Monday, November 1, 2010

An e-mail sampling to better understand the intensely crucial role my coworkers and I play in the overall success of our illustrious company.


Me: Finally has her blog up. Mynameisspaz@blogspot.com

Jack: That is an email address, not a website.

Me: I know numbnuts. Just delete the @ and add a .

Jack: I hate you. But thanks.

Me: 158 my ass. (Supposedly his IQ but I have my suspicions)

Jack: What do you mean? I thought you lost your ass?

Me: Wow. Please tell me you’re purposely being retarded.

Jack: I don’t really know what else to say to you, so I resort to insults and half-brained comments that make you wonder if I am retarded. If I could go back in time to the first week that I knew you, then I would tell myself to kick you back when you kicked me at lunch and thus ending our friendship before it started.

And yes...I really did kick him in the shin on his first day. Big effing deal!

Me: Well then, I guess it’s just too bad for you that you can’t travel back in time my dear little retarded friend.

Jack: Or can’t I?

Me: I’m the brain. You’re pinky. So no, you cannot.

Jack: Eff that. I understand the duality of light and the possibilities of quantum physics which makes it possible to be in two separate locations at once and how String theory is the proposed theory of everything and connects the 11 dimensions of space, not just the 3 that you are used to. I understand the theory behind Schrodinger’s Cat and Occam’s Razor. I can use the Drake formula to calculate the probabilities of life on another planet.

So that makes you pinky and I’m the brain.

Unless you can quickly tell me what the square root of negative 1 is, without using the internet and cheating, then I will relent and say that you are the brain.

Me: That’s a trick question and you know it! Numbers and letters were never meant to mix!

Jack: How does the square root of negative 1 have any letters?

The square root of 9 is 3, because 3 times 3 equals 9.

So now tell me what the square root of negative 1 is?

Me: It’s i you dick.

Jack: You cheated. There is NO way that you knew that, nor do you know what i stands for.

Me: A number has a square root only if it’s positive. i is the number that is the square root of -1. Isnt that what you just asked? I don’t understand what you’re getting at here. I DO know some things you effing toolbag.

Jack: No. Negative numbers have some combination of i in them. The square root of -4 is 2i

I am still calling BS on this one and not giving you credit for it.

And you still did not answer my question of what i stands for?

I know that if I were up there right now, you would have the stupid cheesy grin on your face as you tried to play this off as if you knew it all along and then I would know for sure that you were lying to me. Just like your poker face.

Me: I totally did have that stupid grin on my face and I hate you intensely right now.
It stands for imaginary unit. Fag.

Jack: Thank you. Lesbo.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Dazed and SO Confused



It's time to move.

I rolled in last night around 5:00am and went right to sleep. 7:30am comes around and my Dad strolls into my room and plunks down on the side of my bed with a question to ask me. I manage to pry one very bleary eye open and glare up at him. Now, I've never been so good with the numbers but I'm pretty sure if I got to bed at 5:00am and am being rudely awaken, on a SATURDAY, at 7:30am, that means I've only enjoyed 2.5 hours of sleep.
Whatever. Ask your question and be gone with you, I said. Well, actually I just groaned in compliance and closed my eye hoping he would make this quick.

Father: "Are you on drugs?"

My eye pops back open and I consider sitting up. Can't. Too tired. Besides, he can't be serious.

Me: "You can't be serious."

Father: "Your Mother and I are just concerned about you and think you may be on drugs."

Me: "I'm not on drugs Dad. I'll let you know if and when this status changes."

I close my eye and pull my comforter over my head to signal meeting adjourned.


Now that I've had some time to think this through, it may not be such a bad idea. Not actually taking up the drug habit, (who can afford it nowadays?) but letting my family THINK I have. I've seen Intervention. These addicts practically get a day on the calendar named after them. The whole family gets together to tell them how special and loved they are. Each one of them has even written a letter to the honorary addict sharing favorite memories from times less troubled. Who couldn't do with a bit of that? To top it all off they get to go somewhere balmy and sunny that usually has palm trees.

Too bad I only have 4 vacation days left.

So, no, Dad. I am not on drugs. However, between this conversation and the car ride where you asked about my sex life when I was trapped in the moving vehicle with no escape other than bailing out and facing certain death...it's time for me to move.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Just. Stop.


This post is about something that's been bothering me for a little while now and I have to get it out.

In the last month or two I've lost some weight. It's been enough weight that I've had to resort to using my office supplies to keep my clothes adjusted properly. A well placed binder clip here...a few staples there...and voila! Tailor schmailor.

