Douchebaggery Abounds

It Puts the Lotion...In Its Mouth?

2012-02-07T19:46:00.003-07:00

Proof positive that Princess Anne is not the sharpest tool in the shed arrived in my inbox this afternoon.

She wrote in an email: "I brought some hand lotion in from home because my legs are peeling like a snake. And this stuff smells SO GOOD. It's Milk and Honey, so no wonder it's making me hungry."

I wrote back, "I'll come sniff it in a few minutes."

Before I could leave my desk, however, another message arrived: "It doesn't taste as good as it smells."

I'll just leave that with you.

Except I have to tell you about Princess Anne's wedding plans. Her Doughy Boyfriend finally proposed to her over Christmas, and now she's going bananas plannng the tackiest country and western affair of the year. Except that she doesnt KNOW how tacky it is.

For example, to commemorate the big day, she wants to order this print of two horses standing next to a fence. And on the fence, one has the option of getting one's initials "carved". She showed it to me on her phone and asked, "Isn't that cute?"

Well, no, actually, it makes me throw up in my mouth a little, but it's your big day, Lurleen, go for it.

She already has the pink cowboy boots that she'll be wearing under her dress picked out, and has told the Doughy Boyfriend/Fiance that the best man and groomsmen will be expected to wear black cowboy hats, royal blue western shirts and black jeans.

Of course, she will be riding up to her ceremony on horseback (cuz nothing says romance is in the air quite like horse shit). This announcement prompted me to ask, "Do you have a sidesaddle?"

To which she replied, "No, I'm too redneck to own a sidesaddle. I'll just throw my knee over the horn of my western saddle."

Well, if that doesn't put all the ass back in class, I don't know what does. And of course, once the ceremony is concluded, then she and the Doughy Groom will ride away together.

So unable to bear it any longer, I started to take the piss, to which she remained blissfully ignorant. I asked her, "Well, have you picked out the song that you'll be riding up to? Maybe 'Ghost Riders In the Sky'? Or 'She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy'? Or how about 'Boot Scootin' Boogie'? Thats a good one!"

"No, I was thinking more like blahblahblah" and she named some country and western song that I have never heard of by some western performer equally unknown to me. Later on in the day, she sent me the lyrics, and although they didn't feature spectral cattle or farm equipment or tequila, I'm pretty sure the performer whines his way very earnestly through the whole song amid slide guitars and maybe even a fiddle.

"Jesus Christ," I said to the Little Hunneydoo when I got home from work that day, "I gotta get another job before Wanda Sue invites me to that fucking wedding."

I dont know what the reception will be like, but I doubt there will be much in the way of vegetarian options.

Unless you count the hand lotion.

A Punch In the Teeth

2012-01-12T21:16:00.001-07:00

This afternoon, I was cordially invited into the office of Head Office Boss Lady, who is in town to go over our billing procedures and productivity issues for year's end. I began our interview by announcing that I am actively seeking other employment. Not surprizingly, she had already learned of this through the grapevine. She asked me if I felt comfortable discussing my reasons why and I availed myself of this opportunity to describe in harrowing detail every single one of Teeth's transgessions over the past few weeks. I began with "Caucasian" and ended with the "retard" email and especially highlighted her need to make Princess Anne her scapegoat just prior to New Years.

I explained that the incessant and vapid giggling that emanates from the staff room at during breaks, the outrageous flirting with drivers over the phone and the double standard around work (she can goof off on the phone, but when the rest of us do, we are quickly reminded that there's filing that needs doing) do not exactly inspire confidence in me regarding Teeth's supervisory abilities, and that I am anxious to get the hell out before the real fireworks start.

Head Office Boss Lady wrote everything down. She took copious notes and occasionally made a face as if I had just kicked her in the box. When I had finished my litany of complaints, she said that, while Teeth describes herself as a "gutter girl", this is not the kind of attitude that can be taken seriously in a supervisor and she's going to need Teeth to "step it up a notch."

My diplomatic response was that, to my mind, Teeth lacks "an innate or instinctual understanding of the qualities a supervisory position demands." SUBTEXT: don't hold your breath, honey. If she needs this shit explained to her, she's not gonna get it.

So then HOBL asked me if I minded should she wish to share my observations with Teeth and I heartily encouraged her to do so, indicating that Teeth "could probably benefit from the feedback." Then she asked if I would mind meeting with Teeth and having a discussion, just the two of us, and I said I didn't mind at all (although secretly, I will hve to constantly remind myself to say things like, "I don't feel that I can perform optimally under your particular management style," instead of "Why don't you lick my pussy bald, you fucking slitch").

And I'm not the only one coming forward with complaints. So if Teeth thought that stepping into Springsteen's shoes was going to be a cakewalk (sorry for mixing my idioms), I have no doubt that her interview with HOBL tomorrow afternoon will leave her humbled. HOBL is hoping that once Teeth and I sit down for a chat, hopefully I will be less inclined to walk away.

But seriously, I'd be idiotic. Teeth's behaviour IS Teeth: she's not going to change, and hanging around hoping she does is akin to a victim of domestic abuse thinking, "He promised he wouldn't do it again." I should stay in what is essentially an abusive relationship for the sake of a paycheque?

Oh, I don't think so.

So stay tuned, kids, cuz there just might be some kind of showdown tomorrow.

And THEN...!

2012-01-09T22:25:00.001-07:00

As if any of you need further proof of Teeth's utter lack of professionalism (but here goes anyway...)

On Friday, while I was at my highly successful job interview, Yvette was talking to Jacques, who had stopped by her cubicle. During their brief conversation, Teeth came up behind Jacques and grabbed his ass with both hands.

Srsly.

And so I explained to Yvette that sexual harrassment is in the eye of the beholder; if she was offended by Teeth's behaviour, she can complain about it and earn Teeth (yet another) very strict talking-to about her inappropriateness. It doesn't have to be *her* ass that was grabbed. Yvette was unaware of the way in which sexual harrassment policies work, but she might be talking to Head Office Boss Lady when she visits ths week.

Or she might not. That office functions the way it does due to ignorance and apathy.

The temp agency actually called me today for my first assignment, but it was only for a single day, so I declined it. Still, I hope this is a sign of things to come.

Salaam, Mohammed!

2012-01-08T13:54:00.002-07:00

Wow: the year 2012 is looking up already. Not only did I have an excellent job interview with a temp agency on Friday and can expect to leave Teeth and the Women of WalMart far behind within the month (without giving two weeks notice, since I am owed vacation time): but as I sit at the dining room table and gaze out onto the front street, I can watch Mohammed moving out. That's awesome. Fuck off, buddy, and take your spitting and your garbage and your urine-bedewed vehicles with you. ALL of them.

Oh, and by the way, for those of you who have been following this particular thread: Mohammed is his actual name. Just before Christmas, I noticed a piece of paper taped to his front door. Hoping it was an eviction notice, I walked over to read what it said. It was just a notice from the landlord upstairs, giving Mohammed 48 hours notice that he intended to enter the premises, and Mohammed's name was clearly written there.

I feel pretty smug.

So does anyone have any experience writing letters of resignation? I've never had to compose one before. How much information is it customary to include? I have no intention of sending it to Teeth (that would actually acknowledge her authority, which I do not), just to Teeth's supervisor. Do I include my reasons for leaving (i.e. Teeth) in the letter? After all, I do not anticipate having the luxury of an exit interview, since the lady in charge of HR at our branch actually works in Calgary. I mean, I realize I don't owe them any explanations, and if they've made the blunder of promoting that stupid slitch despite every conceivable indication that she is wholly unsuited to the job, my very humble opinion is scarcely going to cause them to reconsider. And perhaps I have a tendency to overshare.

But it somehow seems inadequate to write:

"Dear Head Office Boss Lady,

Please be advised that effective (date two weeks hence), I tender my resignation and will be taking the holidays to which I am entitled until that time.

Hugs and kisses,

Me".

Yet perhaps writing more simply indicates that I give a shit. And although I like and respect Head Office Boss Lady, I don't give a damn about anything that happens in or to that office. My strong suspicion is that they gave the job to that odious Stink Mitten because she would do it for less money than they would expect to pay someone who was, say, competent. Someone who, when booking hotel rooms for drivers coming in from out of town, wouldn't offer to "swing by the hotel for a good time". Someone who doesn't drop by your cubicle to discuss her hemorrhoids or send emails celebrating the wholly fictional "Retard Day". Someone who doesn't snigger audibly in the presence of a gay employee when someone else mentions that the staff room smells "fruity," because another employee heated up a poptart.

But I think I am justified in believing that Head Office Boss Lady, in trying to save the company a few dollars in wages, will shortly discover that she will pay for it in other ways.

UPDATE: Mohammed apparently had trouble getting his truck to work. So he put three litres of oil into the engine and left the bottles in the street right in front of my house. He even drove over them, before he pulled a u-turn in the middle of the street, driving onto someone else's lawn to do it. So I went out, collected the bottles and their caps and dumped them on his front step. If he wants to have words, he'll find me ready for them, the fucking asshole.

The Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nuthin' But the Tooth

2012-01-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

Below is the text of an email sent to me by Teeth this morning:

"Not every flower can say love, but a rose can. Not every plant survives thirst, but a cactus can. Not every retard can read, but look at u having a go! Today is International Retard Day. Please send an encouraging message to a fucked up friend, just as I've done. I dont care if u lick windows, interfere with farm animals or occasionally shit urself. U hang in there cup cake, you're fucking special to me, you're my friend!:) look at u smiling at ur phone!"

Yes, gentle readers, this precious gem showed up in my inbox this morning, sent by my immediate supervisor, the woman who my company feels best exemplifies the values of professionalism and managerial competence!

I can't, for the life of me, figure out if this is a passive-aggressive slap at me, or genuinely clueless attempt to be my buddy. Either way, SOMEONE HASN'T BEEN PAYING ATTENTION.

Wow. Just wow.

The Tyranny of Teeth

2011-12-29T17:41:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, Teeth informed Princess Anne that she, Princess Anne, was expected to be in the filing room every day between 4:00 and 4:30 in order to catch up on the backlog of filing. Princess Anne, who, though an idiot, is not a slacker, replied that this was simply not possible except on Thursdays and Fridays, due to her own workload. After all, when the Cub quit in August, no-one bothered to hire a replacement temp, and there are no plans to replace Sylvester, either. We have already been told that.

Yet, despite Princess Anne's objections, Teeth told her that she was neverthless expected to be in that filing room.

Today, we learned that Teeth is not letting us go early tomorrow afternoon, as is customary, because Princess Anne has not caught up on her filing.

And I am incensed. Furious. Pissed right off.

It's not because we don't get to go home early (although that would have been nice; I have a party to prepare for the following evening). After all, I'm not entitled to that time off. I'm cross-eyed pissed off because Teeth has chosen to begin her reign of tyranny by laying the blame for all this on Princess Anne.

And Teeth has both today and tomorrow off work, the fucking buck-toothed slunt.

But if she thinks that the rest of us blame Princess Anne, she is seriously mistaken. We know this has nothing to do with filing and everything to do with Teeth power-tripping.

And if she thinks that I am just going to sit around and wait for her to come gnawing on me, then she's got another think coming, because I will take two retail jobs before I have to deal with her bullshit.

I declined to take an afternoon break today so that most of my work could be done in anticipation of being released early tomorrow. That was before I heard the news, of course. Now I don't give a rat's ass if my bills are caught up or not.

So whattaya think? Should I "sleep in" tomorrow and wander into the office around 11:00?

Dental Damn

2011-12-20T19:08:00.000-07:00

It's official: effective January 1, 2012, Teeth is my new boss.

I confess, I am all astonishment. I have a number of questions that I would like to ask Head Office Lady, questions like,

1. "Are you serious?"

2. "Are you desperate?"

3. "Is this really the best you could do?"

4. "Have you actually met Teeth?"

So now the job hunt is on in earnest.

Occupy My Garage!!!

2011-11-28T18:48:00.001-07:00

So, the Little Hunneydoo left the house this morning for work, only to discover that some piece of shit crackhead had broken into her vehicle overnight and stolen the dollar that we keep there for the shopping cart at the gocery store. He/She also took the garage door remote that was on her sun visor.

If the POS CH let him/herself into the garage, they neither touched my car nor made off with anything else. Nor did POS CH wreck the Little Hunneydoo's lock or smash her windows. So mostly, we are inconvenienced in that we have to reprogram the garage door opener so that the stolen one won't work. And that means borrowing a ladder that we don't have, yadda yadda. Whatever. It could have been much worse. I'm not actually complaining. Much.

But after describing the event to my co-workers (who, it seems, never pass up a chance to prove how profoundly ignorant they are), Princess Anne said, "It was probably one of those Occupy Our Town jerks."

...

Yeah, because people who are peacefully protesting the appalling corporate greed that is rampant in our consumer-based society are all about stealing, you fucking moron.

Whether you agree with the Occupy movement or not, that comment makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Last week I applied at the local humane society for the position of Administrative Assistant/Receptionist. It pays three dollars less than I am currently making with these brain dead shitheels.

And I don't care.

That's What He Said!

2011-11-23T16:40:00.000-07:00

Two Clowns is universally disliked in the office, even by the other managers, a group she has deluded herself into believing she belongs. Proof of this was amply proffered this afternoon, when Jacques (who is French Canadian) approached Princess Anne at the reception desk and indicated Two Clowns's south-facing office with a jerk of his head.

"'Ow does she stand it in dere wit' da 'eater on?" he asked, sotto voce. "It's gotta be so 'ot!"

And it's true. Perhaps because she is really a reptile cleverly disguised as a person, Two Clowns's office is always Saharan in temperature, even in August. It's a lot like gorillas in the mist, really.

Princess Anne shrugged, and Jacques shook his head in bewilderment.

"God," he said. "It's a good t'ing she doesn't wear leather pants. She'd smell like a burning clutch!"

Laughed. My. Ass. Right. Off.

Sufferin' Succotash!

2011-11-17T19:44:00.001-07:00

One of the things that can be marginally considered a bonus where I work is that one has to work jolly hard to get fired. Possibly because no-one has received a raise in at least five years (except for the 2% cost of living increase, which is a pittance) and the fact that we get paid shittily, my employer is pretty tolerant when it comes to time off for doctor's appointments, illness or just needing to leave early and come in late. The Queen of Excuses for Goofing Off is Yvette, who will leave work because she thinks she *might* be coming down with something. And when she is there, she spends a good portion of her day on the phone. Or surfing the net looking at wedding dresses.

But when it comes down to being actually dismissed, it hardly ever happens. I mean, someone once told one of the other billers that she was a "fucking cunt" to her face in front of witnesses and didn't lose their job over it. In fact, the last people to be fired from my particular branch actually embezzled from the company. Their niece still works in dispatch.

So imagine my surprize when I discovered that Sylvester lost her job yesterday afternoon. I missed it (thankfully, I'm no fan of drama and there's been plenty of that lately) due to a doctor's appointment, but the official reason given was that her performance had deteriorated. That excuse stank of dead fish to me, and Princess Anne finally said that it had something to do with some other stuff that wouldn't look good on Sylverster's record. Remember when I told you all about how she made a play for one of the male dispatchers? Well, it seems that she would go back to his desk and massage his shoulders and pat his head (?) and just generally made him uncomfortable, to the point where he complained to Jacques.

And I guess Jacques took care of it.

Sylvester should have been more discreet, and it is good to know that my employer does have some standards. But I will also say that they are double standards. There is certainly no room in the office for sexual harrassment, but there is also the ongoing spectacle of Jacques himself bowing and saying "Ah-so" virtually every time he sees me. And Mulan sits on the other side of the wall from me, so seeing or hearing him is only a matter of time. And I have received emails from Springsteen's husband that are frankly racist and would be very embarrassing should they ever be found by Mulan or some of our Islamic drivers.

But these people are in a position of authority and responsibility, and firing them--or even disciplining them, I imagine--is beyond the pale, even if people felt they could complain and be heard.

So while Sylvester really has only herself to blame, I venture to say that she shouldn't be the only one looking for a new job.

And that really sucks.

What's Up, Doc?

2011-11-10T21:07:00.001-07:00

I was off work for most of this week with muscles aches and a general, overwhelming sense of ennui. Nevertheless, the office politics managed to reach me at home, making for a rather pissy convalesence. What an incredible shit-show that place is. In fact, as I have mentioned to friends, it feels more and more like I am trapped in a sitcom that is a cross between Green Acres and The Facts of Life.

None of it is even really blogworthy, therefore not worth retelling here. Just trust me when I say I clearly work with a group of rural thundercunts who haven't grasped the fact that high schoo lis years past.

None of the politics are Teeth's fault, surprisingly. In fact, this week would have ordinarily been a good one, as she is on holidays. She has gone to join her husband hunting in the bush, which cannot fail to make me think of these two:

That's all, folks!

Talk Caucasian To Me, Bitch!

2011-10-24T21:30:00.001-06:00

Last week, work was a complete and utter shit show. I came so close to just walking out of the building that I even expressed that sentiment to Jacques, who is in charge of hiring drivers for our branch. And he responded with alacrity, calling Head Office Lady and getting her to talk me down.

The other person who actually stepped up was (get this) Teeth. You see, Mulan was scheduled to go on holidays, and, since Springsteen has already moved into her new position, Head Office Lady had to find someone to learn Mulan's tasks so that her bills would get processed in her absence. She asked me to do it and I accepted because I really didn't want to go back to the other stuff I was doing.

The difficulty was that they only gave Mulan and me one week in which to learn her stuff. And although Mulan is a very nice lady, her communication skills are hampered by a pronounced Hong Kong accent. To make things even more difficult, she wouldn't let me take notes on procedures. And when I unfortunately but inevitably made mistakes, she would say, "But I already told you that! I write it down for you!" But that doesn't help at all when I am trying to learn the billing procedure for seven or eight different clients. Eventually, my frustration reached a level at which I thought if she said, "I told you already," I was going to rip her fucking larynx out and tie in a bow around her goddamned neck.

Teeth, who was able to overhear the rising tension, stepped in to help, since she is actively promoting herself as Springsteen's inheritor. We had a long talk private talk, just the two of us, about how my brain was shutting down and at this point, it was like that scene in The Matrix where Neo is staring at all the streaming numbers; I was no longer able to take in anymore information. Teeth was supportive, attentive and sympathetic and I was starting to think that maybe I had been hasty in my dismissal of her.

And then she said, "Would this information make any more sense to you if it was explained in Caucasian?"

And if you, dear reader, are sitting there, staring at the screen with eyes that are somewhat wider than they were a moment ago, know that that is precisely the reaction that everyone has who hears this story.

My good friend D. suggested I should have replied, "No, I'm fluent enough in gook, thanks," which would have been very satisfying.

And believe me, it would have been perfectly in keeping with the attitudes in that office. It wouldn't have even really stood out as offensive. For the duration of Mulan's absence, I am sitting at her desk so that I may take advantage of the experience of the other billers who know how to do her stuff. And Mulan's desk is right outside of Jacques's office.

This afternoon, as I was getting up from my desk to collect some papers from the printer, Jacques saw me. He smiled broadly, put his palms together in front of his chest and bowed low, saying, "Ah-so!"

I was so stunned by this display of blatant racism that I stopped in my tracks and looked around to see if anyone else had heard or seen it. I caught Sylvester's glance and her eyes looked like a pair of sattelite dishes. Finally, I turned back to Jacques and in Cantonese, told him, "Good morning, how are you?"

He thought that was pretty funny, so I don't think he realized that I was actually speaking one of the main Chinese languages. I think he thinks I was playing along with him and making up words, because he did the "Ah-So!" thing later on in the day. That time, I just ignored it, but in my mind I was thinking, "Christ on a cracker, man--the Human Rights Commission would be ALL over this!!!"

Of course, he would never dream of doing this to Mulan's face. Not like Teeth, who I overheard mocking Mulan's accent last week while they were both in the lunch room. Yet despite this appalling lack of cultural and personal sensitivity, Teeth still thinks she's manager material.

I gotta find another job.

Society for Complete Assholes

2011-10-09T13:23:00.001-06:00

Some of you may be aware that I belong (marginally) to an organization called the Society for Creative Anachronism, or the SCA. This is a worldwide organization that purports to celebrate the Middle Ages "they way they should have been."

Now, I can find many nice things to say about the SCA: some people who play do absolutely amazing things. For example, I know a woman who, in the name of authenticity, raises her own period sheep, shears them, washes the wool, combs and cards it, spins it (with a drop spindle and not a wheel), dyes it (using only mineral and plant dyes available to the Norse in period) and weaves it into historically accurate clothing for her and her partner. What this woman is doing, essentially, is creating medieval Norse artifacts in the modern age. It is awe-inspiring.

And she is just one (albeit extraordinary) example of such persons in the SCA. Whatever the craft or science from the medieval period, there is probably someone in one of the Known Kingdoms who is recreating it, whether it be the making of armour, brewing, needlecraft, costuming, woodworking, glassblowing or the making of musical instruments. The collective talent and knowledge available in the SCA is absolutely mind-blowing.

However, one of the very big problems with the SCA (other than the lack of minimum standards for authenticity, which is something I don't have time or space to get into right now) is the behaviour of certain groups and individuals. Because of its potential for highly academic and intellectual pursuits, the SCA attracts a fair number of persons who are socially awkward. Not surprisingly, the membership of the SCA is made up of men and women who play D&D, or Live Action Role Playing games, or just gett their freak on with their own geekery (i.e. science, computers, theatre, etc). In many ways, the SCA offers a safe harbour for people who are considered "weird" by society in general.

The problem with that is that the SCA doesn't just offer a safe harbour, which would be fine in and of itself. The difficulty is that it gives some of the more dysfunctional personalities a place to indulge their dysfunction and then rewards them for it. I knew a psychiatric nurse once who attended an SCA event in my area, and when he left, his assessment was that in that room, he had seen an example of almost every social disorder known to humankind. Needless to say, he never came back.

The more devoted one is to service to the SCA, the more committed one is to "the Dream", the more one can expect to rise through the ranks and find a modicum of success in ways that are meaningful to persons who are otherwise marginalized. Imagine the signficance a burger flipper or a retail clerk finds in being made a "lord" or "lady" in one's local shire/barony, when the rest of the world calls one weird and a freak.

Now all of this is a rather long-winded introduction to my latest rant, which is about the self-indulgent, neurotic and ultimately hurtful and selfish behaviour exhibited by certain members of the SCA at a recent funeral that I attended.

Two weeks ago, a young man within my social circle (R) passed away from pancreatic cancer, leaving behind a son, who is not quite three, and a widow (M), who is pregnant with his daughter, due in November. The Little Hunneydoo and I met these wonderful people through the SCA, where both of them were rapier combatants of some repute. But due to the obnoxious politics and the dysfunctional personalities, they left the SCA about seven or eight years ago, never to return. Despite not having the rapier combat and the medieval pursuits in common, our friendship with R and M continued to flourish and we would see them whenever we could.

When R was diagnosed, one of M's concerns was that the news would leak out to the local SCA branches and that, in addition to the stress of caring for R in his final weeks, she would have to endure the inappropriate and foolish douchebaggery that we have all come to expect from certain communities within the organization. And sure enough, it happened: a few weeks before he died, M received an email from a woman who had (years ago) been a casual partner of R's, talking about their "sweet romance".

On its own, that behaviour was unsettling enough, but sadly, it didn't end there. When R passed away a couple of weeks ago one day before his 45th birthday, funeral arrangements were made for the small mountain town where he had been born, lived and worked as a valued member of the community. Shortly before the funeral, M--the grieving widow--received a text from someone I'll call Chuckles, who considers himself a leader in the rapier community. Chuckles advised her that he and some of his comrades were planning to hold a tournament in R's memory and asked if they could attend the funeral in their medieval/Renaissance garb.

M was keen to avoid any display of SCA stupidity, and texted Chuckles back, forbidding a tournament. She reminded him that burying one's husband/father of one's children/son, brother, uncle, etc is a serious business and one that is--and should remain--wholly separate from fantasy pursuits. Which the SCA is. A fantasy. A game. So no tournament and put on some proper clothes, please.

Thankfully, the funeral was absent of any SCA-related douchebaggery (although I was APPALLED to see a member of R's family videotaping the service with his cellphone. Seriously? Dude, this is a funeral, not a Lady Gaga concert. Put the fucking phone up your ass and pay attention to what's happening here).

Unfortunately, M had to endure still more persistent bullshit from the SCA throughout the day. For example, at the interment ceremony in the cemetery, Chuckles approached a man who was helping to organize the service and said that he and the other rapiers had brought their swords: they planned to offer a "sword salute" to R at the gravesite. (Seriously? Who brings a sword to a funeral???) The man vehemently forbade such a display (imagine having to explain this to R's mother, who is elderly, frail and suffering dementia).

So Chuckles and his coterie were reduced to taking R's old fencing hat with them to the bar and recording themselves on a cellphone (fuck, I hate those fucking things), telling stories about when they sparred with R, or the wild and whacky things he did at events. All of this, of course, will be subsequently burned onto a cd for M, and will no doubt appear on YouTube for those unfortunate enough to miss the funeral.

Now, I wish I could tell you that this was the end of the douchebaggery, but it is not. Later that evening, when they had finished regaling R's hat with stories of its former owner (it has belonged to Chuckles since R sold off all of his equipment), they all trooped back to M and R's place to console the widow. Remember the twat who wrote to M when R got sick and recounted her "sweet romance" with R? Well, she showed up, hammered out of her mind, took M out on the balcony and ended up requiring the widow to console her, after going in to even greater detail about the time she spent with R (who was, you'll call, a casual partner at best). Ultimately, she and another woman found themselves on a bench outside the apartment, wailing and needing to be rescued by Chuckles.

Now, a word about Chuckles: he is one of those people, like Two Clowns, who seems to be almost physically incapable of telling a story without embellishment. Even his wife will say to him, "Oh, Chuckles, you know that didn't happen", but he goes on blabbing undeterred by any sense of reality. Chuckles has many fine qualities, but he is, sadly, one of those people who have found so much success in the SCA that it appears he is singularly incapable of approaching Life In General without first filtering it through his quasi-medieval/fantasy filter.

For example, not only did it cross his mind to attend a funeral in his garb as a tribute to a man who hadn't played the game in almost a decade, he proposed to make a sword salute at the gravesite, when the widow had already expressly forbade any SCA displays of weirdness. Thus quashed, he took the man's hat to the bar and toasted it like a friggin' relic. Furthermore, when meeting other people at the party at M's who have never been to the SCA, he introduced himself with his medieval name, not the one with which he was born. Whilst in life, he performs some kind of honest but menial physical labour, in the SCA he is a brave and honourable Lord, the head of a large household,who are, to varying degrees, as dysfunctional and self-indulgent as he is.

Much of this household is a coterie of young and nubile young women, ranging in age from late teens to mid-twenties, who I refer to as the Children of Chuckles. One of these women--who had never even met R--approached M that night, and told her that she, as a representative of the Children of Chuckles, had been charged with the sacred task of bring M a solemn vow: that should M EVER need ANYTHING, she need only ask, and the Children of Chuckles were sworn to provide that service.

Now throughout all of this idiocy, M remained calm, poised and respectful, which I find absolutely amazing, given that she should never have had to deal with any of this on a day when she was returning her soul-mate to the earth. On top of all the other stressors of the day--family drama, concern for her son, and the overwhelming enormity of life without a man who she deeply adores and who was as devoted to her as a man could be--she had to deal with the theatrics of a bunch of drama llamas who have apparently forgotten what it is to be an adult in general society. She--and the people around her--were forced to console people whose relationship with R was either non-existent, tangential or fictional, and babysit others who wanted to turn this solemn and tragic event into a fucking Ren Faire.

To those of you who would defend this behaviour: I realize that Chuckles and his Children think that their motivations were of the highest kind: I realize that they THINK their intention was to offer a tribute to R and the relationship they USED to have with him: I realize they think their hearts were in the right place.

But to my mind, whether they realize it consciously or not, this whole debacle was a selfish and insensitive attempt to make this entire thing all about THEM. I find it disturbing that adults feel the need to attend a funeral in costume. I realize that some SCA-dians are okay with that, but when the widow tells you "No fuckin' way" from the outset, you should maybe get the hint. Leave your fucking sword at home; we are there to pay our respects to a man who was witty and warm and brooked no foolishness, who served his community (they are naming a school after him), whose every thought and concern was for his children and his wife. We stood in the cold and the rain, weeping unashamedly for the loss of a life that was lived in laughter and hope and was taken inexplicably by a disease that leaves us all terrified and heartbroken, that leaves a widow to try and make sense of a world that must seem suddenly and horrifically empty, that leaves two children who will never know or remember the father who loved them so much.

This is not about false titles or honour or a code of chivalry that was mostly a myth even during the period in which is was supposed to have flourished. However much this fantasy may enrich YOUR life, R found it distasteful and childish, and there was no room for your self-indulgence and theatrics at his funeral. You want to offer this man a lasting tribute? Dig into your pockets: find a few bucks and donate it to the palliative centre of the hospital where he spent his last days in M's arms. Write letters to your MLA, telling them that you want to see changes in the health care system, so we have more specific blood markers and tests to detect this insidious disease in its earlier stages. Volunteeer at hospitals to drive the family members of cancer victims to their own appointments, so that they can take care of the day-to-day things that still need to happen while their loved one wastes away in a bed.

THAT'S a proper tribute. Examine your behaviour and grow the fuck up.

Benefit Plan

2011-09-27T22:02:00.001-06:00

Well, as I have been so slack in blogging lately, it will come as news to most of you that I was hired on as a permanent full-time employee on September 1st.

And things have only gotten weirder.

To begin with, Two Clowns isn't talking to me because I gave her some attitude last week. We--the billers--were all in the board room discussing some issues pertinent to the execution of our duties when Two Clowns busted in to announce, "The sausage and beef jerky guy is here."

The sausage and beef jerky guy is this old Ukrainian fella who stops by the office every three weeks or so to take our orders for various nitrate-laden flesh products. Usually, his visits are avidly anticipated, but we were all in the midst of actually discussing some important issues (see below), and Two Clowns's interuption was initially met with a confused and profound silence.

"Oh," I said, at last, "that must be very exciting for you."

The room--including Springsteen--erupted into laughter, which Two Clowns did not appreciate. She narrowed her eyes and said coldly, "Watch it."

"Does it do tricks?" I replied, at which point she stormed from the room and told the sausage and beef jerky guy to return in an hour or so.

She hasn't spoken to me since, which is fucking awesome. I wish I'd thought of being rude sooner. I should, perhaps, take the advice of my readers more to heart, as I believe rudeness was advocated at least once or twice.

Anyway, we are facing a potential calamity at the office, and by "we" I mean me specifically, but possibly the billing department in general. It all depends on what the company decides to do. Springsteen announced at the meeting that she will shortly be taking another position in the company, so while she will still work at our branch, she will no longer be our Boss. And while I'm happy for her and hope she does well, because I have an excellent relationship with Springsteen and am genuinely fond of her, what terrifies me is the fact that her replacement might very well be

Teeth.

Nothing is official, but she was being groomed for Springsteen's job before Springsteen got it and she's been walking around the office for the past week looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. It's a cat with really huge teeth, mind you--in the immortal words of Greg Giraldo, "(S)he's got a mouth full of two-by-fours. Everytime she smiles, I'm reminded I need to refinish my deck."

