacles by 1:30 pm. It is the same every day, and you should know this. Do not expect it any earlier. He continues to smile and informs that he is aware of what time it is sorted. He wanted to know what time it gets picked up.

I pick up the mail at approximately 1pm. AFTER my lunch.

He pauses, the smile falters, and he replies with an “…oh” before walking away. I’m sorry, what did I catch there? Are you expecting something? Were you going to ask me to perhaps let you paw through the mail and everybody else’s incoming cheques for your special item? Or be so bold as to ask me to fish it out for you and inform you of its arrival, thereby further etching in concrete your special fucking status above everybody else here smart enough to not bitch about stamps?

Don’t you dare throw a fucking tantrum about paying for a stamp and then ask me for mail-related favours. I will kick you in the fucking head. To add further insult to one cactus-bashing of an injury, they didn’t pick up their fucking mail until 3pm.

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKTARDED FUCKING FUCKBAGS!!!!!!



{September 10, 2007}   Today’s Menu: All Over My Shirt.

Okay, today’s post is not going to be a poignant expose on the fucktardery of others. In all fairness, and to show that I am only a hypocrite some of the time, today’s post is about how I am a fucktard.

Why am I a fucktard?

Because although I can get myself seriously inebriated to the point of not remembering a failed effort at cooking (finding said food in a thankfully cold pan the next morning and thinking ‘I don’t remember that….’) or even an entire night’s events and manage to do so without knocking over a glass or making a complete ass of myself, it is apparently too much for my motor sensory system to drink a fucking cup of coffee without getting it all over myself.

Or anything for that matter. Put a glass of Disarrono on the rocks in my hands and I’m as graceful as a fucking gazelle. Put a large cup of Maple Mocha Whatchamahoositz in my hand, and it will invariably end up in my crotch. Nachos too. I love nachos, but for some reason, the ions in my general chest area just seem to be statically charged in such a way to bring that plasti-cheeze stuff right into my cleavage. And now, thanks to Quantum Fetish Mechanics, there is now very likely a website dedicated to just such an event. Wonderful.

Soup. Everywhere. Especially pea soup. And it’s always inversely shaded with my clothing for maximum stain potential. Black bean soup only happens on a white skirt day. Pea soup only happens when I’m wearing the darkest of clothing for that extra chalky effect. Awesome.

We are not discussing pasta. Ever.

How the hell do I manage to be such a slob? Perhaps I function so well with alcohol (as long as it isn’t wine) that my motor skills drop to the level of a third grader without it. Do I need to start sucking back the coolers at work to keep from getting bagel all over my face? Do I need training wheels on my latte? What gives?

Other than this, I am not very clumsy. I do not walk into doors. I do not drop things. I do not fall down stairs. I do not trip oh-so-elegantly into the arms of some handsome stranger. I’m more than likely to let the door I’m walking through swing back into the face of that handsome stranger and let him take a tumble. I can walk in six inch fucking heels and not bat an eyelash. But for some frigging reason, I seem to have this subconscious desire to smear food and drink all over myself in some sort of clothing-caloric orgy.

I’m not sure why this is. Perhaps, despite the fact that I seem to be an undateable neurotic weirdo (though that may have more to do with my intimidating ‘Ghengis Khunt’ status), my inner female goddess or whatever somehow knows the divine secrets of ultimate male long-term attraction.

What guy wouldn’t want a girlfriend whose boobies smell like pizza?

Um….yeah.

😦



It’s not even 9:30 in the morning yet when some rather irritating schmoe who will remain nameless (since a few of my favourite coworkers do read this) walks in with that look on his face that begs for a full-on knuckle sammich.

He wants to know why, on his most recent invoice, there was a charge for postage. His employees, he says, stamp everything they send out before dropping it into my little mail bin. They don’t want to pay the 20% administrative fee for our pro-stamping machine thing. However, I know for a fact that there has been at least one occasion on which they have dropped an unstamped envelope into my bin – which was therefore stamped and billed, because that’s how it works here.

I know for a fact because I record everything I stamp and bill. Right down to the address and suite number. And I can call it up on my handy dandy computer whenever you like. I also know for a fact that I had stamped a mail item of theirs because they managed to make idiots of themselves on that day too.