Okay. I know I look ridiculous. I know a binder clip holding up my pants looks just plain stupid. I know trying to staple the waist smaller is no substitute for having them professionally taken in. And I know using my paper clips as bobby pins to keep my bangs out of my eyes is a blatant lack of pride. That has nothing to do with the weight thing but whatever...I get it.

Here's the thing. I did not intentionally lose any weight. I do not like discussing my unintentional weight loss. I do not like having you look at me and cluck your tongue as if I've done something wrong. I do not want to be pulled into your office and asked if I'm sick. I do not want you tugging on the seat of my pants asking where my ass went. I do not want you monitoring my food intake. I do not want you to comment on my food intake or ask how I am skinny when I eat the way I do. I do not want you insinuating that I have an eating disorder. I do not want to hear your opinion that you think I look good. I do not look good. Just because I have to work with you and see you every day, does not give you the right to comment on what I'm wearing, what I'm eating, what I'm not eating or the way my body looks.
It's not okay to voice observations when a coworker is gaining weight, so please don't do it when one is losing weight.

Again. The weight loss is not intentional. I will gain it back. However, until it does come back you're just going to have to deal with the stupid binder clips, obnoxiously stapled pants and a droopy ass because I'll be damned if I'm going to buy a whole new wardrobe just to get you people off my case.

So please. I implore you. No more comments. No more monitoring. No more head tilted to the side with mock sympathy asking if everything is alright. Everything is alright for now but I can't say how much more of this bullshit I'm gonna be able to handle before I start drop-kicking some co-working mofo's. And I REALLY don't wanna pop any staples so please, people. JUST. STOP.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Warning: Contains Swears.


Mom, if you are reading this post, stop now. Seriously. Stop. See that little red X in the top right hand corner of the screen? Click on it. Now. Okay, but really, stop reading. Erin and Tara...this should probably go for the two of you as well.
If you have chosen to ignore my attempts of dissuasion and find yourself at the end of this post disgusted, appalled and ashamed to call me daughter/sister...you have no one to blame but yourselves. Ignorance is bliss! This is your second and final warning. STOP READING!

Moving on...
This summer has sucked some major balls of shit and here's why. The dynamic ginger duo has officially and forever been dissolved. At the beginning of June, my bestie/boyfriend Steele (Gross. Now I find the word bestie hideously appalling as well. Thanks a lot Brandy-Son.) suggested I start dating other people. He knew before I had figured it out that he couldn't be the person I needed him to be. Sure, a mature move on his part but still...what the FUCK? And so, in one of my severely LESS than mature moves, decided I was going to date the shit out of Salt Lake. He wants me to date? I'll EFFING date!!!
Oh. But wait. I didn't actually know anyone I wanted to date. But not to worry. In a stroke of sheer genius, I came up with the BEST. IDEA. EVER. I would join a dating site. Worked for the couple featured in the commercial on T.V. How could I go wrong? But just in case, I ran the idea by a couple of my coworkers.
They laughed. They rolled their eyes. They asked if I had been drinking on my lunch break. Maybe. What? NO! They said it was the worst. Idea. Ever. But since the best they could come up with was hooking me up with their unemployed, video game addicted brother living in their parents basement, I decided to go with Plan A.
I set up my account, created my profile, uploaded some pics and started trolling the site and feeling like some dirty creeper doing something that would land me in an orange jumpsuit. I logged off and let it go for a couple of days. When I decided I was feeling desperate enough to try again I logged in and to my horror and fascination discovered I must have been the featured "fresh meat of the day". My inbox had been busy being a little whore and accepting any ole e-mails that presented itself. I had a bunch of people "winking" at me (what the hell is THAT creepy ass shit about?) and 7 IM's spontaneously popped up. I never did figure out how to turn off the damn IM.
After about two weeks of this B.S. it was feeling like a part time job. I know there were quite a few nice, normal...ish men on there but weeding through the douche-fest to find one? Pass. Yes, you have delightful muscles but your grammar is atrocious. And if you don't know what a botanical garden is, much less how to spell it, stop talking to me. And by no means should you continue to e-mail me with increasing hostility when I have not once responded to any of your attempted communications. Do I SEEM like the kind of girl who goes for domestic violence? Unless I'm the one inflicting it, the answer would be NO. Stop writing me. And if I DO actually give you my number and respond to a text. Do NOT immediately call me simply because you know I have my phone on me. There's a reason I'm on the Internet and prefer to communicate through texts. The least amount of actual human interaction, the better.