Anyway, nothing has been announced officially, but that's the latest tension. I harbour a small but determined hope that the company will recognize how disastrous Teeth would be in a position of authority, and will pass her over again.

So, given that at least three of us (Yvette, Princess Anne and myself) will seriously consider leaving should Teeth take the braces of power in the office, the hilarity that crossed my desk today was much appreciated, if completely incomprehensible.

It's incomprehensible in the sense that I simply cannot understand how or why people consistently complicate their lives and put themselves into compromsing situations, when it is significantly easier NOT to.

Today, I learned through Yvette (who is, despite her earlier remarks on the death of Osama bin Laden, one of the more functional personalities in the office) that Sylvester has been up to certain, inexplicable hijinks. I knew from Sylvester herself that her long-time partner is an adult baby, a particular fetish that I cannot claim to understand myself. Most of us successfully make the adjustment away from soothers and diapers. And even if we retain a whimsical longing for the carefree days of infancy when all of our needs were seen to by doting and adoring parents (if we were lucky), we still don't find it sexy to shit our pants.

Sylvester herself doesn't get off on the adult baby stuff, which might be why she approached one of the new dispatchers with an offer to be "a co-worker with benefits".

Now first off, I realize that it might seem convenient to approach someone at work with such an offer because we're all thrown into a common place for several hours a week, but by the same token, think it through: we're all thrown into a common place for several hours a week! If things go south (as they invariably do), AWKWARD doesn't begin to describe the atmosphere.

Yet, having been politely but firmly declined, retain a hold on your dignity: thank the man/woman/office machine for their courtesy and walk the hell away. It is not necessary to half-assed explain your advances with a description of your live-in partner's infantile activities involving sleepers, rattles and diapers.

But even if you think that IS necessary somehow (perhaps in a ploy for sympathy), I can guarantee that it is wholly damaging to your reputation in the office to explain to ANYONE that you have a porn site they can visit if they change their minds or are even remotely curious.

*insert the sound of a needle scratching across a record here*

"Waitaminnut, waitaminnut," I said to Yvette. "Porn site? What do you mean a porn site? You mean where she posts a list of her favourite turn ons and kinks, or..."

"No,"said Yvette, "where she demonstrates them!"

And thus was my mind blown, gentle readers, because except for a very select niche market, I'm relatively certain that NO-ONE is interested in watching a five-foot-one, three hundred pound woman built like a mailbox speaking in a lisp like Sylvester the Cat do ANYTHING remotely sexual. Most of us look away squeamishly when she peels her banana at break; I can't imagine anyone getting off on watching her...gah, I can't/won't go there.

But if that is your thing, that's perfectly fine (in private): but that information probably shouldn't be making the rounds at work, and if you thought it wouldn't get out, then you're even more naive than I am regarding Teeth and her chances for promotion.

What.

The fuck.

WTF Twice In One Week

2011-09-08T18:54:00.000-06:00

Last week was a bad one for piss-offs. Yes, the paycheque debacle ended happily, but hard on the heels of that bullshit was some more crap that made me scratch my head in friggin' wonder at what people think they can get away with. I mean, seriously: do people push the envelope with everyone they meet? Or is it just my own peculair karmic burden?

For example:

Across the road from us are three rental properties. I understand why home owners hate these fuckin' things. God knows I understand that not everyone is fortunate enough to own their own property (which is shit), but for the love of everything that is holy, people, take some pride in your environment. Clean up, fer chissakes. I understand that you're not invested in the property because it's not yours, and I'm not asking you to become members of the Horticultural Club (most of you can't even fucking spell it), but come on.

Directly across the street in the basement of one of these joints is an Islamic family of three. I refer to him as Mohammed and her as Fatima because, well, statistically my odds are good. I don't care for Mohammed very much because

a) he spits. I don't give a good goddam what your excuse is, don't fuckin' spit. Keep your fluids inside yourself. Hork all over the interior of your home if you must, but do not hock a lugee on the roads and sidewalks that I have to share with you, asswipe.

b) he dresses very badly. I have actually seen him outside the house wearing a plaid diaper flannel sarong. Now, I have no problem whatsoever with cultural or traditional costume, and I certainly--as one of the Enchanted People--do not have an issue with men in skirts. But seriously, plaid diaper flannel? Fatima actually lets you outside looking like that? Sheesh.

c) he has three vehicles.

This latter point is the true crux of the matter. He has an little red truck, a silver SUV and a little red car. The red truck and the SUV are used quite regularly although they are very often parked in front of other people's houses, to the point where our neighbours complain to him. The little red car, however, had, up until recently sat on the front street for a month and a half due to the driver's side front tire being deflated. Finally, I put a note on the windshield of the car that said, "Move this car or it will be towed," and the tire was inflated, but it still continues to sit out front.

Last week, I said to Mohammed, "Do you really need to take up three spaces on the street?"

"I use all of these cars!" he said to me. "The SUV belongs to my wife. I drive the truck to work."

"And the red car?"

"I drive it to work also."

"You drive both of them to work? That's quite a trick."

"No, the car I drive to work from three am until six. Then I come home and take the truck."

"You mean the car with the flat tire?"

Dead silence as he realized he'd been caught in a lie.

"Cuz here's the thing: I frequently can't use the space in front of my house because two of your three vehicles (which includes one that isn't being used) are parked right there."

"You have a garage, ya?"

"Yeah, and you have a garage, and I have a second vehicle that doesn't fit inside mine. So find somewhere else to park. Got it?"

I thought about telling him to keep his saliva in his mouth, but figured I'd start with something simple. We can move on to personal hygeine later on.

This exchange occurred on Wednesday or Thursday (I can't remember; all the incidences of fresh hell just kind of blend together after awhile). On Saturday morning at 5:00, I was awoken by the sound of car doors slamming over and over again. I had to get up to whiz (I have the world's smallest bladder, I think my one-year-old niece's is bigger), so while I was up, I looked out front.

Mohammed and Fatima were packing up the SUV and putting their toddler in the car seat, probably to go somewhere relaxing for the long weekend (not camping though--my impression is that immigrants don't camp). Anyway, I watched them fart around for awhile but when they drove off, I noticed that they had left a pile of crap right in front of our house. They had obviously emptied out the garbage from the back seat or whatever and just dumped it onto the street.

Fuck, was I furious. What kind of passive aggressive shit is that anyway? And even if (on the outside chance) it's not about me (and sometimes it's not), you don't just go dumping your crap on the street because you can't be arsed to find a garbage can, you fucking ditch pig. I managed to go back to sleep, but when I dragged my ass out of bed around 10:00, I stepped into my shoes, gathered up the garbage (broken cds, empty drink cups, adverts for halal meats, paperwork from the registry office for the red car, etc) and dumped it on their front step.

There has been no reaction (nor had there better be), other than none of Mohammed's vehicles has been parked in front of our house since.

So that was Episode One of WTF. The second one involves Two Clowns.

It was Friday afternoon, a Friday afternoon before a long holiday. Hitler's mother had died on Wednesday, which meant that I had to leave my favourite work to take up the Bullshit I Hate in her absence. I was making good headway, but not having done it in a few weeks, I was having to concentrate and make sure that I wasn't screwing up royally.

In a characteristic display of epic cluelessness, Two Clowns comes by my desk and spends twenty--count 'em, twenty--minutes, talking to me about recent upgrades to her fucking bedroom. She began by complaining to me about how the ex-Mr. Tw- Clowns would never let her have sheer draperies in the conjugal bedroom because he needed black-out blinds (probably to obscure her face, is my thought). Yet, since childhood, Two Clowns has yearned for a girly-girl room and constantly been denied.

Now, looking to me for sympathy is a little like going to Canadian Tire to get groceries. Yet, Two Clowns remains utterly oblivious to the fact that I am

a) trying to work,

b) concentrating like mad on a complex task, and

c) don't give a fucking shit sideways about her goddamned bedroom.

So oblivious is she, in fact, that when she finally leaves my desk, she goes back to her own and sends me an email that contains pictures of the bedroom, complete with lace curtains and microfibre chair. (Don't click there, it's not a link. If I don't wanto to see it, I can't imagine you do either.)

And it doesn't end there, either. About half an hour after the email, she came by my desk again and said reproachfully, "You didn't answer my email."

"I'm trying to get this shit done," I said drily, "but it looks very nice."

"You didn't even open it," she said and walked off.

Now I ask you, people: is there a karmic lesson I'm supposed to be learning here? I have heard it suggested that I am to learn patience through these interactions, but I remain unconvinced. My very humble opinion is that patience from other people is what has permitted these giant tools to get away with their douchebaggery thus far. But not with me. Nuh-uh. My thought is that my job in these cases is to correct these behaviours, at least where they intersect with me, so that they might just start to get the idea that there are consequences attached to being a self-indulgent asshole.

Thoughts???

A Pineapple In the Ass

2011-08-26T10:16:00.002-06:00

And no lube in sight!

So the temp agency that employs me on behalf of the transportation company does not have direct deposit. Therefore, if I do not pick up my cheques, they are mailed to my house. Ordinarily, this is not a problem. For almost a year now, the cheques have arrived promptly in my mailbox once a week.

Then in August, I realized that I hadn't seen a paycheque in a few weeks. So I went through my records and saw that I hadn't yet received my cheque from July 30, nor a couple in August, either. A week earlier, I had been told that they were 'in the mail".

On Wednesday, the one from the end of July arrived. I called the agency and was told the other two were still in the office. I told the woman to hold on to them and I would pick them up (as I had done a few times in the past) after work.

Yet when I arrived, the office was locked up and there were no cheques on the door (which is the usual procedure). Infuriated, I went home and called the agency to advise her that I would be there Friday morning around 9:00 to get my pay and would advise the transporation company that I would be late as a consequence.

I then wrote to Teeth, Big Head Office Lady and Springsteen (who is on holidays this week). I told them that I hadn't been paid and that if I didn't, for whatever reason, receive my cheques Friday morning, I would not be in to work because I'm not a volunteer.

So this morning, I dropped The Little Hunnydoo off at work and by 8:45 I was at the agency. Locked up, no cheques. I went and had some breakfast and was back at the agency by 9:15. Still locked, still no cheques and the office is supposed to be open by 8:30.

I came home. No message from the agency, but a nice email from Head Office Lady saying that if I still haven't received my pay, the transportation company will not pay the temp agency and steps will be taken to compensate me directly. So I called and left a message on her voice mail, describing my morning's adventures. I have yet to hear back from anyone.

And the thing is, Springsteen is away this week until the 30th. Head Office Lady and her boss were in the office from Monday until Wednesday and neither one of them called me in to give me an offer letter or anything. I mean Springsteen, keeps saying, "We're working on it," and "When it happens you won't have to wait three months for benefits," but I'm not seeing any forward movement here.

Yanno?

And boy, am I pissed off.

UPDATE: Less pissed off. Called the employment agency at 10:30 a.m. to find the woman just getting in. She said she would courier the cheques to my house, but as the conversation progressed, this changed to her dropping the cheques off after work and her not knowing what time that would be. I started to suspect it wouldn't happen (again), so I volunteered to go down to the office onr more time to pick the cheques up. I was successful in my quest and within ten minutes of getting them, they were deposited into my account.

I went into work after that, but Teeth said she was under the impression that I wouldn't be in at all today, so they had cancelled my veggie pizza (it's Pizza Day today) and ordered another meat one. (Apparently, they're all carnivores there. Go figure). So given that it was 11:30 and I could expect no lunch and Wolf Woman offered to do what few bills I had in my queue, I took the rest of the day off.

So anyway, I'm paid.

And the other news is that Head Office lady assures me that she is 99% finished the hiring process from her end and hopefully by September 1st, I will be working for them instead of the temp agency.

The Handicap Is Not Necessarily Physical

2011-08-20T14:39:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I was extremely confrontive with a woman at the bank. I'd had a productive, but slightly frustrating day at work and I was in no mood to deal with anymore self-indulgence or senses of entitlement (other people's, that is).

So when this fucking douchecanoe in an SUV pulled into the handicapped stall without a stucker permitting her this privilege, I was already primed for her. I watched her get out of the SUV and give a bowl of something to her friend in the SUV parked next to her, before she came into the bank and took her place in line behind me in front of the ATMs.

I looked at her and said, "You know that's a handicapped stall."

"Yes," she said.

"You don't have a sticker," I observed.

She avoided eye contact. "It's inside (the car)," she replied.

Normally, I would have left it at that, allowing her to wallow in her shame and the knowledge that she had been caught in a lie.

But yesterday, I just couldn't.

So I said

"You are so full of shit."

She clicked her tongue, sighed and rolled her eyes. But she didn't argue with me. And that's key.

Stupid yuppie bitch. God forbid you should ever actually need to use one of those parking stalls legitimately, you twunt.

Never Volunteer For Anything

2011-08-16T22:35:00.000-06:00

Months ago at a staff meeting, Springsteen and Head Office Lady indicated that they were looking for volunteers to take over one of the billing tasks currently assigned to the biller known informally as Hitler, because she was being trained on other things. I foolishly raised my hand. I naively thought that this would indicate my willingness to invest in the company and make it more likely for them to hire me on permanent full-time. (And we all know how THAT has panned out, don't we?)

I started training for the new task (which I shall refer to as The Bullshit) in June and realized very quickly why all of the other billers sat on their hands and avoided making eye contact with Head Office Lady. At one point last week, I went into Springsteen's office and said, "I don't think I can do This Bullshit anymore." I almost left the building. Honest to Gawd, it's too complex to get into in detail here: let's just say that we better be making a metric fuck-ton of money off of these customers, because the process for invoicing these bills is fucking ridiculous. All That Bullshit is in the top five reasons why I am seeking employment elsewhere. It's complicated, it's boring, it's an unweildy process and I've had to do it all myself because Hitler is working from home so she can care for her terminally ill mother ("I have to wipe her bum." Actual quote. Again, what is it with this office and the lack of boundaries surrounding personal information???)

Furthermore, it was a little galling to see my old task go to The Cub.

But you know, sometimes when you want something badly enough, your prayers are answered.

On Sunday, the Cub was in a car accident. She's not badly hurt at all, but her doctor has ordered her to be off work for the next ten days. And then she starts school to upgrade her high school. (She wants to be a NURSE!) Convenient, huh? Not hurt, no whiplash, but off work for ten days and then school! Hmmmm...well, I smell something rotten in the state of Denmark, but I'm NOT COMPLAINING.

Because it means I get my old work back.

And Hitler has to take The Bullshit back, at least for the forseeable future.

I confess, I am a little disappointed that I won't be seeing The Cub again any time soon. Not that I enjoyed her vapid conversation, her constant fucking the dog or her loud hiccupping several times a day (followed invariably by juvenile sniggering. Srsly).

It's just that recently, I learned that if one scratches a message into the surface of a banana with a toothpick, overnight the wounds darken to reveal the message. I was hoping to start leaving messages on her fruit like

YOU'RE NEXT

and

I SEE YOU

as well as

BIMBO

SLUNT

Of course, although The Cub is gone, Teeth and Two Clowns remain to plague my days, and I am very happy to accept suggestions from you, dear readers, regarding messages that could be scratched into THEIR fruit.

Email Hijinks

2011-08-12T17:12:00.004-06:00

Lately at work, The Cub has been driving everyone absolutely nuts. Just turned eighteen, this is her first "real" job, and her age shows. She's constantly booking off time to go to concerts, comes in late four mornings out of five, dicks around texting when she should be working and is the object of much male attention. There is always at least one, sometimes two, young guys buzzing around her desk like hopeful bees waiting for the flower to nod in their direction.

One of the dispatchers is especially sweet on her. In typical high school flirty fashion, he opened Word on her screen earlier this week and wrote, "LOSER" in 72 point Ariel.

She screamed at him in that faux-indigantion tone girls her age use and stalked off. When the coast was clear, I walked over to her desk and added, "BUTTMUNCH" to the page.

When she discovered that, she ripped the dispatcher a new one. But she didn't close the program.

So when she wandered off to check her hair in the washroom or file something incorrectly, I went to her desk again and added, "BACK ALLEY CRAP MUFFIN."

It didn't matter what the dispatcher said, she was convinced it was him. I had a really good time at work that day.

For the past week and a half, she's been obsessing over the tattoo that she plans to get on her foot this weekend. She's been asking a lot of questions, like "Can I go drinking afterwards?", "Will they tie my foot down so it doesn't jump around?" and "Will it bleed?"

We've heard about as much about that fucking tattoo as we can stand. So this afternoon, when she went for lunch (for which she was missing for an hour and a half, when the rest of us get half an hour), I pulled up her email and sent this to all the billers and Springsteen:

Subject: Available Now!

Okay, so like in order to help pay for my wikked new tattoo, I've had to start a little job on the side. For a limited time only, I will be selling and intalling inflatable nuns! Perfect for the home, garden or work, inflatable nuns make a perfect gift for that hard-to-by-for someone in your life!

Please contact me for rates and prices!

Thanks, like, a lot, 'kay?

The Cub

In the meantime, her mother (NOT in on the joke), told the Biller I Like that she feels bad for The Cub, cuz she's "trying really hard" (srsly?) and was chagrined because "now I'm gonna hafta buy one."

When The Cub sauntered in from her extended lunch, she was initially unaware of the email, until Springsteen called her into her office and said, "You're kidding, right?"

So, The Cub naturally blamed the dispatcher who has been hitting on her for two weeks now, but after he vociferously denied any involvement, she sent out this response (and this is copied directly from her email):

Soo guys, please disregard this email, this was NOT ME. Im not sure who was messing around with my email, but its NOT TRUE .

Thank you ,

The Cub.

Confusion? Mayhem? Disorder?

My work here is done.

At the Water Cooler

2011-08-02T18:45:00.003-06:00

Springsteen and I, alone in the staff room Thursday morning last week.

Me: So, is Two Clowns a manager here?

Springsteen: She sure likes to think so.

Me: Well, what does she do?
Springsteen: She enters the rates into the system so you know what to pay the drivers and charge the customers.
Me: And she helps to establish those rates as well?
Springsteen: No, she just enters them.
Me: So, are you telling me that Two Clowns is nothing better than a glorified data entry clerk?
Springsteen: (gives me a meaningful look, but stays silent)
Me: Wow.
Springsteen: Why?
Me: I was just curious. Cuz she said some things to me last week about another biller, things that were really personal and inappropriate, so I just wanted to know--if it happens again--if I could just tell her to fuck off.
Springsteen: I've got your back.

I've fallen way behind in my blogging for which I apologize to all y'all, because I've got some adventures to relate. We've just been so busy; I haven't even had time to work on my novel in a week. I swear, the minute I have a chance I will get to Long Island Lake Retreat: The Revenge of Jack Fish and Quad War: Now With Less Douchebaggery.

DONE!

2011-07-27T18:27:00.002-06:00

No, seriously--I'm still working there, but I've already started applying at other places. I'm done.

I decided yesterday, after the usual Tuesday afternoon deadline panic, that I was fed up with being thrown to the lions with inadequate training and still being expected to give a shit about anything. Let alone put up with any number of dysfunctional personalities. So I put a resume in at some other place last night.

And after this morning, I am even more convinced that my time with my current assignment is extremely limited.

Most mornings, one of the other billers (a recent hire)brings a Timmy Horton's coffee in for Teeth. I don't know why, but when she doesn't, one of the managers (the guy who hires all of our drivers) does. As a result, yesterday Teeth ended up with two coffees. Not surprisingly, this morning, she failed to receive even one. Did she laugh?

NO.

Teeth actually blew a hype so big that the manager left the office and fetched her a coffee from Timmy's at 9:00 a.m. And let's review: not only is there free coffee in the lunch room, the stupid bitch passes a Timmy's on the way to work every morning.

This brings to mind an incident that occured about three weeks ago. I pulled into the parking lot to discover that Teeth's spot was empty. I never know if she is going to be absent or whatever, so I pulled in. Mulan was being dropped off at the same time.

She said to me, "You cannot pahk dere!"

"Why not?"

"Dat's Teeth's spot."

"Her name's not on it, Mulan."

Mulan's response was to click her tongue and shake her head. Inside, in front of the Biller I Like and Princess Anne, she pursued the topic.

"You haf to move yo cah," she said.

"I'm not doin' it," I replied.

"One time, Sylvester pahked in her spot and Teeth made her move."

"Well, she can try it," I said.

But she didn't, because Teeth has hopefully learned by now that it will be a frosty Friday before I indulge her in any of the crap she so liberally dishes out to other people.

And at this point, I can't even blame Teeth anymore. Sure, she's a douchecanoe of the first order, but other people let her get away with this bullshit. I don't know what they think will happen if they tell her to get stuffed, but my experience was: NOTHING.

Which is about as much loyalty I have to this place anymore. It's not just Teeth and Two Clowns; it's the lack of organization and a bunch of other small things that add up to a general sense of dissattisfaction.

So I'm looking around.

Swingin' From the Rafters

2011-07-25T20:34:00.003-06:00

First off, let me start by saying that although Springsteen assures me that plans to hire me full-time permanently are in the works, they haven't done so yet. It's been eight months on August 6, and I am still not getting benefits, vacation time or sick days. And yet, they give me challenging new tasks and responsibilities, so I know my job is secure.

But today, I am starting to wonder if I shouldn't ask the temp agency for another assignment.

You've all read the stories of Teeth and the WalMart Girls. You know they're a unique bunch. In the past, I have found Teeth's neuroses intrusive enough to change my break times in order to socialize with the other pod. Teeth seems to have forgiven me my defection and last Thursday appeared at my cubicle to bond with me over health issues. I applaud her efforts to take care of herself and was quite willing to listen to her recount the success she's had bringing her blood pressure down (here's a hint, my little polo pony: stop worrying about where you park, your ass OR your car) and resolving her digestive issues.

I was less enthusiastic to learn about the diarrhea she had over the weekend, the constipation that followed and her haemmorhoids. Yes, Teeth actually stood there and told me about the varicose veins in her anus.

Fucking awesome.

I wish I could say that this was the most inappropriate thing to happen at the office last week, but I'd be lying. At least Teeth is more or less my peer. It was, in her own warped, controlling and over-sharing way, an attempt to make contact with me (which is essential, because I remain aloof and have stolen her thunder as the "funny one").

But that was nothing compared to the tarot reading I gave to Two Clowns on Friday afternoon.

Two Clowns has told me in the past that her grandmother was married to Bailey (of Barnum and Bailey's Circus) and when he died, gypsies taught her how to read playing cards. And of all her grandchildren, Two Clowns was the only one to inherit "the Gift." (Insert wanking motions here.)

So when she suggested I do a reading for her, I was reluctant, but what the hell, right? It's $40.00 I wouldn't otherwise have and I thought I might glean some comic gold. I even considered calling her on her shit by throwing down the spread and saying, "Well, you're the one with the Gift; go for it. I'll be in my pod if you need me."

But, no, I was professional about it, which is more than I can say for Two Clowns. I can't divulge what her reading was about, but what I can say is that at the end of a tortorous thirty minutes, Two Clowns went off on a tangent about this other biller in my pod.

Now, this biller has never appeared on this blog because, out of all of them, she's probably the most "normal". She hardly ever says things that are retarded. She has never said anything racist. She has what appear to be nice, positive, healthy relationships with her friends and children. She's bright and a good conversationalist. She pulls her weight at work. I rather like her. She invited us to go camping with her and a group of her friends and, had the weather co-operated, we would have gone, which is not something I can say about anyone else in that office.

The only thing out of the ordinary about this biller is that she belongs to a swinger's club. She does not talk about this at work, although it is something well-known about her. But she knows that work is not the place to discuss such things, and so we find other topics. Appropriate, right? Professional. Mature. Adult. Well-adjusted. All things that Two Clowns is not.

Because guess who else frequents this club? Mr. Ex-Two Clowns!!! And although they have been divorced for three years, Two Clowns can't get past it. It's apparently eating her up inside. She went into quite a bit of detail (that I didn't need or want) about how the club is furnished, what happens with whom, right down to various positions.

It is, as far as I'm concerned, grossly inappropriate for a manager to be giving someone like me (not even a permanent employee, a temp!!!) such deeply personal information like this about one of my colleagues (one who I like and respect, even). This is proof that Two Clowns is unhinged in some significant way.

She said to me, "I don't know if you've sensed it, but I can't bear to be in the same room as (the other biller)."

Well, no, Two Clowns, I haven't sensed it, because you still take your breaks with us. When I had an issue with someone, I changed my break time. I think you just like to pick at the scab. And you need to grow up.

So between Two Clowns's revolting display of immaturity, Teeth's haemorrhoids, Princess Anne saying "Paki" all the time, and racist emails going out from one of the other managers (emails that would be deeply embarrassing should one of our Islamic drivers see them), I am considering requesting another assignment.

Because I don't think Springsteen can do anything about Two Clowns (I mean, that woman needs counselling) and I don't really want to put up with too much more of this weirdness. Besides, I can't say anything to Springsteen without violating the confidentiality of the tarot reading.

What do you guys think?

(PS: I had a totally blogworthy weekend and will write about it over the next couple of days, but I need to download the photos first, so stay tuned. I had to get this off my chest first).

The Return of Two Clowns

2011-07-08T10:25:00.003-06:00

This blog has been almost eerily quiet because there has been so little going on at work. Teeth has been extraordinarily well behaved and Two Clowns has been very busy working on negotiations with some drivers that were on strike. I don't think she was in charge of the negotiations, since she can barely navigate the four corners of her own office, but she has been noticeably absent from breaks and lunch hours.

But now that the strike has been resolved, Two Clowns has unfortunately reappeared. With her usual elan, she showed up at Yvette's cubicle yesterday to offer her support following Yvette's mother's death on Sunday. Yvette, who was very close to her mom, naturally looked wan and pale; her eyes were puffy and it was amazing to me that she was in the office at all.

Two Clowns poked her head over the cubicle wall and asked, "How're you doing?"

Yvette shrugged. "I'm alright," she said unconvincingly.

"Jeez, Yvette, you look like shit," said Two Clowns and walked off.

Nice going, bitch. I'm sure she needed to hear that.

That was just mean-spirited and thoughtless, but the other story regarding Two Clowns illustrates how fucking clueless she is about life in general.

Apparently, she received an email from some guy in the UK, telling her that she has won several hundreds of thousands of pounds in a lottery run by one of the banks. She has been directed to send a certain amount of her own money to Western Union in order for the guy to post the money to her account.

Two Clowns sent all of this correspondence to the RCMP and Scotland Yard, and the RCMP are looking into it. Despite their warnings, she has spoken to the alleged fraudster, who she says has a strong Middle Eastern accent. The cops have told her that these people can be very dangerous and that she should avoid contact with them.

Naturally, Two Clowns is undaunted.

"They can bring it!" she reportedly told the cops. "But, maybe you could give me a weapon!"

"Uh, well, we can't actually go around arming our citizens," the cops supposedly said.

"Too bad," replied Two Clowns, "cuz I'd make this guy afraid."

Yeah, I'm pretty sure these wealthy, well-connected con artists would quake in their sandals if they knew they were dealing with an assassin from Canada's navy.

I don't for a minute believe that she presented such bravado to the cops; given the consuming insecurities that cause her to be such a fucking liar in the first place, I'm sure the conversation went more like this:

"OMG! These people know how to contact me!! Can't you put me in protective custody or something??? Can't you give me a gun? Or mace??? ANYTHING!!! Hell, I'll even take a stapler at this point!"

But the fact that she tells this story around the office just makes me roll my eyes. I can't for the life of me figure out how she can be so completely unaware of how ridiculous she seems to the rest of the office. She seems blissfully unware that she is universally considered a lying asshole.

I suppose she gets away with it because we are a co-operative society, which is proof to me that this co-operation thing is very much over-rated.

Anyway, I'll keep you posted, but of course, the outcome won't bear any resemblance to reality (which is the appeal of the on-going story, of course). The cops will look into it, the guys will elude capture and/or detection and the whole incident will fade away. Except that when Two Clowns tells it, these people will visit her house to demand her money, and the whole situation will culminate in a blazing shoot-out where she appears on her roof in a wife-beater and camo pants with an AK-47 strapped to her arm for the salvation of Western civilization.

Can't fuckin' wait.

Chester the Molester

2011-06-20T19:12:00.002-06:00

Okay, so last Friday, I was heading out of the house to pick up the Little Hunnydoo from work. As I was going towards the car, I saw a colourful local character coming towards me on his scooter.

Now, I have always hated this guy. I don't know why, but the sight of this crazy old fart on his tricked out scooter with his little dog in his lap--and the little dog wears a ridiculous hat--just drives me nuts. For one, I have to admit--and this does not make me look good, I realize--I hate those friggin' scooters. I am happy not to be in one and I generally have sympathy for those who are, but I hate 'em. (I used to work at a place full of intellectually impaired adults, and one of them lacked bladder control. I can assure you that you have probably never smelled anything as rancid as hot, rotting urine mixed with scooter battery acid in your life, unless you are prone to sticking your head into dead things.)

And it's not JUST that he drives in on the street rather than on the sidewalk which is a fucking asspain for those of us in cars THAT BELONG ON THE ROAD. No, I can't tell you why I've always hated the sight of this stupid old asshole, but I did recognize that

a) I am a bitter twat with a sizeable streak of misanthropy, and
b) some of my feelings of mistrust and disdain are unreasonable.

Therefore, when I saw the old fucker driving towards me without his tricked out little dog, I thought I would push my own boundaries, step outside my nasty, embittered, homocidal self.

So I said, "Hey, where's your little dog?"

He pulled up and said, "Oh, my scooter broke down, so I'm using this one and there's no place for him to sit. So he's at home crying."

"Oh, that's too bad," I said, and then we shot the shit for a few minutes about the weather and aren't we glad winter is finally over, blahblahblah.

A car was approaching as our conversation reached a natural conclusion, and the old fucker said, "I'll just wait for this car to go by and head off." (He lives on my block on the other side of the street, which just fucking figures).

So as we waited for the car to pass, he said, "Give me a hug."

And (yes, I can virtually see all of your eyebrows raising up into your hairlines), because I was trying to be a better, more compassionate person, because I was trying to step outside my misanthropic ways, I thought, "Aww, poor old crippled guy. He's probably lonely and without his dumb little dog to boot."

So I hugged him (oh, stop it!), and as I was pulling away, his hands groped my breasts. I couldn't fucking believe it. I straightened up and looked at him.

"They're just my hands," he said.

"They're just my breasts!" I said back, which was all I could manage due to my overwhelming shock.

What I SHOULD have said was, "Yeah, and you touch another woman with those hands like that, and I'll reverse your kneecaps so that you walk like a fucking ostrich, you old pig."

And that's what I get for trying to better myself: groped.

Thor the Bore

2011-05-18T20:52:00.004-06:00

Okay--for the kind of movie it was, I guess it was okay. Actually, that's not true, because when you think about the kind of movie it was--which is to say, one based on a comic book--I can think of at least two others that were significantly better, being V For Vendetta and The Watchmen.

Now, to be sure, Thor the comic book makes no political or social commentary (neither did the comic, I assume, since I never read it), so the movie isn't expected to either. It can't even bring itself to accurately reflect the Norse mythos.

