Today, the “new hot chic” at my workplace hit on me. This time, at least she’s my age and not a grandmother. I’m flattered, of course, but frankly I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. Ladies love me, and why wouldn’t they? I’m not a total barney and I have an awesome personality.
Once again, I should’ve been more specific in my requests to the Universe.
The day after tomorrow. Or in current terms, tomorrow. Friday. Maybe Friday is the big day? I called to see what time to show up to pick up the big item, and the dude was all “oh, uh, come tomorrow, it’ll be ready tomorrow.” Then I’ll pay you “later.” And by “later” I mean right after I punch you in the larynx. STFU.
It was probably good anyway since I felt like crap and wanted nothing more than to come home and get in bed and watch the finale of LOST Matthew Fox NOM NOM. I skipped the gym and I feel guilt. I also “skipped” Tuesday, and I mean I didn’t do cardio cuz the place was so busy there were lines for stuff. So I don’t deserve my reward. I should be flagellated.
Do you ever just wish all kinds of ungodly pain on people who endanger your life on the road? Or steal your staples and pens? I was almost murdered today by no less than 12 people, and the only way to calm myself is to imagine the perpetrators starring in Saw V. I used to picture their heads exploding but that does nothing for me now. I guess I’m so high maintenance now that I need a storyline. Not much of one, obvs, but more substance than mere gore provides.
Today’s fortune cookie: “Watch for a stranger near you to soon become a friend.” OH GODS, PLEASE let it be the new hottie at work! He’s tall, pasty and looks like a potential sociopath. He’s dreamy.
We have a new receptionist where I work. She’s a rather nice looking black woman who is just under 60, but obviously takes good care of herself and has a body she’s not ashamed to show off. And shouldn’t be.
She told me once that she used to date younger guys - guys younger than her 37 year old son. She told me she gave up on them because “they’re too fast.” At first I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant because I forcibly retain my childlike naivete, but further conversations revealed that, apparently, they come too quickly.
TMI.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to her about something work-related that I’ll never remember because she cut me off mid-sentence and said, “you know, you’re SEXY.” Oh Sweet Jesus, I think I was a deer in the headlights for about 5 seconds, but then I managed to force a smile and say “thanks!” She followed with “you should shave your head and grow a beard.” My hair is 3mm long on both my scalp and my face - I need to do neither of those things. I told her I didn’t want my head to look upside-down.
Time passed and finally I was comfortable again. Mostly. Until today.
I walked to her desk this afternoon (for something work-related, NATCH), and she looked kind of antsy so I jokingly suggested she was either on caffeine or crack. She showed me her bag of Skittles and we both laughed. She offered them to me, and I politely said “no thanks” and began to walk away.
I didn’t get 2 steps before she said, with a stone-cold, sober, unflinching, unblinking face, “well then what do you want? ’cause I can give you what you want.”
It was happeING!!!! I was being sexually-harassed by a post-menopausal strong black woman and there are no instruction books for dealing with this. I laughed nervously for what felt like three days in the Genesis sense, but was in reality more like 3 seconds. And I turned to walk away and laughingly said “you’re crazy!” and didn’t look back. She laughed.
What I really need right now is for a nice man to hold me tighly while I cry.
Andymatic told me “it’s all this Obamomentum making the black people more forward, we’re post-racial now.” Normally that would make me laugh hysterically but I think I’m too traumatized. I’m known for being a bit of a three-beer-hetero at times, but right now, I just feel… dirty… in the bad way.
Meg, co-worker: “C’mon, just tell me if you’re gay. Are you or aren’t you?!”
Me: “Don’t you think that if I were gay I’d have a better job and be much better looking?”
Meg, co-worker: [long pause] “…That’s true, gay men do have a lot of money…”
This is just one more example of why I don’t like communicating with people in any way that doesn’t involve daggers coming out of my eyes. And I walked right into it, as I usually do. That’s another one of those convos that bounce around in my head long after they’re done (at least a month for that one). Anyway, I don’t mind people I work with knowing about that, but I do make an effort to not have gay sex on my desk during work hours. And it’s easy, considering how often it happens in the first place.