So. June and July were spent juggling my time between four different candidates. Candidates for what, I'm not entirely sure. I know it doesn't sound like much but when you have 3 to 4 dates every week it gets exhausting. I don't have the stamina or the memory for this kind of thing. I'm too old for this shit. I couldn't remember who was the only child and who played rugby. Who was Buddhist and who was the atheist? It was getting ridiculous and I was wasting their time. I wasn't interested in dating. I was interested in staying so busy that I wouldn't have time to sit still and think about my heartache of losing Steele as a boyfriend. Three months later it still aches but we never would have worked. We're still besties (gag) and have shared custody of Midas. Silly, I know, but we both really love that dog. Strangely enough we get along better and seem to like each other more as friends than significant others.

I lasted less than a month on the dating site but did agree to meet one person from it who I'm still seeing and will write about later. The other 3 gentlemen were from my real life and I am no longer seeing them. They should count their lucky stars they dodged this bitch's psychotic bullet.

Seriously. Thank your God or Buddha or your non-existent black hole of atheist emptiness that you came away unscathed.

Seriously.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Will the ignoramus please step forward.


I got an e-mail from Google Apps today reminding me to renew my domain registration. It brought to mind a conversation I had with a lovely gal I met at a little house shin dig not too long ago. I was in the kitchen leaning against the counter top pretending not to be there (have I mentioned what a social reject I am?) when this couple walks in for refills chatting about the whole blogging phenomenon and how it's completely out of control and who cares what so-and-so made for dinner the night before anyway. They both stop when they notice me standing there. I quickly avert my eyes and pray my kitchen counter camouflage skin suit will activate. They'll blame their hallucination on their recent dance with MaryJane and never even realize they were in the presence of a super ninja!
Not this time.
The dude, who reeked of spray tan, (trust me, I know this smell from multiple experiences. What? A redhead's gotta try!) and who could clearly see me asked "Do you blog?"
Me- "Uhh yeah."
Spray Tan- "What's your blog about?"
Me- "Nothing in particular. Just whatever I feel like writing at the moment."
That's when his lady friend joins in. She had this bleached blonde hair with dark roots and a painfully teased hair bump in back. A Utah standard.
Blondie pipes in with "What's the name of your blog?"
Me- Suppressing a sigh "Vapid Vixen."
Blondie- "Huh. Vapid Vixen. You must think you're pretty hot shit."
If only I had that oh-so-coveted skill of raising one eyebrow Sean Connery style, this would have been the time. Instead they both raise simultaneously giving me the appearance of just looking surprised.
Me-"Come again?"
Blondie-"You consider yourself a Vixen."
I look over at Spray Tan and he just shrugs. Such a pretty couple they made.
At this point it was clear to me that she had sacrificed one too many brain cells to the hair dye. I patted her on her adorable little hair bump and walked away.


vap-id
2. Without liveliness or spirit; dull or tedious.

vix-en
2. An ill-tempered or quarrelsome woman.


Dearest Blondie,

If, by some crazy cosmic coincidence you happen upon my blog, I would like to impart a smidgen of wisdom I've picked up over the years. In the future, if attempting to insult a perfect stranger, while drunk, no less, please ensure that you know WHAT THE EFF YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.

Sincerely,
hot as shit Vapid Vixen

Sunday, May 2, 2010

A little arsenic never hurt anyone!


Steele is convinced I'm trying to poison him. Now, before anyone starts getting any silly notions in their noggins, let me just say that NO, I'm not now, nor have I ever purposely poisoned Steele.
Sure, it's been known to happen once or twice but please take note of my use of the word purposely. And come on! Who hasn't poisoned a loved one at some point? With all the eating we do it's bound to happen.

For those of you still judging me, allow me to explain.


I don't cook.

There is very little I enjoy about it. The small triumph I feel when I do concoct something that actually turns out well is quickly diminished the moment I survey the complete havoc that I've wreaked on the kitchen. There have been times, if given the choice, I would have condemned the kitchen for demolition rather than face cleaning the calamity in front of me.
All that shopping, preparation, measuring, mixing, not to mention the absolutely revolting task of handling raw meats. And for what? Only to watch my boyfriend devour my labor of love in 5 minutes or less.

Thank you, I'll pass.

And so we've taken to consuming various combo meals at an alarming rate. And it's killing. my. soul.
With every bite of suspect meat that's been deep fried to a palatable goodness, I could almost hear my arteries give a little sigh and die a sad little death.
In an attempt to slow the inevitable rebellious insurrection our bodies are sure to enact any day now, I decided to make us dinner at home.
Chicken parmigiana with rotini pasta, homemade sauce, a caesar salad and garlic bread. It was one of those rare occasions when the meal turned out better than mediocre.
To my delight Steele wolfed down two big helpings and declared he would have eaten more if there had been any.

