Dear Coworker

Dear Coworker,

I had allergy testing done today, which encompassed 120 needles scraping my back.  Way less painful than the chat we just had. And no headache.

Birthdays Was the Worst Days

If you missed the Notorious BIG reference in the title of this post, I’m pointing it out before you make a fool of yourself correcting my grammar. And learn what good rap music is, while we’re on the subject.

Today, is my birthday. Womp, womp, womp. Each year on my birthday I spend time reflecting on my life. Sounds really deep and pensive, sometimes it is, other times not so much. As each year passes, one thought comes to mind more often than others. That thought is ‘Holy Shit, I’m old’.

What’s funny about that thought is you never really feel different on your birthday. As your age creeps up you still feel 25, but you get further and further from it. Not that 25 was so great, but I still think I should feel older. People often say you’re only as old as you feel, those people are usually old, and I always thought that meant how you physically feel. But, physically I feel 53 so I’m sticking with mentally.

So, I’m celebrating my 33rd birthday today… mentally 25, physically 53 and wondering how the hell I got this close to 35 so fast. All in all, it will be a good day. I’ll drink, laugh, see my friends, ‘like’ 100 birthday wishes on Facebook, and spend the night at my birthday party. My party, by the way, is at the casino in the bingo hall. Playing bingo. On a Saturday night. Because at 33, that makes me happy. Perhaps I should revise my mental age. Hmmm.

In closing, I did get pretty much the best gift ever. There isn’t much that can compete with it, I predict this will be the Christmas gift of 2012. You heard it here first.

I think I’ll send a copy to Clay Matthews with a picture of me in my Packers snuggie. Naked as a jaybird.

Best.Gift.Ever.

The 4-Way Stop

There are things about driving that annoy us all. People who drive too slow, don’t pay attention, demonstrate blatant stupidity, etc. Come to think of it, have you ever noticed that everyone on the road, except you, is the worst driver ever?

Over the years, I’ve calmed down a bit and don’t get as angry while driving. As far as I’ve come, the one thing that still makes me nutty, on a daily basis, is the 4-way stop.

What is it about the 4-way stop that is so difficult for the general public to grasp? It is not an advanced math equation, philosophy to debate, or a world problem to contemplate, it is a 4-way stop. A 4-way stop! He who arrived first, goes first. It’s not difficult!

It doesn’t require a college degree, or a certification, or any sense above that of a sixteen year old capable of learning the rules of the road. Yet, every single day, as I approach a 4-way stop and watch a symphony of stupidity and debauchery unfold before my eyes, I’m continually amazed at how difficult some people find this concept.

What’s more are the types of drivers you inevitably encounter at almost every single one. Unless you’re on a lonely country road, surrounded by corn fields, with no other cars in sight, you’re bound to witness some of this behavior.

There’s the waver. The driver that takes it upon him or her self to direct traffic, because you couldn’t possibly determine it was your turn to go without this gesture of goodwill. Thankfully they are here to guide us through this remedial process, because I’m certain we would all sit there at the stop sign forever confused as to what to do next.

Then there’s the totally oblivious driver, who clearly cannot grasp the concept of discerning who arrived first, because they didn’t wake up and realize they were actually at a 4-way stop until they’d stopped already.

And my favorite, the driver who eternally screws up the perfect balance and timing, by rolling through the stop and going before you. This is also the driver you inevitably play the ever seductive, you move a foot, I’ll move a foot, you move a foot, I’ll move a foot game- until you’re both pissed off in the middle of the intersection cursing at each other.

There’s also the overly cautious driver, afraid to pull the trigger and hit the acceleration pedal, bound to sit there until a red carpet is rolled out, inviting them to safely pass. These people clearly lead exhilarating lives. Anyone who can spend that much time making a basic decision is a daredevil.

So, the next time you’re at a 4-way stop and one of these Mensa candidates screws it up, I hope you’ll think of this post and smile. Because though the world is starved for common sense, there are still a few of us left here to laugh and point it out.

Top 5 Annoying Things About Working In An Office

There are many things about work that can drive you a little crazy, and there are some ‘unique’ people, to say the least. By ‘unique’, I mean people you are certain have Aspergers and wonder how they even get to work. Or those who are so unintelligent you’re convinced that is really what they are being paid for… As if it were some rare skill. For me, there are also a few notable things that make work extra intolerable.

