Today’s episode is brought to you by the letter “e”

…as in “embarassed.”  Or “elementary school was a long time ago.”

Quick – name this shape!

If you said rhombus, you are wrong.  But don’t feel too bad because I called that bitch a rhombus, too.  Let me back up a bit.

I was trying to describe to my boss the shape of the cord that was missing from his laptop, making it impossible for me to connect it to the tabletop projector (shit, already this story is boring but just bear with me, ok?).

me: I think there’s a cord that kind of looks like a printer cord?
him: What does a printer cord look like?
me: You know…it’s got two rows of pins in it, and it shaped like a weird rectangle?
him: …
me: Well, maybe it’s more of a rhombus, but, you know, rounded?  At the corners?
him: I don’t know what you are talking about.
me(trying to use my hands to make the shape I am talking about) Like this?
him(looks at my mangled gang sign hands)
me: I’m sorry.

In case you were wondering, this is what I was trying to describe:

Please tell me you know what I’m talking about.  Otherwise I truly am losing my mind.

Anyway, the point of this story is that the shape I was trying to describe is actually called a trapezoid, not a rhombus.  But honestly?  I don’t think it really mattered what the fuck I called that shape because Boss Man and I weren’t on the same page.  And me attempting to make a shadow puppet it for him with my hands wasn’t helping the situation.

Tiny dinosaurs eat tiny ferns

Arggh…due to a monster staff meeting this morning I’m just now getting around to my Monday morning didn’t-have-the-patience-to-do-it-on-Fridaypile o’ work.


Usually during staff meetings I don’t have much to say.  Talky McGossips-a-lot is one of those annoying people who can’t go to the corner store without running into a guy he used to work with, the lady he lives down the street from, and his second cousins thrice-removed (on his mother’s side).  He usually fills us in on who’s involved in what public policy scandal this week.  Another co-worker spends 45 minutes telling everyone about the work he’s attempted to do the previous week, and how his efforts have been thwarted at every turn by circumstances outside of his control (“well, so-and-so was supposed to get back with me about that issue, but I’m still waiting on an email,”).  I, on the other hand, keep my mouth shut unless absolutely necessary and take detailed notes.


Yes, our meeting was about giraffes that look like my sister.  And tiny dinosaurs munching on tiny ferns.  Oh, you weren’t aware I worked at the department of Make Believe?  Consider yourself informed.

These endless, pointless, WEEKLY meetings are taking a toll on me.  I am ripping my cuticles to shreds.  Seriously, my hands look like Frodo Baggins after one of our marathon meetings.  Any advice?  I’m thinking of getting a stress ball, or does that broadcasting too loudly that the combined neurosis of my co-workers stresses me the fuck out?  It’s like some truly messed-up version of Captain Planet.

Gossip!  Ineptitude!  Micro-management!  Blame shifting!  Enclosed spaces!

By your powers combined, I am CAPTAIN SHREDDED CUTICLES!

p.s. I blogged this weekend in my quest to post 30 blog posts in 30 days (jeez, could this sentence BE any more awkward?).  So check out
this and this for some weekend bloggy goodness.

Your’re Computer Haz Been Enfected with SPYWARE!!1!

My computer is dying, y’all, DYING!  Poor, poor work computer.  She is suffering from a disgusting virus that has made a scary message utilizing poor grammar replace the picture of my sisters and I at my sister’s wedding as my desktop background.  Yesterday I had to break down and call our Tech department to come out and fix it.  I’m attempting to put the blame on downloading Internet Explorer 8, rather than admitting to my devious attempt to subvert the work web filter by adding Twitter and Facebook gadgets to my iGoogle page.  I have a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. 

And how’s this for salt in the wound:  My boss recently retired, and since a replacement has yet to be hired, his office is empty.  Just yesterday I had the brilliant idea to switch out my cruddy mouse, which was getting really jumpy and seriously cramping my free-hand Paint skills, for my boss’ mouse (I slathered my hand with Purell and rubbed it all over the new-to-me mouse, then wiped it off with a Kleenex.  The idea of using someone else’s mouse is kind of repulsive, but after this ritual I felt ok.).  Where am I working from today?  You got it – Old Boss’ office, complete with jumpy mouse.  Oh well, it could be worse.  His office definitely has a better view than mine.

So now a guy from Technology is working on my computer (not my work boyfriend – he moved to California, although this guy would be kind of cute if not for the lazy eye).  Let’s all hope he can fix her, without discovering that the virus was caused by me watching clips of Oprah’s MacKenzie Phillips interview at

Tomorrow I will tell you how I went to my first yoga class and did not fart.

Who doesn’t close the door in public restrooms?

Ok, enough about Curly Sue (although she is going strong, hanging in there for day 3). Let’s talk about some Important Stuff. Like Stuff that Happens in Public Restrooms.