I went to see it because I was intrigued by the talent behind it: Anthony Hopkins, Natalie Portman and Kenneth Branagh (director) are all winners in my book. And I can honestly say that the individual performances were fine. In fact, Anthony Hopkins deserves some kind of award for credibly delivering lines that were less than inspired. I mean, The Lion In Winter this was not, despite the wintery frost giants and all the talk of kings and political manouvering.

On the other hand, Hopkins could read the phone book and it would sound like Shakespeare.

But the plot was utterly predictable, and so linear, so straight, that at this very minute, that plot is driving its kids to soccer practice in a mini-van.

The 3-D effects were kinda cool, but I found them occasionally distracting. I would be looking at one part of the screen thinking, "Oh, that's an interesting texture," and have to remind myself that there was a cosmic battle occurring.

The best line of the flick (in my humble opinion) is spoken when Thor's divine friends show up in their faux-Norse armour in the middle of a New Mexico town. A townsman says, "Is there a Renaissance Faire in town?"

Ha ha on the SCA.

Also, I was delighted to sit through the credits in order to catch a glimpse of the magnetic Samuel L. Jackson, setting us up for the next installation in the series. Jackson is incredible, and I would watch him read the phonebook, too, only I suspect it might sound less like Shakespeare and more like, "Albert Spechko lives at 123 Maple Lane, motherfucker! Why am I reading this fuckin' phone book? Bitch, order me a pizza!"

You Gotta Be Kidding!

2011-05-17T18:55:00.003-06:00

So guess what arrived in the mailbox today?

You'll never guess, I swear.

A LETTER ADDRESSED TO FLAKE FROM FLAKE'S LAWYER!!!

No word of a lie! That crazy bitch still hasn't informed her lawyer that she is living somewhere else (probably with her rapist husband). It's been three months since we threw her out!

This time we're not even bothering to call her to tell her it's here. It's just going in the mailbox as returned mail.

Fuckin' crazy bitch. Get organized already.

THINK!

2011-05-09T22:24:00.004-06:00

I don't know why I bother to argue/discuss things with the women at work as often as I do, which isn't very often. Most of the time, when someone (especially Two Clowns) says something stupid or which I know to be an historical or factual inaccuracy, I just sigh to myself and whisper the mantra, "Let it go."

But occasionally I think, "Here's an opportunity to educate someone!" And this almost always leads to disappointment for me.

Like the second time Princess Anne ventured to talk about the "Paki dot." This is an expression I find really offensive, smacking as it does of racism and ignorance.

But people get defensive and pissy when you attack them the way you might initially be inclined, so when she said "Paki dot," most recently, I turned to her and said as neutrally as I could manage, "Do you know what the 'Paki dot' is?"

"No," she said, to no-one's surprise.

"It's properly called a bhindi," I explained. "It is an ancient and sacred symbol of a woman's marriage to her husbnad, which in Hindu tradition, is not just for this lifetime, but for all reincarnations. It is a time-homoured symbol of a woman's maturity and represents that she is able to take her place in society with the rest of the adult females."

And I said all this because I think it is not enough to simply condemn racism and ignorance; it is necessary also to educate.

But Princess Anne wasn't impressed. She doesn't say "Paki dot" anymore, but that's because I obviously find it offensive, and not because my words had any effect on her. Alas. I can't say I didn't try.

Then on the morning of the Royal Wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton, a discussion broke out regarding who will be the next Queen of England. The Cub thought it would be Kate Middleton, obviously confusing a wedding with a coronation.

"The next Queen of England, will be Prince Charles's wife," I said.

"No, it won't" said a woman so despised in the office that she is referred to variously as Fucking Bitch, Cunt or Hitler, depending on who you talk to (and no, it's not Teeth). "Camilla won't be Queen because she's been divorced once before."

"So has Charles," I said. "Diana didn't die while married to him. You think they'll deny him the throne because he divorced?"

"Oh, no, he'll be King, but they won't let her become Queen," said the Villified One.

This is just bullshit and I started to get a little impatient. "According to the Ascension Act of 1759, the Heir Apparent's wife must become the Queen when the Sovereign dies. It would require the changing of the British Constitution--which is not likely--to wrangle the scenario you are suggesting."

Now, I confess, I made the year of the Ascension Act up out of the thin air because at that moment, I couldn't recall the precise year. But I do know, from my various readings on the Queen and her lot that I am right. And it effectively shut the WalMart girls up, but only because I outgeeked them. It has become rampantly and abundantly clear to me that people like the sound of their own voices (hence blogs like this one) and will happily blather on stupidly regarding topics they know nothing about.

For example:

Last Thursday in the lunch room, Yvette and Two Clowns--for reasons I can no longer recall--were discussing post-mortem disposition. Or, what happens to you after you die. This might have come up as a result of me saying I can't bear to think about being cremated (weird, I know, but I can't).

"You know," said Two Clowns, "your hair and fingernails continue to grow for three months after you die."

"I heard four," said Yvette.

"Actually," I said, "this is deceptive. It's not that the fingernails and hair are growing. What is actually happening is that the extremities--your nose, toes, fingers and scalp--are dessicating, thus giving the illusion of growth. But really, you're shrinking."

"That's not correct," said Two Clowns bluntly, and gave me this superior, condescending smile that immediately make me want to kick her in the chin.

"If you do some rudimentary research," I replied reasonably, "I think you will find it is, in fact, true. I've done a certain amount of research on this subject."

But the dead silence in the room suggested that neither Two Clowns--supposedly a woman of accomplishment and education--nor Yvette believed a word I said. I dunno; maybe it's more fun to think of your hair and nails growing in the casket even though it's not physically possible BECAUSE YOU'VE STOPPED METABOLIZING, and this would become obvious the second you applied any kind of logical thought to the matter.

But it's becoming increasingly obvious to me that they just see me as some kind of geek possessed of a vast wealth of esoteric and/or useless knowledge. And they're right. Most of what I appear to know isn't exactly practical knowledge. I just don't understand how or why they choose to live in ignorance.

People: I just don't get 'em.

Fuck You, Clown!

2011-05-04T22:03:00.003-06:00

So, earlier this week, I was having an issue with a settlement that wouldn't compute. And since this was a driver pay-cut off (read time-sensitive) and since Two Clowns's sole responsibility in the office is to fix rates and shit, I had the distinct misfortune of having to work with her on this.

And I'm okay with that, since these guys work as hard as I do for a living and deserve to get paid. And the company pays me a certain amount of money to bust my hump a couple of times a month to fix these problems and meet these deadlines.

What I don't appreciate, however, is having Two Clowns approach my desk and greet me with the words, "Okay, Shorty."

On the other hand, it's the most truthful thing she's said all week, so I shouldn't complain.

Drama Mama

2011-05-03T21:53:00.005-06:00

Since I cannot bring myself to talk about the federal election, I will vent my spleen by bitching about Teeth.

As regular readers will know, Teeth recently attended a funeral back east. She has taken every opportunity since then to describe the various hysterics that occured, from who was invited (thus incurring the widower's wrath) to the self-indulgent carrying-on of some younger members of the family who couldn't be arsed to call grandma for the last two years of her life.

And Teeth will relate these stories to anyone that will listen, from her podmates and colleagues to anyone she gets on the phone. She's gotten a lot of mileage out of this funeral, which is clearly the most dramatic and important thing to happen to her since the development of orthodontia.

So I wasn't really surprized when Yvette emailed me yesterday to tell me that Teeth posted a card in the staff room, thanking the company for the lovely flower arrangement they sent to the services. Included with the card was a photo of said arrangement alongside the mother-in-law's casket.

Some of you more forgiving types might be thinking, "What's the big deal?", but I, for one, feel that a photo of the casket is

a) over the top
b) personal and private, and
c) one more way to remind us that SHE WAS AT A FUNERAL, YANNO, AND IT WAS REALLY, REALLY SAD.

Also, Yvette announced to the staff room during our break that she doesn't believe the Americans actually killed Osama bin Laden. Her argument is that for starters, they buried him at sea which is, like, a dead-giveaway, cuz it happened so fast. And secondly, she points out, how many people "over there" look just like him? It coulda been anyone.

It does no good to point out to her that, in strict accordance with Muslim tradition, a body must be interred within twenty-four hours of death (these people live in a hot climate--this makes sense). Nor will she listen when you tell her that burying him at sea deprives his followers of a pilgrimmage site. And on top of all that, how stupid would the Americans (especially President Obama) look if next week, bin Laden were to release a "Ha! Ha! I'm over here, next to Waldo!" video?

(Thanks to Aaron for the Waldo reference.)

And Two Clowns was no help at all during this discussion. Her contribution was, "I was in the Canadian Navy for seven years. As far as I'm concerned, his burial at sea was too dignified and better than he deserved."

"It does us no good to descend to the level of our enemies," I said, reasonably, but she went off on a vitriolic rant about what a shitbag bin Laden was, blahblahblah.

And I'm sure that the burial at sea disappoints Teeth, too, because now she can't attend the funeral or post pictures of the casket.

I'm A Handful

2011-04-26T20:24:00.005-06:00

I admit it, I just am sometimes.

The Little Hunneydoo and I have just returned from a spectacular weekend in Jasper. Alberta, deep in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. It's like Banff, near Calgary, only without all the Japanese.

We spent three days shopping, eating, drinking, eating, shopping, hiking, walking around shopping and then stopping to eat and drink. And the best thing about Jasper is, it is so small, you can get absolutely shit-faced drunk anywhere in town and still be able to crawl back to your lodgings. You don't have to worry about driving! Ever!

Not that I speak from experience, mind you.

As it is, despite the non-stop beer and cider, I managed to behave myself for the most part. The only time I got up to any specific mischief was at LouLou's Breakfast and Pizzeria on Sunday morning. The Little Hunneydoo and I were seated side-by-side at the bar, as all the booths were taken up by vacationing families and these lean, earnest outdoorsy types. You know, the kind who think it's fun to cling to vertical rock walls or camp outdoors in the wintertime. That's crazy shit, yo.

Anyway, I was at the very end of the bar and happened to notice that one of the staff had started what appeared to be a grocery list. On it, in distinctive (easily forged) block letters was written

CHEESE
VEG...
PIZZA SAUCE

And to this list, I added

ADULT DIAPERS
PREP H
MUSHROOMS

The Little Hunneydoo just rolled her eyes and shook her head. But I want you to know, adding "mushrooms" was her suggestion.

And you will be proud to note that I only had one outburst this weekend as well. I managed not to get into a fist fight with a member of the Ballcap Brotherhood, nor did I trip a child or smack a granola-crunching hippy, however sorely pressed.

No, in fact, my outburst was fairly appropriate. As we were leaving Jasper National Park, we pulled over so that the Little Hunneydoo could take some shots of the mountain sheep at the side of the road. Unfortunately, she found it hard to get decent ones because of all the FUCKING JERKS WHO LEFT THEIR VEHICLES TO STAND WITHIN METRES OF THESE MAGNIFICENT ANIMALS.

Yes, this despite very large signs written in bold letters advising visitors to the park that "IT IS UNLAWFUL TO APPROACH OR FEED WILDLIFE".

So, as we were very slowly pulling away, I hollered, "What you're doing is fucking illegal! Get back in your fucking cars!!"

One twat gave me the hairy eyeball, but fuck her; it would have been poetic fucking justice to see the ram of that flock put his big, curly horn in her fucking eyesocket. Douchenozzle. Ya don't get it, do ya? The more accustomed to stupid humans like you these animals become, the more danger they are in. But who cares, right? As long as you get that picture, what happens to one or even a flock of those beasts doesn't really matter, because by the time disaster occurs, you'll be at home burning the photos onto a cd.

You can lick my ass, bitch.

Oh, and before I forget (speaking of bitches)...

The recent departure of the Princess of Wales has left a very silent and obvious void in her former pod, made up of Yvette, the Cub (Wolf Woman's daughter, who says I remind her of Napoleon Dynamite, whatever that is) and a strangely silent man named Al. Today, Yvette went into see Springsteen and told her she was lonely without the Princess of Wales.

"Who do want to move in?" Springsteen asked.

Yvette said, "Sharon Needles," and so, after lunch, I moved to the new pod with such speed, I'm sure the dust is still settling in the old one.

I walked into the staff room to fill my water bottle while Teeth was taking her lunch and she said, "Shhhh! Don't say anything: it's Sharon Needles, the defector!"

It crossed my mind to drop trow and show her my gorrilla salad (thanks, Maven!), but confined myself to explaining to her that my presence had been specifically requested.

Pretty cool, huh?

kd Does Not Stand For Kraft Dinner...

2011-04-20T17:33:00.006-06:00

..especially if you are a dyke.

It's official: kd lang is coming to the Edmonton Folk Fest in July and the Little Hunneydoo and I are going, if we have to sell off our impressive collection of marital aids from Dildo Junction to do it.

There are two reasons for this. One, although my taste typically runs to fembots and lipstick lesbians (or even chapstick lesbians like the delicious Ellen Degeneres--HI, ELLEN! CALL ME!!), and kd is a little handsome for my liking, she nevertheless has a Voice From the Gods. Also, she will just have to say something remotely flirty (i.e. "Good evening, Edmonton,") and flash that lopsided grin and the Little Hunneydoo will bust a rib flinging herself at the stage. And if kd ventures to sing "Hallelujah" or "Constant Craving" or "Miss Chatelaine", then people, just get out of the way, cuz there'll be no stopping her.

The second reason is that, as lesbos, the Missus and I are required to attend, especially as we missed Melissa Etheridge's concert earlier this year. It is time to check in with the Mothership, because if we miss this performance, the Dyke Mafia will come and demand to see our papers. (They don't carry guns, but wield a nasty pool cue).

Naturally, attendance is required for ALL the dykes in the province and that is what concerns me about attending. I don't generally hang out with a lot of my Sapphic sisters, and my fear is that I will get caught on this hill with thousands of stocky, short-haired braless women wearing hemp shirts, wool socks and Birkenstock sandals. I, naturally, will be down in front trying to pry the Little Woman from kd's ankles, but I'm worried that I will glance backward like Lot's wife and turn to salt when I see an entire hillside of mad fanny-bashers practicing their cunning linguistics as Ms. lang takes us to the crescendo of "Two Cigarettes In An Ashtray."

See, that's the thing: boys think girl-on-girl action is hawt, but the girls they're thinking of aren't generally lesbians. Most of the women *I* know who claim to be a dyke don't resemble Samantha Fox or Helen Hunt or even my own Little Chocolate Bunny. Most of them look like Linda Hunt. And no-one wants to see that. Not even Linda Hunt.

Anyway, Teeth was back at the office today, and she wasn't at her desk fifteen minutes before she started moaning about the mess Walter made and what the hell was he doing anyway to make such a mess and blah-blah-blah. She showed me the kleenex she was using to wipe up her desk and all I did was shrug as if to say, "Just quit yer whining and get on with it."

When really what I wanted to say was, "Fer Chrissakes, someone drop an anvil on this bitch!"

The Hot Seat

2011-04-19T18:16:00.005-06:00

Things at work have been going quite well, Two Clowns and her bullshit aside. Much of this has to do with the fact that Teeth has been absent for a week: it seems that after the lumpectomy, Teeth's mother-in-law bought the farm, making it necessary for Teeth and her pig-dog husband and the child to fly east for the funeral.

Now, I want you to know that I am--and I acknowledge that I am--a small and petty person. I cannot claim to have the milk of human kindness flowing through my veins. Nope, not me. And I say this because, when Teeth emailed the office last week to tell us that she had landed safely, but the airline lost her luggage, I laughed. Quietly to myself, mind you, but I did laugh. It also crossed my mind to wonder if she had to book an extra seat for her teeth, or if the child had to share...

See? I'm just nasty. Seriously.

But I don't--as a rule--inflict my behaiour on other people. I used to, absolutely, but that was before counselling. Now, I can share my thoughts and feelings with an individual or a group with the intention not of manipulating social situations, but rather to share what might be a common experience.

Not so much Teeth, who still managed to drive me right out of my fucking mind, even from 5000 kms away. Here's how:

The day after Teeth left for the east coast, Walter came and sat at her desk. Walter is an older fellow who is doing some light duties around the office while he recovers from some injury or whatever. Everyone calls him "Walt", but I pointedly address him as "Walter" because "Walt" is too familiar, and I don't want to give the old guy any encouragement. Believe me, he doesn't need any. He already sits next to me at lunch so closely that Yvette mentioned that he might as well sit in my lap.

Anyhoo, Walter sits in Teeth's chair and everything is going just fine until The Boss comes along to talk to Sylvester and stops dead in her tracks.

"Are you sitting in Teeth's chair?" she asks Walter in a tone of hushed horror.

"I'm sittin' in the chair that was here, yeah," says Walter.

"Omigod, did you adjust that chair?" says the Boss. (I should just call her Springsteen and get it over with).

"Well, I raised one of the arms up..." he starts, and Springsteen flips out.

"Okay, you need to get out of that chair and get another one," she tells him and ushers him out of the office chair in which he has been productively ensconced for several hours.

"If Teeth comes back and finds that someone has messed with her chair, she'll freak out."

At this point, I turn around to see Springsteen in a flap, wheeling Teeth's chair into a nearby office and returning with another.

"Sylvester, don't let anyone else sit in Teeth's chair," says Springsteen, and goes back to her office.

By this time, I am having to vitually staple myself into my own chair to resist the temptation to get up and fuck with Teeth's chair so badly, she would never get it right again. Of course, Teeth's many chairs of entitlement are a Big Red Button for me, and Springsteen's reaction was pounding on said Big Red Button with a Gigantic Hammer.

But what stunned and amazed most me was Springsteen's tolerance, and consequent tacit encouragement, of Teeth's childishness.

As a friend of mine has remarked, "Someone needs to grow a pair."

But it didn't end there, either.

The next day, Stretch (one of the dispatchers) and a driver sat at Teeth's desk to go over a routing issue or something. Somehow, Teeth's chair had migrated back into our pod, as if it couldn't bear to be separated from her desk a moment longer. Stretch sat in the alternate, and as the driver went to take the coveted Chair of Toothsomeness, Sylvester warned him away.

"You can't sit there," she said. "That's Teeth's seat."

The driver looked around for Teeth and didn't find her.

"She's not here," Sylvester said.

"And I can't sit in the chair?" he said.

I couldn't take this stupidity in silence any longer.

"No," I said, loudly enough for all three pods to overhear. "Apparently, we are held hostage by her behaviour."

This provoked much laughter, some of which I'm sure was inspired by uneasiness, but I don't care. She just has to try that kind of shit with me ONCE, and see what happens. As it is, I can't believe that Springsteen puts up with hysterics over a fucking chair from a supposed adult. Did someone adjust your chair? Then adjust it back, you fucking ditchpig. Get a fucking grip.

So, needless to say, I'm not looking forward to her return tomorrow. No doubt I will have to listen to dreary details about a funeral I care nothing about, over and over and over again. Because that's another thing Teeth does that makes me nuts: she repeats her stories endlessly. She will even call Springsteen over and read her emails that Teeth is exchanging with billers at other branches, because Teeth is convinced of her own brilliant wit as a god-given fact of life.

Anyway, that's all petty shit. I will say in my defense, however, that if Teeth returns to find the chair altered in anyway, it wasn't me who did it. I managed to maintain my dignity and self-respect.

But it doesn't stop me from hoping to Christ that someone else did it for me.

The Incredible Story(ies) of Two Clowns

2011-04-14T21:37:00.005-06:00

As previously mentioned in these electronic pages, Two Clowns is a compulsive liar.

She's not the first one I've met.

In the SCA, an organization that specializes in attracting personality disorders of the most dazzling variety (and then rewards their dysfunctionality with promotions and aggrandizement), I knew a fellow who insisted that he was a mercenary pilot who flew missions into these vague but dangerous hotspots and was shot at and even wounded. Very shortly after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, I ran into him at a party. He told me that on the morning of the attack(s), "They" (presumably CISUS, Canada's intelligence agency) called him to ask if it was possible for amateur pilots to hijack commercial aircraft and fly them into very large, very tall stationary objects.

"Well," I said, slowly, "presumably, since it happened, it can."

I was polite, however, and did not confront him with the obvious question: does Ottawa have no-one more qualified than him to consult? Is there no-one currently serving in the Canadian Armed Forces who can answer these questions?

This was only one of him many lies/exaggerations. Occasionally, when he has been caught in a lie, he admits to lying because the real truth is "classified" and "sensitive", so he has to obscure the big truth with many smaller ones.

I also knew this chick with whom I LARPed briefly, who lied all the fucking time about everything. When a friend of mine confronted her about her lying, she admitted to doing it. Her excuse, she said, was that my friend and I were such entertaining raconteurs and conversationalists that she felt compelled to lie so that she could "keep up".

(This is utter bullshit. I am not responsible for your rampant dishonesty; you are. Get the fuck out.)

Anyway, you'd think that my prior experience with compulsive liars would lend me some insight into the condition and how to deal with it. But I confess, I am at a loss. I simply do not understand the need to lie about everything all of the time.

Two Clowns is a prime example of the breed. It is very easy to see that her constant lying is a symptom of a much larger disorder, probably narcissistic personality disorder. I used to wonder why this woman chose to take her breaks and lunch hours with a bunch of billers instead of other managers; she didn't, in fact, seem to have any relationships with any of the other supervisory staff at the office. And now I know why: they don't play her reindeer games, and as mere billers, we are a captive and powerless audience.

Remember when I told you that, when we go for breaks, four of the seven women in our group pull out their phones and spend much of the fifteen minutes texting? It was revealed to me late last week that what they are doing is texting each other about Two Clowns's extraordinary bullshit. Apparently, a typical message from one of these girls to another, while Two Clowns is holding forth, is "OMG, STFU", or "Just kill me now."

In the last couple of weeks, Two Clowns has explained to me (because I don't have a phone to take sanctuary in, but let me tell you, it's looking more appealing by the day) that she

a) designed the office building in which we work, actually worked on the architectural plans and oversaw the erection of the structure (she's in a completely unrelated position with our company);

b) had a grandmother married to James Bailey of Barnum and Bailey Circus, a grandmother who, upon Bailey's death, was adopted by gypsies who taught her to read playing cards. This grandmother consequently taught Two Clowns how to read tarot, because she was the only grandchild with "the Gift";

c) was the first person in Canada--no scratch that, in North America--to buy a particular model of Fiat;

d) has an aunt Florrie who was "The Queen's Dressmaker" (now in her eighties) who has been invited to William and Kate's wedding. This last one makes me fucking insane. First off, Her Majesty does not have "dressmakers", she has British designers. And she may very well have staff to help her dress, but the reality of it is that staff do not get invited to Royal Weddings;

e) was a member of the Canadian Navy, which trained her to be an "assassin". I think the Armed Forces call them "snipers" or "sharpshooters", but in Two Clowns's mind, she's an ASSASSIN.

That's just some of the continual shit that spews out of Two Clowns's mouth at every given opportunity. And I have successfully resisted the urge to take this personally (i.e. "How stupid does she think we are?"), because this is very clearly all about her. And I suspect that, like Teeth's bullying, it comes out of a place of crippling insecurity.

But I really don't get it. I mean, seriously: why would you lie about stuff, especially when someone in the room might know something on the subject that you're lying about and confront you on the lie? Do compulsive liars rely on the fact that women, especially in polite Canada, are reluctant to confront lies and just let it pass? Or are these people incapable of embarrassment?

I know that if I ever got caught telling a whopper like some of these, I would be mortified. But these people either don't care or their need to lie is greater than their fear of social embarrassment.

I did a very little bit of research on compulsive lying on the internet (not the best source, I know, but...) and was shocked to learn that compulsive liars take comfort in lying. It becomes second nature, because telling the truth about anything is uncomfortable.

I cannot fathom this. I'm not presenting myself as a paragon of virtue or unfailing honesty--we all of us lie from time to time, and if some of my stories are entertaining, it is because I know where to embellish and how much. But my stories are all true. I simply cannot wrap my head around lying so outrageously and consistently that you are shunned by your peers and ridiculed by everyone else.

But clearly, as mentioned before, the lying is a symptom of something much deeper. The way Two Clowns talks about her children makes me feel all icky inside. She told us without apparent embarrassment how she bought personalized condoms for her boys. And she talks about the oldest one in such a way that...well, let's just say that I thought he was her husband, and I was shocked to discover that there IS no Mr. Two Clowns.

"Overbonded" is a word that applies here, I should think. Blech.

Anyway, if any of you can offer any insight into this particular dynamic, I'd be interested in hearing what you have to say.

Let me just go on record as saying, however, that I am hardly comforted by the thought that one of my managers is a complete whack-job.

The Rehabilitation of A Princess

2011-04-10T17:42:00.003-06:00

A few weeks ago, I was bemoaning the fact that the Princess of Wales was happy to be excluded from the vote because she hates politics and isn't interested in learning about the issues.

Then, about a week later, I took the opportunity at the end of the day to write to my city councillor, advising him that I am absolutely opposed to the building of a new NHL arena in our city using taxpayer money.

I came back to work the next morning, about 16 hours later, to find that my city councillor had already responded to me (and not a form letter, or mass email, either), stating that he shares my views and will be opposing any motion Council introduces to build this arena with public money.

I was rather impressed and was talking about it at break. The one who was most interested? The Princess of Wales. She was so intrigued, in fact, that she asked if she could use my letter as a template for her letter to her own councillor. And then she wrote it that afternoon.

So it just goes to show, people can always surprise you.

I am sad to report, however, that the Princess of Wales has found a new position at another company, and we will be losing her shortly. I will miss her especially, as she has been a great support with regard to the ongoing bizarreness that is Two Clowns (stories to follow).

Bad Teeth and Feet

2011-04-07T20:42:00.004-06:00

So it's not like any of you, dear readers, need further evidence of Teeth's bitchiness and self-indulgence, but here it is anyway (with a medical update to follow, for something completely different).

Yesterday was Teeth's birthday. I can't tell you exactly how old she is (and I am currently refraining from making jokes about looking in the horse's mouth), but she's in her early forties, which I find appalling. Anyway, Sylvester went in early and printed up a whole bunch of signs saying, "Happy Birthday, Teeth!" and plastered them all over the reception area. That way, Teeth would be greeted by this cheerful and well-intentioned messeage when she came in shortly before 8:00.

Princess Anne and Wolf Woman were sitting at reception when the little ray of sunshine arrived. She walked in, took one look at the signs and said, "I am NOT in the mood for this today." Then she stomped back to her desk in our pod. A few minutes later, Sylvester emerged and removed all the signs.

Apparently, Teeth's mother-in-law in Eastern Canada was going in for a lumpectomy that morning, and Teeth was spraining her vagina with anxiety. Still, I think her reaction was rude, juvenile and self-indulgent.

I had to leave early yesterday for a doctor's appointment (see below), and I thought I would take a little bit of passive aggressive revenge by being nicer to her than she deserved. So as I was leaving, I said as geniuinely as I could, "I hope you hear good news about your mother-in-law soon."

But it didn't work. She didn't feel guilty, only justified, I think.

Oh well, live and learn.

So, the ongoing medical saga that is my life:

Okay, so I don't spend a lot of time looking at the bottom of my feet. Hell, up until relatively recently, I had trouble seeing the tops of them! So I was a little surprized when the Little Hunneydoo told me that I had really thick callouses, especially on my left foot. I wasn't worried or anything because I figured it was just a result of fencing. No biggie, but because I'm a diabetic now, and feet are a perennial concern for the insulin-challenged, I promised the Little Hunneydoo that I would bring it up to my GP next time I saw her.

In the past, this has been problematic for me, because when I tell my GP things, she takes action like a terrier on a rat. And it almost always results in unpleasantness for me, like pints of blood being extracted for tests, vaginal ultrasounds and barium milkshakes. It occasionally makes me long for the days when I had a GP who didn't ever lay a hand on me and wrote prescriptions with careless abandon (even if they were for medications I was allergic to and which didn't work).

But a deal is a deal, so when I saw Katherine Anne next, I said, "My wife wants you to look at my feet."

And when I showed her, she said, "Those aren't callouses. Those are warts. It's a viral, auto-immune thing, and we have to treat them very aggressively."

"Treat how and aggressive what?" I asked suspiciously.

"Every two weeks, you're going to come in and we're going to spray the warts with liquid nitrogen."

Fuck you, I thought, and then Katherine Anne went off to have a baby, and for a little while, her nefarious plan to cripple me was put on the back burner, so to speak.

But, as I mentioned, she's one of these good doctors that are concerned for the well-being of her patients, and rather than just abandon us to walk-in clinics and emergency rooms, she arranged to have a locum take her place during her maternity leave. And this guy is awesome. He's terrific. He's personable, has a sense of humour, answers your questions, never hurries you, is thorough...and he does exactly what Katherine Anne tells him to do.

The first or second time I saw this guy, he was all about treating the warts. He made me take off my shoes, and then he aimed somthing that looked like an aerosol can at the bottom of my feet.

"I heard this stings a little," I said, bracing myself.

"Yeah, a little, but if it's any consolation, little kids get this done."

Then he squeezed the trigger and there was a hissing sound. But no sensation. I was delighted.

Well, hell, I thought, if this is all it is I can handle OMYFUCKINGGODWHATTHE HELLISGOINGONONMYFEET????

The most incredible stinging was driving me out of my mind. It felt like thousands of fine, freezing cold needles were boring into the bottoms of my feet and they weren't going to stop until they touched bone.

He did five "cycles" on each area of my foot and said, "There. That's good for now. I'll have you come back in two weeks and do it again."

"What if I don't?" I asked, looking for blood.

"They can spread and be a real problem," he answered. "Best if you take care of them now before they get a lot worse."

So, dutifully, I showed up again two weeks later. This time, he examined my feet and jumped up saying, "Wait a second while I get a scalpel. I'm going to carve some of the callous off."

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but to my mind, letting someone at the bottom of your feet with a razor sharp surgical knife is counter-intuitive. Especially if the bastard has every intention of slicing up your tootsies and then spraying them with liquid nitrogen AGAIN. And yet, such is my trust in Katherine Anne and her locum that I surrendered up my feet with scarcely a groan. And to be perfectly honest, the scalpel didn't hurt at all. I hardly knew he was down there. Until the spraying part. That always leaves me limping for a few days.

Christ on a crutch, that's nasty. But on the plus side, they're definitely getting better and progress is being made.

Douchebag Dirt

2011-03-31T19:12:00.006-06:00

Before I begin, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank douchebags parked in front of my house for being the finest examples of lazy, selfish twats. I can't use my garage, asswipes, because the back alley is impassable. Yesterday, I got stuck up to my axles in slush and needed the Hunneydoo and a kind neighbour (who never parks in front of our place) to shovel me out. If I could use my garage, I assure you, I would. Instead, I am forced to park on the street in front of my house, except that I can't because you fucking jerk-offs are there, because you're too lazy to drive up the street and turn around in the alley so that you can park in front of your own places. Except for the fact that I don't want the hassle with the heat, I would happily pelt your SUVs with golf balls fired out of a slingshot at close range. Fuck you, shitheaps.

And speaking of shitheaps…

The pettiness constantly demonstrated at the office truly astounds me. It seems that people will take any opportunity that even remotely presents itself to take something completely unrelated to them personally.

For example: two weeks ago, my crew decided to eschew our bag lunches and spring for Chinese food. It was cheap, hot and delicious. Unfortunately, Sylvester decided to take it as a personal affront that we didn't include her in this (to which I said, privately to Princess Anne, "Well, what's the point of my taking my break with people I like if hafta take my break with her?" I mean, I don't mind Sylvester per se, but unfortunately, Teeth comes attached. So to speak).