Here are my top five…in no particular order.

Sharing A Fridge

The random lunch containers. Legitimate lunch boxes, plastic bags, Tupperware, frozen food boxes. Old, moldy, food. Bottles of condiments with names written on them as if mayo were gold. I don’t want to share a fridge with a significant other, let alone 60 strangers with questionable hygiene and taste in food. And for me it’s an accomplishment if I can make it to lunch without eating my lunch. I’ve no need for a community fridge.

Bathroom Chit Chat

The extended greeting that goes “Hiiiiiiii how aaaaaaaareeeee youuuuuuuu???” as if you didn’t just pass them 20 minutes ago while avoiding eye contact. In this forced tight space, however, you’re required to chat while washing hands and to throw random compliments out hoping one will result in 60 seconds of idle chatter, so you can make a quick escape. I love your shoes are those new? Did you cut your hair? And when I need to pull out the big guns … Have you lost weight?

Meetings about meetings about… Meetings

Have you ever had to have a meeting to align your coworkers on a topic so they didn’t sound stupid in your next meeting on the same topic? And then after that meeting have another meeting to make sure everyone understood what they should be doing? And then have a fourth meeting on the same topic to make sure they are doing the tasks as a result of the first three meetings? I did. Yesterday.

Drinking Alcohol is Generally Frowned Upon

I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d be far more friendly and accommodating, when a coworker tells me they’ve wasted hours of my time due to their poor planning and general lack of technical skill, with a glass of scotch in my hand at 3 o’clock as opposed to settling for Starbucks or a cookie. Amiright???

Socialization

Forced compliments. Chatting with people you would never be caught talking to in any other situation except maybe a hostage situation on an airplane. Celebrating their birthdays with a crappy grocery store cake an hour after a meeting, during which you wished they were never born. Listening to their medical history and over-sharing all because you asked to borrow some Tylenol. My version of hell.

All in all, a job is a job. We show up to make money and fund our lives. Still, it provides a little relief when you can laugh about the general nuttiness that we willingly subject ourselves to on a daily basis.

I’ll close with a few of my favorite quotes about work…

“Business conventions are important because they demonstrate just how many people a company can operate without.”

“Every day I get up and look at the Forbes list of the richest people in America, if I’m not there, I go to work.”

“If by ‘let’s agree to disagree’ you mean let’s both continue thinking the other person is a complete idiot, then okay.”

Satan’s Offspring Part Deaux

I tried. I almost made it 30 days without blogging about the three demons who live upstairs from me.

I couldn’t do it.

After my first post, I kept thinking there wasn’t much more I could say. I also assumed the apocalypse would stop me, before my irritation led me to write another blog. What else could these ‘children’ be doing upstairs other than preparing for the arrival of the four horsemen? Sadly, that did not occur and I have plenty more to say.

I finally saw them and confirmed there are three of them. They appear to all be under the age of five. This does explain why it sounds like I live underneath a Riverdance rehearsal. It does not explain why after the first one their parents would have continued breeding. They look nothing like I thought, I expected horns, scales, and black eyes. They looked, sadly, normal. Clever little creatures.

I’ve actually gone to the leasing office to request permission to replace the light fixture in my dining room. This is in an effort to stop the constant clanging and rattling I hear from it, as they throw tantrums and run through the apartment like the hills are alive with the sound of music.

I’ve displaced some of my anger and irritation by envisioning them tripping and falling, or contracting any illness that leaves them bedridden for more than five days. It would be a nice break. I’ve also entertained delivering Children’s Benadryl laced brownies to them, just to ensure I get one Saturday morning of uninterrupted sleep. These fantasies help. A little.

In reality, as I’m sitting in my driveway after work each night finishing whatever phone call I’m on so it isn’t interrupted by shrieking, I realize I’m stuck with them. I could only complain about the noise in so many resentful phone calls before realizing the leasing office can do little about the noise Lucifer’s children are making upstairs. Instead, I continue to dream of them falling through the ceiling the next time they are stomping in place and screaming over not wanting to go to bed. And occasionally, I cling to the hope that their arrival on earth means it’s about time for war and pestilence to sweep in so I can get some sleep.

