Home Edition:
Reminding someone of their drunken obnoxious behaviour rarely has the outcome anticipated. Say it with me…anticlimactic and unsatisfying.
Wine is a cure all. And if it can’t be a cure all, it will be a can’t-be-assed all.
Dreams of obscure actors whilst sleeping lead to unnecessary internet stalking and imaginary celebrity boyfriends. Jonathan Rhys Meyers…I don’t even know if I find him attractive, but since I had a dream last night, I am obsessed.
Cleaning my house in anticipation of zombie mothership visits sucks old hairy balls. Additional lesson…don’t leave pancake batter to harden in bowl because washing that shit is on par with finding a cure for cancer.
BONUS:
Office Edition:
Subway sandwiches don’t age well. They become soggy, sticky and slimy in a mysterious and decidedly unnatural manner. I ate it anyway.
Meetings are for chumps. I, therefore, am a chump.
Washing coffee mug and leaving it to dry on the counter leads to mug theft. This results in mug/colleague stalking to retrieve it, and this is a travesty that is best avoided.
Ordering office supplies is more effort than its worth, as I discovered when I received the rolodex for fuller figured girls today. Seriously supersized rolodex.*
Yeah, that old saying that a messy desk means an organized mind…I disproved that theory today. If I’m being honest, I’ve been disproving it for years.
Forgetting what day it is and thinking you have no time leads to RESULTS! At least until I realised that I still had twenty four hours to complete the tasks at hand. Now I’m writing.
I can’t find everything on the internet. There are still some mysteries in the world. Shipping industry, I’m looking at you.
When in doubt, make it up!
*American Rolodex! Ha!
In Conclusion:
Thank you for all the wonderful lessons, life. I really appreciate you taking time out of your busy day to lovingly coach and guide me into being a better, if slightly demented and increasingly hysterical, person.
Now piss off.
-A
Showing posts with label office. Show all posts
Showing posts with label office. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Where I Accidentally Share Too Much With Everybody (Including You!)
In Which I am Utterly Alone
All of my colleagues have flown the coop that we typically call the office*. They’ve gone to drink beer and champagne in other (warmer) parts of the world, leaving me to languish here, alone, bored and disinterested in anything that even remotely resembles work. As such, I have seemingly exhausted my usual supply of interesting internet fodder and decided to write to you, fine internet.
*Collectively, it’s called the office, I generally refer to it as ‘that place’.
This is the point where I curl up and die, right?
Sooo, last night Hug came by bearing a borrowed plate and some news.
The Plate:
Randomly, and quite charmingly, he returned my plate with a box of crème brulee mix and a tube of garlic bread crumbs. Crème brulee I get, because, honestly, who doesn’t like being the recipient of boxed tasty goodness**? That was a really sweet gesture. But, bread crumbs? In a lifetime of strange gifts, garlic breadcrumbs take top (odd) spot.
I gave him a look that was meant to impart, ‘thank you, but what the fuck’? He said, well, I know you like cooking with bread crumbs. Err, I admit to having a conversation with your friend about bread crumbs, but I have never, ever cooked anything with bread crumbs. But, thank you for the very sweet, if bizarre, gesture.
The News (or Oh Sweet Jesus, take me now):
Hug is moving next month into another apartment in our building and the layout of his apartment is exactly the same as mine, just two floors up. Naturally, in preparation for doing a serious purge of A-Lot*** of stuff he asked if he could take a look around mine to get a feel for space.
In a move that I hadn’t anticipated, though on reflection makes sense for a gay man (priorities!), he headed straight for my bedroom. As soon as he was at the door, I realised that it was a mess; there was a mountain of clothes rivalling Mt Kilimanjaro in size, bras hanging off lamps, a layer of dust covering my chest of drawers. .
I did what any person would do and beelined it to the bedroom, attempted to sneakily remove undergarments from light fixtures while pushing mounds of dirty clothes under the bed. Until… I noticed the industrial sized box of condoms beside my bed with a bottle of lube on the window sill. Oh man! I tried to usher him out without being too obvious and even shut the lights off while he was still in there (subtlety, thy name is Anna) – perhaps to distract him with my strange behaviour so he wouldn’t notice the Costco amounts of sex I’ve been having.