So when we were finished our Chinese food, we invited the Other Pod to finish it (as there was plenty) and Sylvester roundly snubbed us.

"No," she said, "that's fine."

Well, fuck you then. Don't eat it. And so we were quite careful not to make a big deal of it when the Other Pod ordered Chinese food this afternoon for their lunch (on Sylvester's day off, ">hahahaha). But we did remark amongst ourselves on the pettiness of the reaction our own lunch had inspired.

"Well, what do you expect?" said the Princess of Wales. "These women have shitty lives, married to assholes and they work at shitty jobs going nowhere. It's easier to stir up shit for other people than to change your life."

Then, she and Princess Anne let me in on some of the dirt exhibited by certain of the husbands at the staff do back in January. And let me tell you, these men are pigs. Teeth's husband told Yvette, one of my new podmates, that she was "fucking hawt", although whether Teeth was in the immediate vicinity, I don't know.

And then Wolf Woman's husband said to Wolf Woman once they got home from said do, "When you get in on Monday, tell Yvette she's got a fucking hawt ass." And Wolf Woman's self-esteem is sufficiently in the toilet that she dutifully passed the message on the following Monday.

I don't get it, but it makes me feel all icky, especially having met Wolf Woman's husband on numerous occasions: shaves his head, looks in need of a shower all the time, smells of cigarette smoke, and apparently has no respect whatsoever for Wolf Woman, which is hardly surprising, given that she has none for herself.

They share a child together, who is a young lad with some behavioural issues related to ADD impulsivity. He has been prescribed medication to help him with these issues and when he is on the meds, his behaviour is much improved. But sometimes, the poor little guy doesn't get the meds because Mommy and Daddy need smokes that week. And they are perennially short on cash because Wolf Woman's husband owes thousands of dollars in child support every month because he's got something like five different kids out there for whom he is responsible (biologically, anyway).

And Teeth's husband is no better: he operates a snow removal business in the winter and a landscaping business in the summer, which is remarkable, because he doesn't have a drivers license due to being so far behind in child support payments. So all the insurance, registration and ownership of the vehicles, including a truck, quad and bobcat, are in Teeth's name. And don't think for a minute that she doesn't take every opportunity to rub his nose in that, which I'm sure plays a large role in why he makes harrassing comments to other women with whom Teeth works.

It's like a fucking train wreck, and I cannot understand why or even how these people continue to grind out their existence in these revolting relationships and not change their lives. Maybe they don't even realize that they are unhappy. Maybe they grew up thinking this is what it's supposed to be like. Maybe, in the case of Teeth's rednecked pigdog, they feel trapped, financially or otherwise.

But holy crap! I can see making these mistakes (I did, we've all had dysfunctional relationships and made mistakes) when you're twenty years old and fresh outta the nest. But these people are in their forties (yes, even Teeth). It certainly makes me grateful for what I have in my life and the relationships with which I have been blessed.

A Day of Disappointment

2011-03-17T18:35:00.004-06:00

Overall, I'd say that my new crew at work is a vast improvement over the previous one, which is not to say that I didn't and don't find things I like about Sylvester, Mulan and Wolf Woman. It's just that Teeth's behaviour, and my unwillingness to challenge her on Certain Issues, made the new group the only viable alternative.

And I do enjoy my time with them. When we laugh, which is often, it isn't at anyone's expense. Sex is not the only topic of conversation, and when it comes up, it is alluded to and then the subject is changed. Even Two Clowns is more entertaining than irritating, because everyone in that room smells the bullshit and is laughing inside.

But over the last couple of days--and particularly today--a few things have come up to dash my expectations somewhat.

First off, the Princess of Wales. She's young, so many of her attitudes and opinions may be informed by her relative lack of experience. Nevertheless, I confess that as a proud (tho' not rabid) Canadian, I was disappointed to hear her say that she would return to Wales in a heartbeat (even though she has been here since she was six), and has no intention of getting her citizenship. I protested, saying that as a landed immigrant, she is required to pay taxes but not entitled to vote (which seems wrong to me, taxation without representation). She told me that she in fact finds her ineligibility to vote a relief, because she "hates politics".

I find her point of view--to which she is of course entitled--disappointing because first, if she hasn't actually lived in Wales since she was a small child, and she is now shy of thirty, she cannot have any real experience of what it is like to live there. Now, I'm certain that Wales is a lovely nation; I would like to visit sometime. But my second point is that Canada has treated her quite well; she is employed, both as a biller full-time and as a massage therapist part-time, and she has recently bought her own home. So why the yearning for somewhere else?

Now don't get me wrong, I can understand the yearning for somewhere else. I do a fair amount of yearning myself on a regular basis. But to refuse citizenship based on lame excuses ("It's expensive", "The test is too hard!") seems to me to be dismissive of a place that has welcomed you with every opportunity for success.

Princess Anne told the Princess of Wales that she votes because then she feels entitled to complain. And hey, whatever gets folks out to the polling stations is okay by me. Short of buying votes, of course.

But then Princess Anne went and spoiled it all by telling us that she was in StoopidStore (a local grocery chain) on the weekend...

"...and the place was crowded with Pakis!"

I was startled.

"I don't have a problem with them, but when you're surrounded by them...and all you can smell is curry..."

Okay, so lemme get this straight: you don't have a problem with "Pakis", but you're not comfortable in a warehouse-sized room full of them? And, seriously, you're bitching about the smell? Seriously? Listen, honey, you sound like a racist to me, and I'm amazed that you can't hear yourself talking. What you said is ignorant and hateful and I am deeply crestfallen that you entertain such opinions. Jeez.

Finally, you would think that our recent interactions with Flake would have made it perfectly clear to her that we--and by that I mean BOTH of us (just in case there is a tendency to believe that as the outspoken one, I do all of the Little Hunneydoo's talking for her)--no longer desire her presence in our lives. But I guess some people take some convincing or are slow to get the hint. Because as I stepped out of the front door this morning, I discovered that a small gift bag had been left there by Flake sometime overnight or earlier in the a.m. It was mostly foodstuffs, including treats for the dogs and a package of catnip seeds for the cat.

And attached was a note saying, "For the gifts you gave. The balance of your Christmas gift. Love, Flake."

*sigh*

It is a measure of Flake's chronic inability to get organized that she can't get a Christmas gift together until St. Patrick's Day. It is more importantly a measure of her passive aggression (though I doubt she'd interpret her actions this way) that she would use said Christmas gift to remind us of how she still loves us and is thinking of us, no matter how brutally we have cast her aside.

Yeah, whatever. Listen, Flake: go away. We no speak the crazy here. We no wanna the drama. Capiche? Get it? Comprendez-vous? We're not gonna call ya, we're not gonna reach out and hold your hand and sing "Kumbaya" until you feel better. We're ignoring you. Permanently. We'd appreciate it if you would do the same. Please stop leaving us offerings of food and gifts for the dogs; don't think that any of your birthday wishes or phone calls will elicit any response. We're done. Honestly and truly done.

Seriously.

Two Clowns

2011-03-12T16:29:00.004-07:00

SCENE: Somewhere in California or Arizona, close to the border of Mexico. Wooden buildings (an inn, stables, general store, Chinese laundry, land office, saloon) line the broad dirt track that is the main street of this grey little village. At the far end of the street is a small adobe church, beyond which one can see the flat prairie stretching out infinitely, until the horizon blends with the white hot sky and disappears.

(The camera looks over the shoulder of a figure dressed in a black cowboy hat and leather vest. In the distance, in front of the church in the middle of the street, stands ME, wearing a wide-brimmed Spanish hat and a Mexican serape. One corner of the serape is thrown over my shoulder and my fingers twitch as they hover over the polished handle of my Colt revolver in the holster slung over over my right hip.

(Sagebrush bounces lazily across the street between us and out of the shot.

(ECU: me--my steely blue eyes narrowed under the brim of my hat, the dog-end of a cherrot clenched between my [nice, perfectly-aligned] teeth.)

ME (in a gravelly voice): I'm a biller.

(ECU: my opponent: tall, blonde, older and harder-looking. She's been ridden hard and put away wet a few times, but makes an effort not to show it.)

HER: I'm a manager.

ME (with rising impatience): I have diabetes and an ovarian cyst named Bryan Adams.

HER (spits in the dirt contemptuously): I have my period 28 days a month.

ME (shifting on my feet, ready for action): I had a clown at my eighth birthday party.

HER: I had two clowns. And pony rides.

ME (gritting teeth): Who are you?

HER: They call me Two Clowns. Word of advice to you, newcomer, since you're new to our pod. I don't have conversations, I have competitions. I don't care if I have to lie: I'm smarter, more accomplished, more knowledgeable...hell, I'm just better than you. Better than everyone. It doesn't matter what your experience is: I've already done it, and done it bigger and better than anyone else who has ever lived. You took Chemistry in high school? Big deal: I invented an alloy. You got a cold? Fuck you. I died on the way to work this morning and gave myself CPR. You got drunk on the weekend? Lightweight! I drank a case of tequila by myself. In twenty minutes. And then finished the New York Times crossword puzzle while performing brain surgery on an oyster.

ME (with mounting frustration): Why? Why can't we just converse?

TWO CLOWNS (lights a cigarette, flicks the match into the street): That's just how I roll, man. That's just how I roll. But if it pisses you off so much, I hear Teeth is looking for people to take her break with.

ME: No, I'm good. Buy you a coffee?

(TWO CLOWNS and ME saunter off the street side-by-side towards the saloon. Camera pans back to take in the entire town. Cue titles: in Western-style script burnt into the screen like a branding iron:)

TWO CLOWNS

There's One In Every Crowd

Is This Junior High? Or An Office? I Can't Tell.

2011-03-08T19:36:00.002-07:00

Today, I was in the dispatch area, talking to Stretch about a webtech issue and one of my drivers. Wolf Woman was on her way out for a smoke, and said, "I need to see you for a sec."

So when she came back in, she took me aside and said, "Teeth asked me why you're not taking your breaks with us anymore."

"Why doesn't she just ask me?" I said, exasperated.

"I dunno, but I didn't tell her anything."

I thanked her for her time, but seriously: did I somehow magically get transported back to junior high school? Is Teeth so chronically phobic about an honest confrontation--or even communication--that she has to go to her BFF about it, rather than talk to me directly?

Well, if you don't like confrontation, Teeth, don't be such an asshole. Or is it just fights you think you can win that you pick?

My outrage continued apace today, because at the end of the day, Sylvester was explaining to Svetlana, the new biller (who speaks with some kind of eastern European accent) that tomorrow we won't be doing any billing.

"But there will be lots to do, like scanning and filing and photocopying, and...well, I'm not sure how you're going to take this..."

"What?" Svetlana asked.

"Well," Sylvester said, "when Teeth gets me to do these tasks, she calls me her 'scanning bitch.'"

"Yeah," Teeth piped up. "In Canada, it isn't a mean thing to say. It just means you're doing my work for the day."

Yeah, way to go, Teeth. Let me make something clear to you: in Canada, referring to someone as your bitch, especially in the workplace, is not only mean. It is juvenile and potential harrassment if the "bitch" deems it so, you loopy cunt.

Jesus Christ, how does this woman keep her job??? And everytime I think that she was being set up to take the Office Manager position, I damn near faint dead away.

And by the way, she has no friggin' idea what to make of me taking my breaks with the other billers. She has fallen all over herself in the last day and a half to be pleasant, cheerful and inclusive towards me. She is desperately confused, and it's kind of funny to watch.

Electric Chair

2011-03-07T19:13:00.006-07:00

"You wouldn't talk to me that way if I wasn't in this chair, Jane."
"But you are in the chair, Blanche. You are in the chair!"
--Joan Crawford (Blanche), and Bette Davis (Jane) from Whatever Happened To Baby Jane, 1962

First, I want to thank everyone who shared their thoughts and feelings with me in the comments of my last post. It gave me a lot to think about, as well as some much needed perspective. I mulled it all over the weekend, and went to work this morning determined that I was simply going to take my breaks and lunch with the other group of billers. I knew that Teeth would notice instantly and not be able to keep herself from commenting, but in order to better enjoy my time at work, I felt this was the most mature and positive step.

The new group is lots of fun, decidedly more mature emotionally, and none of them are on any kind of disturbing power trip. The funniest thing about this group of about seven women is that when they congregate in the staff room, at least four of them immediately start texting or surfing the net on their phones. They still manage to carry on conversations with the rest of us, though, so I just shake my head, laugh and eat my fibre bar.

(By the way, I may have to give up eating Indian food that is prepared commercially. We had Indian buffet at a local establishment last night and by the time I got home, I had Delhi Belly so badly I was afraid I would rocket right off the toilet. And it went on ALL NIGHT. Holy sufferin' Sarasvati.)

Anyway, the morning break went by without comment, but Teeth was pretty busy, training the new biller, who is ostensibly Mrs. Orange's replacement. Lunch time came, and when I got back, Teeth and the rest of the gang were preparing to go.

"So," Teeth said, "we're not good enough for you anymore?"

"That's pretty much it, yeah," I replied.

"Fine," she replied, and huffed off.

And, no--perhaps my response was not the most mature, and a titch confrontational. But fuck her and her passive aggression. If you are honestly interested in knowing why I don't take my breaks with you anymore, fucking ASK ME. Don't do that junior high school bullshit that you just pulled.

But I've decided that Teeth isn't actually interested in knowing why I won't join them anymore. I suspect she knows damn well. She brought it up in order to demonstrate to me that she has noticed and does Not Approve. To which my response was: Big Fuckin' Deal. If I cared, I'd be joining you in the lunch room.

Yanno who had the most honest approach? Wolf Woman. (Sylvester just doesn't care to get involved and spends most of the break smoking anyway). Later, when we were alone, Wolf Woman wanted to know if she was the reason I had more or less defected to the other group.

"No," I said honestly. "It's not you." And I went on to explain to her how I felt about watching Teeth bully her daughter out of the chair on Friday afternoon and how I just didn't want to watch that kind of social drama anymore. She said she hadn't noticed what was going on (which I'm not buying, but okay), that she understood and that was that. We're just fine and I'm glad for that.

The most amazing part of all? Moments after my interaction with Teeth, the Princess of Wales in the pod closest to the staff room emailed me to tell me she had just overheard Teeth telling the new biller which chair belonged to whom. And she was using a baby voice to do it.

Crazy shit.

And just as an aside, Wolf Woman and her daughter were talking to the Princess of Wales on Friday just before we left for the weekend. Because the Princess of Wales doesn't have an accent, they were skeptical that she is a landed immigrant. (Actually, I think the words they used were "illegal alien".) The Cub even went so far as to ask, "Where's Wales?" which made me want to hit her with a fucking atlas.

Anyway, in order to convince them, the PoW pulled out her landed immigrant document, which is written in Welsh Gaelic.

"I don't get it," said the Cub.

"Yeah," said Wolf Woman. "Is this written in Wale-ish?"

Wow. Just wow.

Buck Teeth?

2011-03-05T10:34:00.004-07:00

My ethical dilemma regarding how to deal with bullies continues. And I'm really struggling with this, folks. How far do I buck Teeth and still maintain my integrity?

As previously mentioned, Wolf Woman's daughter, The Cub, is working temporarily in our office doing some much-needed filing and some reception. She is not necessarily atuned to the nuances of our social heirarchy, such as all the bullshit surrounding where Teeth feels entitled to sit.

Yesterday at afternoon break, we entered the staff room to find The Cub already in Teeth's chair (which is separate from the chair she uses at lunch). Now, you must understand that there is an identical chair just a few feet away from the one in which The Cub was relaxing. And it was empty. It's usually where I sit, but I am not an asshole (well, at least not around the issue of chairs), so anyone who feels inclined to sit in it is more than welcome.

Teeth, however, approached The Cub and said, in that fucking obnoxious tone wherein she pretends to be joking but her intention is altogether serious, "Get your ass out of my chair."

The Cub looked confused. "What?" she said.

"You're in my chair. Move it," repeated Teeth, following her words with a high-pitched inane giggle that is the real-life equivalent of ;-) in an email.

Mulan suddenly grabbed one of the chairs that ring the tables where we eat our lunches and offered it to The Cub, saying, "You haf to mooove!"

So The Cub got up and moved to the identical cushy chair where I usually sit (because I had seen already how this would pan out and taken a chair at the table farthest from Teeth as I could manage). Teeth then not only took the chair that she had wrested from the Cub, but then turned Mulan's chair around to face her and put her feet up in it. And from there she proceeded to hold court for 15 minutes, insinuating herself into conversations that didn't involve her and making comments.

I briefly considered saying something to Teeth about how she needs to get over this childish territorial issue around where she sits, and if she really feels the need to have that chair and no other, maybe she could learn to honestly ask for it, rather than bullying people around.

Actually, what I wanted to say was, "Listen, Francis the talking mule, you need to get over your fucking self. You have no more entitlement to that chair than anyone else, and you certainly have no right to talk to anyone in that fashion. So why don't you get off your fat WalMart ass and sit somewhere else, preferably in another building. And while you're at it, you can floss those massive incisors with my pubic hair, you fucking ditchpig."

But I didn't. I kept my face shut. And why? It's complicated, I suppose. I didn't expect The Cub to say anything--I mean, she's only 17 in an office with her mother's "friends", women older than herself who she instinctively still sees as authority figures in some way. She's a good kid, I'd say.

But I expected perhaps a little more from her mother, Wolf Woman, who watched whole interaction without a single word. And to be sure, I don't know the whole story: maybe she's got so much going on with her sketchy husband and his out-of-control son at home that she just can't take on another issue by confronting Teeth and making waves at work, too. I dunno.

I left the lunch room shortly after that and spent it in the other pod talking to the Princess of Wales and her podmate. I was pissed off and disgusted by Teeth's behaviour, sure, but I think I was also a little disappointed in myself for not saying anything. Or at least I was struggling with why not. And I'm trying to face the facts about why not without rationalizing or having to admit that, in this case at least, I was a coward.

It's not that I haven't stood up to bullies before. As a child, I did so by speaking their own language: violence. I wasn't a scrapper, but I did have my limits. I remember being in elementary school and the school bully, Billy DeWinter (and that's his real name) was hassling me in the mud room at recess. I finally had enough, and even though he was a full head taller than I (and in a higher grade), I finally hauled off and punched him in the jaw. He hit me back, but it was the last time.

Later on, on junior high, I was harrassed by this greasy little shitbag whose name currently escapes me. Our journey home consisted of a long steep hill that ran along 64 Street in Calgary. Typically after school, I would be carrying my binders for homework, a textbook and a trumpet case, as I was in the school band. This was in the days before backpacks, so I was carrying all this in my arms with the trumpet case in one hand. The Shitbag would frequently drive up behind me on his bike and knock something flying, and if he did it right, my binder would pop open and papers would be everywhere.

One day, I was determined that the little fucker wasn't going to do this anymore. I walked along with my friend, chatting, but keeping an eye open casually for the Shitbag's approach. I saw him coming up on my left side, and tensed, reasserting my grip on the trumpet case in my right hand. I'm sure all of you know what is coming here. When he got close enough, I whirled on him and slammed that trumpet case right into his revolting little face, knocking him off the bike onto the grass.

Then I ran like fuck.

Now back then, I met violence with violence, and although it invariably got me in trouble with the adults, it nevertheless worked, at least on the bullies I was interacting with. Thereafter, they confined their interactions with me by yelling unpleasant things about my acne or whatever from a safe distance. It was still bullying, but on a scale I could handle, was how I figured it.

If I had known Teeth in junior high school, I would have eventually met her out by the bike racks and fixed her dental issues for her. And I confess, I had the urge yesterday. But obviously one can't--and shouldn't--lay a beating on one's senior biller over an issue that didn't involve one.

But then the question is, when does one get involved? It seems obvious to me that management had a talk with Teeth, because her demeanour towards me has been one of perfect respect; we only talk about neutral topics now, and the incidences of inappropriate comments about other people has dropped dramatically. So in that instance, I clearly won. How far do I want to push it? How much do I take on when it doesn't involve me directly? Part of me is tempted to do as one of my commenters suggests and start challenging her by parking in her spot and sitting in her chair, essentially calling her on her shit. I don't know if at this point, Teeth would feel confidant enough to take me on over the chair (she's usually in before me in the mornings and taking her parking spot would be harder). On one level, it would be interesting to find out how cognizant she is that I won the last round. Certainly claiming her chair would upset the office dynamic, at least in our pod.

But again, how much hassle do I want? The chair doesn't concern me, although I found her bullying of a seventeen-year-old girl appalling and childish. It's really none of my business, especially if her mother didn't feel the need to say anything. On the other hand, how much do bullies get away with because people who aren't involved decide that it "isn't their business" or "it's not up to me."

Was I coward yesterday? Or prudent?

Possibly both, but what I know is that I think I am going to start taking my breaks with the other pod, because this whole issue is affecting how I feel about going into work. I just dread breaks and lunchtime. And I'm not sure how I feel about going into Immediate Supervisor's office and saying, "I'm not happy here because Teeth is such an all-around twunt." I mean, seriously, Immediate Supervisor had my back when I mentioned the inappropriate comments Teeth made to and about me personally; is she really expected to hold my temp hand while I sort through an ethical dilemma surrounding the juvenile beahviour of her staff member of ten years? It's true the behaviour is resented amongst the rest of the staff, but it's really up to them to tell her about it. And they don't. And I won't be their Spartacus. I need this job.

But then the sad truth is that Teeth wins. Again. And it drives me absolutely crazy that that sophomoric, nasty dimwit gets all that power and then abuses it.

Oh, and Mrs. Orange quit. Her boyfriend ostensibly got a job in Saudi making $700.00 a day as a safety inspector or something, so she didn't bother showing up. She didn't even call. They just noticed all of her shit was gone from her desk on Wednesday morning. Amazing, huh?

Long In the Tooth

2011-03-01T18:27:00.002-07:00

Today's post concerns history and Teeth.

Yesterday, while we were discussing genealogy, she mentioned that she is related to Eric the Red.

"Leif Eriksson was his son," she added.

No shit, Dick Tracy, thanks for the hot tip. Sheesh.

On the other hand, her being descended from a band of merciless, marauding Norse warriors explains a lot of things about Teeth's personality. It also explains why, in the words of one of my more sympathetic correspondents, I frequently want to bury a Viking boarding axe in her skull.

Postscript

2011-02-22T22:33:00.005-07:00

It's lonely when you don't comment.

Just sayin', kids.

Here's a tidbit though: today, Teeth told the WalMart Girls that at her high school in Moose Jaw (how fucking perfect is THAT?), they had a CB Club. Yes, whereas other urban high schools in Canada have drama clubs or chess clubs or AV clubs, Teeth joined the CB Radio Club.

They had jackets made and everything. Hers apparently featured a little red devil in a diaper (?) on the back.

And her handle?

Hot Stuff.

I couldn't make this shit up, man. It's pure gold. This bitch is going in a book, I swear it.

Right In the Teeth

2011-02-21T19:35:00.004-07:00

Today, Teeth was being a larger than usual douchebag. Wolf Woman's daughter is working part-time in the office doing some much needed filing. She is a few months short of her eighteenth birthday.

She seems like a nice enough girl and very, very young. Naive, even. At lunch she said, "Man, I feel old. My hips are, like, hurting like crazy."

She looked at Immediate Supervisor and I. "Is this what you guys feel like all day?"

Teeth has obviously enjoying this new opportunity to push someone new around. And of course, despite the girl's tender years, she is grist for the mill. And Teeth has no sense of propriety.

For example, the Cub was saying during the morning break that she helped herself to a piece of salt water taffy from the front desk.

"With your braces?" Teeth said (notice how she is immediately aware of dental issues, even if they're not her own).

"Yeah, I had to suck on it a little to make it soft," said the Cub, which led to the inevitable sniggering and guffawing that we've all come to expect from the most innocent of remarks.

"Well then you're doing it wrong!" said Teeth to her own resounding laughter.

Ah, the wit. Is it not breath-taking?

Anyway, tomorrow is a pay cut off, so all of us billers are under the gun to get our work done before tomorrow at 4:30. Today, I did 96 bills, which is possibly more than any other biller in the office and certainly more than Teeth did. I was working diligently and my mind was on my work.

During afternoon break with Teeth, Wolf Woman and the Cub, I got up to leave the staff room and inadvertantly left behind a small ball of foil, the kind one finds wrapped around chocolate eggs. (Jesus God, I love those eggs, and these had been a gift from Princess Anne, the receptionist, with whom I talk horses all the time. She has a mare who is expecting to foal any day now. SQUEE!)

"Ah-ah-ah!" Teeth said, in a singsong tone. "You didn't clean up your garbage!"

I turned around, picked up the tiny ball and threw it into the garbage can, imagining to myself with immense satisfaction how much I wanted to flick it into Teeth's goofy face so that it lodged in her cornea.

"What's the matter? Aren't you doing well today?" she asked.

At this point, my back was turned to her, so I turned to face her and said, "Are you addressing me?"

"No," she said, snottily, "I'm talking to the other person who isn't doing well!"

I looked at her and said evenly, "First of all, I don't respond to sarcasm."

"Oh!" she said, but before she could slide in another passive aggressive remark, I said, "Secondly,I'm tired today."

"You must have had a good weekend then," she said, trying hard to be pleasant.

"I did."

And then I turned and walked away from her while she was still talking to me.

Fuck her.

Later on, I went to Wolf Woman's desk and apologized for having the scene in front of her. "I am tired, but there's no excuse for bad manners."

"Don't apologize," she said. "I get really tired of all the stupid shit, too. I'm glad you did it."

I was surprised, since Wolf Woman is Teeth's BFF at work. The more I scratch the surface, the more anti-Teeth sentiment I find. If all of these women had a chat with Immediate Supervisor, Teeth would be either unemployed or severely curtailed. So I do not understand why all the silence.

I find it especially appalling and mystifying because, of everyone there, Teeth behaves with the least self-awareness. Say what you will about Sylvester and her public pyjama wearing ways, she is conscious of what she is and she's comfortable in her skin. And (as we will see in a moment), Mrs. Orange might be a rat, but she knows exactly what she's doing. But Teeth: I don't believe she stops for one minute to contemplate how she behaves or why. She can't beat other women up anymore, so now she belittles and mocks them, but the behaviour and the motivation remain the same as it did twenty to twenty-five years ago. And she's mean. She's small and petty and mean and stupid.

And yet, everyone dances to her tune. We don't sit in "her" chair or park in "her" spot, so she essentially has the run of the place. She gets away with saying the most vulgar and insulting and demeaning things. She has entirely too much power and influence in that office despite the fact that she is, in my humble opinion, the person least deserving of it. It drives me crazy. It makes me want to start parking in her spot in the mornings, but then I'm stuck with a conundrum: if we don't park in her spot, she gets her way. If we do (god forbid) park in her spot, we still end up playing her power games and engaging in a power struggle that is frankly incredibly juvenile.

Either way for her, it's a win-win situation and I absolutely fucking hate it when the behaviour of bullies and douchebags is validated by success.

Yet all it would take to at least modify her behaviour is for each and every person who has been insulted and/or bullied and/or harrassed by her to say something. Just say it. Even in an email. Christ, if even half the billers said something to Immediate Supervisor, I'm sure they'd consider firing her vulgar little ass out the door.

So why don't they? I just don't get it. Can anyone explain?

In other WalMart Girl News, I got a ride home with Sylvester on Friday, because Immediate Supervisor let us go early and the Little Hunneydoo was picking the dids (kids+dogs=dids) up from the groomers. During the trip, Sylvester told me a story that only amplifies just how huge a fucking rat Mrs. Orange is.

Apparently, Sylvester's significant other is an adult baby. That is to say he derives sexual stimulation from wearing diapers, children's clothes (in adult sizes), being mothered, corrected, taught, etc. I don't know if in his case, it goes as far as shitting the diapers. There are things I simply do not wish to know. As far as I'm concerned, I already know too much.

Anyway, early on in her career at the office, Sylvester made the mistake of telling Mrs. Orange about the adult baby thing during a smoke break. Not five minutes had elapsed before Mrs. Orange was back inside the building, passing this juicy tidbit onto her podmate. Sylvester knows this because she caught Mrs. Orange doing it.

And Mrs. Orange didn't even have the gall to be embarrassed. No apology. Nothing. Obviously Mrs, Orange trades in the commodity of information as power. She has no alliances and yet she is friends with everyone, because everyone is a potential source. And she is as honest as she can afford to be about it, too.

On the other hand, I can't imagine telling something so private to someone at work, especially in THAT office.

Not Clear On the Concept

2011-02-20T18:00:00.005-07:00

We turn now to an update on Flake, who as you may recall, spent six weeks in our guest room being generally disrespectful and disruptive before we kicked her out. She then had the nerve to leave in our mailbox a letter that criticized my relationship with my wife, suggesting that I am verbally disrespectful of her.

Late last week, about three weeks after we threw her ass out, we received some mail for her from her lawyer. As a courtesy, we called her cell phone and left a message saying that we had it and would leave it in the mailbox for her to pick up. Naturally, it stands to reason that she would have to come that evening, otherwise the mail carrier would return it to the sender the next day. And given that Flake obviously keeps late hours, we didn't think this would be a problem. More to the point, neither one of us cared particularly which occured.

The next day, the letter was gone from the mailbox.

Earlier this week, the Little Hunneydoo got a call from Flake at work, saying that the letter was gone and did we still have it. Little Hunneydoo, still steaming mad at Flake's implication that she is my victim, declined to return the call.

Flake nevertheless kept calling, leaving messages on our machine at home, messages that we refused to return, hoping against all hope that she would get the hint that we didn't have it and were no longer interested in any kind of dialogue with her about anything.

This morning, a Sunday, she called at 8:30 a.m., saying that she wants the letter and she doesn't understand why we aren't returning her calls.

This blew me away. Seriously, you don't understand why we aren't returning your calls? After that letter? Seriously? Wow--are we talking cognitive impairment, or have I not made myself explicitly clear? Ambiguous communication is not something of which I am ever accused, Flake--I tend to make myself very clearly understood. So it must be YOU, which isn't difficult to imagine, given how you apparently think that passing judgement on a relationship you know nothing about, involving two people nice enough to give you shelter twice in three years (and who also helped you move out of the Rapist Rancher's house on a bitterly cold winter's day then stored all your crap in our basement until you went back to him, surpassing all human understanding) is somehow appropriate and reasonable behaviour.

This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that you are therefore bugfuck crazy. Because only someone who is bugfuck crazy would call and and wake me up at 8:30 on a Sunday morning after we threw you out for waking us up constantly and disrupting our lives. Or is it just me???

Now, I understand that mail from your lawyer is important--or at least, it has since become important to you, because while you were squatting here, you let an entire week expire before you opened the first piece of mail he sent you. Good thing things like Court Orders aren't time sensitive.

All that aside, I do understand that you want the mail. Believe me, we don't want to receive your correspondence either. I am (perhaps erroneously) going to assume that you are in regular contact with your lawyer and that in three weeks, you have had ample time to give him an address that isn't ours. Therefore, I'm not sure what to conclude from the fact that the mail came here: do you have your own place? Did you go back to the Rapist Rancher? Or are you still couch surfing/squatting?