Dare to dream.

I Woke Up Old

I don’t know when it happened. I remember being 25 like it was 6 months ago. I now sit here at 32, realizing I am an old person. No, I do not think 32 is old, but I feel old. And, I realize my youth is long gone.

In some ways, leaving behind your youth is a good thing. The errors of your past, naive choices, hard lessons… The wisdom is great. What is not great is waking up feeling like I’ve been hit by a Mac truck.

Here are some of the reasons I know I’m old:

My knees have left the building
I do remember a time without knee pain. I even remember running, and standing up without sounding like a bowl of rice crispies. Alas, those days are gone, and I’m mighty slow moving in the morning.

I can gain weight, without eating
The metabolism that could once fire through pizza and Doritos can barely wake itself up to digest a Lean Cuisine. I can actually physically gain weight from not eating all day. Work that math out for me.

Stubbornness runs through my veins
I no longer compromise, nor am I flexible. I know what I like, and precisely how I want it. I can’t even fathom having a friend visit for a week, but once upon a time I lived with someone and happily compromised on anything. Now, when my cleaning lady moves my toothbrush we have a code blue situation.

I have more time with heartburn than without
Until my late 20’s I had never experienced heartburn, ever in my life. Then, one day, my stomach and esophagus decided they hated each other, and World War Pepcid began. Today, I can’t even look at acidic food without getting heartburn. I can actually get heartburn from not eating. Gone are the days of lemonade, marinara sauce, and coffee. I now carry a bottle of Pepcid Complete with me like it’s an oxygen tank.

I now require 9+ hours of sleep
I remember being able to go to bed at midnight and get up at 5:30 am with no problem. Now, I need a mini coma to feel refreshed. And naps, lots of naps. I nap on the weekend like it’s my job. During the week I rarely get even 8 hours of sleep, so naturally this presents a problem. I’ve strongly considered a nap mat for underneath my desk.

I’m conscious of a litany of health stats
I couldn’t tell you what my blood type was a few years ago. I can tell you today what my blood pressure is, and my good and bad cholesterol, and how much fiber I got in today. When you have stood in the grocery store and purchased probiotic yogurt, you know you’re old. There is no hiding it then.

I value comfort above fashion
I’ve long walked around in ultra high heels with little regard for comfort. Though I still do my best to remain stylish, I’d sell my soul to be able to wear orthopedic shoes daily and not be judged. Really.

I no longer believe I will outlive my teeth
Gone are the days of believing my teeth would last forever if I just brushed and flossed. Three crowns later, I realize these bad boys might make it until 60. I’m saving for convincingly fake teeth.

I’m very aware of possible injury
I used to just move my couch when I wanted it moved. Now there is a whole assessment that takes place prior to doing so. Most of it revolves around potentially throwing out my back. I don’t buy cool gym shoes anymore, I buy the ones I’m least likely to trip in. And worst of all, I hold railings. If it’s there, I hold it. In the public restroom, going up stairs, going down stairs, in a hotel shower. Safety first.

So you see, I have valid reasons for feeling old. Im turning 33 one month from today and I can’t help feeling that at some point my body forgot my real age. Maybe I celebrated my 29th birthday too many times over, and I confused it. Whatever the reason, it is made worse by the often repeated mantra ‘you’re only as old as you feel’. If that’s the case, helloooooo 55.

The 4 Types of People on Facebook

Facebook.  Often the bane of my existence.

I’m one of those crazy people who couldn’t care less about Facebook.  I’ve deleted my account for months on end and had no issue with it.  I end up reinstating it because I realize without Facebook I have to spend more time on the phone. I hate the phone.

I can’t remember the last time I actually clicked on someone’s profile.  If something pops up in my newsfeed and I see it, great.  If I don’t, great.  This is why some of the stalker Facebook behavior I hear about from friends continually surprises me… I just cannot relate.

Being a reluctant Facebook user, I couldn’t help but notice there are basically 4 types of people posting, and they all do things that drive me absolutely nuts.