He then spent the remainder of the night paying homage to the porcelain gods while quietly cursing my name.
We both consumed the same meal but since mine didn't feel the need for an encore, Steele was positive I was bent on his demise.

In the words of Cleopatra:

"Fool! Don't you see now that I could have poisoned you a hundred times had I been able to live without you."

*Sigh*

Sunday, March 28, 2010

March of Madness


Despite my best efforts I've managed to stay employed through this latest recession. I spend my time sitting behind a desk under fluorescent lighting surrounded by gray walls for 9 hours, five days a week.
Every so often this becomes a little disheartening.
Every so often I hate that I have yet to figure out what I want to DO.
Every so often I go a little batty.
For some reason March has been especially maddening.
However, more then every so often I'm glad I have a job to go to every day that I don't hate. 90% of the reason I don't hate it is because of my coworkers. I have yet to go to work a single day that I haven't laughed. Yes, I've spent my fair share of days sitting at my desk with the tears streaming down my face cursing the day I accepted this position. Then a coworker will suggest a quick game of shipping room baseball (played with stress balls and rolled up propaganda posters) or a walk off for America's Next Top Model. I'll nearly pee myself from laughing so hard and all will be right with the world again.

Below is an e-mail sampling of how my coworker, Jack (I've decided Jack is forever after to be the generic name of all males ever mentioned in my blog) uses his utter asininity to keep me entertained day in and day out.

Me: Forget playing in a tournament. That's for rookies. THIS is what we need to do. Minus the getting caught part. http://www.foxnews.com/world/2010/03/22/police-arrest-suspected-organizer-poker-raid-1169726545/?test=latestnews

Jack: I will be the getaway driver, since you are a woman. Plus you can use your womanly wiles to seduce the dumb men into giving you the money.

Me: Wait, what? What does being the getaway driver have to do with gender you misogynist? You're lucky I WANTED to be the one to go in with the big guns screaming.

Jack:
That is the first rule when pulling a heist, never have a woman be your getaway driver, it is just bad form. Who said anything about guns? Have you even seen a gun in real life? Do you realize that guns recoil when fired? A dainty little woman like you had best leave that part up to me as well. So now I gotta be the driver and the muscle, which puts my take right around 80/20.

Me: You're an idiot. I OWN a gun. And yes, I've shot guns with recoil. Shotguns, handguns, semi-automatics, flame throwers. And anyway, what are you gonna do when you drop the bag of money? Your back is jacked. You can't bend over. I guess you could ask the security guard for some assistance to the getaway car so he can get a good look at the make/model and license plate number. Your cut just dropped to 40/60 for your idiocy.

Jack: Flame throwers? Really!?!? You expect me to believe that? Lighting a candle and throwing it does not mean that you have used flamethrowers. I won't drop a bag of money because of my exceptionally large monkey hands. So there will be no need to bend over. I will make my final offer at 70/30, you can take it or leave it.

Me: This whole thing was MY idea and after this complete waste of a conversation with you I've come to realize I don't need a big oaf as a partner screwing things up. So I leave it. I don't need you. I'll send you a post card from Belize.

Jack: I am sure this won't end in a disaster. I hear that they do have a really great prison in Belize. I will be awaiting your card from there. In the meantime I will go to Wendover and use my poker abilities to legally win the same amount that you would have gotten if you had not blundered the whole thing up. I was the brains of this operation from the get-go. You are nothing without me, NOTHING!

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Sobriety? I didnt know that was an option.


I've been drinking on and off since I was 22. And yes, the drinking has been mostly on for the last 8 years. I like drinking. I like the way that first sip slides down your throat and warms you all the way to your belly. I like the taste of it. I like that it mellows me out. I like that it improves my mood and makes me happier. I like that things are funny and laughing comes more easily. I like going to the bar with coworkers for an after work cocktail. I like drinking at poker night and going all in with hands that should be folded. I like self medicating with alcohol and I don't want to stop.

Unfortunately there are quite a number of things that my favorite person in the world doesn't like about my drinking habits. In the two years that I've known him he's never asked me to change anything about myself. He's asking me to change this. He said the future of our relationship depends on it.
"Fine" I said. "Done. No big deal". Except once again...it IS a big deal. While telling him it won't be a problem, I'm wondering who is going to convince me of this? The entire gamut of emotions was felt in about 60 seconds. Guilt that it had to come to this. Resentment that he's even asking me to give up something I enjoy. Anger that I have to do this when he has his own addictions he gets to keep. Panic over whether or not I'll be able to do it. Anxiety about upcoming social gatherings. We already have our St. Patrick's Day plans. What kind of redheaded Irish lass doesn't DRINK on St. Patrick's Day? I hate social gatherings sober. I don't do well in crowds and especially crowds that are drunk when I'm not.