He didn’t mention it, nor did I. I hope in five years or so, we can share a belly laugh about that awkwardness. Or not.
**upon reading the packet, I think I have been gifted a white elephant. It takes milk AND cream AND time to prepare it. Please note: next time, bring wine.
***Hug is an amateur hoarder. He currently owns no less than four coffee makers, various once used kitchen gadgets and tons of food. It will be great for when the apocalypse comes, but not so much for moving this month.
Til later, internet. In the meantime, I'll be flaunting my sexual life in front of all of my celibate friends! Yay!
-Anna
All of my colleagues have flown the coop that we typically call the office*. They’ve gone to drink beer and champagne in other (warmer) parts of the world, leaving me to languish here, alone, bored and disinterested in anything that even remotely resembles work. As such, I have seemingly exhausted my usual supply of interesting internet fodder and decided to write to you, fine internet.
*Collectively, it’s called the office, I generally refer to it as ‘that place’.
This is the point where I curl up and die, right?
Sooo, last night Hug came by bearing a borrowed plate and some news.
The Plate:
Randomly, and quite charmingly, he returned my plate with a box of crème brulee mix and a tube of garlic bread crumbs. Crème brulee I get, because, honestly, who doesn’t like being the recipient of boxed tasty goodness**? That was a really sweet gesture. But, bread crumbs? In a lifetime of strange gifts, garlic breadcrumbs take top (odd) spot.
I gave him a look that was meant to impart, ‘thank you, but what the fuck’? He said, well, I know you like cooking with bread crumbs. Err, I admit to having a conversation with your friend about bread crumbs, but I have never, ever cooked anything with bread crumbs. But, thank you for the very sweet, if bizarre, gesture.
The News (or Oh Sweet Jesus, take me now):
Hug is moving next month into another apartment in our building and the layout of his apartment is exactly the same as mine, just two floors up. Naturally, in preparation for doing a serious purge of A-Lot*** of stuff he asked if he could take a look around mine to get a feel for space.
In a move that I hadn’t anticipated, though on reflection makes sense for a gay man (priorities!), he headed straight for my bedroom. As soon as he was at the door, I realised that it was a mess; there was a mountain of clothes rivalling Mt Kilimanjaro in size, bras hanging off lamps, a layer of dust covering my chest of drawers. .
I did what any person would do and beelined it to the bedroom, attempted to sneakily remove undergarments from light fixtures while pushing mounds of dirty clothes under the bed. Until… I noticed the industrial sized box of condoms beside my bed with a bottle of lube on the window sill. Oh man! I tried to usher him out without being too obvious and even shut the lights off while he was still in there (subtlety, thy name is Anna) – perhaps to distract him with my strange behaviour so he wouldn’t notice the Costco amounts of sex I’ve been having.
He didn’t mention it, nor did I. I hope in five years or so, we can share a belly laugh about that awkwardness. Or not.
**upon reading the packet, I think I have been gifted a white elephant. It takes milk AND cream AND time to prepare it. Please note: next time, bring wine.
***Hug is an amateur hoarder. He currently owns no less than four coffee makers, various once used kitchen gadgets and tons of food. It will be great for when the apocalypse comes, but not so much for moving this month.
Til later, internet. In the meantime, I'll be flaunting my sexual life in front of all of my celibate friends! Yay!
-Anna
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Thrill of the Zipper
The Mumbler has a business trip. He’s leaving shortly, or so he promises. I’ve heard all of his zippers being zipped, unzipped, re-zipped, ad infinitum. Every time I hear the zip on one of his many bags, I am buoyed, but am deflated again when I realise that he is still at his desk, on the phone or elsewhere inside the hallowed walls of this office. He’s only going to be gone for one day, but it will be the sweetest day in this new year of this new decade.
Tomorrow, I will be spared of his presence in the office, specifically my office (coffee mug in hand, signalling to me that he intends to be stay awhile, even as my heart sinks [and my fists ball up into impotent white stumps]).
I will be spared of his incomprehensible and utterly devoid of humour anecdotes, which only reinforce his standing as king of the asshats. He can grin until his face paralyzes and becomes gangrenous, every word-like utterance that passes his thin, lizard lips hardens my intense dislike of his mumbling ways.