In fact, looking at the dates, this is the precise piece of mail that was brought into question this morning. It wasn’t .52 cents, as I had originally wrote without actually caring enough to determine the cost before relaying the tale of stupidity. It was a larger item, costing 1.10. After our 20% administrative fee, this means that they were billed a whopping $1.32 cents for postage on their bill.

They came over to me this morning to self righteously challenge a fucking dollar-thirty-two on their bill! These people pay hundreds of dollars for office space, phone lines, fax lines, internet connections and get charged up the ass when they so much as make a photocopy. Yet the panties are in a bunch over less than a buck and a half. Because I am not a fan of bunched up panties, particularly not on ugly middle aged fucktards who bring in their mooching children on Breakfast Fridays (porch monkeys! I’m surrounded by porch monkeys!!!), I simply open up my program, type in the company name and type of billing i’m looking for and wait for the whrrrr of the machine.

Pop. Right there. You sent one item on this date to this address and it cost you this much. Thanks for playing. You lose.

They mutter something and walk away. Oh, I’m sorry, did I cost your company a bit of extra money by not double checking whether you really wanted me to stamp your envelope or if you had just forgotten to stamp it yourself? Did I put you over your postage budget for that month? Look, dipshit, you put an envelope in my bin and it doesn’t have a stamp on it, I fucking stamp it. That’s what I get paid to do.

But, since they’ve walked away muttering, I care not. Get your panties as twisted as you want, as long as I don’t have to watch them riding up your ass.

However, no. No, no, no. The big important jerkface sends one of his underling females back. She starts muttering – because they all mutter – about something with a missing stamp. No, I inform her. He’s referring to an item that was unstamped, and was therefore stamped – and billed – by me. Look. I pull up the information again. Whhhrrrrr, whrrrrr, there it is. You sent this item on this day to this address, to this fucking suite number. It cost you this much. Fuck off, you lose.

Oh, she says. Yes, he wants that to be printed out for him.

Are you fucking serious? You want me to print out a one-item report so you can have a meeting about who caused this dollar-and-a-bit fuckup?!?! You want me to waste the ink, the paper, the calories, the electricity to do this for you? This will probably cost MY company more than what someone’s apparent error cost YOUR company. If I were spiteful, I would charge it right back to you. Photocopies and faxes are a buck a page. Frivolous printing should be a buck a page as well.

Whatever. Don’t give in to the corporate way. Don’t spazz out getting all indignant on behalf of the mother ship. It’s no dollar out of my pocket. It’s wasteful, and the environmentalist in me is pissed, but I will print out the report for their budgetary analysis or whatever the buzz word for it is. In layman’s terms I’m pretty sure it’s just ‘giving shit to whoever forgot to put a stamp on there’.

Sure enough, the meek quiet one who brings her kid in for free food comes by with more postage, double checks that they are all stamped, and then shuffles off with her tail between her legs. Is this really necessary? Are you that hard up for cash? Why the hell are you starting your own business if you can’t afford postage?

Listen, I’m poor. I started up my own business (but got a real job when it wasn’t enough to pay the bills), moved out and put myself through school in one year. This bankrupted me. Literally. And I’m okay with that. Because that’s the kind of shit that happens and you deal with it. I’m essentially getting my school for free and starting from scratch. Awesome.

Now, the relative poverty is circumstantial – it wasn’t caused by shopaholism. I try not to spend money when I can avoid it. But when I do spend money, I am not a fucking cheapass. I fucking hate cheapasses! Hate them, hate them, hate them. I am not going to break out the calculator after dinner to figure out who owes that last thirty cents to make it a 15% tip. If I’ve got $30 for the night, I’ll get some nachos and a couple of pints of beer and then just toss it all down. You guys figure it out, I personally don’t have a problem over-tipping at my favourite cafe. If I can afford $30, I’ll spend $30. If I can’t afford it, I don’t go out. Don’t you fucking dare split an $8 entree with someone and put down a ten. That does not cover tax and tip you jerkwad. Cheap, cheap, cheap. You are not fiscally responsible, you are cheap.

I’m poorer than you, so you have no excuse.

As for you fuckers with the postage problem, I suggest that you stamp your own mail, and then take it down to the mailbox in the lobby yourself. You know, just to make sure I don’t get spiteful and start stamping them anyways. Wouldn’t want another $1.32 on your next bill. That might bankrupt you, you know.