I cannot know what is in your addled mind, nor am I particularly interested. Frankly, the letter you left us was a deal-breaker. I don't want "Friend of the Year" Awards or any special accolades because we gave you a place to stay. Seriously. It's what friends do for each other. But I certainly did not expect or appreciate criticisms as a result of you wearing out your welcome.

What I do know is that, from my perspective, if the letter wasn't in the mailbox when I went to get it and all of my subsequent phone calls on the matter over the course of a week-and-a-half went unanswered, I would be forced to the conclusion that those people were not going to speak to me. I would stop wasting my time chasing them and I would call my lawyer.

But then I am not bugfuck crazy either.

But apparently, Flake needed it spelled out to her. So the Little Hunneydoo called her this afternoon and said, "Hi, Flake? It's Little Hunneydoo. We don't have your letter, it's already gone back to your lawyer, so you no longer have any reason to call here again."

And then she hung up. Because the wrath of the Hunneydoo? Is significantly hotter and more daunting than mine.

And now for a dental checkup....

I am reasonably certain that "the Chat" was had with Teeth on Friday morning. I cannot be certain, of course, but what I do know is that Teeth disappeared into Immediate Supervisor's office, the door was closed and a brief time after that, Teeth emerged giving me a look that ought to have incinerated me spontaneously.

And she was certainly subdued all the rest of the day, except at lunch, when she started talking about how she and her huntin', shootin', quad-drivin' husband and she were talking about moving back to Eastern Canada. And this she said in the presence of Immediate Supervisor, who remained unphased, for the most part. But it was clear that Teeth was sulking about something and the fact that she could not or would not make eye contact with me all day suggests that I might have had something to do with it.

But Teeth made herself feel better at the end of the work day by showing the rest of the WalMart Girls the bikini she bought for Brandi's sixth birthday. This was accompanied by a bunch of photographs that Teeth has on her computer of Brandi in her frilly pink bed, langourously lounging against sumptuous pillows in a creepy imitation of Cosmo and runway models.

"She looks like a model," Mulan said, not entirely approvingly.

"Yeah, doesn't she?" Teeth said proudly.

I have more stories, but they'll wait for tomorrow.

Loose Tooth?

2011-02-17T20:33:00.005-07:00

Sorry about the protracted absence, gang; I've had a busy week. On Monday we hosted a lovely fondue dindin with friends, on Tuesday I had tai chi and last night there was general errand running to be done.

But I am here now to catch all of you up on the latest goings-on with the WalMart Girls and especially Teeth.

It's been a busy week there, too.

This afternoon during break, Mrs. Orange, Sylvester, Mulan and I were sitting in the staff room flipping through the Avon and Regal catalogues. (I am looking for a metal popcorn popper for the Little Hunneydoo and the last time I saw one was in Regal. Alas, it is no longer available there. At least I am spared the embarrassment of having to order from there).

Sylvester pointed to a pair of rubber-soled bedroom slippers and remarked with enthusiasm that they would be perfect for those times she wanted to go shopping. Mulan laughed, thinking that Sylvester was joking. Alas, she was not. Sylvester went on to explain, without a trace of self-consciousness or shame, that she regularly goes to the grocery store (or, of course, WalMart) in her pyjama pants, a t-shirt and slippers. She likes to be comfy, dontcha know.

Mulan was horrified and I happened to glance up at Mrs. Orange, who wore an expression of absolute disgust. As a result of something that happened earlier this week (which I will get to in a second), I have been adopted by Mrs. Orange, and when we made eye contact, we both had to dive back into our respective catalogues to keep from laughing out loud.

Not that Sylvester would apparently be at all unsettled by our mockery. She's one of "those": Poor White Trash is a badge of honour, not a criticism. She's red-necked and proud of it.

She don't got no cultcha, and don't want none, neither.

Later, Mrs. Orange and I made ourselves giggle like schoolkids by suggesting that from now on, everything Sylvester says should be followed by "in my pyjamas". Kinda like that game people play with fortune cookies, where they add "between the sheets" after their fortune:

"You will travel much and meet many influential people...between the sheets".

"The poor seek food, the rich seek an appetite...between the sheets."

Sylvester could be a source of comedic gold for things like, "I'm gonna ask about that driver's unit...in my pyjamas", or "I just finished that bill...in my pyjamas."

Look, the work is repetitive and dull, okay? Don't judge me.

Instead, judge Teeth. Teeth isn't having her best week. It started on Monday morning during the first coffee break, when we were joined by one of the managers that the company is moving out from Ontario. He was interesting and pleasant and made an effort to learn our names and talk to us individually on a personal level. He was a charming and very handsome man.

When he left the room, a couple of the WalMart Girls gave vent to their (largely frustrated) libidos and said something like "Yowza!" or "Whoa, he's hot."

Teeth, in a remarkable display of putting the "ass" back in "class", said, "He's got big feet."

And then she guffawed, showing off her gigantic incisors like she was the guest of honour at a beaver convention.

Now, I am not a prude and I don't think I can honestly be accused of not having a sense of humour. But I am just so sick and tired of her vulgarity, and how every single fucking conversation that involves her has to descend to the lowest common denominator. So I got up and left the room without another word.

And as I left, I heard her say, "Oh, God, she's leaving."

I went back to my desk and began to work, but shortly thereafter was joined by Mrs. Orange, who gave me to understand that she, too, is tired of the coarseness.

"It would be so easy to nail this place with a sexual harrassment case," she said, without apparent irony.

Now, I did not confide in Mrs. Orange (I mean, she is a fucking rat), but I did indicate that I am tired of a lot of the comments made during break, especially those directed at me. She commiserated with me, and said she had endured similar situations at other places based on the fact that she is aboriginal.

And I thought that that would be the end of it. But when I got back to my desk after lunch, there was an email from my supervisor asking me to come see her. And when I answered her summons, she asked me to close the door.

Well, this is the moment every temp dreads: it's either going to be "We'd like to keep you on," or "Thanks for coming; get the fuck out."

Once I was seated, she told me that Head Office Lady had called, wanting to follow up on what I had said about Teeth's harrassing comments, and had I had a chance yet to speak to Teeth.

"Not really," I said. "The difficulty is that Teeth always plays to an audience, and I am reluctant to embarrass her in front of the WalMart Girls. And I don't think that email is the most appropriate approach. Although I did make my feelings known indirectly this morning during break."

She asked me to explain what happened, and I mentioned that Teeth noticed my abrupt departure, as did the rest of them. This seemed to satisfy Immediate Supervisor on some level, because then she said, "Would you like us to have a talk with her? Because we are ready to move forward on this."

I was, I confess, a little nonplussed; I had expected the company to sit on this potentially inflammatory situation until I forced the issue by bringing it up again the next time Teeth opened her yap (which is, I'm sure you know, inevitable).

I replied that if they felt that was suitable I would appreciate someone talking to Teeth because I wasn't the only one to find her offensive, and I simply couldn't imagine the trouble resulting if someone like the new manager overheard her remarks about his "feet". She nodded and mentioned that a word would be had.

"And I want you to know," she said, "that this isn't normal. And we want you to be comfortable."
I thanked her genuinely for her time and concern and mentioned that if I managed to have a private chat with Teeth, I would let her know.

Now you gotta understand, people--Teeth has been with this company for ten years. She's quick to remind anyone who even remotely wonders that she is the senior biller. And she was apparently being groomed to take Immediate Supervisor's position (Office Manager/Human Resources), but Immediate Supervisor has been there for twenty-five years and they weren't going to let her go (and I can see why--she rocks). And frankly, my skull threatens to shatter into a billion pieces when I imagine Teeth, with her lack of social skills, in that job.

I mean, Christ on a cracker, think that one through. The mind boggles.

Yet despite her tenure, I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps the Powers That Be aren't contriving to collect enough evidence against Teeth to permanently extract her. As I said, this just hasn't been her best week. I don't think "the chat" has been had yet, because a) she hasn't let on, and I can't imagine that she is sophisticated enough to hide her resentment for me, and b) she still makes off-colour remarks (why, just yesterday she actually made the tired old double entendre about the Big Mac's "special sauce" when Wolf Woman walked in with a cheeseburger).

But today, Immediate Supervisor was riding her ass like a stubborn donkey and quickly losing patience. And Teeth was not taking the correction particularly well. Tension was quite high on that side of the old pod this afternoon, I must say. And Teeth, in a fit of frustration, actually said something like, "I gotta find something better to do" (although not within Immediate Supervisor's earshot).

So I don't know. But I'll keep you posted...in my pyjamas.

Dental Dam(n)

2011-02-11T21:01:00.007-07:00

Although I have a respectable vocabulary and command of the English language, I struggle sometimes to illustrate to you, dear reader, just how opposite to me on the spectrum of values the women I work with truly are.

I can talk about the evils of WalMart all I like, but when a struggling family needs clothes for their children, being able to buy three shirts for $5.00 is difficult to argue. Or a flat of Kraft Dinner. People like the WalMart Girls can't actually afford to give a shit about the Indonesian women and children working in sweat shops for Kathy Lee for pennies a day.

That being said, I can't understand how these women are so chronically impoverished either. They are all partnered to men who have good jobs, even if they themselves are at a full-time pink collar job that nevertheless pays infinitely better than Tim Hortons or McDonalds or most retail positions. They have a benefits package that is quite excellent.

But, alongside the constant bitching about money, what I also hear them talking about is purchases they make: quads, huge plasma tvs, brand new computers, phones, cameras...and it occurs to me that shopping at Walmart isn't a necessity because they are poor. They're not poor. They're just stupid with their money.

That's actually a bit of a judgement call. What they choose to do with their money is up to them, after all. I just don't understand why you would spend your money on two quads (or a quad and something called a side-by-side, which I think is a vehicle that requires not a license but a red neck to operate), dropping so much money on what are essentially toys that you panic when you have a car repair bill that comes to $300.00.

Still, these are the choices made by the average Albertan, I suppose. And god love 'em for supporting an American-based corporate giant that destroys local economies, ruthlessly exploits their employees with draconian labour standards and supports appalling sweatshops all over the world. The WalMart Girls are essentially wiping their asses with the Canadian flag, but you gotta love them for stubbornly making the most uninformed, back-assward and lazy choices they possibly can.

Don't ya? And you can't blame them really when Canadians themselves are willing to sell institutions like The Bay or Tim Hortons or the image rights of the RCMP and many other iconically Canadian products to American corporations. But that's for another rant.

Spending habits aside, there are plenty of other ways that the WalMart Girls stand opposite to me in our world view.

Take, for example, one of the WalMart Girls I haven't discussed yet. I'll call her Mrs. Orange, cuz she's a fucking rat. Her mother-in-law can't stand her. The feeling is mutual. Mrs. Orange was telling us at break a few weeks ago that she was going out after work to find a pay phone, in order to call Employment Canada and AISH (for long-term disability benefits). It was her intention rat out her mother-in-law for drawing both unemployment and AISH payments (a big no-no) while vacationing in the Dominican Republic (even bigger no-no). Mrs. Orange had to do it from a pay phone to guarantee her anonymity, since she had the wit to realize that her husband might take it amiss that she was diming out his mom to the feds. And Mrs. Orange had a reasonable expectation that this might--just might--have a negative impact on her marriage.

Clever girl. Morally bankrupt, but clever.

Still, I don't know the whole backstory and maybe the mother-in-law is a real cunt who has it coming. It's just that personally, I can't imagine doing anything quite so base and nasty to someone my wife/partner/husband cared for, nor jeopardizing my relationship with her/him, for the sake of petty vengeance. Call me crazy, but if the truth ever comes to light, exactly how do you explain your actions to your partner? Anything you say is going to sound really lame, and you will simply expose yourself as the small, cowardly and unimaginative shitheap that you are.

I don't understand the mentality that dictates if you have more, I must therefore have less, and the balance needs to be corrected. I believe in psychology, that is called an "insufficiency tape" and a lot of people seem to have it on a constant loop.

Another way in which the WalMart Girls stand opposite to me on things is with regard to how they view and talk about visible minorities. We have in our office one single woman of colour, a nice lady from Hong Kong who I will call Mulan. Just this week, and a couple of times in the past, a WalMart Girl I will call Sylvester (due to a lisp that causes all of her "s"s to be very sibilant) has talked openly in front of Mulan about "this Chinaman (I) used to date." The first time Sylvester used the word Chinaman in Mulan's presence--without apparent embarrassment or self-consciousness--I damn near fell over. I looked at Mulan to gauge her reaction, but she seemed to ignore it. I was appalled. Absolutely appalled. I mean, even if Sylvester is liberal enough to "date a Chinaman", she could choose her words better. She could, for example, use his name. I can't recall if his ethnicity was relevant to the story or not.

Anyway, as per the orthodontic nature of the title to this post, there is of course an anecedote regarding Teeth for today. (She's been pretty quiet on the old gay theme for the past couple of days: the only time it came up was when Mulan toasted a blueberry bagel during our break, and Sylvester remarked that the staff room smelled "fruity". Teeth looked at me and giggled like the asshole she is. I ignored her pointedly, but noted it down in my gay daytimer. Stupid bitch.)

Anyway, I differ from the WalMart Girls in some pretty significant ways, obviously. I spend my money differently, but they might also raise an eyebrow at me for buying rapiers, daggers and rubber band guns so I can chase my equally geeky friends around pretending to be Cavaliers and Indians. And who could blame them?

I find tattle-taling reprehensible, especially as adults when we have our own power and don't need other adults to make the world fair, especially when we have enough money to be comfortable. But as I said, I don't know the whole story there. There might be a lot more to it (though frankly, I doubt it, given the general moral timbre of the office).

And I cannot even conceive of using a perjorative racial slang in the presence of someone who represents that particular ethnicity. It reminds me of that scene in Grand Torino, when Clint Eastwood addresses the black gangbangers as "spooks". I damn near shit my pants with horror. I had a similar reaction to Sylvester. I mean, holy Jesus, can you not hear yourself talking??? On the other hand, she did date the guy. (Weak argument, I know.)

But today, Teeth demonstrated yet again how removed we are from one another in thought and opinion and philosophy. At afternoon break they were gabbing about their kids and what they want to be when they grow up. Wolf Woman's son (who is seven, I think) wants to be a judge and "I'm gonna buy a mansion and you can live in it with me, Mom". So cute. (I could make a snarky remark here about how so many of the WalMart Girls's husbands seem to have married a mommy and not a spouse, but I'll let that go for now.)

Teeth was looking through the new Regal catalogue during this conversation and braying with delight over the toilet coffee mug and the fanny bank that farts whenever a coin is deposited. Oh, and the magnetic bandaids that go on the rust spots of your car.

Her crotch fruit is named--not surprisingly--Brandi (yes, with an "i"; what were you thinking?). Brandi is six in a couple of weeks. Brandi wants to be a cop, which is hardly surprizing: her mother is a bully, so there's no reason she shouldn't want to be one also. I mean, you go where the power is, ostensibly, and even a six-year-old has enough sophisitication to know who wears the jockstrap in that family.

I wasn't impressed, but neither was I surprized. What blew me away was what Teeth said next: "I'm thinking she should become an actress. Or a model. I look at her sometimes and think, 'Toddlers and Tiaras'."

There was a pause. And then Teeth added, "And then she can marry a rich hockey player."

"Wow," I said, looking at my watch, "my break's over."

Now, to be fair, much of this was said in semi-jest. Most of what Teeth says, if you haven't guessed by now, is couched in semi-jesting tones. Yet there was enough conviction in her voice to indicate to me that turning her kid into JonBenet Ramsay wasn't entirely out of the question. And while I am no fan of (most) children, I find children's "beauty pageants" absolutely abhorrent.

Yet I doubt seriously that Teeth will ever get it together enough to inflict that form of abuse on Brandi. Not because she could ever conceive it as abuse, mind you.

It's just that you can't buy those outfits at WalMart.

Lying Through Her Teeth

2011-02-09T18:10:00.006-07:00

When I came out to Teeth a couple of weeks ago, I had a certain foreboding that this would not end well. I mean, she's not the sharpest knife in the drawer and she has the emotional maturity of a crowned head in the SCA. (OOOH! Burn! Look, I'm not saying that everyone in the SCA is developmentally arrested, but I think it says something about a certain group when a psychiatric nurse attends a local event and afterwards can only say, "Wow. The full spectrum of emotional illness was represented in that room!")

After her initial reassurances that the revelation of my sexual orientation wouldn't change anything, she has recently settled in to being a Real Fucking Pig. One cannot mention cats, as this sets off the inevitable pussy jokes (and given that we just adopted a cat from the Humane Society...well, you get the idea).

The other day, Wolf Woman asked me about my tattoo. I explained it, and when asked where I got it done, I told them the name of the shop and added, "It's run by two women who do really terrific work." This completely innocuous comment resulted in sniggering of the most juvenile variety.

Then today, I booked some aesthetic services for myself and the Little Hunneydoo at a local spa. I wrote the date and time down in my daytimer.

Seeing this, Teeth said to me, "Do you really keep a daytimer?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Wow. YOu really ARE gay."

This statement didn't/doesn't even make sense to me. And by this time, I was getting plenty pissed off at being the latest brunt of her unimaginative, sophomoric jokes.

So I said, "How does that apply to me?"

There was no ready response forthcoming (because really, what can you say?), but I made a mental note and filed it away.

Well, after break, I was called into the office to have an interview with my immediate supervisor (who rocks) and a visiting bigwig from Head Office. We had a lovely, relaxed chat about more training that I'll be getting in the near future and that they're planning to keep me around for a while, etc, etc.

And then Head Office Lady asked me if I had any questions or concerns.

Well, yes, ma'am. As a matter of fact, I do.

So I spilled the beans. I mentioned that Teeth is frequently inappropriate in her language, to the point where the male staff members blush and leave the room. Teeth takes this as a feather in her cap and hasn't the wit to figure out that these men are embarrassed for her, not by her.

Then there was the time she received a large pice of coal (to give to her husband for Christmas), and spent the rest of the day (which was the day of our staff Christmas luncheon), talking endlessly about her "big black box". And our supervisor was there for that one and was physically cringing as I described the incident.

I gave very specific examples of how she belittles and intimidates the other billers and did not neglect to share with them how she was stand-offish and suspicious of me until she learned some of my personal information. And then I described minutely how she was using this information to make tasteless and offensive jokes at my expense.

Naturally, the first thing Head Office Lady (who wore an expression of mild horror) asked me was, "And have you made your feelings known to her, when she talks like this?"

So I told her what had happened in the staff room mere minutes before being called into the office.

"And no apology?"

"I don't think she realizes what she's saying really," I said. "She's really a diamond in the rough, and maybe lacks some of the situational awareness that someone with a little more life experience would have."

(I dunno--was that diplomatic? Or passive aggressive? Or both? And is it passive aggressive if it's true? I dunno. I felt that I was in a delicate position because--as I told them very frankly--being a temp means you're not exactly coming from a position of power. They rushed to reassure me that this still does not entitle me to disrespect or harrassment. So there--the word was said: Harrassment.)

Anyway, they thanked me for my honesty and openness, and I went back to my desk. It happened to be lunch time at that point, so we all went to the staff room. Teeth and I were in there alone while the smokers did their thing outside.

She said, "So did they give you the bad news?"

"Yeah," I said, playing along. "I'm outta here next week."

"No doubt because of what I said about you."

"Probably," I replied.

"Cuz I'm the office snitch," she said.

"I imagine you are," I said pleasantly, but all the while I'm thinking, What the fuck is all this?

I can't, for the life of me, figure out if she was reminding me that she is the senior biller, bitch, and don't you forget it, or if she really did say something to them. Though what that could be I can't imagine, and was no big whoop evidently even if she did, because they're keeping me on and training me in new things and I even got my own nameplate for my desk this afternoon.

So fuck off, Mrs. Ed.

Anyway, she let it go, because going any further would have been too much of a genuine confrontation for the Passive Aggression Queen. But if she has more than two brain cells to bang together in that vast dome of hers (which I strongly doubt), she should instinctively know not to take me on, verbally or otherwise. Because unlike the other billers who giggle at her jokes and take her humiliation passively, I won't. I'm infinitely smarter, more insightful and a universe more confidant than she is, and will not give her power over me.

I don't think she cares for me, really, although she pretends to. I think I intimidate her, and that makes her already insecure little world seize right up. I can't tell you how many fucking times I have heard her tell the story about how she used to beat up other girls in high school because they went after her boyfriends. But I doubt very much that that was the real reason: it's just the one she used to lay a beating on any girl who threatened or intimidated her in anyway.

But we'll see what happens. I doubt that the information I shared with Head Office Lady and the Immediate Supervisor will go without someone having a serious talk with Bugs Bunny about her mouth.

And I don't mean her teeth.

How Very Dare You!

2011-01-31T17:18:00.012-07:00

Dear Flake,
Thank you for returning our house key. I confess, I was confused as to why you took it with you, rather than leaving it with the Little Hunneydoo when I asked you to leave our house last Monday. To my mind, there are only two reasons why you would keep the key to a place you have been thrown out of: you either a) intend to return and jack or generally wreck my shit, or b) you need an excuse to return to the house and leave a letter like the one you left in the mailbox with the key last night.

I am delighted that your motive was the latter, although you can rest assured that we set the alarm after your hasty departure.

I will now take this opportunity to respond to some of the points you have raised in your letter. I don't imagine you will ever see this response, since it's obvious that your note is intended to allow you the last word. But for my own mental and emotional health, I feel the need to make some kind of answer.

You wrote: Thank you for the opportunity to be in a space that was safe and available when I had difficulty in my life.

You're welcome, but I neither want nor require your gratitude.

I understand the challenge you had with my arrival time in December and my arrival times upon returning at night.

Really? It's interesting to say that you understand because you certainly didn't change your behaviour. You continued to come in late, or to call late when you "lost track of time", and when you did come in on time, you immediately set about to cooking your supper at 11:00 p.m. You mentioned in your several apologetic phone calls that you didn't want to be "jerky", but when the behaviour persists, you are, in fact, a jerk. I'm sure you were genuinely sorry, but emotions don't take the place of actions.

As for your arrival time in December, that, too was dreary. It is not the first time you have woken us up at 4:30 in the morning in crisis, but I can assure you, it will be the last. What was meant to be a place to crash for a few days turned into six weeks in which you proceeded to live your disorganized life in our space.

I did not deserve to be yelled at.

Well, you'll have to forgive me, but I had tried talking to you nicely about it the week before, and saw no change in your behaviour. In fact, I only saw more signs that you had no intention of being out of our space by February 1st. You yourself said I had been "very nice" during the chat about your late-night comings and goings, including one episode where you swanned into the house at 1:40 on a work night, setting off the dogs. I asked you nicely, the Little Hunneydoo made her feelings clear, and still, you persisted in being disruptive and ultimately disrespectful. So yeah, I yelled a little when I threw your ass out.

I contributed in ways that I could. I paid you money (not much), I shared groceries, did dishes, let dogs in and out, gave the Little Hunneydoo a ride to work and did what I could do. I did not disrupt everything. Somethings, yes.

These thing were very nice, to be sure. It is unfortunate that you let the dogs out at 2:00 a.m. and woke us up with the alarm. I'm sure your heart was in the right place. More unfortunate, however, is the fact that no matter how we emphazised its importance to us, you could not manage to be in at the right hour (and when you weren't coming in late, you were phoning us at 11:00/11:15 to tell us so) or otherwise organize your life so that you weren't cooking when you got home at 10:45. When we are trying to settle in to sleep. So, while your contributions were lovely, the ones we needed most from you were not forthcoming and resulted in your being asked to leave.

As for the money: I told you--and you admit that I told you--not to give us any. We weren't and aren't interested in your money. We were much more interested in seeing you put it towards your own place. When you were asked to leave, it was offered back to you and you declined. So don't even bring the money up. It is a non-issue. It in no way at any time guaranteed your on-going space here.

Sorry you're having health problems, Sharon. I hope they are resolved soon.

Thank you.

I got to observe some of your day-to-day activities.

Really? And when was that. given that all three of us work full-time and you were--as mentioned constantly in this letter--scarcely home before 11:00? But do carry on...

I do not think some of the things you say are funny or loving, Sharon (an example would be, "Strip, bitch"). If that's okay between you two, okay for you.

This is quite possibly the best part of your whole letter, Flake. I find it rich to be offered relationship advice from YOU. Aren't you the woman whose husband called her by his first wife's name on your wedding night during coitus? Aren't you the woman whose husband raped her? Aren't you the woman whose husband set her up on false weapons charges, of which you were subsequently convicted, resulting in a permanent mark on your record? Aren't you the woman who went BACK to this man??? Only to have you call us at 4:30 in the morning in the middle of December because your marriage was in crisis AGAIN???

Yeah, honey, no offense, but taking relationship advuce from you is like taking weight loss tips from Oprah Winfrey.

What you observed is our public face. It is the same face we show to our friends. If the Little Hunneydoo truly had an issue with the way I talk to her, I trust her and rely upon her to let me know. Because we have that kind of relationship. You know, the kind where rape and criminal charges do not figure. Do not assume that she is in any way a victim. Unlike you, my wife has learned from her mistakes and has grown.

As for not finding me funny--big deal. I've played to tougher crowds than you.

I did see loving exchanges of food (???--What are we, chimpanzees?--Ed.) and conversation that I did admire. I'm glad I got to witness that kind of sharing. I know you love and care for one another.

Yeah, whatever.

I love your dogs.

I'll let them know. I'm sure they will pee on the floor with delight.

I'm happy you got a lovely new cat. I'm glad you have a house with space for gardening and entertaining. I'm happy you see and entertain friends.

What I hear you saying is you wish you had these things as well. But your life and attitudes will have to change drastically to realize all that, honey.

I'm returning your key with a sincere thank you for the trust that it took to give it to me and I appreciate all you did for me.

Again, you're welcome. But never again.

Sharon,
If you say something snotty after reading this note then that's about you, not me. I've stayed friends with you during some times when it was hard to be your friend. Sorry things didn't go exactly as you wanted it to; it didn't for me either.

Flake,
I don't think this note is as snotty as much as yours is presumptuous and passive aggressive. I am cognizant of your past kindnesses and thought they were mutual, the way friendships are. I did not realize we were keeping a tally. However, I trust that after this latest exchange, any debt that I owed you has been discharged.

I would like to reiterate that if you had simply respected our wishes around the late night activity, things would have been alright. So examine your behaviour, honey. That's all I'm saying.

In all honesty,

Me.

The WalMart Girls

2011-01-27T18:12:00.006-07:00

In August, I lost my position at the insurance company. This was somewhat unexpected, but not devastating. I had grown tired of watching the Executive pat themselves on the back for doing fuck-all. I think, for example, that it is bad form and inexcusably insensitive, to send one of the Executive off on an all-expense-paid trip "to somewhere warm" to celebrate their anniversary at the company, and expect the office to applaud when one third of them have been told they will be in the unemployment line within two months because the company lost a crucial federal contract. It might just be me.

I was also sick to fucking death of listening to Hopalong talk about her adult-sized rocking horse in the cubicle behind mine. Because of my ever-growing disenchantment, I was able to approach unemployment with a good attitude. As Julie Andrews said in The Sound of Music, "When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."

(And I would just like to take a quick moment here and mention that Ms. Andrews' husband of 50 years, Blake Edwards, died of complications to pneumonia just before Christmas. Since then, I've been pondering how to woo her after all these years: any suggestions? I mean, this is my shot at one of the hottest GILFs in Hollywood next to Helen ("I Do The Queen Better Than the Fucking Queen") Mirren. But I'm stuck on how to go about it. And don't worry about the Little Hunneydoo: she says this is my "freebie".)

Okay, so after not letting the door hit me in the ass on the way out of the insurance company, I signed on with a temp agency, who, in early December, sent me to do some data entry at a company that deals in the long haul transportation of things like fuel, flour, concrete, acids, etc. The work is not rocket science and the company, being peripherally connected to the oil and gas industry, has enough money to treat us employees very well. First off, they pay better than the insurance company did. Also, we have been sent home early several times over the past month due to concerns over road conditions. I received a gift card from a local grocery chain for Christmas, even though I am a temp and had only been there two weeks at the time. Breakfast is provided every Wednesday and lunch the last Friday of each month.

Overall, I can say that I enjoy my work and hope to stay on permanently.

It's just...well, it's the WalMart Girls. These are the women I work with. They are all rural and married to tradesmen (mechanics, construction workers, home reno contractors, parking lot attendants). Their conversations typically revolve around which WalMart is the best (Vegreville? Or the one in Grand Prairie? It depends whether you need a good deal on a case of Kraft Dinner or a 48 pack of tube socks), sex, their kids, how much their kids' schools/daycares/biological fathers suck, their husbands, sex, the weather. Oh, and sex.

These women get excited when the new Regal catalogue appears in the staff room.

I was with one of the WalMart Girls in the staff room one day on a break as she was idly flipping through the Sears Wish Book that showed up at Christmas. Suddenly, her eyes got big and she said, in a hoarse whisper, "Omigod, that is so cool! I want that!"

She turned the catalogue around to show me a large resin-cast timber wolf statue, its muzzle raised to howl at the moon.

"I love timber wolves!" she enthused, then pointed to the photo next to it. "I love this, too"--and it was another resin-cast sculpture, this time of a large bald eagle, its wings outspread. Painted timber wolves raced across the eagle's wings in a moonlit snowy landscape.

I almost bit through my tongue fighting the urge to ask her where her tattoo was, and did she like Formula One or NASCAR.

These women speak with appalling ease of their most personal information. I know, in a comparatively short time, how many times they have each been married, how many children and step-children they have, and how often they have sex. Have I mentioned sex is a big topic with them? Yeah, it comes up at every single break and lunch time.

As a rule, I generally like the WalMart Girls, because although they are uneducated and somewhat rough around the edges, they are fundamentally decent, hardworking and pleasant people. I would probably not have these people as my friends outside of work, but I get along with them and usually enjoy their company. Certainly, I can say with honesty and appreciation that they have been very patient as I learn their system and have made me feel very welcome, even if I am a snotty bitch.

The only fly in the ointment is Teeth. Teeth is the senior biller and self-proclaimed "WalMart Queen." I call her Teeth (tho' not to her goofy face) because she is possessed of a set of choppers Secretariat would envy. She cracks her knuckles loudly and constantly so that I can hear it across the room. She fancies herself quite a wit, although what passes for quips are heavy-handed and completely predictable double entrendres about big black boxes and knobs, etc. She is really quite inappropriate, and several times since starting there, I have heard her tell the story of how she was a bully in high school.

It's not a behaviour that has changed at all.

Teeth is a bundle of insecurities, no doubt stemming from an overbite so gigantic, fellatio must be a supreme act of trust on her husband's behalf (or maybe the danger is part of the thrill, I don't know--yet). She insists upon having her own parking spot in a parking lot of unassigned spaces, her own chair at lunch--which is different from her chair at breaks--and god forbid you should make a mistake and sit or park in these places. Rather than inform you that you are in her favourite chair, she'll look at around at the WalMart Girls and say, "Well, she moves right in, doesn't she?"

And then when you move, she says, "Where are you going?"

Yeah. I don't like Teeth. At all.

She pronounces the word "necklace" as "neck-a-liss". She orders Wolf Woman around in a passive aggressive style that sets my (rather nice, perfectly aligned) teeth on edge. She gossips incessantly and ruthlessly, and makes it her business to find out as much about everyone in the office as she can.