So while all of these thoughts and feelings are flooding through me right after I agreed to stop that day, he pipes up with, "I don't believe you. I don't believe you can do it".

Um. WHAT? That pissed me off. Thanks for your vote of confidence. That little statement of his pretty much sealed the deal. I would quit just to prove him wrong. And now, thinking back on the conversation, that may have been his intent all along. He's a little mind ninja and instead of out right threatening me with his mad nun-chuck skills, he's using the more refined, smoke bomb the crap out of her and confuse her already muddled little brain, technique.

Nah. I'm giving him way too much credit here.

So it's been 6 of the longest days of my life. I'm sure one day I'll thank him for this. But it sure as hell isn't today.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

That's IT 2009. I'm breaking up with you forever!


New Year's Eve. Why must it always be so complicated?

Plan A) See friends band open for Eve6.-Plan canceled.
Plan B) Get dressed up and go dancing with girlfriends.-Girlfriends backed out.
Plan C) Put on my PJ's, climb into bed and wallow in the essence of my boyfriends douchebaggery.-Plan aborted.

I went with my non planned plan. Here's how it went down. While in the midst of my wallowing I sent a text to my friend to let him know all plans were off. Except Plan C. I still liked that plan at the moment. My friend informed me that I needed to pull my head out (I refrained from asking him from where it should be pulled from, I had a pretty good idea) and not let a silly boy ruin my New Years. I told him I would think about it, hung up and continued to wallow. After about another 30 minutes I realized the wallowing had grown tiresome and was requiring more effort than I was willing to contribute to it. I called my friend back, who I suppose should have a name at this point. My friend is gay and is not yet ready for the entire world to know it, so to protect his ultra classified gay identity from the three of you who actually read this, I'll call him Michael.
I once dated a guy named Michael. He was a diver for the University of Utah who, at one point, thought we were in the kind of relationship where it was cool for him to ask me to help him shave. His entire body. My look of abject horror and disgust was answer enough. He didn't ask me again. He used more product in his hair than I did and wore eyeliner and concealer when we went out. Oh. And he actually minced when he walked. He was the gayest straight man I ever knew. You know, he turned out to be a rather horrid individual and since I really like my gay friend I think I won't call him Michael after all. Let's just go with Jack. Nice and generic and the only Jack I know is an adorable 1st grader.

So Jack picks me up and we head off into the lights of downtown ready for a night of dancing and debauchery.

An hour and 6 clubs later we have yet to find the homo hideout. All the usual spots are dead. This is most disappointing. Finally FINALLY one of the parking valets at another joint mentions the big debut of The Rail. Ooooooo The RAIL! Never heard of it. Off we go. We find it and have to drive around the block twice because there is no parking and an incredibly long twisty line of shivering little twinks waiting to get in. This bodes well. We make our way to the end of the line and realize we are about 10 to 15 years older than every one of these people in line. This does not bode well. But after an hour of searching for this joint we are not to be deterred. Another 20 minutes of shivering violently in the winter air and its our turn! The girl behind the glass asks if we want regular admission or VIP?
"What does VIP get us?"
"You can sit in the VIP lounge and you don't have to wait in line."
"You mean the line we just waited in for 20 mins?"
"Yeah."

Blink. Blink.

"We'll take regular admission."

It ended up being one of the most enjoyable New Years I've had. We danced, we laughed, we made fun of some of the outfits. One of the only straight boys there asked for a kiss during the count down. I offered my cheek. After kissing both cheeks he exclaimed "Mmm you taste good!" Apparently MAC's NC20 studio fix is quite delectable. Needless to say, it creeped me out and we avoided him the rest of the night.
I ran into a coworker from the office who I didn't know was gay. If his sleeveless black mohair shirt with sparkles didn't give him away, the fact that he immediately started making out with a stylist from my salon kind of let the cat out of the bag. Interesting way of introducing yourself but I don't get to go to a gay bar and judge. Unless it has to do with their choice of wardrobe and then I mock straights and gays alike. Speaking of wardrobe...there was someone there with the most fantastic dress on. The exact same one I was wearing. Only in white. We had to get a picture together.

All in all the night was a success. I'm thoroughly relieved that 2009 and I are through for good. It seemed to be a rather rocky year for a lot of people. I'm looking forward to 2010, who so far, has been a much kinder partner than 2009. I know you're not supposed to compare past relationships but lets be honest...everyone does it, and so far 09', I have to say you've already fallen short of what 10' has to offer me. I have a lot to look forward to this year but most importantly, I now know where the super secret homo hideout is!!!