Fuckwads.



So, many of you may wonder why I remain at my current place of employment if I am surrounded by idiots and general mullet-worthy fucktards. After all, I gripe about them all day long, and mentioned in yesterdays post that Zombie dust to turn my angry brain off sounds pretty tempting even though I do nothing more than answer the phone for morons all day long.

Well, I thought about the statement and realized that it’s not entirely true. I don’t answer the phone for morons all day long. I answer the phone and listen to morons all day long, yes, but not necessarily on behalf of morons. The people around me, who actually work here, that I see every day, are actually more on the awesome side. And those who aren’t on the awesome side keep to themselves.

I have my best Sassy Friend working right alongside me, and while she is a hater of small talk, I get bored and therefore am not. The traffic ticket lawyer brings me lattes and offers to casually mention my name to the uber-sexy client he saw yesterday. The financial advisor brings me leftover cookies from his catered meeting, and asks about my bunny rabbits. Another vague lawyer type, whose awesomeness is in reverse proportion to how much I want to kick his clients in the face, saw that I was staying late one night and ordered up some pizza and potato wedges for us to much on. How awesome is that?! The guy who does something with metal trading brings me a lollipop every time he comes back from the bank. Who’s a cheap date? This girl right here – take me to the fucking candy store, and I’m all yours. I love candy.

Plus, since I only answer the phones, and figured out how to streamline the client billing process and cut my actual workload in half, I have time to blog all day long. I figure I’m getting paid to whine, and what girl doesn’t fucking love that?

Okay, so morons, idiots and assholes of all types wander in through my door each and every day. And I’m the first person they see, and I’m the first person onto whom they vomit their confused syllables. It’s even better on the phone. How fucking hard is it to pronounce the name Steve?

But then I think, I only have to see/hear these idiots for a few minutes. And it’s not like I have to talk to them long term, or remember what their fucking damage is every time I see them. I don’t evenhave to remember their names. The poor bastards I answer the phones for have to deal with jackasses like this for a goddamned living! It’s just an irritating extra to my job. Of course, I’m sure they make far more money than me and dwell in far nicer accomodations than an itsy bitsy apartment that smells like a pet store…

Here is an update on the most recent examples of Darwin’s apparent failings for which I truly pity the fools.

We’ve still got that scam thing with one of our guys here. You know, you get some letter in the mail saying you’ve won some contest you never entered, and now in order to claim your prize, all you have to do is send them a cheque? And there’s an obviously copied-and-pasted letterhead on it? And you toss it out thinking that only a fucking idiot would actually send a cheque or even bother calling the number on the letterhead to see what the deal was?

I’m the one who answers the phone with those fucking idiots call in.

“Ummmmmmmm? Hi, my name is (I’m already not listening at this point) and I got this, um, letter? In the mail? (Oh, wonderful, I can smell the I.Q. from here) Do y’all have an office up in, um, Tornado, Canada?”

“If you mean Toronto, then yes.” (You dumb cousinfucking twit.) “You’re currently speaking to the Toronto office.”

“Oh (trailor park giggle) well, yeah, this letter? It says -”

“That you won some money from a contest and it includes a cheque? Yeah, it’s completely fraudulent.”

“You mean it’s real?!?!”

(Yes. Go to the bank and cash it right now, then watch all twenty dollars of your life savings and a down payment on a new pair of spandex pants go twirling right down the shithole. You dumb fucker.)

“Fraudulent means it’s a scam.”

“Oh! You mean it’s faaaaaaaake?” Congratulations. Synonyms.

“Yes. You can disregard the letter.”

“……”

“*Sigh* Tear it up. Throw it away.”

“Ohhhh. But what happens if I cash the cheque?”

“I don’t know. But don’t do it.” (No, really, go ahead. I’d love to hear your sob story in a week or so. Why don’t I schedule you in right now?)

Of course, there’s always the idiot or two who doesn’t call in until after he’s cashed the cheque, seen it bounce, and then sent the fraudulent bastards a cheque for thousands of dollars to ‘set the funds in motion’ or some such happy shit. He calls in, mentions the letter, I interrupt with “it’s a scam, don’t cash it” to which he responds that he already has, and then sent them a cheque too. He hasn’t gotten any money from them, and now wants to know what he should do.