I was--and am--therefore reluctant to share anything personal with her. It's none of her business to start with, we're not going to be friends, and I don't trust her to have the wherewithal to cope with a lot of what I have going on. I mean, can you imagine telling Teeth about the SCA ("Like knights 'n' stuff?" Sigh), let alone, "Sometimes I pretend to be a male vampire on the weekend?"

Yeah. Not so much.

Take, for example, her reaction when I said I am a vegetarian. She curled her lip (at least, I think she did, it's hard to tell when her lips never fully close over her Bugs Bunny incisors. Actually, given how much she talks, her lips never close. Period). Anyway, she curled her lip and said, "Weird. Why would you do that?" As if I had just suggested douching with Drano. I explained it was for health reasons (because people just get defensive if you mention it might also be an ethical choice), but for weeks afterwards, she would minutely examine my sandwiches, and ask, "Is that meat?" or "Do you eat eggs and cheese?"

Clearly, vegetarianism was outside of her limited rural WalMart experience, so you can imagine that I was scarcely eager to share with her my penchant for the fragrant and sensual delights of the Little Woman. And yet, my reluctance to share this part of my life drove her absolutely mad. She couldn't just come right out and ask me about my living arrangements; that would be rude. I guess. Not like judging my diet or anything.

But, because I have a stellar command of the English language (compared to an office full of men and women who routinely say things like, "I don't got nothin'," and other linguistic crimes), I was able to talk about my partner without ever once resorting to gender specific pronouns. I confess, more than half the fun of this exercize was watching her go completely mental, trying to find ways to get me to spill the beans.

It's not like I'm Stealth Dyke or anything. I have short hair, I'm squat, I wear comfortable shoes, no makeup and a tattoo of Joan of Arc on the inside of my right arm. As far as I'm concerned, I might as well just wear a t-shirt that says, "Ellen Degeneres--CALL ME!" or "I EAT PUSSY".

Tho' maybe not to work.

So anyway, one time during break, Teeth asked me, "So what does your significant other do?"

"Oh, what's it called now?" I said, feigning a mental lapse. "Pensions analyst! That's it! Yeah, hours and hours analyzing pensions. Boring."

"Do they like it?"

"The pay's good," I said.

Round One went to me. Round Two: a couple of weeks later, the WalMart Girls were all in a flutter about the annual staff do. They asked me if I was going.

"No," I replied. "A friend of mine is having her 40th birthday party and we're all supposed to dress like we're in the '40s. They've rented a theatre and getting it catered. It's gonna be great."

Teeth snorted. "She just doesn't think we're worthy to meet her partner!"

I smiled and thought, How unusually perceptive of you, Bucky.

Finally, last week, I mentioned the Little Woman's name in conversation with Wolf Woman (who I genuinely like). She repeated the name with a question mark at the end.

I paused for a moment. It has always been my belief that if people are asking questions, they are ready for the answers, and I wasn't going to deny my spouse in the face of a direct question.

So I said, "That's my wife."

There were a few moments of silence as Wolf Girl and Teeth nodded and made an attempt to act as if this revelation was old news to them while their eyesbrows lifted above their hairlines.

Then Teeth said, "I knew it."

(And I had a strange, yet probably accurate, fantasy of her running home that night to Facebook the rest of the WalMart Girls: "You guys all owe me five bucks! The new chick's a DYKE!")

Then Teeth added reassuringly, "You don't have to worry--we've had that here before."

"That?" I repeated.

Back-pedalling is fun when other people do it, and Teeth was going at it so hard, you'd have thought she was facing the brink of Niagara Falls in a rubber dingy with nothing more than a Dixie Cup between her and certain disaster.

"I don't mean 'that' like that," she said.

"You don't mean, 'you people'?" I asked.

"No, I mean, it takes all kinds, we've seen it here. I mean, we've had husbands and wives with other wives and swingers and stuff. It's no biggie."

And I'll tell you something, dear readers: ever since I came out to Teeth, she's decided she's my BFF. She stops by my desk to show me pictures on her phone, she solicits my advice on sentence structure in emails she's sending...I mean, she doesn't let me sit her chair or park in her spot, but for all intents and purposes, I have been accepted. Not merely tolerated, but accepted.

It's as if the WalMart Girls, and Teeth especially, are overjoyed to have this opportunity to show me exactly how liberal and sophisticated they are. I'm sure they go home and tell their friends and neighbours, in an urbane tone, "Oh, yes, we have a lesbian at the office." As if I was a funky new piece of office equipment. The new Canon Dyke. I copy! I scan! In colour! Fast! Efficient! No office is complete without a Dyke!

I'm telling you, I feel like the only black woman in a white office and everyone is so anxious to tell me how much they enjoyed Roots.

Cellphone Douchebag

2010-07-09T12:18:00.004-06:00

Last Friday, the Little Hunnydoo and I stopped in at the local Subway for a snack. First in line was a man and his two pree-teen boys who took for-fucking-ever. Behind them was a young chick, then us. Shortly after we joined the line-up, a dork in an expensive black car pulled up and entered the restaurant on his cellphone. He wore a golf shirt and pleated pants and I pegged him immediately as a douchebag. The only question was, how big a douchebag was he?

He hung up and said to Chick, "Hey, how ya bin?"

"Good," she replied without enthusiasm.

"When are we going out?"

"I'm booked up all summer."

"Get out! Serious?"

"People have weddings booked all summer."

Hunnydoo and I got the distinct impression that, while Chick was telling truth, she was also pretty happy to have that excuse to give him.

The father and boys buggered off, Chick placed her order, got her sub and turned to fill her cup from the soda fountain.

At this point, Douchebag called her on her cell phone from less than 20 feet away and said, "Call me sometime."

I looked at him and he flashed me a smile. I gave him one back, a weak, insincere baring of the teeth that clearly said, "YOU'RE A TOOL."

She snubbed him yet again and left.

We got our subs, sat down to eat them and Douchebag ordered four different subs and had to use his cellphone to consult about toppings, even though he had a list in front of him. He didn't speak to the "sandwich artist" except to give him orders. This pisses me off; these people are providing you a service and you ought to give them your attention.

It is my considered opinion that cellphones have made assholes out of us (well, not me, I don't own one and I don't need a tool to bring out my inner shithead). This jerkoff was living proof that technology is not for everyone.

Douche.

Understanding Bryan

2010-06-16T19:15:00.003-06:00

As many followers of my blog know, I named my largest ovarian cyst after Bryan Adams. This is because I hate him with a hot, hot heat. It's not just that I hate his music (which I do--I will turn the radio off when he comes on rather than suffer through his cancer-throated grunting and less-than-original songs about lost youth and dead princesses); there is a real and personal story behind my loathing that I might share with you all one day.

Today is not that day, however.

My friend, G., dropped by the house on Monday, bearing in her hands a book she had picked up from the public library, called Uterine Fibroids by Dr. Elizabeth A. Stewart out of John Hopkins University. G. told me she thought of me upon seeing it, and thought I might get some use out of the information contained therein.

She wasn't kidding. Within minutes, I was saying to the Little Hunneydoo, "Yanno what would be amusing? If I changed the phrase 'uterine fibroid' to 'Bryan Adams' while I read this book."

And here I am, dear reader, to share my nuggets of wisdom with you, courtesy of Dr. Stewart.

For example, did you know that more than $2 billion per year is spent in the U.S. on hospitalization costs due to Bryan Adams?

Or that Bryan Adams is the leading cause of hysterectomy in the U.S.?

Some women have some frank questions about this issue. They want to know, "How do I stop Bryan Adams from growing and causing me problems?"

As well as, "How do I prevent having the same problems with Bryan Adams that my mother had?"

Sadly, the only consistent answer the good doctor has for us is "We don't know." But she does reassure us that "the changing importance of women economically has aided the search for better interventions for Bryan Adams." Thank God for that, because she also goes on to report that women with Bryan Adams often report having periods that are painful or heavy (or both). Certainly, he gives me an acute rectal pain, if not a stabbing sensation in the wahoo.

In the final chapter, however, Dr. Stewart admits that "It is unlikely that a 'magic bullet' for Bryan Adams will be found in my lifetime." And that's too bad, because Canada has spent a lot of years apologizing for that lame prick. Both my nation and my ovary are tired of it.

Piss off, Bryan.

The Sonar Dildo, Take Two

2010-03-20T12:39:00.003-06:00

I actually had two ultrasounds this month; the first one was just an abdominal, which doesn't involve the ramming of giant dildos into one's hoohoo. I had the same technician as last time, though, the one I farted for, and I can't be sure, but she might have twitched slightly when she saw that I was her next customer. There was a brief moment when her face registered, "Oh, Fartypants is back," but it was over so quickly, I couldn't be certain.

That ultrasound wasn't at all traumatic, and the results only went on to prove that when it comes to medical concerns, I'm virtually a fucking rockstar. My g.p. tells me I have gallstones and a cyst on my kidney! WOOT! But whereas the radiologists almost always want you to follow up on kidney cysts, this was is of no consequence at all. And so far, the gallstones appear to be silent, so I'm good with that. My understanding of gallstones is that they are hellaciously painful, as in 'lying-on-the-bathroom-floor-crying-for-your-mama" pain. I pass, thanks.

The following week, I had the dreaded transvaginal, to check up on Bryan, the cyst in my left ovary, and the thickness of my cervical lining. This time, I had a different technician who was cheerful and laughed at my jokes and was so pleasant, I considered asking her for "the happy finish". I didn't though, because the whole procedure was just so uncomfortable. This time, the probe looked less like the Olympic torch and more like a Jamaican doobie, only--and I don't know how I missed this the first time--the end of it had, like, the Red Eye of Sauron. And I swear that fuckin' thing winked at me!

Anyway, like last time, I inserted it into my fairy pocket and then the technician started moving it around like she was shifting gears or something. DISCOMFORT! I mean, once I almost sat up and said, "Hey, Dale Earnhardt, that's my vagina, not a transmission, and we're not going off-road here. Take it easy!"

But it was over soon enough and a few days later I was summoned to my g.p.'s office to go over the results. She was thrilled to tell me that, although Bryan was the same size, the uterine lining was a normal thickness and the cyst that had been in my right ovary was gone. Whee! So I told her that the metformin is kicking my ass and giving me indigestion and diarrhea.

"Urgent diarrhea?" she asked.

My first reaction was to reply, "Is there any other kind? I mean, is there indolent diarrhea? How many patients feel the urge and think, 'Oh, diarrhea; it can wait until I'm finished the fucking crossword'?"

But, since she's the one who orders all the tests, I decided not to sass her and said, "You could call it urgent. I prefer to think of it as 'imperative'."

"Sometimes the gallstones can present with those symptoms," she said. "Have you ever had a barium blahblahblahblahblah..."

To be honest, once I heard the word "barium", I just tuned out. My brain shut off.

"You know," I said, when she had stopped talking, "it's not that big a deal. I pop a couple of Zantec and I'm good to go."

"Hmmm..." she said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Suddenly the indigestion isn't so bad, huh?"

"Listen," I said, "my mother lost a good pair of shoes because of a barium enema."

She seemed to sag a little bit on her spine, and J., who had come along for moral support, just sighed and rolled her eyes.

"It's not an enema," the doctor explained. "You swallow it, and it's still chalky and unpleasant, but it's not an enema."

"Does this involve ramming probes into any orifice?"

"No, it's x-rays."

"Okay, I'll do it."

That finished, I wandered off the next week to the gynecologist's office for the biopsy. I was even more nervous about this than the transvaginal sonar dildo. The nurse took my blood pressure (which was slightly elevated, go figure!), and told me to take my pants off and sit on the table. A few minutes later, the specialist came in. I was even further disconcerted, because he looked a lot like my brother, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was discussing my hoohoo with my male sibling.

Anyway, the specialist said, "Dr. Kasha has indicated that you have a cyst in your ovary and your uterine lining is thick."

"Dr. Kasha," I said emphatically, "is an alarmist."

He seemed to take that well, and went on to tell me that what the radiologist referred to as a large fibroid cyst (i.e. Bryan) is not medically "large" at 3 cm. That's golfball size.

"When I talk about large," he said, "I mean this," and described in the air with his hands an object the size of a turnip.

"Furthermore," he continued, "your uterine lining is well within the range of normal, so we're certainly not looking at cancer."

Whee! So he put me on a birth control pill called "Yaz" (which made me want to break out into "Goodbye Seventies, for some reason), which he says is 90% effective against ovarian and uterine cancers. (Not so much cervical cancer, though, so I still need paps and shit). Also for the first couple of months, I will get my period back.

"Oh, come on!" I snapped. "Serious? I was having a good time until now!"

"I know," he said patiently, "but you only have to do it for the first couple of months. Then you can chose not to have your period again."

"Alright," I said reluctantly. "And no surgery? I was kinda hoping to give Bryan his eviction notice and score some time off work."

"No surgery," he said.

So, while there isn't an immediate resolution to the polycystic ovarian syndrome, and the Red Army will invade the summer house again, all in all, NOT HAVING CANCER is great news. And, NO BIOPSY!

WOOT!

Everybody Just Shut the Fuck Up

2010-02-28T19:44:00.001-07:00

Fuck the Olympics and fuck the fucking hockey game. PLEASE.

The Sonar Dildo

2010-01-27T19:42:00.006-07:00

Well, it's been almost three days now, and I think I've recovered enough from the trauma to talk about it without losing my mind and going off on irrelevant tangents.

The appointment was for 2:15 and the lady from the clinic told me to be there for 2:00 and to make sure my bladder was full. So I hammered back a litre of water in 45 minutes I(I shoulda made it beer) and had J. drive my nervous ass over to the clinic.

And I was nervous. I'd been hearing all kinds of horror stories about the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound. Someone told me they used a speculum to prop you open. Someone else said you inserted the sonar dildo yourself. Others said they would do it for you. One chick told me it was a little probe. Still another made it sound like they were going to insert something the size of a city bus into my va-jay-jay.

My doctor had, the week before, done everything to allay my fears by scrunching up her face and saying, "It's weird."

"Weird" is probably one of those technical terms she trained many years to learn. All I knew was that, by the time 2:00 came around, my bladder was screaming like the claxon on Star Trek when the Romulans are off the starboard bow and my bowel wasn't very happy either. It was making all kinds of weird gurgling noises and I thought I sensed a certain familiar pressure, but since I had to pee so bad my eyes were crossed, it was kinda hard to tell.

I was shown into a dark ultrasound room ("What is this? Mood lighting?" I thought), and the technician asked, "Is your bladder full?" To which I said, "Jesus, YES!"

She did not laugh. She did not even smile. I could tell right away, it was going to be one of those experiences.

She told me to get up on the examination table and lay down on my back. She yanked the waistband of my pants down to my squishy bits like some impatient high school boy and told me to lift up my shirt. My belly was so distended from all the friggin' water that I looked like Snoopy lying on top of his doghouse. Not sexy.

But it's hard to be sexy when your bladder is making sounds like a latex balloon being rubbed, or--waitaminute, is that my bladder? Maybe it's my bowel. Well, anyway, in order to distract myself from the "weirdness" that was moments away, I watched the images on the monitor as the nice warm, gooey paddle (or whatever that thing is called, I should google it but fuck it, I can't be arsed) glided over my Snoopy-belly.

I tried to ask questions, but the technician wasn't interested in establishing a relationship with me. And I'm sure it's safer for her this way: it must be emotionally draining to ram the sonar dildo into the boxes of various women everyday, trying to convince yourself that "each box is special in it's own unique way", only to have those boxes walk out the door at the end of the procedure, never to be seen again. Eventually, you just shut yourself off emotionally, and remind yourself that you're just there to provide a service, just you and the sonar dildo.

And when I say, "I tried to ask questions", of course I mean about what I was seeing on the screen. I wasn't like, "So, do you come here often?" or "Do I know you?" or "How big is your sonar dildo, hawt mama?"

It was more like, "Is that my kidney?"

"Yes."

"That black spot in the centre?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Is that an ovary?"

"Yes."

"Neat. Can I see my fallopian tubes?"

"No."

"Oh." Pause. "Is that because I'm not permitted, or--"

"We just can't see them."

"Okay."

So, rebuffed, I just laid there, trying not to piss the table, and hoping that she couldn't hear my gut rumbling like a monster truck engine. When she was finished using her nice warm, gooey paddle to press on my kidneys, she told me to go empty my bladder and, when I came back, to take off my pants and get back up on the table.

Finally, we had come to the horror portion of the show.

Resignedly, but compliantly, I went off to the public washroom and drained my clam. SUCH RELIEF! But, as good as it felt to finally relieve the pressure on my bladder, my joy was shortlived when I realized that my bowel was going to be a Nazi bastard.

Fuck.

So, back I went to the dimly lit ultrasound room, dropped my drawers and got up on the table. She was back moments later, and appeared at my ankles, brandishing something about the size of the Olympic torch.

Immediately, my body cramped like a fist. My box sent a message, special hot-shot courier service to my brain: "You're fuckin' kidding, right?"

Brain: "Uh, stand by for further developments."

The technician said, "I'm gonna need you to insert this."

Box to Brain: "UPDATE! She's not fuckin' around!"

Brain: "Uh...hold on...we're...um....I...oh, shit..."

My bowel, out of nerves, started jumping up and down like a Jack Russell Terrier.

"Actually, maybe you could do it," I suggested.

She gave me a look as if to say, You wish, honey, but said, "Give it a shot. Only the tip needs to go in."

I gave her a look that said, Yeah, right. That's what they all say.

So. I sat up, grabbed the dildo cam and, just as I was weirdly penetrating my pissflaps with the Olympic torch while a complete stranger watched (and not for $3.99 a minute this time), I farted.

It was the finest moment of my adult life.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," she replied.

At that moment, several thoughts occurred to me. On one hand, I thought, "Splendid. Can you explain that to my wife? She doesn't think it's okay." And on the other hand, I also thought, "Oh, good, cuz there's more. LOT'S more."

But instead, I sank back in utter humiliation, betrayed by my treacherous colon, and she proceeded to move the dildo cam around like I was some kind of popsicle and the exam table was a giant mouth. There was considerable pressure on my pelvic bone and it was, as the doctor had promised, "weird". I concentrated mostly on breathing and trying to relax.

It seemed to take forever, because the technician couldn't get a good look at my left ovary. Apparently, it's camera shy. Or maybe it had heard the messages sent to my brain from my box and was hiding out behind my liver, waiting for the dildo cam to leave. I pictured it peeking out from behind the appendix like a homeowner on a Sunday morning when the Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking: "Are they gone? No, don't go look, they'll see! Then they'll never leave!"

"Can you tilt your hips?" the technician asked.

It's not easy tilting your hips with the CN Tower stuck in your twat, and your asshole threatening to unleash a Weapon of Ass Destruction, but I did what I could. It wasn't enough, though and she had to remove the dildo cam (insert cork popping sound here) and go back to using the nice warm, gooey paddle thing. But not before she reamed me good.

Eventually, she got the Sears Family Portrait series of Mama Uterus and the two Ovary Girls that she wanted, and said, taking off her gloves, "Your doctor should have the results in a couple of days. Have a great day."

And that was that.

Next on Gynacology Weekly, a Pap Smear and Internal Exam!

Even Sweeter Piss

2010-01-23T15:21:00.003-07:00

On Tuesday of this week, I had a meeting with the Chronic Disease nurse and my doctor, who wanted to talk to me about the diabetes and results of the blood work I had done last week.

So the Chronic Disease Nurse was very helpful and gave me all kinds of interesting and necessary information about what to eat and how much and what to avoid and what will help, etcetera etcetera, and I was feeling all relaxed and comfortable and "Yeah, I can do this! I'm gonna make diabetes my bitch!"

And then she said, "And an important part of all this is checking your blood sugar levels."

Immediately, I was suspicious. Blood sugar levels? Doesn't that involve blood? Which is properly and typically stored in the body? And to test it, don't you need to somehow get it out?

Well, yes, in fact you do. She gave me this machine, which is like carrying around a pocket vampire, and showed me how to inflict a wound on myself so as to check out the sugar levels. NOT IMPRESSED, PEOPLE! When she first brought out the lancing device, I thought, "NO FUCKIN' WAY!" In my mind, this thing took on the proportions of a railway spike, and the way life likes to kick me in the junk every so often, I was convinced I would hit a massive artery in my finger and bleed out in seconds.

Following this disheartening interview, I then progressed to meeting with my doctor. You know, the one who gave me diabetes, fatty liver disease and polycystic ovarian syndrome to start with. Yeah, I wanted to see her like Joan of Arc wanted to see a match. Anyway, she proceeded to tell me that my cholesterol is also high, but she's giving me three months before she prescribes drugs for it. So then I told her that I've been doing some of my own research on PCOS, and I'm pretty sure that's what she gave me (she smirked--a sure sign of guilt), and with regard to treatment, can't we just haul the old things out? After all, it's not like I'm using them.

To which she replied, "Well, that's something you can discuss with the gynacologist."

Gynacologist?

Yeah, because she's sending me for an inter-uterine biopsy. BIOPSY. Isn't that where they take stuff out of you with no intention of putting it back? Well, naturally, my brain went to the darkest, bleakest area available and conjured up images of my hoohoo being probed by some medieval instrument the size of a firehose. J., who went with me to this appointment, started to laugh because she knew exactly what I was thinking, which went something like this:

"AAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!"

Lemme sketch it out for you, folks: over the next few weeks/months, I have scheduled two pelvic ultrasounds, one pap smear and internal exam, one abdominal ultrasound and a uterine biopsy. With the very real potential of a hysterectomy. WTF? My pregnant sister doesn't have this many people peering up her cooch! What am I, some kind of finger puppet? By the time I am finished, half of the province will have been in my snatch! I should institute a cover charge.

Anyway, I'm now up to my full daily dose of metformin, started paying more attention to what I eat and started yoga last night. And I'm taking my blood sugar levels regularly; the lancets have decreased in size from a railway spike and are more like a finishing nail, but it is still highly counter-intuitive to draw blood on yourself. Of course, the first night I had it, I wanted to 'hurry up and get used to it" and spent a long time poking myself in various fingers trying to figure out where the best places were to do it and how deep the lancet needed to go, so it was a lot of, "CLICK! OW!CLICK! OW!"

My first set of pelvic ultrasounds are scheduled for Monday. This is the one where they stick the sonar dildo up my cooter.

Wow. Can't wait.

Sweet Piss

2010-01-22T14:29:00.002-07:00

I opened my schedule book last week and looked over my To Do list. And there next to "Milk" and "Bread" and "Dr. Appt" was "Get diabetes".

So I went off to my Doctor's appointment, because she wanted to go over the results of the blood tests I had the week before. Did I forget to mention the blood tests? I did. I probably also forgot to mention that I have a new doctor now, because the other one, Norman, was something of a tool. So, yeah, I have a new G.P. who is really, really thorough. She not only sent me for blood tests, but also ordered an ECG and wanted me to whiz in a cup. And then she booked a physical and two ultrasounds. WTF?

And I'll tell you, those blood tests were fuckin' AWFUL. I have really low blood pressure and I'm FAT, so the technicians (yes, two of them were required!) had difficulty finding a vein. They ended up taking blood out of the back of my hands, and, because my b.p. is so low, the veins would just stop flowing before they got enough to do tests on. I had two puncture wounds in each hand; I looked like the victim of an incompetent vampire.

Anyway, the doctor wanted to see me before my physical in early February, and when she got me into the exam room, she told me that I have Type II diabetes. SCORE! I am *such* an over-achiever! Not only that, my thyroid is borderline, I show signs of having fatty liver disease and I'm not menopausal, so there is no good reason why my uterus has decided to stop shedding its lining every month. How's that for starters? HIGH FIVES!

She's putting me on metformin, which she says is really hard on the G.I tract and may cause nausea, vomitting and diarrhea (to which Janet says, "How will you know?" LOL @ her when I SHIT THE BED!).

The metformin is supposed to make me more sensitive to my insulin, as apparently I have been a jerk to my it, and it blabbed everything to the doctor during the bloodtests. When I got in the car after the appointment, I said, "Oh, sorry, insulin; have I been INSENSITIVE? Have I been ignoring you? Does my liver feel overworked? Whatever! I'm going for a beer!"(I was careful not to actually go for a beer, though, cuz honestly, you don't want to piss off your internal organs.)

On the positive side, I understand that the urine of diabetics is quite sweet, so I'm thinking of marketing my pee as pop. It'll look (and taste) like Mountain Dew. Swear.

As well, the metformin is supposed to help with weight loss, and that's a positive thing, because being diabetic and untreated is probably why Weight Watchers didn't work for me while I was going. Once the metformin gets into my system, I'll have to try it again, and see if I have more success with it.If I have as much success getting well as I have getting sick, I'll be running marathons in no time!

Brilliance

2010-01-09T19:27:00.001-07:00

Omigawd. I wish I had the wherewithal to write this.

Enjoy!

Friends Don't Let Friends Drink and Blog

2010-01-07T19:40:00.005-07:00

I've gotta hurry up and post this blog before J. comes down here and demands to use the computer. She has to feed her all-consuming addiction for games on Facebook. She's an avid Farmville junkie and is also a rapidly-rising Mafia king (queen?) pin. She talks a lot lately about whacking some cop and finding stashes of get-away vehicles and how she needs just a few more machine pistols. I'm hoping it's a game, anyway. If the door gets kicked in at midnight and I find myself pulled out of bed and slammed up against the wall with a SWAT weapon in my spine, I'll know better, I guess.

Anyway, I had every intention of coming home tonight from work and doing some work on the book (as per my New Year's Resolution), but I made the mistake of having a (sizeable) martini, and now I'm too loaded to do anything worthwhile. I can't write for shit (this post is proof of that), I can't paint, and reading is pointless, too, since my attention span is fucked. I'm deep into Margaret Atwood's new novel The Year of the Flood, and, as much as I'd like to keep going on it, I just know that if I try right now, I would forget the beginning of the sentence by the time I read the end of the sentence, and I would spend the next few hours until bedtime, reading and re-reading the same friggin' sentence.

(Some of you would say, "That's like reading Atwood without the benefit of a martini", to which I say, "Don't be hatin'!" I heart Marge. I'd like to get to know her well enough to call her Peggy.)

Luckily, before I got too blitzed, I managed to get caught up on my favourite blogs. I have really pared back in my blogs as of the New Year. I used to have a number of them that I would go to, but now I just have a select few. They are in the sidebar, if you're interested, and I urge you to give them a look, as they are terrifically funny in a way I wish that I was funny.

I used to read Dooce, but I have to be honest: that kid, Leta? Gave me the friggin' creeps. And while Heather is far more engaging and funny and insightful than your typical mommy blog, in the end, it just couldn't hold my attention any longer.

I also read ScaryDuck for a long time. Brilliantly clever man, especially his salacious posts as diarist Samuel Pepys. I stopped reading him recently because (okay, this is really honest now), I didn't feel really welcome when I made a comment. I'm sure it was just me projecting all my junior high anxieties onto this poor man's blog, but I always felt like the unpopular kid trying to fit in with the popular kids when I posted there. Also? Scary is a devoted Arsenal man, and my brother-in-law is all about the Hotspurs, and if he ever found out I was consorting with the enemy, he would divorce my pregnant sister, forcing her to hang around the nearest chipper van, trading blowjobs for free meals. Or something.

Have I mentioned that my sister is up the stump and expecting her first child? Maybe I did. Then again, I get confused between what I've posted on Facebook and what I've included in my blog. Goddamn, Facebook has made things complicated, hasn't it? And that's ironic, because theoretically, Facebook should be easier, beause there's none of the anonymity or subterfuge we habitually use in blogs in order to enjoy the (deceptive) luxury of almost total honesty. But on Facebook, you're all out there with your real name and your potential for constant status updates and pictures and omigawd, it's just really too transparent sometimes. It makes me long to crawl back under my blog-rock and hide.

Have you ever noticed that your thighs get really heavy when you're drunk? And your feet are really, really far away.

Anyway, I gotta go. J. is here now, and she wants to check online for cheap flights to Britain. And I gotta go drain my clam.

The Nail Bag

2010-01-03T11:34:00.007-07:00

I think I can say with confidence that our New Year's party was a smashing success. There was music, drink, a shit ton of food, laughter and conversation.

At one point, we even took an informal poll of our guests to see who they would rather nail: Aunt Jemima or Bea Arthur? Surprisingly, most people (regardless of gender and/or sexual preference) went with Aunt Jemima. I found this disturbing on a number of levels, not the least of which was that several of those polled described Aunt Jemima in terms of the bottle of syrup. Also, she was fictional, so what does that say about my friends that they would rather have sexual relations with a bottle of fake maple syrup than a real person?

Mind you, their preference for Aunt Jemima might be influenced by the fact that Bea Arthur's been dead for a couple of months now. Neverthless, she still gets my vote, because I figure we could always sing show tunes together, maybe achieve our simultaneous climax with "Hello, Dolly!" or something. And I could always roll off of her at the end, sighing, "That old compromisin', enterprisin', anything but tranquilizing, right-on-Maude!"

On the other hand, as one friend pointed out, Aunt Jemima would probably make you breakfast in the morning.

The Usual New Year's Shit

2010-01-01T19:20:00.007-07:00

So, once again, I stand optimistically on the verge of a sparkling, brand spanking New Year and wonder, "What the hell am I going to do with the next 365 days allotted to me on this planet?"

And I can only say, "I don't fuckin' know."

I only have one New Year's Resolution this year. I'm gonna try and finish writing my book so that by December of 2010, I can ask people whose writing I respect and admire to read the goddamn thing and give me some valid feedback. There's nothing like writing to make you feel all Multiple Personality Syndrome. It's a solitary activity, so while you're banging out the words on the keyboard with passion and precision, it's easy to convince yourself that what you're writing is so fucking brilliant, you must be the unacknowledged love child of Margaret Atwood and Jeannette Winterson. Then, you get writer's block or you read something awesome by your friend who just won the Three-Day Novel Contest, and her first draft is so gob-smackingly engaging and well-written that suddenly you realize that you really have Downs Sydrome and your manuscript is nothing more than "I want a corndog" written over and over on construction paper in crayon.

But what the hell--I'm gonna finish it and see what happens because, honey, if Anne Rice can still get published with her tales of Jebus the Ultimate Vampire, then there must also be a market for the vapid ramblings of the Downs-stricken.

That's the only resolution that I have concretly formed in my consciousness right now. I had originally planned to lose weight this year by going on one of those LCDs (Low Calorie Diets), but I recently switched G.P.'s because I lost faith in the old one.

Example:
Me: I have chronic pain. The Celebrex doesn't appear to be working at all.
Him: Take more!

The new G.P. is female, very attentive, thorough, and not at all convinced that the LCD is the best way to go. Having had a consultation with her last month, she's sending me for all these tests. I haven't menstruated in about two years and she seems to think that that's a little early, so she's sending me for a whole battery of tests, including bloodwork, an EKG and a frigging ultrasound. She wants to know if my cervical walls have thickened, to which I say, "Honey, I weigh over 200 pounds: everything on me has fuckin' thickened."

Now, I've never had an ultrasound, but I understand that the external type requires me to drink a lot of water (although I'm fairly confident that beer would do the trick, too), some jelly smeared on my fish-white belly ("Jelly Belly"--that would be my name if I sang the blues) and then some kind of weird Star Trek imaging paddle. I'm good with this, and would actually like to see my Fallopian tubes, cuz I'm fascinated by the idea of having orchid-like structures in my innards.