I will be spared expending valuable emotional energy attempting to translate what has come out of his mouth into actual human words from the dialect of a yet-to-be discovered animal hidden deep in the wilds of Borneo.
I will also be spared his need of conversational reciprocation, which (this does not make me proud, but is an essential coping mechanism that I cling to) has descended from actual sentences to yes, no, a simple grunt or furious wag of the head.*
I will be spared the stupid questions/requests (which take approximately twenty three minutes to translate and understand what exactly it is he is after, leaving him thinking that it is, in fact, me that is the moron, when it so clearly is him and his inability to form words. With his mouth. Like normal people.) that he so generously heaps onto my desk without a second thought, because he is very busy and important being busy and important.
I will be spared of hearing his travel itinerary for the next 8 weeks in all of their ever changing glory, due to his being very busy and important. I honestly do not care wether he has a six or eight hour layover in small-town-wherever (for the squillionth itinerary change), except that it means that he will not be here, tormenting me with his incomprehensible gibberish.
I will be spared of my intentional bad behaviour. Talking with my back to someone, texting, taking personal phone calls and making white knuckled fists of rage are not things that I usually do while conversing**. However, his lack of ability to read body language is nearly as sharp as his speaking ability, forcing my hand and requiring me to be increasingly drastic in my non-verbal cues. Short of me telling him (in no uncertain terms) to Fuck Off, I don’t know what more I can do to demonstrate that I do not wish to speak to him.
I will be spared his speakerphone which he insists on using at full volume. I don’t wish to hear the following conversation tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter (despite the effort to create privacy [?] by closing his office door):
Mumbler: Klefg Mmnomi!
translation: Hi Sexy!
Wife of Mumbler: Hi Tiger, what’s going on?
M: Prrrulg mennil ckronck druulger?
translation: what are you wearing?
WoM: ::giggling:: Nothing at all. Just waiting for you to come home.
M: …***
Instead, I will depart from my home tomorrow morning, feeling refreshed and light as a feather with a skip in my step, basking in the knowledge that I will have a quiet, peaceful day. I would rather be alone, worrying about serial killers or random acts of violence than share this office with him while wondering, ‘who hired this guy?’ I will not have to keep my office door shut, pretend to be listing to my ipod or on the phone and making many, many trips out doors to get some relief. I will be able to work at my leisure without the crippling fear and loathing that he will invade my sacred space for a ‘chat’.
Yes, I will love and cherish tomorrow with all of my being. I will marry tomorrow and carry its children. Tomorrow and I will be very happy together.****
From the very depths of a hopeful hell,
Anna
*I will need to abandon the head wagging as this seems to encourage him into prolonged interaction. This flies in the face of an action which is actually very similar to a shaking of the head, as in ‘no’; as in, ‘no, don’t talk to me, king asshat’
**Erm, except as evidenced by this post.
***I confess that I don’t know how the end of these “conversations” go. I make myself pretty fucking scarce (usually wretching in the toilets) because I don’t wish to actually have to fill the prescription for anti psychotics.
**** Until Friday, when he will clumsily destroy my carefully constructed fantasy of an office space filled with clear, crisp annunciation, and non retarded type folk.
Tomorrow, I will be spared of his presence in the office, specifically my office (coffee mug in hand, signalling to me that he intends to be stay awhile, even as my heart sinks [and my fists ball up into impotent white stumps]).
I will be spared of his incomprehensible and utterly devoid of humour anecdotes, which only reinforce his standing as king of the asshats. He can grin until his face paralyzes and becomes gangrenous, every word-like utterance that passes his thin, lizard lips hardens my intense dislike of his mumbling ways.
I will be spared expending valuable emotional energy attempting to translate what has come out of his mouth into actual human words from the dialect of a yet-to-be discovered animal hidden deep in the wilds of Borneo.
I will also be spared his need of conversational reciprocation, which (this does not make me proud, but is an essential coping mechanism that I cling to) has descended from actual sentences to yes, no, a simple grunt or furious wag of the head.*
I will be spared the stupid questions/requests (which take approximately twenty three minutes to translate and understand what exactly it is he is after, leaving him thinking that it is, in fact, me that is the moron, when it so clearly is him and his inability to form words. With his mouth. Like normal people.) that he so generously heaps onto my desk without a second thought, because he is very busy and important being busy and important.