You, my friend, are shit out of luck, and you deserve your poverty.

“But what do I do now?”

How the fuck would I know? I didn’t write the cheque. Nobody here did. Do you not have the internet? A computer? Do you not know how simple it is to copy a logo from anywhere to make something look believable to the dumbest of eyes? You are a dumb gullible moron, and I want to hit you with the phone.

At least he’s only on the phone, and he’s only a pain in my ear as opposed to a full out holocaust on my senses. The lawyer who bought the pizza-and-wedges? He’s awesome. His clients? A full out holocaust on my senses, as well as an insult to whatever faith in humanity I might have left at the bitter age of early twenties.

I used to get pissed that he would seem to avoid calls and have me tell people he wasn’t in the office. Now….I understand.

First of all, it seems these people do not own a day timer. Because they will literally show up for a 1 pm appointment on Wednesday at 4pm on Thursday.

“Hey, um, is he in the office?”

“Do you have an appointment with him?”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

“Excellent. That means you don’t have one today. I don’t think he’s going to be in the office. Are you just dropping something off?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I need to leave it here or send it to these guys here. He needs to decide for me.”

“That would require speaking to him. That would require an appointment.”

I know this particular idiot on a first name basis. That’s how fucking often he walks in. Without an appointment. And without enough education to get a fucking non-mumbled grammatically correct sentence out.

A few days ago, a lady came in to see that same poor fellow who has to deal with these schmucks for a living. I’m actually rather enthralled with his level of patience. The same conversation ensued, except she never had an appointment to begin with. She also brought along her porch monkey of a child.

Now, I am surprisingly maternal. Kids are drawn to me. I’ve worked in daycare centres, and I can get the most delinquent inner city bastard to behave. One smarmy creature liked to bellow “You’re not allowed to touch me, I’ll call the cops on you!” My reply was that child caregivers are allowed to use as much restraint as any ‘loving parent’ would, and that may include physical contact when necessary – like when another smarmy creature would try to throw herself down the stairs. “I’m just not allowed to leave any marks on you,” I would explain. “Have you ever been hit with a phone book?”

However, this is obviously not my place at my current occupation. Nor should it be. I don’t get paid minimum wage to look after your unwanted offspring anymore. As such, kindly remove them from my fucking reception area you inconsiderate bastard! No daycare? Fine! Just have them sit fucking still! Stop fiddling with the courtesy phone and putting it on loudspeaker! Get away from the glass door with your smudgy chocolate covered hands! Oh my fucking God, it just sneezed on the glass doors. Oh my god. And the phone is ringing, I can’t leave my desk long enough to cross the floor, smack the kid, and Windex the shit off the door before someone important in a very expensive suit brushes up against this child’s effluent.

And don’t get me started on the plethora of people who show up not even knowing the name of the person they’re seeing, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned several times to anyone who even brings up my work day. How to fail an interview in one easy step. Or again and again and AGAIN show up twenty minutes early or late and then ask how long they will have to wait around because they don’t want to have to pay that much for parking downstairs. No, we don’t validate your fucking parking, transportation is part of the cost of living. Kind of goes along with groceries and gas mileage. Jerkface.

But to soothe my twitching nerves, I do try to remind myself that I’m only the gatekeeper for these idiots that make the letter opener look especially shiney and bright. I know that they’re going to go away eventually. Or that if they talk at me, I can type furiously away on my blog and make it look like I’m far too busy to converse. And as for the snot on the door…well, fuck, it’s not my Armani suit is it?

As for the people I work with, they are quite awesome, and I now have a little bit more sympathy for them. I’ll relish those lattes a little bit more, knowing they were paid for with hours of exasperation from which I’m able to spare myself with a simple cold glance (or the realization that it’s not my full-time job to make these jerkwads happy). Of course, once again, I feel a bit less sorry for them when I get home to my apartment and have to wrench open the warped door with my full body weight.

As for whatever nice accomodations they have, whatever cute condo or big lawn in the suburbs they’ve attained for all their trouble…I just hope it’s all worth the snot on their well-manicured lapels.



Is it just me, or is there something not quite right with where money goes these days? I flipped open our local Metro this morning and found a rather significant blurb; research apparently shows that rock stars die younger.

I’m starting to keep track of how early in the day my left eye starts twitching.