The Lurker

You know them.  They’ve been on your friends list because you worked together once 3 years ago, and they post maybe twice a year – usually it’s at a holiday – and they’re drunk.  They are on Facebook to lurk on everyone else’s profile.  They are the ones who judge everything you post to make themselves feel better about their own life, and are too afraid of being judged to actually share anything about theirs.  They’re dangerous, because you forget they are even there and then … BAM!  random drunk picture wishing everyone a Happy New Yeerrrrrrrr on 12/31.

The Comedian

They’re oh so hi-lar-ious.  They spend the majority of the day trolling the internet for the funniest things they can find and posting them.  You know the people that google  ‘funny facebook posts’ and use any they can find, usually that aren’t funny?  And not because they wanted to share a laugh, but because they want you to think they’re a comedic genius.  But be warned, if you repost something they posted and don’t give them proper credit, the wrath of God will come down on you, via a snarky private message.  Because, posting something they found or read on the internet clearly makes their own copyrighted material from that moment forward.  DUH.

The Attention Seeker

Hello passive-aggressive.  Every quote and updated posted is a dig at someone in their life, an anonymous someone that they don’t want to confront.  They do, however, want everyone to know something is going on.  “SOME PEOPLE need to learn to mind their own business, and if they’re going to go telling people what I post on Facebook they can just delete me!”  or “I’m so upset by the choices of other people.  They don’t think about how it affects the other people around them!  You should think about what you’re saying when you say it! I’m going to stay positive and drama free.” These folks also post all of their personal business.  Marriage problems, frustration with their kids, jobs, every day situations, and it’s OFTEN negative.  Unless they want everyone to think they’re doing amazing… then they lay it on thick.  Ever notice how a woman can post 10 things about how shitty her husband is one week, and then on his birthday he is the most amazing man on the planet and the best husband everrrrr?

The Chronicler

Omg my newspaper was late, AGAIN.

Bologna sandwich, yum!

Is it 4 o clock yet?

Ugh traffic on the way home!

Steak for dinner!

These poor folks actually believe that their friends on Facebook give two shits how they spent their day.  Come oooon people, don’t you know the secret of social networking?  It’s a success because it feeds our narcissistic side.  We’re all there to post about our OWN day, we just happen to read about yours because it’s plastered everywhere once we update our own status.

Facebook (and other social networking) should never be taken too seriously, as it is built on our interest… in ourselves.  I do find it to be annoying but a necessary annoyance in this day and age.  There are a few of us out there who actually use it to stay in touch with folks, find a little humor, be supportive to others, and share opinions, stories and life events.  And more importantly, we don’t take it seriously.  Clearly, I’m in the minority here.

Don’t get me wrong Facebook is not all bad. You get to keep in touch with people and stay up to date with their lives without actually having to have a conversation with them, you hear news more quickly, you see some funny things, and ultimately it’s entertaining.  Vastly entertaining when you’re a slightly egotistical grammar nazi; the material is endless.  Plus, you get to laugh at all of the idiotic posts and remarks.  It does slowly destroy your faith in the future of America, but at least you have a good time while it’s happening.

I’ll close with a few Facebook comeback gems that I saw today…

You can read them all here: http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/the-28-best-facebook-come-backs

The Monster Under The Bed

I’m a grown adult.  I state this first because you may find that hard to believe after reading this post but, hear me out.

Maybe it’s because I’m a girl or, because I live by myself, perhaps I’m just a wuss, but I’m afraid of pretty much everything when alone in my apartment.  And it’s not this apartment, it’s every apartment I’ve ever had.  I’m not afraid to be alone, I love being alone.  I’m definitely my favorite person to spend time with.  And I’m one of those people who needs alone time and plenty of personal space. But, when I’m alone at home, I have a constant subliminal fear of enduring some type of horror. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this and the origin of this fear. I love watching mysteries, and reading about killers, and crime – it’s my thing.  So, it’s a logical conclusion that because I’ve been heavily influenced by books, movies, shows, and stories over the course of my life – I’m now a nutjob.  Whatever the reason, I’m certain that any noise I hear in my house – is an axe murderer.