I think I’ve mentioned Work-twink here before, but I’m too lazy to… Work-twink is 20, a complete closet-case, and has a “girlfriend.” I don’t even know what he does there at our workplace. He waves at me a lot. And because I’m a nice guy, I wave back even though I’m trying to look away or do any number of things that involve the swift and necessary extraction of my person. But, really, I am a nice guy. I’m like… a Niceness Cappuccino with Extra Super Foam, but liberally sprinkled with Queen Bitch’s Nutmeg. Seriously.
So anyway, Work-twink has this thing for me which makes me uncomfortable because 1. he’s so fucking awkward, 2. being 20, short, and completely assless and rail-thin to the tune of a Sally Struthers infomercial makes him not my type, 3. he walks with a limp and nobody knows why, which draws all kinds of skeptical intrigue, and finally 4. which was just added to the list will be revealed in the following paragraphs.
Four is a physical kind of thing so -GROSS- that I don’t know if I can write about it, much less think about it. But I will… for you. Last Friday, a day which I do not enjoy to stay late at work, I was driving by the front of the building as he walked out and I offered to drive him to the back of the parking lot because it’s a long walk, and, you know, Niceness Cappuccino.
Long walk, short drive. I could handle it. Because I’m NICE.
We pulled up behind his vehicle and I was thinking “yay, he’s going to get out now.” But he didn’t. He kept futzing around with things and asking questions. Questions like “so, do you have a girlfriend?” “How old are you?” “Don’t you want to get married and have kids?” I should be flattered since it’s rare that males take any positive interest in me whatsoever. But I’m bored.
It drags on, and other co-workers are driving by, seeing the scene and waving goodbye and laughing. Meanwhile, I’m trying to astrally project myself into a sunny meadow. Failing miserably, I finally looked at him to say “HAIL no I don’t want to get married or produce offspring” when I noticed something…strange. Something wasn’t right.
In fact, something was very, very wrong. So wrong that I died and was immediately reincarnated as whoever won the gold medal for Extreme Vomiting (I didn’t just get the medal, I had to die first… you see?) . He was sending a text message. Oh God, I can’t even find the words here. Fungus. Nail fungus. On all his fingers. Worst I’ve ever seen. In fact I’ve only seen people ever have it on their feet, not that I’m looking for it or ever will. He doesn’t have fingernails, he has tree bark - probably from a California Redwood or maybe one of those 1,000 year old Oaks. Some very large, very old tree’s bark… that’s what he had there. And this is hilarious to my co-workers because, naturally, I was the last to know.
And by that point, he had been in my car for twenty minutes. Aside from being severely grossed out and wanting to go home, I was now convinced that both me and my car, Maximo, were contaminated. I can’t bear to do a Google search to find out how it spreads, though my inner voice tells me “hard, fast and repeatedly.” I do feel badly for him, though, and (sparingly) wonder what kinds of conditions led to that for him.
At least when it’s on your feet, I guess you can wear socks and nobody will know, and by default, no one will care. As for now, I have found my germophobia, and it starts with fungi and ends at the door of my vehicle.
I know there are worse things, but this is so typical. Finally a guy likes me, but he’s practically a teenager and obviously a demon.
I haven’t updated in a while, and I’m sure that ones of people are concerned.
I was hoping to come home from work Monday and post the edge-of-your-seat thriller of me being fired from my job, but it didn’t happen yet. I somehow managed to forget that I can’t be fired until they have my replacement ready. I’m barely a company necessity, except in one particular way which requires a license given by the State. One which only I currently hold.
My boss and I don’t get along. At all. Mostly because I’m not much of an ass-kisser. I do my thing and I don’t expect much except fair pay and fair treatment, neither of which I receive. To be honest, I only took this low paying, dead end job three years ago as a temporary thing. And then my health declined and suddenly the health insurance was a must-have. Since my current boss started working for the company last July, I’ve been a bit of a punching bag. I suspect it is because I am gay and as such a constant reminder of his fierce gay nephew whom he believes he can somehow “turn into a man,” which is another story entirely.