Now, being somewhat raised in the music industry with a roadie father, several musician relatives, knowing how to wrap cables since age five and a current not-quite-boyfriend-but-close-enough-for-rock-and-roll roadie who’s been on tour for a year now, I consider the plight of the heroin addicted sneering rocker to be a cause close to my heart.

However, how much money did you spend to come up with that gem of information? Oh, but it’s for a legitimate purpose, the article says. The music industry really needs to look at how young musicians are suddenly exposed to wealth and freedom, and how the lack of restraint leads to excess. We need to save our musicians.

Personally, I’m all for the art. I will give you far more credit as a musician if you shuffle off your mortal coil before the majestic age of 40. But that’s just me. At any rate, I do have a bit of a problem with stat geeks huddled over computers and java at four a.m. printing out solutions to an industry with which I can’t imagine they are at all familiar. Sudden wealth and freedom? Why don’t you try living the same day over and over again for two years and coming to the crushing realization that for all your artistic merit, you’ve sold your soul to the merchandising table? That bottle of Jack Daniels looks pretty tempting. And then you hear that Motley Crue has a delightful mix of nervous system stimulants and nervous system depressants that turn your brain off while keeping your body wide awake. All I would say is “Hook me up, biz-natch.”

Fuck, I’m tempted as it is, and all I do is answer phones for morons.

But I digress. Good intentions aside, I would consider this sort of research a terrific waste of money. And there are more.

Incredible Study Reveals Babies Are Stupid Despite the fact that someone, somewhere thought infants were brilliant, it is evidently not the case. Apparently, 90 percent of babies poked do not even make the slightest effort to defend themselves. The remaining 10 percent respond by shitting themselves. Well. How surprising. Glad you cleared that up for us.

Men Prefer Attractive Women You don’t say? Really?!? First of all, in case you can’t be bothered to actually read the article, the study involved 26 men and 20 women in Munich, Germany. Quite the adequate sample of the overall population you’ve got there. Secondly, the stunning conclusion is that despite our quite obvious bullshit about going for personality, we inherently follow Darwinian principles (what we find attractive is what implies good health and continuation of the species.) Can we please stop spending money to prove Darwin right? We have the Darwin awards – we get it.  

I’m not going to waste anymore of my already twitchy morning on Google. You get the idea. Thank you, idiots of the world, for spending our hard earned tax dollars on this drivel. Fucking University studies, especially. And then we wonder why admissions are going up. Do I really need to spend an extra four grand a year to have some jackass tell me that the moon is in fact not made of Roquefort? This is why I left school. For an institute of higher learning, it blows being surrounded by morons.

You want something worthwhile to spend your money on? You can spend it on my armpits.

Here’s the deal. By the time I got home last night, I smelled like a sweaty boy. This wouldn’t be a problem if I was male, and if my occupation involved construction of some sort. However, I am quite female, and I sit behind a desk all day. And it’s not as though I have hyperhydrosis. I don’t have to keep balls of kleenex rolling around my desk to curtail my sweaty palms or anything like that.

And yes, I’m vegetarian and live in a somewhat hippy-dippy neighbourhood bespeckled in posters advertising meditation seminars and the like. However, I do bathe, my hair is not in dreadlocks, and I do wear deoderant. I do not wear antiperspirant – too much conflicting evidence on whether or not it is correlated to breast cancer, and really, my tits are too fantastic to take even the slightest risk. And really, it can’t be healthy to plug up your glands. However, antiperspirant is meant to keep you from sweating, whereas deoderant is meant to keep you from smelling. I’m okay with sweating. As I’ve said, I don’t exactly end up with dinnerplates under my arms. So sweating is okay. Smelling is not.

This only serves to further prove that I am surrounded by people, and apparently chemical properties, that are unable to do their job. The mailman can’t read suite numbers, university researchers can’t pick a topic worthy of government funding, Starbucks can’t get my grande-non-fat-EXTRA-FUCKING-FOAMY-vanilla-latte right, and my deoderant doesn’t work.

How is it possible that we can put a man on the moon, but we can’t make a deoderant that works past lunchtime?

On a more positive note, I have switched from Starbucks to Timothy’s. It costs me far less, and they almost always have a decent flavoured coffee. This morning is caramel vanilla nut, and the next inept person to cross my path is likely to get it in the face.



et cetera