A tap in the kitchen?  Can’t possibly be the ice-maker.  It must be the raving, lunatic, serial killer that has happened upon my apartment and, accidentally tapped his metal hook hand on the floor while trying to sneak up on me.  Closet door cracked open?  No way I left it like that.  Clearly, an intruder has infiltrated my home and is hiding behind the clothes in my closet.  If I dare look, I’m certain to be surprised by them, and a knife.  And don’t LET me forget to close the kitchen blinds before dark.  There is nothing scarier than walking past that window at night, and only being able to see my own reflection.  I become instantly convinced that someone is looking in, and I can’t see them.  And not just someone, someone completely stalker crazy, of course.

What started as being cautious and wary when I was in my late teens, turned into certainty my life would end at the hands of a killer/burglar/madman. And then the final horror… my life story would end up being played out by Tori Spelling on the Lifetime Movie Network.

Even while doing little things, there is a murder mystery storyline going through my head.  Like, when I open the shower curtain to take a shower.  For a split second, I’m certain someone will be in there when I open it. And not a hot naked guy, but a killer – of course. Or when I’m standing in the bathroom mirror putting on my makeup.  There are a few moments throughout the process where some part of me thinks, you’re sooo going to see someone standing behind you.  Not conducive to applying flawless eyeliner.

I cannot even count the number of times that I’ve rehearsed, in my head, how I would communicate to a 911 operator my entire address if I only had a mere second to make that call.  And, um, if you’ve never thought about it?  You should.  Because if they don’t catch it the first time you blurt it out, you’re screwed.

What’s amusing about this, other than the fact that it is incredibly paranoid, is I’m scared of little else in life.  Snakes?  No.  Huge career moves?  Nope.  Mice?  Unh unh. Being single?  No. Moving to a new state alone, and knowing no one?  Child’s play.  Bungee jumping?  Huh unh.  I’ll take dramatic risks in pretty much everything, because it makes me feel alive.  But, get up at 2 am and walk through the dark apartment for a glass of water?  No thank you, I’d rather dehydrate safely in my bed.

And what is it about being in bed that makes you feel safe?  With my blankets up to my chin I’m suddenly invincible.  No bullet, knife, person, monster or unexplained phenomenon could possibly get me through my sheet and down comforter. Especially, if my blankets are tucked under my feet. Ultimately, just a false sense of security, much like your seat cushion being a flotation device on a plane.

Standing next to the bed?  That’s a whole different story.  Anything can grab you from under the bed, it’s common knowledge. Monster, clown, witch, ghost, doll, scary madman … the possibilities are endless.

And since I’ve put this whole embarrassing thing on out there (see? no fear), I might as well also state that I do make a little running leap onto my bed each night, just so my feet don’t get too close to the monsters.  Because, while it may be preposterous, a girl can never be too careful – right?

Why Bingo Isn’t for Everyone

I have a confession to make and that is, I’m a closet Bingo player. I’m 32 years old, single, moderately attractive, socially capable, and I’d still prefer to spend my Saturday nights playing Bingo at one of the local casinos. For me any game that combines gambling with stamping/marking off numbers, after obsessively checking for them, is a fantasy come true.

My love for Bingo started off as a bit of a joke. Tired of playing other table games I asked a friend to accompany me to Bingo one night, solely for the purpose of comedy. I knew the rules already and figured it could be fun. I brought the weirdest ‘lucky’ trinkets I could find, and prepared myself for the best people watching I’d ever experienced. Sitting in a room full of other adults, in a public place, proudly displaying a can opener, cookie cutters, and miniature silver Christmas tree with ornaments as lucky charms should get you crazy looks. Not at Bingo.

And the people watching? Out of this world. Last night for instance, I saw a gentlemen in a full blown tuxedo with a top hat and cane. I’m collecting pictures for a post I will create titled ‘The People of Bingo’.

As amusing and entertaining as Bingo is, I’ve realized it’s not for everyone for a few reasons:

The not-so-smart people.

Like anywhere, the Bingo room is full of people who cannot follow simple instructions. Like the group of 40-somethings sitting further down from us at our table last night. The group with 65 questions who shouted FOUR illegitimate Bingos over the course of the evening. One guy because he had a line, though the game was a completely different pattern. Another because he had half of the pattern, but didn’t know you needed the whole thing. Another because she wasn’t listening when they said you couldn’t use the ‘free’ space for that game. You get the idea. I’m amazed they even made it to Bingo clothed and with their shoes tied.

The germs.