I will be spared of hearing his travel itinerary for the next 8 weeks in all of their ever changing glory, due to his being very busy and important. I honestly do not care wether he has a six or eight hour layover in small-town-wherever (for the squillionth itinerary change), except that it means that he will not be here, tormenting me with his incomprehensible gibberish.
I will be spared of my intentional bad behaviour. Talking with my back to someone, texting, taking personal phone calls and making white knuckled fists of rage are not things that I usually do while conversing**. However, his lack of ability to read body language is nearly as sharp as his speaking ability, forcing my hand and requiring me to be increasingly drastic in my non-verbal cues. Short of me telling him (in no uncertain terms) to Fuck Off, I don’t know what more I can do to demonstrate that I do not wish to speak to him.
I will be spared his speakerphone which he insists on using at full volume. I don’t wish to hear the following conversation tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter (despite the effort to create privacy [?] by closing his office door):
Mumbler: Klefg Mmnomi!
translation: Hi Sexy!
Wife of Mumbler: Hi Tiger, what’s going on?
M: Prrrulg mennil ckronck druulger?
translation: what are you wearing?
WoM: ::giggling:: Nothing at all. Just waiting for you to come home.
M: …***
Instead, I will depart from my home tomorrow morning, feeling refreshed and light as a feather with a skip in my step, basking in the knowledge that I will have a quiet, peaceful day. I would rather be alone, worrying about serial killers or random acts of violence than share this office with him while wondering, ‘who hired this guy?’ I will not have to keep my office door shut, pretend to be listing to my ipod or on the phone and making many, many trips out doors to get some relief. I will be able to work at my leisure without the crippling fear and loathing that he will invade my sacred space for a ‘chat’.
Yes, I will love and cherish tomorrow with all of my being. I will marry tomorrow and carry its children. Tomorrow and I will be very happy together.****
From the very depths of a hopeful hell,
Anna
*I will need to abandon the head wagging as this seems to encourage him into prolonged interaction. This flies in the face of an action which is actually very similar to a shaking of the head, as in ‘no’; as in, ‘no, don’t talk to me, king asshat’
**Erm, except as evidenced by this post.
***I confess that I don’t know how the end of these “conversations” go. I make myself pretty fucking scarce (usually wretching in the toilets) because I don’t wish to actually have to fill the prescription for anti psychotics.
**** Until Friday, when he will clumsily destroy my carefully constructed fantasy of an office space filled with clear, crisp annunciation, and non retarded type folk.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
In Which My Snooze Button Gets a Workout
I have been editing this mother of a post for an hour and I can’t decide what is going on. Ack…posting crisis before midday? I have a finite amount of decision making abilities per day, as evidenced by yesterday, and I cannot figure out what I’ve used it up on this morning. Coffee order-same, number of snooze button hits-same (12, if you must know), route to work-same.
Challenge for today: Stop editing and being a general flip-flopper (or thong, if you will)* and do something productive (ha!) and constructive (ha!).
*I’m having a vision of a giant thong sitting at my desk, in the manner of bad SNL skit. I hope it’s in your head movie now, too.
Yesterday was mostly good with a pinch of bad.
The good:
I had lunch at The Greedy Pig on Cordova. It’s a stellar, slightly grimy pub that has ah-may-zing sandwiches. From me to you: order the grilled cheese and the soup of the day. That meal will never disappoint, ever. Word to the wise, though, drinks can be a bit pricey. BUT, if they have mojitos on special, eff the budget, they’re seriously worth the extra cash. So check these ladies out when you're in Van.
Last night I stayed in, which 72% of the time is one of my favoritest things to do. Hodge and I ordered pizza and coke and watched Ghostbusters on the air mattress that serves double duty as a guest bed and sofa.* Staying in was also good due to the disgusting amounts of Costco sized Toblerone that was consumed, and anything chocolate is a-ok in my world. I’d probably trade you a kidney for good chocolate.
*What, furniture for me? Pshaw, get away with your dirty mouth.