When he would call me into his office and scream at me, I’d be a big mess of “yes, I am in fact mildly to moderately retarded and I apologize for not having noted that on my resume, but I am also lazy and have a tendency to daydream and a hobby of trying to see how many thumbs can fit up my ass at any given point in time. All of these things keep my cretinous brain very busy. Please hit me now, thank you, and I apologize in advance for my pained screams. Also, feel free to physically and/or mentally abuse my puppy.”
Because I didn’t want to lose my wretched health insurance.
So last Friday while I was on my lunch break, a co-worker called me complaining that they needed me there, stat, to sign some paperwork or something. And I said I couldn’t be back that quickly. One minute later, the boss calls me screaming, of course, and during that call, yet another co-worker calls and leaves a nasty voicemail. So I let the boss have it. While standing in the middle of Target, of all places.
Incidentally, an hour before all that went down, I found out that my CT scan results were entirely unremarkable (discounting the barely-enlarged spleen and hypothyroidism), and as such, was no longer in such dire need of my health insurance. And the clouds were lifted and the sun was shining and I saw Jesus and all that. All of a sudden, my job needed me more than I needed it.
Cut to me sending a carefully worded yet nasty company-wide email at 5pm.
I kept it short and sweet. Basically: “blame goes here, *points at boss*, leave me the fuck alone, and also your children look like they have down syndrome even though they clearly do not because your children will surely die of stupidity before the age of 11 whereas people with down syndrome can lead long and respectively happy lives, please stop fucking your siblings.”
So I came to work Monday with a box to toss my garbage into. But then I remembered why they can’t fire me yet. The best part is the evil energy field I can cut with a knife when my boss is nearby. He has heart problems, and I’m hoping to make them worse. Ultimately, his disgust for me is enough to keep me satisfied.
I guess I should stay for a couple months longer if I can, though, because I just got two more weeks of vacation and I’m planning one in mid-April.
Having dignity again feels good. I plan on keeping it.
I love my iPod, affectionately named Marco, but I hate that there is a new version of either iTunes software or the iPod firmware every time I go to plug the thing in. And right now I’m hating that the second letter of their stuff is capitalized, it’s making me angry. ANGST.
I’m considering getting a new computer, and for the longest time I wanted an Apple. But now I’m not so sure. Why set myself up for disappointment when with Ol’ Reliable, I already know to expect it?
I finished the third season of Buffy last night without having the fourth season ready. ANGST. I’ve been downloading them off the internets in .avi format and putting them on dvds because my dvd player recognizes it. Eleven episodes per disc, two discs per season. It’s genius, really. And then last night I had apparently filled up my hard drive - a feat I was sure I could never accomplish. DEL. I’m still not sure how this happened. It’s not porn, I promise.
I know I really should keep my hands off co-workers, but I spend so much time with them. There’s always one I’m pretending to be married to in my head. Most of them turn out to be real assholes. The latest one just happened to be cute and nice and sweet and spoke English as merely a broken, second language.
I’m not seeing a downside here.
My friends know him as The Peruvian. I caught him reading The Secret, and that’s when I knew he was gay. His birthday was yesterday (29), and he was looking for a date for Valentine’s Day. I came this close <-> to asking him out. But the fact that he hasn’t shown up to work this week at all kind of ruined my tentative, hypothetical plans. I’m assuming he’s been terminated. It’s just what happens.
On happier notes, the weekend after next is going to be all fun times. I have a hockey game, a concert, and the North Texas Irish Festival to attend… all of which are merely excuses to be drunk in public (spleen permitting, natch). It says “hi” and waves adoringly to you. My spleen.
This girl I used to work with brought her baby up for everyone to see today. I told her that it didn’t look nearly as retarded as I thoug—oh I mean he’s lovely, really. We laughed.