But then J. tells me about this other procedure called a trans-vaginal ultrasound, which doesn't sound nearly as benevolent. First of all, it doesn't sound like a medical thing to me, it sounds more like a railway in Monopoly: "Go take a ride on the TransVaginal Ultrasound!" Secondly, there was no mention of water/beer. Thirdly, it seems that what they do is stick a wand in your squish mitten and they get an image of your insides by reading the sound waves that bounce back.

I'm inclined to think that someone is having me on, because what I envision in my head is some technician getting me into the stirrups and then putting a boom box speaker in my vag and blasting some ACDC up there (probably "Thunderstruck" or "Hell's Bells"). Reading the images seems to require sonar, so I then imagine that they hold a specially trained bat near my cooch and get him to describe what he sees ("It's a cave! No, wait--there's the Edmund Fitzgerald!").

So, naturally, I'm kinda hoping it's the first procedure rather than the latter.

Anyway, I have a question. Actually, I have several, but I'll stick to the one for right now. It's mother-fucking cold outside right now, which sucks, but inside the house it is 18 degrees Celcius. Now, if this was June and not January, 18 degrees would be plenty warm. But we're all pissing and moaning because it's cold in the house, and J. has turned up the heat. We're also in our jammies and bathrobes. Now, why, if 18 degrees is jim dandy in June, is it not sufficient indoors in January?

I don't get it.

Not Clear On the Concept

2009-11-15T14:18:00.003-07:00

Overheard last night at the monthly Texas Hold 'Em game at our place:
Noob (who is winning): I love cards. Euchre is my game.
B (patient and long-suffering): I like cribbage. I don't generally like playing for money, but Texas Hold 'Em is different.
Noob: We'll have to try Texas Hold 'Em sometime.
The Rest of the Table: *sigh*
The only sound louder than the collective sigh was the rolling of D.'s eyes.

Doctors and Douchebags

2009-11-04T16:54:00.002-07:00

I don’t like people, it’s true. But the way I figure, it’s a lot like that old joke, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you don’t have enemies.” In my case, it’s more like, “Just because you are filled with loathing and contempt for the human race doesn’t mean people aren’t really douchebags in a fundamental way.”

There’s nothing like spending a few hours in a medical clinic to bring on a fresh new wave of misanthropy. I admit, I was already pretty much in the mood to kick humankind in the jimmy bubbles after reading in the news online that the Calgary Flames and their families went to a private clinic to get the H1N1 shot, even though the public clinics have been closed to everyone—including first responders and persons considered high priority—since the weekend. My skull nearly shattered with outrage and I immediately commenced to writing angry letters.

My first letter I wrote directly to the Calgary Flames (customerservice@calgaryflames.com), wherein I think I said something like, “Thank you for underscoring so poignantly the vast gulf in priority between a team of over-privileged, overpaid jocks with an enormous sense of entitlement and first responders like cops and firemen, and other people deemed high risk for H1N1. Wouldn’t want you to miss a game; lotta money riding on that. Have a shitty season, heroes.”

Then I wrote directly to the provincial government and in decidedly less vitriolic terms suggested that due to ongoing incompetence, the Premier should demand the resignation of his Health Minister and the Senior Health Consultant. Then I insisted that in view of the gross and appalling mismanagement of this province’s resources, the Premier himself should tender his resignation.

So it was in that kind of a mood that I set out to accompany J. to the mediclinic for what turned out to be dermatitis on her throat. We arrived at the clinic at 7:30. We didn’t get out until 10:40. And in that time, I was subjected to some of the kind of annoying behaviour I’ve come to expect from shitheaps and cretins trapped in a space together.

First of all, there’s nothing like a little pandemic to bring all the Drama Llamas out of the woodwork. If I saw one tool in a surgical mask last night, I saw three or four. And Health Canada advises people NOT to wear them because they are often worn incorrectly and, besides, we don’t even know if the virus is airborne. We don’t know how it is transmitted, but if there’s a chance to look like a douchebag in public, some jerkoff will jump at it.

One of these crisis monkeys was seated next to J. last night. He was simply unable to sit still, only you could tell it was excess energy, and not neuroses, that was putting the ants in his pants. I wanted to slip him a tranquilizer or something. But the thing that made me homicidal was that, behind his fucking mask, he was chewing gum WITH HIS MOUTH OPEN. I just frickin’ HATE that. Shut your friggin’ piehole, Zippy, I don’t wanna hear it! Learn some fucking manners.

Then there was the shitty little yard ape at the other end of the room who ran rampant all over the place. The supervision from his parents was theoretical at best. It was actually pretty fictional, as this little diaper pilot destroyed two boxes of tissues and used the hand sanitizer every fifteen minutes or so until his hands were foaming. And that’s on top of the usual screaming and whining and carrying on that can be expected from those individuals in society who still shit themselves, a qualification not necessarily restricted to children.

The most annoying of all, however, was the ditchpig with the cellphone. I’ve come to the conclusion that cellphones are, even more than communication devices, Asshole Indicators. If you have a cellphone and talk on it loudly in public or while you’re driving…CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! This woman was from one of those African countries that require their womenfolk to wear a hijab on their heads, which is handy for keeping that cellphone attached to your ear while your hands are free to do whatever you have to do with your wide-eyed, rude children who WON’T STOP STARING OPENLY AT ME WHILE I TRY TO EAT A BAG OF CHIPS, WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY IF I AM TO AVOID TELLING YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SHOVE THAT PHONE UP YOUR GIGANTIC ASS. Honest to Christ, that woman talked on the phone for close to three hours, even though she had a companion with her! People were giving her the hairy eyeball and making it as clear as a group of passive aggressive pinheads could that she should hang up now please, but she was far too engrossed.

And that makes her--and the kid and the parents and the chewer--douchebags.

On Driving With Douchebags

2009-11-02T01:12:00.002-07:00

In a word, it sucks big brass donkey balls.

I've driven the highway between Edmonton and Calgary a lot. There was a time several years ago, when I would do it twice weekly. My partner at the time worked there, and didn't like taking the bus, so I would drive down to get her and then drive all the way back. It was, I confess, kinda stupid, not to mention expensive (given that I did the trip in a 1976 Pontiac Firebird Esprit, which could pass everything except a gas station), boring and occasionally even dangerous. Winter storms on the QEII can be brutal: just last year, I had a show to do in Wetaskiwin, which is only 45 mins to an hour up the road. White-out conditions, however, meant that I did that trip in three hours, slightly longer than it would have taken me to drive to Calgary. It was white knuckle all the way, but the weather is far less frightening than the other drivers out there.

As a consequence of all those hours logged on the QEII, I've see some appalling examples of driving. I've seen jerk-offs on the phone (a personal and perennial pet peeve), not driving to conditions, tailgating...I've even seen one total dickhead reading the paper spread out on his steering wheel while he blasted down the highway at 130 kms/hr. Gives me chills, I tell ya. Seriously.

On Friday, J. and I went down to MooMooLand because I had a tarot gig in the evening. Long gone are my days of testosterone-fuelled mad dashes to Cowtown behind the wheel of a beautifully-sculptured, aerodynamic and mind-blowingly sexy classic muscle car with a crushed velvet interior and a 350 throbbing under the hood. No, now I buckle the dogs up in the back seat, set the cruise control for 120 kms/hr and set off in my little red Ford Focus. Anyone who drives slower than I do is an asshole, and anyone driving faster is a maniac.

South of Red Deer, but north of Airdrie, we caught up to a small white car with Quebec license plates who was driving like a fucking jerk-off. He was speeding, zipping in and out of traffic without signalling, cutting people off and just generally acting like a motorized dillhole. At one point, he (in the baseball cap, which is the telltale sign of a prick) and his three similarly-attired asshole buddies found themselves behind me as I was passing a large truck.

I did not increase my speed to do this. I left the cruise control on because I was already travelling faster than the truck and the procedure would only take a few seconds. But Monsieur Depechez-Vous behind me took this as some kind of personal affront, as I was delaying his arrival in Calgary by a good thirty seconds!!! Quel horreur!

So he got right up on my ass and tailgated me, so close that I could not see his headlight in my rearview mirror. I tapped my brakes. He did not back off. I tapped them again. He remained obdurately glued to my ass end. I was deeply resentful, but continued at the same speed. Before I could pull over in front of the truck, Jacques DipMerde zipped out in front of him and then--no doubt you can see this coming--he cut me off and tapped the brakes twice.

Well, because I was doing 120 (which is still 10 kms faster than the posted limit) and he was doing more, he soon pulled away from me. But then he came up alongside another 18-wheeler and slowed way down, so that I could not get past him. Very juvenile. I refused to engage him in this stupid game and just stayed well back, about three car lengths, never changing my speed. After all, with him in front and the truck next to me, there wasn't anywhere else I could go.

Unfortunately, that was also true for the traffic piling up behind me. And Dickhead did this twice, blocking me in behind a truck. The second time, I confess, I lost my temper, and actually passed him on the shoulder. As I did, he rolled down his window and whooped like the frat boy he was, giving me the index finger-pinkie finger and thumb raised gesture you see the losers punching in the air at heavy metal concerts.

Naturally, he got in front of me again, but then he sped off, thinking maybe he shouldn't mess around anymore with the traffic behind us. Sure enough, just a few seconds later, I saw a guy in a black truck cut him off and slam on the brakes, causing Shit-For-Brains to brake hard.

It would have been better to see him in the ditch, but I can only hope that karma caught up with him--or will catch up to him--sonner or later.

Dining With Douchebags

2009-10-29T19:15:00.003-06:00

J. and I went to a sushi restaurant on Monday night, prior to going our separate ways for the evening, she to a bellydance class and I to a wine tasting.

About halfway through our meal, a couple was seated next to us, and I have to say, while my distaste for kids is well-known, I would have preferred children to these two fucking idiots. I have never sat next to two people of any age who were more badly behaved.

Firstly, what is it about Asian restaurants that turn people into retards? Why does the appearance of two tapered sticks next to a bowl suddenly make everyone think this is a good time to practice the drum parts for Rock Band: Aerosmith? All you can hear is *dingdingdingding*, disjointed and persistent, until you go mad and fantasize about the various ways the chopsticks AND bowls can be inserted into the human body so that only surgery can remove them. Listen, you fucking toolboxes, put them down.

The ditchpigs next to us didn't bang their chopsticks on their bowls, though. That just pisses me off generally. No, these two immediately set about sword-fighting across the table. And these were no tentaive jabs and feints, either; twice the Dillhole Male Douchebag had to get up and go to an unoccupied table to get another chopstick because Twatface Female Douchebag knocked it out of his hand.

And it went on for several minutes, too. At one point, J and I openly stared at them, but they were either oblivious or indifferent. I was on the verge of saying something rude to them (i.e. "Excuse me, Douchebags, but could we leave the audition for The Three Musketeers for later?") when they stopped.

Then she capped off the whole experience by reaching over, grabbing him by both ears and hauling him halfway across the table to plant a kiss (a big noisy one called a "smooch") squarely on his lips.

After this brazen and gratuitous display of heterosexuality, they seemed to settle down, but by that time, we were motioning wildly for the cheque, like Boy Scouts practicing semaphore in a windstorm. I tried to fart near their table as I left, but was unfortunately tapped out.

Jeez.

Sartorial Douchebaggery

2009-05-08T13:45:00.003-06:00

I can always tell when spring has finally arrived. As perennial as the robin and lilacs, clueless tools in socks and sandals appear, proclaiming to the world exactly how little they care about their appearance.

Men are by far the worst offenders of this rule. Women have their own foibles, but lately, I have been confronted mostly with lazy-assed men who just can't be arsed.

Specifically...

I am on the Social Committee at work. Every year, the company throws a big bash for all of the employees that features incredible food, drinks and usually some form of entertainment. On top of all that, there are prizes. And it's all free. Employees don't pay a friggin' dime (which doesn't keep some of them from whining about something, which blows me away. It's free and it's excellent. Shut your fuckin' piehole).

Anyway, this year, our annual event is being held at a golf course with a strict "no denim" policy. The entertainment is a murder mystery set in Capone-era Chicago, and the golf course is so strict with this no denim policy that the entertainment can't wear jeans while they set up. In the past couple of days, however, I have been approached by two women here at work whose boyfriends are complaining that they don't like to wear slacks. One girl even asked me if it was okay for "Blair" to wear a nice western shirt and a pair of jeans?

Well, first off, honey, there's no such thing as a "nice Western shirt". They ALL look retarded, so don't even go there. Secondly, the "no jeans" policy has been advertised for weeks, so tell Blair to get his ass into some khakis or something. Frankly, if our company is paying $40.00 + to feed your lazy ass tonight, you can find something besides jeans to wear.

And thirdly, what kind of name is "Blair"? That's not really a boy's name. "Blair" is the name of the priviledged girl with the feathered hair on The Facts Of Life who had a deeply convoluted and subconscious lesbian thing going for Jo, the lower-class rebel with the bad Jersey accent.

But you can't be dating her, cuz she'd know how to dress.

So it's too bad you're not.

Drug Douchebaggery

2009-04-23T21:48:00.003-06:00

Now that I am no longer a peon in the mail room, I am a data entry clerk. People may blanch at this, but seriously, no matter how tedious the task, I am consistently grateful and mindful that it's not mail. Or filing. Or wrestling with that satanic inserter machine.

One of my new responsibilities is going line-by-line through the pharmacy fee guides for the various provinces to make sure that the version we have is the most updated one, so that the retarded processors on the 4th floor know what to pay the providers when members (i.e. refugees) get medications prescribed to them.

Right now, I'm working on the Atlantic Fee Guide, so if you want to know how much Resperidone costs in Halifax, I'm your huckleberry. I can always tell when a medication has been designed specifically for use by women, because it always has the suffix "vag". It will look like this: "Apo-Reallylonglatinword Vag".

This pisses me off. I cannot, for the life of me, tell which drugs are designed for men and their weiners, because none of these medications have "wang" or "rod" in the title. You don't ever see "Novo-EquallylongLatinword Penis". The closest we get to male-specific medications are the ones with the "procto" prefix. However, given the fact that all women have assholes (with the possible exception of The Queen. On the ther hand, she is married to Philip), we can't really make a case for those being boy drugs. Yet for some reason, drug companies feel the need to single out the creams, ointments and douches we use on our fairy pockets.

So, WTF? Is this information really necessary? And for whose benefit is it? Not the patient's. Gawd knows, if I have a yeast infection bad enough that I want to either

a) use a bottle brush on my box, or
b) let the doctor stick the world's longest Q-Tip into my hoo-hoo, or
c) all of the above,

chances are, I know that the prescription handed to me concerns my vajayjay. So is this for the pharmacist's benefit? Do they need to know? Just hand over the prescription and I'll be on my way. And don't bother explaining how to use the applicator, or my "VAG" product will become a "PROCTO" one.

Also? Most medications designed for kids come as a syrup and have a suppository option. If you can't stuff it down their non-compliant throats, you can always shove it up their asses.

Censorship Douchebaggery

2009-04-22T19:39:00.007-06:00

Okay, so I admit: my guilty little secret lately has been my obsession with Lady GaGa's "Poker Face". The video is utterly daft and lacking in any redeeming qualities whatsoever (except the first 32 seconds: that's hawt, yo. Whew.) Her blue bathing suit is really goofy, and the skinny jerk with the package in his tighty-whities at about 1:45 is just repulsive. GaGa should stick to (inexplicably) lounging next to the pool in skintight black latex with enormous dogs.

(And before I go any further, I just have to go on record as saying that I must be getting old or something, because as sexy as the opening of this video is, all I can think is that a latex cat suit is not exactly loungewear, if you're fortunate enough to live in a place where it is feasible to have an outdoor pool. I mean, wouldn't you sweat like a pig in an outfit like that? PEW!)

The song imminently danceable though, which I think is why I like it so much. (Also, I'm a dyke, which means I have a certain weakness for power tools, plaid jackets and fluffy dance music. I can't help it: I also liked "Blue" by Eiffel 65. I'm not proud, but it's a fact. I look back on it now and shudder. And to my credit, I do not like Britney Spears. A girl has to have some standards.)

What puzzles me specifically is how the censors arrive at the decision to leave out certain lyrics.

For example, in the second verse, Lady GaGa sings, "Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun/And, baby, when it's love, if it's not rough, it isn't fun."

In the official music video, The Powers That Be have chosen to eliminate the words "Russian" and "gun", but left the entire phrase "If it's not rough, it isn't fun" intact.

WTF? What's up with "Russian"? Have the earth's Russians suddenly been really outspoken about not being associated with a stupid boy trick? We don't want to offend them ever since they lost the Cold War? What's up with that?

And I get the gun thing (I guess, for those who lack the brain cells to grasp the concept of metaphor), but if you're going to leave out the potentially violent imagery, how do you justify leaving in the explicit S&M reference? Is one less offensive/objectionable than the other?

You could, I suppose, argue that the various expressions of human sexuality are beautiful and natural (unless you count cake farts), whereas guns are instruments of brutality and destruction.
And you'd have a good point, except in the case of the "Poker Face" video.

See, there's a part in the bridge where she says, "I'm bluffin' with my muffin" (Best. Line. Evar.), and the censors also left in the line, "I'm just stunnin' with my love glue-gunnin'"?

(Of course, that might be a simple case of, "We don't know what the fuck she's talking about: Love glue-gunnin': what is that? Do people really use glue guns in a sexual context?" To which I would say, "They are very popular with the Michael's set. Those scrapbookers are a wild bunch. In fact, there's a whole raft of people out there who get off on popping balloons between their knees," and if you think I'm making this up for comic effect, you need to check this out.)

Anyway, all of that aside, I think eliminating words from songs is bullshit anyway. In Canada, there is no actual law against broadcasting songs with explicit lyrics or even swearing on the radio (it might be different on tv, I dunno). It isn't generally done because the conservative majority feels we need to protect the children or some such shit. So, in order to avoid offending the delicate sensibilities of the general public (read: unwashed masses), artists who have the balls to tell it like it is in the first place have to censor their own works if they want their shit to make it on air during prime time.

In the case of a music video, though--especially this one--it's pointless and stupid. A gun does not ever appear in the video. And although they blank out the word "muffin", GaGa reaches for hers as she says it, so the kiddies are gonna get the idea, even if the slower among them think she is saying, "I'm bluffin' with my piss flaps" or whatever they're calling it on the playground these days. (Vajayjay? Beef curtains? Fairy pocket? I have no idea. S. at work, calls it a "yang". A while ago, she asked the assistant manager of the call centre if they shaved her yang when she gave birth. It's a very liberal office.)

Anyway, it's confusing and retarded. Kind of like the song itself.

Hi Ho, Silver! Awaaaaay!

2009-04-12T19:39:00.004-06:00

People--and by that I mean folks who barely know me--have an unnerving and unfortunate tendency to confide in me. I don't know what it is: maybe because I'm gay (therefore a minority or "oppressed" and likely to be sympathetic) and outspoken (and relatively openminded), they mistakenly think that I am also a nice person.

This is a mistake. I am not a nice person. Oh, I am staunchly loyal and protective of my friends, but that just makes me loyal and protective to a group of people I have stamped with my approval. And I generally live by the "live and let live" maxim, but I don't like people as a rule, can't be arsed with them most of the time and would just as soon live as far removed from society in general as possible. I have utterly no investment in the continuation of my species whatsoever. I have more sympathy and tenderness towards "dumb" animals than children, and while I think that most people should be able to do whatever the hell they want most of the time (providing it does no harm to the nonconsenting, children or animals), I certainly don't want to hear about it. Most of human existence is either painfully dull or a train wreck.

And yet, people--essentially strangers who have the most tangential acquaintenceship with me--repeatedly and unfailingly disclose deeply personal information about themselves to me. This invariably alters any embryonic friendship we might have in such a way that, many times, I cannot pursue a relationship with them thereafter.

Take, for example, this woman at work. I'll call her Hip E. Dippy. She's older than I am and has clearly been around the block a few times in terms of general experience. You'd think her social skills would be more advanced, but apparently not. It's amazing how much people get away with.

Anyway, Hip inhabits the cubicle behind me, and one day last week, I noticed that she was in late. I teased her about getting a booty call. This was my mistake, I admit it fully. But most people laugh and say something like, "Yeah, right!" and move on.

Hip emphatically denied a booty call and said that she had instead been waiting for a delivery. She was very, very excited about this delivery, which had come all the way from New Zealand. I want you to know right now that I did not ask for details. I was obviously quite prepared to let this whole matter drop. I don't actually care for what other people get in the mail. I know from experience that it is usually really personal or really mundane. The only mail that concerns me is my own.

Hip, however, did not pick up on my subtle physical cues, like turning away, staring fixedly at my monitor and responding in vague monotones. Hip went on to tell me that it has always been her dream to own this object. She never had one as a child, you see, and the desire to have it is so great that she dreams about it.

There was just something too intense about the way Hip approached her subject: I felt all ooky about it. Trepidatious, even.

Hip told me that she had searched long and hard for someone who would make this object for her. She even ordered plans from the States, but couldn't find anyone locally to build it for her. "There are no craftsman, anymore," she said with a dismissive sneer. "Just carpenters." That's why she was forced to order it from New Zealand. And she spent thousands of dollars on it.

Gentle reader, I know what you're asking: what is all the excitement about? What the hell did Hip E. Dippy get in the mail all the way from New fucking Zealand?

An adult-sized rocking horse.

And then she said, "And I can hardly wait to get home and ride him!"

So, at that point, my skull exploded and I was stuck with a visual image of this lumpy, shapeless old hippy in thigh boots (white fat oozing over the tops) and a leather corset (more fat oozing over the top), crop in hand, riding this poor rocking horse to a furious and explosive orgasm, as all the while the Wm Tell Overture blared in the background.

Although I must have visibly blanched, Hip just kept waxing rhapsodic about her new acquisition ("I've even named him!"), detailing why she chose an English saddle over a Western one ("I was afraid I wouldn't fit a Western saddle"), how big it is (36 inches from nose to tail), and how she made her daughter promise that when she dies, her grand-daughter will inherit it.

The last part squicked me right out: I mean, is a child ever really old enough to get the keys to Grandma's tickle trunk? And, I've checked this with several of my friends--there's NO WAY this thing with the rocking horse isn't sexual. I'm not sure Hip E. Dippy understands that, but it is.

My friend, B., collects carousel horses. That's not weird. And I'm sure there are lots of people out there who have rocking horse collections, too. That's not weird either. But an adult-sized toy? That rocks?

That screams "FETISH!" to me.

And I'm afraid that, knowing that and being saddled (pardon the pun) with the visual of Hip astride her mount, we cannot be friends. That's just Too Much Information.

Eww.

Democracy Douchebaggery

2009-04-02T13:13:00.002-06:00

So, the Canadian government has its panties in a twist about the new law passed in Afghanistan wich makes it illegal for Afghan women to refuse sex to their husbands or to leave the house without their husband's permission. It also grants custodial rights to fathers and grandfathers.

Everyone--politicians and average Canadians alike--are jumping up and down and foaming at the mouth about this barbaric outrage on behalf of Afghan women, and how this violates the sanctity of what our troops are supposed to be doing over there.

What a crock of shit.

Oh, don't get me wrong: the law is horrific and appalling. It pisses me right off.

But let's look at the facts here: the Afghan president, Ahmid Karzai, is facing an election coming up. This law that he has signed off on is part of his strategy to win the votes of conservative members of his nation that will allow him to stay in power. It's about votes, people. It's about democracy, the very democracy that we "civilized" Canadians are supposed to be bringing to that barbaric and backward country. The fact that the law is morally bankrupt and oppressive goes without saying, but to insist that they vote and make legislation as we do makes us equally as oppressive.

And let's not get carried away in our moral righteousness and rectitude: not all of our legislation guarantees the rights of minorities either. Harper's Conservatives have closed down all but two Status of Women offices and removed "equality" from that Ministry's mandate. The Conservative government has been subtly working to re-open the abortion debate again. You know what pisses Harper off about the Afghan rape law? That, as much as he'd like to, he couldn't get it passed here.

Canadians who think that we are in Afghanistn to bring democracy to them are either naive or misguided. Oh, we're fighting the Taliban alright, but not out of any sense of chivalry or altruism: we're there to protect the poppies and the pipeline. Before the events of September 11, we didn't give a rat's ass about the Afghans or their uncivilized ways or how oppressed their women were. We were content to let them live amidst their tribal warfare and let their women trot around the dusty desert in thier burkas, uneducated and ignorant. And if money wasn't involved, we still wouldn't care. Do we give a shit about Darfur? No, you don't see Canadian troops being sent there.

To think that we have any right to invade a nation--because let's remember, we weren't invited into Afghanistan--in order to impose democracy on a people that have no historical or cultural tradition of it is arrogant. It smacks of colonialism. Harper has recently said publically that this war in Afghanistan cannot be won, and he's right for once: no-one has been able to successfully invade and control that region, not the British in the 1800s, not the Russians in the 1980s and not the British, Canadians and Americans of 2009. To say that we are providing security for the very women the Karzai government is oppressing is pure, unadulterated bullshit: the only thing our government gives a shit about is keeping filthy Taliban hands off of the opium and oil revenues.

And now that we've "brought democracy to Afghanistan", we have no right whatsoever to bitch and complain that they're doing it wrong. We have no right to these expectations that 111 Canadian lives has bought us the right to tell these people how to run their country: we cannot simoultaneously give them freedom from their tribal past and insist that they exercise that freedom with our values and priorities.

Is the rape law wrong? Yes. Unequivocally.

But so is our being there to start with.

Get Outta My Fuckin' House, Douchebags!

2009-03-28T19:07:00.002-06:00

As any of you who have ever moved even once in your life know, there's a lot involved in packing the joint up and getting the fuck out. You've gotta transfer all your utilities over to the new place. You've gotta arrange for a moving van and friends to help you transfer all of your belongings from one locale to the next. There's a shit-ton of crap to do, and that's on top of all the packing and cleaning and going to work and otherwise maintaining your life and sanity through it all.

When you move into a house that you've just purchased, it's helpful to have a second walk-thru to determine practical little details like, "Will we need more phone jacks?" or "Will our sofa fit this space? And if not, where is it more likely to fit?"

We asked our realtor, the dynamic Helen Ross O'Donoghue, to request a second walk-thru from the people currently living in our new house. Initially, they said yes and scheduled it for today, around 1:00 p.m. Then about a week ago or so, they all of a sudden said "No!" and, to make it even more inconvenient, informed their realtor (who, to her credit, seemed kind of embarrassed) that we couldn't get in until after they had vacated the joint around April 28th.

They didn't give any reason, just "No". J. thinks maybe they caught wind that we're Friends of Dorothy's and decided to be difficult because they can. I prefer to think that they're just douchebags, but the end result is the same. We don't get to see the inside of our house again until a few days before closing, which I think is bullshit.

Outta Here!

2009-03-06T15:53:00.002-07:00

It's official: my replacement has been hired and starts on Monday. I start my new position on Wednesday!

WOOT!

That means that as of Tuesday, I don't ever need to deal with that piece of shit inserter machine from Satan ever again.

No more endless hours counting and date stamping shit tons of stupid mail.

No more taping EOBs to the insides of envelopes so that the address lines up properly with the envelope window.

No more grunt work, hauling all the heavy crap that the SSM can't be arsed to do because she's SSM.

No more making dozens of stupid member packages (doesn't that sound dirty?), and all of the attendant photocopying, etc.

No more hours doing Eligible letters, using a broken letter opener to fold the thick booklet, because SSM is too cheap to put them in larger envelopes that don't require folding.

No more filing. Of any description.

I might still have to pull claims occasionally, but I don't mind that: it'll help to keep me in shape.

But for the most part, the drudgery is finally finished. Onward and upwards, as they say.

Reason Number 47...

2009-03-04T13:57:00.003-07:00

...why I need to get the hell out of the mailroom.

So we're sitting in the mailroom today, doing our usual thing opening, sorting and ditributing tons of stupid mail, when a woman we've never seen before appears in the doorway.

She says, "Hi. I was told to come here for supplies. I need some sticky notes."

So S. gets up and gives her some sticky notes from the locked cupboard.

When the woman was gone, I said, "Who the hell was that?"

It's not uncommon to see unfamiliar faces in the office, since the company has hired a lot of temps to help us catch up on the backlog of claims.

S. replied, "I dunno."

Then the Senior Staff Member, who is a bit of a control freak, said to Sandy in a reproving tone, "You gave her supplies and you don't know her?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "It was sticky notes, not a handjob, fer Chrissakes", but wisely kept my mouth shut.

When the SSM left the room, I said to S., "Jeez, S., what were you thinking? Giving office supplies to strangers? Don't you know a stapler in the wrong hands can lead to fatal tasering?"

(This joke will only be meaningful to Canadians, I'm afraid).

Anyway, it's just that kind of weirdness tha makes me glad I am out of the mailroom in 12 days, come hell or high water.

All's I'm Sayin'...

2009-02-25T22:34:00.004-07:00

So last week, the CEO of the company I work for got a vasectomy. It's no big deal, he's very open about it: in fact, when I went in to congratulate him on severing his vas deferens, he said he was now "sunkist--all juice and no seeds".

On Monday following the operation, he came into work with a bag of frozen peas to apply to his crevice tool. As two other VPs and the executive assistant looked on, I walked into his office shaking my imaginary tambourine and dancing.

And to the tune of John Lennon's "Give Peace A Chance", I sang

"All we are saying...
"Put peas in your pants!"

He loved it.

And I kept my job!

A Whirlwind Week of Wonders

2009-02-13T18:14:00.002-07:00

So it's been a week, and in those seven days, I have...

a) lost two pounds
b) qualified for a mortgage and
c) received a promotion and wage increase at work.

It will be a few weeks before I can leave the mailroom for good, since a new person needs to be trained and there is much work to catch up on, but my days of that particular drudgery are numbered. The timing of this promotion is perfect, since the Senior Staff Member has been exhibiting behaviours that could otherwise earn her a boot in the box.

So I'm sitting back and treating myself to a wee dram of single malt to celebrate what has been a pretty stellar week.

As for the houses...we qualified for a much larger mortgage than I had believed possible, given our credit history and the current economic environment. We are very excited to be looking at homes, and have the world's best realtor to guide us. We met her several years ago when some crazy little East Indian man offered to buy J. a house and then wasted all of our time by underbidding on houses we liked. Eventually, we just told him to piss off and got into a townhouse in the north end, but Helen (our realtor) was just excellent. We really bonded with her and we are very pleased to be working with her again.

We're meeting with her this Sunday to discuss what we're looking for and to look at homes we've found on-line. So far, we have three that we're quite intrigued by, and here are the links:

There's this one.

And this one.

And this one as well.

Now, my personal preference is the first one, so I'm especially excited to see it. If memory serves, this is the house Helen first showed us when we met her, so it would be kismet if it turned out to be our new home. When we saw it the first time, the loft wasn't finished and the stairs up to it had only been roughed in, so the new owners have done some lovely things with it. The only qualms we have with the house is its location. It's really close to Rectal (Rexall) Place, so on the plus side, we'd be within walking distance to concerts, home and garden shows and Klondyke Days. On the downside, we'd be within walking distance to Oiler's games, concerts, the rodeo and Klondyke Days.