The bad:
I stayed at work late because our *big boss* is visiting and all of us are making the extra effort to look busy and indispensable. This required me to walk home in the dark which I find to be incredibly depressing and kind of tragic. Spending all your daylight hours in captivity is a major hazard of living in Canadialand, where we only get 4 hours of it a day. I’ll do it, but I’m not gonna like it. (oh hello, five year old self, I was wondering where you’d gone)
Oh the game of long distance lovers that has the power to crush your soul and spirit, or mine at least, attacked last night. I missed a call from KB. My phone was playing silly buggers and had dropped the network, and then wouldn’t make or receive any calls, mainly because it hates me and I had neglected it by leaving it in my coat pocket. By the time I got my phone working again, it was too late and KB was dreaming lovely things about me. Note to phone: Look, there’s only enough bad behaviour to go around, and I have the monopoly on it. If you continue to behave so gracelessly (which is my speciality) I will have to drown you. Both the phone and I know that this is an empty threat. We can’t live without each other, we're in love.
The Ugly:
Autumn has arrived in Vancouver and I’m a little (read: a lot) sad at the office while sitting in my wet pants. Rain water, not urine, of course. I only do that when I wear adult diapers. As always, when it’s raining and grey, I want to stay inside with cups of tea and crumpets, under my duvet with a good book. But it’s Wednesday, so I reluctantly woke up and with very little grace, swept the crusty bits out of my eyes and scowled at the world, while unclamping my teeth that I welded together mid sleep. I then dragged my grumpy ass to work.
This isn’t too ugly, this girl just likes symmetry so I tucked it in without you realising. I got you, I got you good, fucker!
-Anna
Challenge for today: Stop editing and being a general flip-flopper (or thong, if you will)* and do something productive (ha!) and constructive (ha!).
*I’m having a vision of a giant thong sitting at my desk, in the manner of bad SNL skit. I hope it’s in your head movie now, too.
Yesterday was mostly good with a pinch of bad.
The good:
I had lunch at The Greedy Pig on Cordova. It’s a stellar, slightly grimy pub that has ah-may-zing sandwiches. From me to you: order the grilled cheese and the soup of the day. That meal will never disappoint, ever. Word to the wise, though, drinks can be a bit pricey. BUT, if they have mojitos on special, eff the budget, they’re seriously worth the extra cash. So check these ladies out when you're in Van.
Last night I stayed in, which 72% of the time is one of my favoritest things to do. Hodge and I ordered pizza and coke and watched Ghostbusters on the air mattress that serves double duty as a guest bed and sofa.* Staying in was also good due to the disgusting amounts of Costco sized Toblerone that was consumed, and anything chocolate is a-ok in my world. I’d probably trade you a kidney for good chocolate.
*What, furniture for me? Pshaw, get away with your dirty mouth.
The bad:
I stayed at work late because our *big boss* is visiting and all of us are making the extra effort to look busy and indispensable. This required me to walk home in the dark which I find to be incredibly depressing and kind of tragic. Spending all your daylight hours in captivity is a major hazard of living in Canadialand, where we only get 4 hours of it a day. I’ll do it, but I’m not gonna like it. (oh hello, five year old self, I was wondering where you’d gone)
Oh the game of long distance lovers that has the power to crush your soul and spirit, or mine at least, attacked last night. I missed a call from KB. My phone was playing silly buggers and had dropped the network, and then wouldn’t make or receive any calls, mainly because it hates me and I had neglected it by leaving it in my coat pocket. By the time I got my phone working again, it was too late and KB was dreaming lovely things about me. Note to phone: Look, there’s only enough bad behaviour to go around, and I have the monopoly on it. If you continue to behave so gracelessly (which is my speciality) I will have to drown you. Both the phone and I know that this is an empty threat. We can’t live without each other, we're in love.
The Ugly:
Autumn has arrived in Vancouver and I’m a little (read: a lot) sad at the office while sitting in my wet pants. Rain water, not urine, of course. I only do that when I wear adult diapers. As always, when it’s raining and grey, I want to stay inside with cups of tea and crumpets, under my duvet with a good book. But it’s Wednesday, so I reluctantly woke up and with very little grace, swept the crusty bits out of my eyes and scowled at the world, while unclamping my teeth that I welded together mid sleep. I then dragged my grumpy ass to work.
This isn’t too ugly, this girl just likes symmetry so I tucked it in without you realising. I got you, I got you good, fucker!
-Anna
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