Sometimes when I’m angry and I have no cleaning supplies (my vice), I’m forced to have mental conversations with the objects of my affliction. With ample time, I’ll daydream and envision scenarios and arguments - especially arguments - because in the heat of the moment, I have a tendency to freeze up and go blank and even stutter. So I practice arguments before they happen so I’ll know exactly what I’m going to say. And then the situation fades away and there is zero confrontation. And so then I lay into myself because I’m a masochist and sometimes suffer from low self-esteem.
Yeah. Last Thursday was my company’s Xmas party. I only went because I had nothing better to do. See there’s this new guy at work that I really think is hot - we’ll call him Andy because that’s his name. And it’s not just his hotness, I feel like he and I have this strange inexplicable connection. I see him making the same gestures I do, things like that, and the eye contact is constant and timed perfectly. And I’m pretty sure he’s a royal homosexual. It’s just a feeling I have.
I was hoping he would show up to the Xmas party, and by some coincidence we would end up sitting side by side and then we would fall madly in love and I would go home with him and we would make out and lay on his bed and talk until the wee hours of the morning until one of us would say “omg, it’s 5am” and then we would laugh and fall asleep in each other’s arms.
I should be euthanized.
I thought all was starting to go according to plan. I sat alone at a table, while a co-worker and his family sat opposite me. I knew Andy was there because I had been watching him in as uncreepy a way as possible. When all of a sudden… he’s walking towards me… he gets closer… he’s almost here… OH GOD, he grabs the seat beside me and sits down. But he didn’t look directly at me or say anything, and as he sat, he twisted to turn slightly away from me.
Strange.
It’s not like we haven’t met several times before, although our lengthiest non-work related conversation took place in the restroom, but it wasn’t weird or bad.
After a few minutes, I became acutely aware that his left shoulder was cold and that he was serving it to me on an icy silver platter. WTF? I was slightly heartbroken, but still naively optimistic, I figured I should say something.
Me: “So, how’s it going, Andy?”
Andy: turning slowly, looking surprised. “Wha… how… how am I doing?”
Me: surprised that this was confusing, but smiling. “Yeah.”
Andy: turning away from me and looking the other direction. “I’m okay. I’m just… not good… in things like this…”
Me: “Me either.”
We both laugh ever so slightly.
Fin.
And that was that. I got up and moved shortly after and ate dinner with a group of people I’m more familiar with and then sat with another department for the rest of the night. I also got the impression that he was, in fact, good, “in thinks like like [that].”
Unless he meant sitting beside me, of course. The bastard.
So that night, I swore off him for good. I make every effort not to see him, which isn’t hard considering it barely happened in the first place. But now that I’ve decided that he is not hot, not gay and not for me, he’s everywhere I look. All day today. Everywhere.
I just want to be normal.
A young woman I work with forfeited her job a few days ago. We consented to random drug testing when we were hired, and she made us all acutely aware of her cracked-outness this particular day. Her hair was a mess, which is unheard of for this self-described “former model,” she went through two boxes of Kleenex tissues in one day, her cubemate found a white powder near her desk (which she admittedly tasted to “confirm” her suspicions… this is me giving you a blank stare and throwing both arms in the air), and then there was the generic jittery exacerbating all-encompassingly cracked-outness that she continually displayed. What I’m getting at is that you don’t need to lick her desk to know that she is, in fact, a crackhead.
She’s been on a bender since her ex-fiancee broke up with her in July. I might be more sensitive if I didn’t think this wasn’t more than just November Sweeps or fodder for her forthcoming E! True Hollywood Story.
Anyway, people started talking, and eventually her boss decided to have our driver take her down to the lab that very moment for a drug test and immediately bring her back. The results take half an hour, max. Fastforward. The test came back clean for drugs, but the results were still fishy. Her boss decided to send her down to the same lab for another test. She refused to go and thereby forfeited her job.
The next morning, I found out that another employee had been fired over this as well. How many people does it take for a crackhead to pass a drug test? More than two, apparently. This second person was seen exiting the restroom with our resident crackhead only moments before her ride to the lab, and upon questioning, broke down and admitted everything.
The important detail is that she admitted urinating into an Excedrin bottle, which our resident crackhead then inserted “into her HOO-HAA” [sic].