Anyway, I'll keep you posted.

Here's Hoping!

2009-02-06T22:25:00.002-07:00

The other job finally got posted at work and I have an interview with the other manager on Tuesday morning at 10:00. With any luck at all, I will be out of the mail room in about two weeks, and let me tell you, it can't happen too quickly at this point.

It makes me think, though: how much does my job SUCK if Data Entry Clerk is a promotion?!

Food! Glorious Food!

2009-01-29T13:32:00.003-07:00

So, although I am loathe to admit defeat, I'm afraid I'm off the liquid diet.

I just couldn't do it anymore. Props to anyone who can keep it up and be successful, but I couldn't get past the fact that two out of my three meals tasted like the contents of a colostomy bag. Not to mention the fact that my blood sugar took a hit and I was a raving fucking douchebag whose co-workers wanted to shoot her in the face the whole time I was on it.

The day I decided to go back on the Weight Watcher's plan, I couldn't believe the change in my outlook and mood. I was bopping around the office, telling jokes and singing. S. looked at me and said, "It's good to have you back, A. You scared me yesterday."

So, I'm going for walks and stuff, and hopefully that will make more of a difference. Life's too short to starve to death.

Starvin' Marvin

2009-01-26T13:45:00.003-07:00

That's me today. I've started a new diet. It's called Isagenics (I think), and essentially what happens is that I replace two of my meals with these shakes and once a week, I fast. On my fast days, I drink this "cleanse" formula four times a day. It tastes like shit, but it's forcing me to drink a lot more water than I generally do.

I don't intend to be on this diet forever. My thought is that I will do this until I lose a certain amount of weight and then get back on to Weight Watchers. I tried WW last year, but even though I was fanatical about keeping track of everything that I ate, I just kept losing and gaining the same five friggin' pounds, usually around the time my period was to start. It was really discouraging.

I did some research on the internet and discovered that the medicine I'm on for fibromyalgia, amitryiptilene, makes it difficult to lose weight. So I'm hoping the Isagenics is drastic enough to have some kind of effect.

Things at work haven't gotten a whole lot better either. The day after my last post, I was upset enough that I actually cried at work. This is unheard of behaviour from me, I can tell you that. I won't bother to recount the details, since ultimately they are trivial and boring to anyone not actually involved, but let's just say that I have a healthy reserve of resentment for Senior Member, who is not back until the 9th.

Last week, we learned that Senior Member has indicated to The Boss that if she doesn't get the time off that she wants when she wants it, she will quit. To which I say, "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out." Senior Member has been with the company for 14 years, and is looking at retirement in the next five or six years anyway. And while she has become something of an institution, I have consistently stated in my performance reviews that I would be willing to step into her position when that time comes. (That was before the last debacle with the Lazy Douchebag). I understand that the Powers That Be don't want Senior Member to bugger off and leave them in a tight spot, but c'mon; no-one is indispensible. I am frankly appalled that this company would allow any of their staff members to hold them hostage, especially when they have someone with half a brain who is willing and able to fill the position for less money than they are currently paying Senior Member.

Senior Member still has five weeks of vacation owed to her, and we know for certain that she is going on a cruise in the first two weeks of August, which is traditionally when my co-worker, S., visits her sister in B.C. But Senior Member didn't consult or even check with S. when she booked her holidays, so we are Not Happy Campers.

I Snapped!

2009-01-20T17:57:00.003-07:00

I lost my shit at work today.

I actually got so frustrated that I went into another room and started rehearsing my "I-Can't-Do-This-Shit-Today-So-I'm-Going-Home" speech. I even imagined my Boss's response and rehearsed my rebuttal. It was gonna be a tough sell, after two weeks away. So, eventually, I sucked it up and went back to the grind.

But I still snapped. Twice.

Part of the frustration is that we are still not caught up on all the work that is backlogged from when the senior member of our department went away for four weeks, the same four weeks that resulted in us dealing with Lazy Douchebag. And that same senior member has requested--and received--another two weeks off starting on Thursday. Neither my co-worker nor I are best pleased.

It's not that we begrudge her the time, as she's earned it. It's the timing we mind. Not only are we still backlogged, especially in filling, but we've been getting more mail than usual and The Powers That Be have altered how we do it, so it takes twice as long to process. Also, it's coming up on tax season and we have to get several thousand T4s and T4A slips into the mail before the end of February. And that's in addition to all of our regular tasks.

Today was especially challenging because the machine we use to stuff the T4s into envelopes is notoriously sensitive and was being an asshole. I couldn't stuff more than ten envelopes at a time before it jammed up, and when it jams, that's three envelopes I have to do by hand. Add to that the fact that the sealer wasn't working properly and I was starting to really resent being in that room doing that stupid work.

I blew a hype just to vent some steam at my co-worker, who doesn't handle conflict well. She understood that I wasn't displeased with her, but still isn't comfortable around large displays of negative emotion. J. took me downstairs for lunch, which helped, but only temporarily, because the moment I entered the office, the senior member (the one who is leaving the day after tomorrow) told me that I needed to go through every single envelope that I had stuffed that morning and pick out all the ones that weren't sufficiently sealed.

That's when I went off the second time.

"I know you want to swear," said the senior member.

"I want to go home!" I informed her. "This is crap! Why do we have the machine if it doesn't do the work we need it to do? (It's always being serviced, out of commision, etc). It doesn't save us work, it makes work..." I indicated the large pile of envelopes that needed sealing. "Just like this!"

It had taken me hours, literally hours, to do what should have been a quick and easy job of 45 - 60 minutes, and I couldn't get to any of my other tasks for the day until the T4s were done because the senior member wanted to post them before she left at 3:00. And then to come back, thinking I was all finally all finished, to learn that I had to pick through every single one?

Yes, I was very displeased and needed to leave the room to calm down.

I'm hoping that other job gets posted soon, because I'm not going to last much longer where I am.

Let's Twist the Shizzy Up and Get All Freaky Deaky

2008-12-27T13:52:00.002-07:00

The holidays have been whacky busy and full of social interaction, so there hasn't been much time to blog, and I do think that blogging while on vacation in the east will be sporadic at best, so I thought I'd better drop a line now, while I still can.

Last Sunday, we attended a Solstice celebration hosted by our friends who I will call Virginia and Leonard Woolf. We were fortunate enough to have V and L come to our place on Christmas evening and entertain us with wildly amusing anecdotes, as they are both raconteurs of the first order.

At their Solstice party, Virginia announced that she had scored some "miracle berry" pills off the internets and was going to give them a try. The miracle berry pills have achieved notariety from being featured on CSI: Las Vegas--a woman ingested one and then drank some bleach, which killed her. This was possible (technically) because the miracle berry temporarily inhibits one from tasting bitter or sour flavours. It was Virginia's intention to pop a pill and then sample as many obnoxious/unpleasant foods as possible. She invited the rest of us to join her.

I was in there like a dirty shirt, as was Leonard (who referred to this experience as "dropping food acid") and another mutual friend, the Chic Librarian. After letting the pill dissolve on my tongue, the first thing I tried was a lemon wedge. I stuck it between my teeth and tore off the flesh, expressing all the sour juice into my mouth. To my absolute surprise, the lemon tasted very similar to a sweet mandarin orange. It was yummy!

Next I tried a fresh cranberry, which was more like a blueberry. Strangely enough, the 99% cocoa tasted more like chalk. The straight tabasco sauce licked directly from our palms was interesting: there was the sensation of heat, but not the flavour, so that was very odd. We also had shots of white vinegar, which was not precisely pleasant, but not nearly as vile as usual. In fact, if anything, it reminded me of sekanjibin, a Middle Eastern drink of vinegar and sugar combined.

It was an interesting experience.

Christmas was, too, considering it was the first one without most of the family around. My sister is honeymooning the Maldives, my brother and his wife are on Vancouver Island, and J's family, except her daughter, are out east. So we had my father, Junior, up for a couple of days and he behaved himself quite well. He didn't offend anyone and failed utterly to live up to any of the stories I've told about him. It was nice not have to have to kick the old man in the Jimmy Bubbles for being a crevice tool in front of friends.

Alas, I have a ton of shit to do before our flight at 8:00 tomorrow morning, so I am off to do that. I hope all of your holidays are relaxing and peaceful. The next time I write, it will be from the East Coast!

Medical Madness

2008-12-19T20:19:00.003-07:00

My job is kinda whack. It's dull, repetitive, simple and pays poorly. To say that it is an "entry level position" is like describing The Phantom Of the Opera as a play about cock-blocking.

That's one of the reasons the Lazy Douchebag's lacklustre performance pissed me off so thoroughly. You don't have to try that hard to be good at what I do. Essentially, you just show up and do monkey work. It's not inspiring or exciting, but she agreed to do it, and at least she was a temp. She knew there was a light at the end of the tunnel. It's not like she had days and weeks and months of endless, soul-sucking boredom stretching out before her like a Saskatchewan highway...

Speaking of the Lazy Douchebag, S. and I were absolutely traumatized by our month with her. When our senior member returned earlier this week, S. and I regaled her with stories of L.D.'s incompetence and stupidity. (For example, on her last day in the mail room, L.D. was pulling claims. One of the requests had accidentally been printed off twice. She actually said to me, "Do I need to pull it twice?" Many of you who know me personally will be stunned and amazed that I did not reply, "Yes. I need you to pull it, photocopy it, replace it in the batch, pull it, photocopy it and put it back again." I confined myself to a long, confounded, "Nnnnnoooooooo...."). Unfortunately, we were overheard by L.D.'s mother, who works in J's department. So things in the mail room have been a little frosty this week. Oops. It was awkward, but I don't feel too terrible about it: it's not my fault, after all, that she raised a complete twatwaffle.

Anyway, I have heard of a new opening in another department at work and indicated to both Boss Lady and the head of the other department that I am anxious to try my hand at something else. Both of them were very supportive and encouraging, so I have that to look forward to in the New Year, after our return from Prince Edward Island.

For those of you who do not know, J and I will be spending New Years in Charlottetown, from whence she originally hails. There is a good possibility that we will actually ring in the New Year at the Legion (I've never actually been to a Legion!), in which case I might moon the webcam again. (Yes, I've done it before). If I do, I will let you all know and post the url here with an approximate time, so you can tune in to see the big event.

I'm also hoping to patronize the Pissy Pants Club. That's not it's real name, but it is a delapidated old trailer where the pensioners go on cheque day around noon and sit around drinking shitty maritime beeer until they piss themselves. I am under strict orders from my sister to get LOTS of pictures.

Oh, and I've been promised a trip to the bootleggers, too, so I might just get arrested on this trip.

On the down side, there is likely to be some kind of interaction with Skippy, since the little jerkoff lives there. I will be certain to keep you posted about what happens when Angry Dyke meets Junior Douchebag. If he has any sense at all, he will stay well away from his mother and I. This might be a stretch for him, so be prepared.

Anyway, my original purpose in blogging tonight (and how I've wandered off the path!) was to recount some of the few perks of my job. One of those perks is that I get to see a lot of really goofy and unusual names from people immigrating to our great nation, and those who provide them with health care. For example, I think it is law in Sri Lanka that everyone's name has to have a minimum of 16 syllables and use every letter of the alphabet at least once. There are no Bobs in Sri Lanka, unless it is a truncated version of Bobaramalamdamwhoopdefuckingdoo. Or whatever.

Other twacked out names? There is a health care provider in Canada named "Dat Dang Duong". I have a lot of fun with that one, let me tell you. I can often be heard to remark, "Dat Dang Duong sent me another health claim! Can you imagine? Who does Dat Dang Duong think he is?" Etcetera etcetera ad infinitum.

In Quebec, we have a Dr. Schlomo Grynspan. What do you figure his ethnic heritage is? Prizes for the most accurate guess!

Another thing I get to do is read some of the medical complaints. The best ones--for me anyway, and this will come as no surprize to many of you, kids--are the ones involving rectums and colons and bums. I read one medical report about some dude who had a history of hemmorrhoidectomy (an operation to remove your 'rrhoids, which cannot be comfortable, yo), and was back at the doctor's complaining about constipation and pain on the toilet. The physician counseled the man to avoid "straining at stool", encouraged him to drink more water and eat more fibre and finally, to spend no more than ten minutes on the crapper. You'd think that after surgery to clip the varicose veins on yer poop chute the first time, you'd avoid the behaviours that landed you there in the first place. But apparently not, which leads me to the conclusion that on some level, Buddy likes that kind of discomfort.

Call me crazy.

I also find medical terminology really funny sometimes. Tell me the truth: doesn't "transvaginal ultrasound" sound like a high-speed train? Seriously! "Offering sixteen runs between Krackow and Budapest daily, the Transvaginal Ultrasound is a convenient, economical and efficient way to explore Eastern Europe!"

Political Douchebaggery Part Two

2008-12-06T14:08:00.007-07:00

At the end of my last post, I included a link to an article on CBC Online I felt was an excellent summary of what had happened over the past week in Canada's Parliament. The CBC almost always leaves their newstories open to comments from the peanut gallery, and, despite my better instincts, I frequently read them. I really shouldn't, as it only serves to confirm my suspicions that most people are fucking idiots who lack critical analysis and talk before they think. It's the best argment I have for mandatory sterilization.

I kid. Mostly.

Anyway, there is nevertheless the rare occasion when a comment is left which is insightful, fresh and enlightening, and such was the case this morning when I logged on to read what Canada's unwashed masses had to say about Mr. Newman's analysis. A commenter calling himself "Gary Thunder" wrote this:

I heard from a well placed source in the Conservatives (anonymous of course) that the reason they included the measure to end public party financing was because they are in possession of knowledge that the First Nations people are in the process of forming a Federal Party with representation coast to coast and sit with the other Federal parties in the House of Commons. I think with a $1.95 per vote, Mr Harper realises the First Nations could do very well. He deemed it necessary to nip this in the bud.

Perhaps it is irresponsible blogging to comment on this apparently throw- away remark: certainly no-one else seized on it on the CBC forums. But a lot of people are talking about Stephen Harper's error in calling it a "separatist coalition", playing on anglophone Canada's inherent mistrust and resentment of the Bloc Quebecois' separatist agenda. The Liberals and the NDP needed the support of the BQ to introduce the vote of non-confidence, and Harper has been riding that one until the wheels fall off. He even talked about how Gilles Duceppe, the BQ leader, refused to sign the coalition agreement in the presence of the Canadian flag, a statement which was exposed as the bald-faced lie it is by footage of the event, which shows the flag very clearly in the background.

Harper's partisan tactics and divisive statements are well-noted and documented. I personally am not at all surprised by Gary Thunder's assessment, and am sorry that his source is not willing to go public with his/her information. If in fact part of Harper's motivation is to kill the potential for a First Nations Federal party, Canadians need to know, because that is simply racist. I frankly wonder that the First Nations haven't tried to do this before, although perhaps it is only recently that they've been able to get organized enough, or angry enough, to try.

Just as an aside, J. and I were talking recently about Barack Obama being the first black man elected to the White House (I even hate writing that statement: as I've said before, Obama's job would be a lot easier if people started thinking of him as a man and not a "black man"). Anyway, J. was musing that, for all of Canada's apparent liberal-mindedness, we seem a long way from such strides ourselves. Do you think, she posited, that Canada would accept a Prime Minister who was also an aboriginal? And the answer, for the most part I suspect, is sadly, "No fuckin' way, eh?!"

The point I'm making is that Canada is deeply divided and polarized in many directions. The most obvious, and the one getting the most press, is the anglo/franco divide. Many of us still remember with deep dread when Quebec very nearly won the referendum to separate from the rest of Canada. There are also regional divisions, such as east and west, in which certain Albertan douchebags bang on the separatist drum, to to mention the Maritimes, which is possibly the most economically disadvantaged area of the country. Anglos hate Quebec, Quebec hates us back, and everybody hates the First Nations, who are governed by white colonialism that forces them to live on reservations in conditions similar to that of developing nations. Tuberculosis, poverty and violence are epidemic on reservations, where inadequate housing and e.coli in the water are not uncommon.

Stephen Harper, as Prime Minister of this vast nation, strives only to widen the gaps between us. "Divide and conquer" is his motto. He spoke out publicly against gay marriage when he was the Leader of the Opposition and, once in power, only permitted the law to pass because it was politically expedient to do so. Philosophically, he is deeply against it, just as he is against furthering the equality of women, even going so far as to remove the word "equality" from the mandate of the Status of Women Canada, and closing 12 of 16 Status of Women offices.

That he introduced the motion to cut public funding to political parties to financially cripple his opponents is obvious. That he was possibly motivated to do so in order to forestall the formation of a First Nations party is scarcely surprising, given his track record with gays, women and Quebec.

Stephen Harper does not represent me as a Canadian. I distrust his Conservative, exclusive agenda, and I resent his bully-boy tactics. I want him out of office.

My only reservation is that I don't see anyone on the political horizon who is much better.

Political Douchebaggery Afoot

2008-12-04T20:21:00.013-07:00

This morning when I got up, I wasn't exactly looking forward to another day of drudgery alongside the Lazy Douchebag (who I learned used to be an exotic dancer!). At the same time, I was just as glad to not be Governor General Michaelle Jean. No matter what she chose to do today, she was gonna piss off millions of people.

But, let me begin by saying that it's nice to finally be discussing Canadian politics for once. I'm not saying that the race for the White House was long, but even the Dalai Lama was overhead to say, "Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick: isn't it over yet?!"

Anyway, most of you already know the scoop. After the recent federal election, Stephen Harper and the Conservatives came back with a stronger minority government. I guess they felt that, having annihilated the Liberals, they could act like they had a majority government and started throwing their weight around. Harper tried to further cripple his political opponents by slashing the funding they would receive, make it illegal for civil workers to strike for a few years (!) and put a cap on amounts sought by women looking for pay equity in their employment. Meanwhile, he did nothing to address the current economic crisis.

Naturally, the other parties balked and formed a coalition. They felt the Conservatives had lost the right to govern and tried to introduce a no confidence vote to topple them.

There was a lot of carrying on, especially on-line. Possibly the most disturbing thing about the shit I was reading is just how uninformed Canadians are about the Parliamentary system. They have no friggin' idea how their government functions. This manouvering by the coalition is flat out power-grabbing, no doubt, but it is legal. It is not "undemocratic" nor "communist" (wtf?).

I frankly don't like Stephen Harper at all. Aside from his draconian politics, I think he has suspicious lips. They're too soft and femmy on a man. In fact, his face is a little too "doughy" for my liking. Maybe he knows it, and that's why he acts like such a raging douchebag asshole. I am utterly delighted that, even if he manages to survive the no confidence vote in January when he tables his budget (because all budget motions are confidence motions), his jimmy bubbles have felt the metallic grip of the vice. It's been great to watch the coaliton give him two in the dink and one in the stink. It couldn't happen to a nicer mysogynist.

I admit I was a little surprised to hear that the Governor General agreed to allow him to prorogue Parliament, but all in all, I think it was a sensible compromise. If the coalition is a strong one, it will survive the Christmas holidays. If not, we've been spared months of stupid bullshit leading up to yet another federal election. Also, the proposed Prime Minister under the coalition government is Stephan Dion, who, just weeks ago following the last election, agreed to step down as leader of the Liberal Party. I am assured by many people who are brighter and more informed and more astute than I that Dion is a smart man and a capable leader, and not nearly the douchebag the press consistently make him out to be.

But we won't have a chance to see that until late January, if it comes to pass.

Either way, it seems we live in interesting times. For an excellent analysis of this latest douchebaggery, see this article from CBC online.

The Lazy Douchebag--Chapter Two

2008-12-03T19:39:00.008-07:00

Believe me, I had every intention of blogging today about the impending political crisis in Canada, although I also flirted with the idea of updating you all on the latest adventures of Tapeworm and the Little Sprout. I had/have any number of fascinating and thought-provoking subjects on which to write, but at about 3:30 today, something happened that put all of that on hold.

See, I have been very vocal at work about the shortcomings of the Lazy Douchebag. My boss can also see for herself how utterly lame LD is, and has already had LD into her office for "one of those chats" two or three times. After LD's second day off (in two weeks) yesterday, Boss Lady assured me that LD would be spoken to again about picking up the pace while doing the mail.

I went to work this morning, confident in the belief that this would occur. And the sight of LD weeping and snivelling in her mother's cubicle outside Boss Lady's office at 7:30 this morning certainly indicated that "the chat" had been as eviscerating as I could possibly have wanted it to be. Upon starting her shift at 8:00, LD was sullen and subdued. Well, except for those moments when she bitched and whined about having to finish all of yesterday's mail, which I had done all on my own with the help of K., whose regular job is Executive Assistant to the three CEOs of the company. We did this mail because, as you know, LD had yesterday off because her yard ape was coming in from the east.

(And just to illustrate how the apple never falls very far from the tree, LD's mother was also absent yesterday, despite having had a flex day on Friday and calling in sick on Monday. LD's mother's absences are legendary in the office: I could start an office pool and probably make a tidy sum by getting everyone to bet on which days she is likely to take as "sick days" or how many days in any given month, something like that. If she was honestly sick, I'd be the first one in line with sympathy for her, but this is the same woman who called in sick and got caught shopping that very same day. She's the Office Douchebag known as The Malingerer. But I digress.)

So imagine my surprise when at 3:30, Boss Lady called S., my colleague, and me into her office and had us close the door. S. is a paranoic, constantly worried that she is "in shit" for something, even though she never actually does anything to warrant getting shit. I wasn't worried because we in the Support Centre are AWESOME: we have both been busting our humps doing not only our jobs but LD's as well, on top of all the extra pulling of claims that the executive have been asking us to do AND the hours of overtime we've been putting in. I mean, when I say we're awesome, I mean it: we work hard, we're dedicated, we hardly ever complain, we're punctual, pleasant, fun, efficient and accurate. And the company shows its appreciation for us in lots of little ways: it's not a big company, but it tries really hard. We're there largely because we want to be, because lemme tell ya, brothers and sisters, it aint cuz the work is so fucking stimulating.

Anyhoo...

Once we are seated and the door securely shut, Boss Lady informs S. and me that at 10:30 that very morning, LD had appeared in her office, very upset because she feels she is left to do all the mail all by herself all of the time, and on days like Monday and Tuesday, this is very hard for her to manage.

S. and I sat there in silence, absolutely gobsmacked. Mondays and Tuesdays are our heaviest mail days, that is true. For example, this Monday, we got six bins, which is about three or four thousand pieces of mail. We got the same on Tuesday. It's a lot. No doubt about it. That's why every Monday and Tuesday, I personally do half of the mail. I open, sort, datestamp and count every piece of mail from every province and territory in Canada except Ontario. That's LD's sole job. To do Ontario. While I do the rest.

But apparently, that's still too much work for her to do, and when Boss Lady suggested that she needs to hustle her ass, and quit fiddling with her fucking mp3 player, LD was incensed! Outraged! S and I just stared open-mouthed at Boss Lady as she recounted the meeting.

Sadly, because LD only has another week and a half with us, it is too late to fire her lazy bedenim-ed ass, because even if she is still doing half a person's work, it is still that little bit we DON'T have to do. (We're already pulling her claims. The filing, alas, is piling up.) And, because we cannot force her to work faster or more efficiently, Boss Lady is pulling in someone from another department to help LD open her mail on Mondays and Tuesdays.

So: let's do the math, shall we? LD was hired to take up the slack during the temporary absence of another employee. Her tasks are simple: open half of the mail on Mondays and Tuesdays, and all of the mail the rest of the week. Now, because of her incompetence and stupidity, she has been relieved of all duties except this one and, instead of taking up the slack, she has now created work for at least three other staff members, including one from outside our department.

But she was quick to reassure Boss Lady that she doesn't want S. and I to be upset with her.

I'd like to propose a vote: How many of you think I can get through the next week and a half without saying anything inflammatory to LD? Something without using the word "cunt" in it (which might get me written up).

Vote!

EDIT: Or maybe the question ought to be "Should I say something inflammatory to LD"?

Cunning Stunts - The Lazy Douchebag (Work Type I)

2008-12-01T19:41:00.006-07:00

Okay, so there's this chick at work. She's there on a temporary basis while the senior member of our little mailroom is on the west coast for a month, helping her daughter who just had a child. This chick (and I use the word advisedly) is the daughter of someone who work's in J's department, is in her early 20s and has a young child of her own. She is also one of the stupidest, laziest twunts I've ever met.

She does not converse so much as she rambles on relentlessly, usually about celebrities (she admires Britney Spears's persistence in the face of such adversity), food (the list of shit she won't eat is long and exhaustive, but she talks about it non-stop) or her various neuroses (she doesn't do anything by herself, not even go to the store, because she doesn't trust people). All of this incessant rambling is expressed with a rising inflection at the end of each phrase--you know? Like she's always asking a question? Even when she's made a statement?--and a typical sentence will contain the word "like" several times.

She's been working in our office for two weeks. In those two weeks, she has called in sick once, left early once, taken a half-day off for a doctor's appointment and is taking tomorrow off because her crotch fruit is returning from the east coast where she was visiting relatives. While she is at work, her sole responsibilities are to process the mail (which involves opening, sorting and date-stamping), pulling claims (as requested by other departments) and filing.

I perform these tasks myself on a daily basis, and I can assure you, it isn't rocket science. Yet, somehow, it all manages to elude Princess PeaBrain. I have heard her say shit such as, "Okay, if the name on this file starts with DEV, I can't just stick it in with the other DEVs? I hafta put it in the right place?" While standing in the area of the files where the end of the alphabet occurs, she has asked, "Where are the Bs?" (The answer, of course, is "After the As at the other end of the room, you loopy cunt".)

Alas, the lazy gash doesn't like filing. According to her, it's hard work. That's not true. It's tedious and time-consuming, but it's not physically difficult (although it occurs to me, she may find it mentally challenging, as no doubt she finds blinking). Therefore, she spends her entire day fucking the dog with the mail (it took her a full day to not quite complete three bins, a job which should take even a brand newbie only four or five hours) so that she can avoid the other tasks she's been assigned.

She spends so much energy avoiding the work that I swear it would be easier to just do it and get it over with. But instead, she sits crosslegged and shoeless on her office chair ("Omigawd, this chair won't stop spinning!"), reading through the claims to see what the various medical conditions are, scratches her body parts, and adjusts her mp3 player. Today, I covertly watched her process five medical claims in fifteen minutes. Her speed, both physical and intellectual, is glacial.

It makes me mental, but I could even get past this, knowing that it's only another couple of weeks before she's gone. I would just grit my teeth and do my work and half of hers.

What I cannot ignore is her vast ignorance, her paralyzing stupidity, her crippling fucktardedness. Trained as an aesthetician, her every conversation is carried on as if she was applying acrylic nails. It's trivial, it's inane, it's vapid. It is largely inarticulate and finally, it is juvenile.

Last week, she was thrilled to get tickets to see the New Bumboys On the Block concert here in town. The next day, she was gushing about Donnie Wahlberg and how he came so close to where she and her bff were sitting, and omg, at intermission they went out and bought shirts? and then when they came back? they did this song she loves? and it was, like, so awesome.

The girl with who she was speaking asked, "Did you get the shirt with all four of their faces on it?" and Twatski replied (apparently oblivious to my presence in the room), "No, I'm not that gay."

I was so stunned that I didn't say anything at the time. I was completely gobsmacked, although why I should have been, I can't imagine. Given the relative stupidity of her conversations, I might have expected such a dumb remark. And really, going to a New Kids On the Block concert (and being excited, rather than embarrassed about it) is pretty "gay", if you ask me. Nevertheless, I vowed that I would not let it pass should it occur again.

And today, it did.

Out of the blue, Lazy Douchebag asked, "Do you need a permit to have a garage sale?"

My co-worker, S., and I assured her that one does.

"That kinda sucks, eh?" observed Lazy Douchebag. "I mean, what's wrong with just opening up your garage door and letting people buy stuff? I mean, once you buy the permit, you don't have much profit. That's so gay."

My head snapped in her direction so fast, I'm sure my vertebrae made a sound like popcorn exploding.

"That's so what?" I said.

"Oh, sorry," she mumbled.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" I demanded. "How can that be 'gay'?"

"Sorry," she repeated, and I left the room, since it was time for my break anyway. I had to leave the room because I was on the verge of saying things like, "Where do you get off, using the word 'gay' like that? Would you ever say 'nigger'? Would you ever describe how you got 'jewed' out of something? Because it's the same fucking thing, you stupid cunt. Now get cracking on that mail, or I'll pound it all up your ass, envelope by envelope, until the paper cuts are so numerous and deep that your organs will drop out of your gaping hole, and your torso will be as empty as your skull evidently is."

(Of course, J.'s comment on all this is, "Except that her hole is so gaping anyway, it would take the three bins of mail to fill it up", which, for those of you who haven't figured it out yet, is proof-positive that J. is much nastier than I. I just have a mean mouth.)

Anyway, my boss (who rocks the universe) is well aware of the situation and will be having a(nother) little chat with Douchebag when she's back on Wednesday morning. Me, I've got my eyes focused on a date two weeks hence, when she's gone.

On the plus side, she's excellent copy for a character in my novel.

Douchebaggery Abounds

It Puts the Lotion...In Its Mouth?

A Punch In the Teeth

And THEN...!

Salaam, Mohammed!

The Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nuthin' But the Tooth

The Tyranny of Teeth

Dental Damn

Occupy My Garage!!!

That's What *He* Said!

Sufferin' Succotash!

What's Up, Doc?

Talk Caucasian To Me, Bitch!

Society for Complete Assholes

Benefit Plan

WTF Twice In One Week

A Pineapple In the Ass

The Handicap Is Not Necessarily Physical

Never Volunteer For Anything

Email Hijinks

At the Water Cooler

DONE!

Swingin' From the Rafters

The Return of Two Clowns

Chester the Molester

Thor the Bore

You Gotta Be Kidding!

THINK!

Fuck You, Clown!

Drama Mama

I'm A Handful

kd Does Not Stand For Kraft Dinner...

The Hot Seat

The Incredible Story(ies) of Two Clowns

The Rehabilitation of A Princess

Bad Teeth and Feet

Douchebag Dirt

A Day of Disappointment

Two Clowns

Is This Junior High? Or An Office? I Can't Tell.

Electric Chair

Buck Teeth?

Long In the Tooth

Postscript

Right In the Teeth

Not Clear On the Concept

Loose Tooth?

Dental Dam(n)

Lying Through Her Teeth

How Very Dare You!

The WalMart Girls

Cellphone Douchebag

Understanding Bryan

The Sonar Dildo, Take Two

Everybody Just Shut the Fuck Up

The Sonar Dildo

Even Sweeter Piss

Sweet Piss

Brilliance

Friends Don't Let Friends Drink and Blog

The Nail Bag

The Usual New Year's Shit

Not Clear On the Concept

Doctors and Douchebags

On Driving With Douchebags

Dining With Douchebags

Sartorial Douchebaggery

Drug Douchebaggery

Censorship Douchebaggery

Hi Ho, Silver! Awaaaaay!

Democracy Douchebaggery

Get Outta My Fuckin' House, Douchebags!

Outta Here!

Reason Number 47...

All's I'm Sayin'...

A Whirlwind Week of Wonders

Here's Hoping!

Food! Glorious Food!

Starvin' Marvin

I Snapped!

That's What He Said!