Germs. It’s a prerequisite of the Bingo room that at least 5 percent of the people playing have some sort of plague-like illness. You sit through a symphony of coughs, hacks, and nose blowing. You hear some of the most grotesque sounds you’ve ever heard. And then there are the few times throughout the night when you’re certain CPR will be needed. Like for the guy I dubbed ‘The Lawnmower Man’ last night because of the sound he made when he cleared his throat.

The over-enthusiasm.

There’s the extremely over enthusiastic players who yell ‘BINGO!!!!!!!!’ so loudly that you physically jump. And the people who clap, slowly and solo, when someone at their table wins.

The elderly.

Ah the old folks. The ones who create a long line at the fountain drink station, because they take forever filling a tiny cup with ice and Coca Cola. Don’t get me started on the bathroom lines.

The food.

The food available to order leaves a little something to be desired. The menu is entertaining enough, because it contains hamburgers and chicken strips along with your garden variety hospital food. Cottage cheese and peaches, jello, diet pie – all staples at Bingo. And you don’t want to order the special Bingo hot dog. It’s really a Slim Jim on a bun.

 

I wasn’t kidding.

The callers.

The callers also leave something to be desired, as they to go too fast, too slow, or make constant errors. I’m convinced the Bingo room is for the dealer rejects from the main floor of the casino.

While it may require a great deal of patience, it certainly is an entertaining experience. And, after a few months I’ll admit I’m hooked. You should definitely check out a local bingo game, and if you lose your mind, or are so alarmed you swear you’ll never go back, at least you’d get a blog entry out of it.

The Sushi Effect

 

It’s a Friday night. It starts with a craving. Something fresh, light, and delicious. Soon I find myself, with a group of friends, at a local sushi hotspot.

When we are seated everything initially seems normal; we’re chatting and ordering drinks, checking in on Facebook and Foursquare, and talking about how famished we are. Napkins are unfolded and placed in laps, cell phones are put away, and menus are brought out.

Then it hits. Like the flap of a butterfly wing, changing the course of the planet. With one snap of a chopstick, the sushi effect hits… every person at the table is suddenly Japanese.

I look around and my friends are holding tiny cups of tea, and talking about how they just LOVE eel. They’re discussing the best sushi they’ve EVER EVER EVER had, as though they’ve been on a quest their whole lives for the perfect slice of tuna.

A silent competition begins amongst them all; who can mix the most wasabi in their soy sauce, and pretend it’s not hot enough. Huge slices of ginger are snacked on like Cheetos. Countless pieces of sushi are ordered, as if there is a raw fish shortage coming that I missed on CNN.com that morning. All of my friends are now expert chopstick users, and squid salad is what they were raised on.

I realize that I’m now at a table of Japanese food critics, who are rating the presentation of rolls, substituting soy rice paper for seaweed, debating the rice to fish ratios and consuming bowls of edamame.

An hour later I’m in the know. I can tell you what city has the freshest fish, how to properly fold your napkin, and the names of the sushi chefs who my friends have gotten up to chat with.

Then come the ‘I’m practically Asian’ stories about the ex-boyfriends who are Asian, or the layover my friend had once in Singapore… for four hours. And then there is the friend considering taking a Japanese language class because ‘they are sooooo interesting’. Mind you, she barely made it through community college. The room is filled with their love for Hello Kitty, and anime, while I cautiously look under the table expecting to see them wearing socks with wooden flip flops.

Let’s remember these are the same friends who live on Lean Cuisines and low-fat bologna sandwiches and are obsessed with counting carbs and watching reality TV. The same friends who eat from three food groups on any other Friday night; Frito-Lay, Hostess and Haagen-dazs. But, not here.

As I sit at the table cluttered with saki, tiny dishes, and fruity drinks with cucumber straws, and wonder who stole my friends and replaced them with these delicate, graceful, bowing impostors- the check comes.

We exit the restaurant and instantly I’m back in the states, yet, without jet lag.
Conversation on the way to our cars is now centered around carbs, and getting home to watch Jersey Shore, and the water weight you can lose from eliminating sodium.

As we hug and promise to text each other when we get home, I feel the confusion fade and the calm comfort of familiarity return.  I settle into the car seat and wave them sayonara, er… goodbye.