The worst part, at least for me, is that I caught myself wondering whether or not this was one of the regular bottles or the large, economy size.
It’s a bumpy ride to the lab.
Working for a small company really sucks. There are 60 +/- employees, but it’s “family owned and operated since 1925″ or some shit. Well, that depends on how you define “family,” but what it means for sure is that nepotism and bullshit run high. Anyone with the right last name is in a position of management, including those who married in, God save their souls. The “family” itself is crazy - they’re white trash dressed up in money and crucifixes.
I remember that day in June 2005 when it was announced that “Junior” would be the new General Manager. We all had to force an impromptu look of surprise that, on average, fell somewhere between “drowsy” and “my asshole is burning.” It wasn’t convincing. If only his mom’s plastic surgeon was there to give us all a shot of botox…
Anyway, it’s been downhill since then. Sales are down $6k+ per month. Morale couldn’t be worse. Employees come and go through a revolving door because those of us who weren’t slowly acclimated to the bullshit still have enough integrity not to let the door hit them in the ass. Blame, of course, rolls downhill.
It must be hard mustering up enough dignity, or denial, to continue showing your face at a job that everyone knows you were merely handed and have no business having because you haven’t worked a day in your life. When I look at him, all I can think is “I have no respect for you whatsoever” followed by deafening silence and an utter halt of all brain activity. He brags about how he started out at the company “sweeping floors.” You think maybe that’s because you were 16 and that’s all you could do? Twenty years later, I’m not convinced he could even do a good job of that.
He’s on vacation right now, though, and he’s not the least bit missed by anyone. While flying to their destination (not sure), I know they decided to make a detour for Tahoe for a few holes. I think it’s obscene. Two things, really: being that rich, and golf.
As previously stated, my visit with the urologist went okay… if “okay” means I had to get someone with a PhD to explain my own anatomy to me. I started off by trying to convince him that I did, in fact, find a problem; something was very wrong. “I’m very familiar down there,” I said, completely forgetting that I was talking to another man, let alone a man who specializes in dealing with other men’s junk. Because, you know, only a select few are as familiar down there as I am. And I left his office blushing, stuttering and embarrassed. But the good news was that I’m fine and don’t require the amputation of anything. Nothing better than that.
As for my Scumbag coworker, well, I made sure things really cooled off. We didn’t talk for weeks, save for a smile in passing or a hey or hi. Then he took a week of vacation. And I took a few days off the following week as a birthday gift to myself. Every time I’d walk by his office, I’d hope he wouldn’t acknowledge me. Most of the time he didn’t. I had a gut feeling that I wouldn’t have to worry about the tension for very much longer.
And I was right. Only a day after I returned back to work, the gossip about his firing spread like wildfire. Many were shocked - I was not one of them. But I had to walk by his office to see if it was true, and it was. All his stuff was gone. I took a moment to be thankful that he didn’t come to say goodbye, not that he’s that type of person anyway.
See, when he wasn’t cruising sex ads online, he was doing any of your garden-variety activities of dumbass things that dumbasses do at work. He mentioned to me that he liked to crank call people who bothered him on his home phone line. So when someone told me he was fired for making crank calls, I didn’t flinch. I did flinch, though, when I was told that he was crank calling our customers.
“Seriously!? How did they know it was him?” I asked.
“Management tracked the complaints and found out they were all his customers.”
Omigod. Not only were they company customers, but they were the customers for whom he was the very representative. Unbelievable.
“So they tapped his phone line and recorded him doing it.”
I’m dying to hear this tape. I’m told he made no denials. He could’ve taken the Republican approach and simply said “I don’t recollect,” which always works for them, but I know he leans more to the left. My manager told him that business was bad enough without him chasing away the customers, “get the fuck out of here.”
Shortly after he left, I felt free to snoop a little more and opened his work email (which obviously was no longer his). More cruising sex ads, etc., blah blah, but one caught my eye. He had a date with a transsexual from Cincinnati. A date involving a fee. A fee that must be paid in cash.
Suddenly I felt completely freed of all compulsions, closed his email, and was thankful that he is gone.