I never use the handicapped stall. I just can’t. Even after downing a bucket of Wild Cherry Pepsi at a movie, when I really have to pee and there is a long line and it is the only stall available, I won’t use it. What if a legitimately handicapped person comes in right as I’m, um, getting down to business? If I caused someone in a wheelchair to poop their pants because my able-bodied ass was occupying the handicapped stall, the guilt would follow me around my entire life and I wouldn’t even try to argue with St. Peter when he shook his head and turned me away from the Pearly Gates.

There is a lady in my building who always uses the handicapped stall and never shuts the door. You heard that right. She leave the door unlatched. Now, this lady has a handicapped parking tag and sometimes uses a cane, so I am not begrudging her the use of the handicapped stall. But I’ve noticed that her office door is sometimes closed, so she can’t have a disability that would keep her from latching the stall.

Don’t get me wrong; I never close the bathroom door at home and only rarely do I close it at Steve’s (unless I have to see a man about a horse or taking care of some lady business). When I walk in and see the door unlatched and see her feet under the door (of course I look), I start to question myself. Am I being a prude? I mean, it’s not like anyone is going to see anything or even walk past. It’s the last stall. But then I snap back to reality. No, it’s normal to latch the door in public restrooms, just like courtesy flushes or awkward attempts at conversation. As I occupy my stall, I start thinking that maybe it’s a dare. She’s daring me to fling open the door. Or maybe she’s really germophobic, and the merits of latching the door do not outweigh the sheer amount of pathogens that touching the latch would potentially transfer to her hands.

By the time I leave the bathroom, in my mind she has become this passive-aggressive lunatic who goes back to her office to don tissue-box slippers.

She does have that handicapped placard…

You win this time, venison.

Even though nobody asked what Harry Potter yarn looks like yesterday, I know you were all wondering. Here you go, cry babies:

Happy now? Animal abuse really brings my family together. We also bond over red wine and guacamole, but that is a story for another time.

On to some interesting stuff. Wednesday night I spent the night with my BFF, since her boyfriend was out of town and I am a good friend. Also she mentioned in passing that she was going to put a venison loin in the crock pot. Done and done. I’m there.

BFF and her boyfriend are really fun people, and do interesting things like spear fishing and free-diving. Their freezer is always stocked with fish they’ve speared while diving at a local ship wreck or shrimp they netted from the waterway in their backyard. I do interesting things like eat their fish and shrimp. BFF works in the land management industry and is really conscious of where her food comes from, growing most of her own vegetables, only eating meat if she’s killed it herself or knows the hunter personally,* and guilting me into using Blackle instead of Google. I’m making her sound weird and sanctimonious, but seriously she is awesome.

Long story short, the venison and accompanying homemade mac and cheese was delicious. BFF packed some leftovers for me to take for lunch, and I spent the first half of the day bragging to anyone who would listen about how my lunch was going to fucking rock. Unfortunately for me (and my co-workers), I spent the second half of the day camped pretty close to the office restroom as the wild game raced through me. Everyone at work was complaining about how cold it was yesterday, but my intestinal turmoil had my internal thermostat kicked pretty high and I was flushed and sweaty all day. New Year’s resolution to lose a few pounds? I’ll go ahead and scratch that off of my list.

Confession time: ok, it wasn’t the venison. It was the mac and cheese. Damn you, lactose intolerance! I’m still in denial.

*After a few drinks a couple of weeks back, BFF confessed to me that she had really been craving bacon lately, and did I want to take up archery with her so we could go bow-hunting for wild boar? I took archery as my PE requirement in college, so of course I said yes. We haven’t actually gone any farther with the planning than that initial conversation, but I’ll be sure to keep you posted. Though I will most likely fall asleep in the tree blind on the day of the hunt, waking only after someone else makes a kill and throwing up on myself while I watch as the kill is butchered.

Fact or Fiction Tuesday

Item 1:

Statement: Because you caught me updating my Netflix queue at work, I have enough time on my hands to help you organize your Mortar, Concrete, and Grout Test Reports.

Sure, I have a little time on my hands. I’m efficient. That doesn’t mean I have time to do your job, too. Just to clear something up–when I helped you out a month ago clear off the landfill you call a desk, I wasn’t setting up a standing date. Stop hinting that you could really use my organizational skills again. Buying me lunch isn’t going to entice me back into the no man’s land that is your office. It smells like onions and feet. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a couple of hundred unread blog posts to attend to in my Google Reader. Good day, sir.

Item 2:

Statement: I enjoy coming home to find 3 or 4 pairs of underwear scattered about the house, sans crotch.

Obviously. Otherwise why would I leave my underwear on the very top of my tall dresser, easily accessible to any passing pitbull with a vertical leap of 6′ or more? Clearly I am too good to wear any single pair of panties more than once.

Item 3:

Statement: Traffic signs displaying ‘SPEED LIMIT 45’ should be interpreted to mean ‘drive as slow as you’d like, preferably 30 mph.’

Surprising, I know. Even though one of my headlights burned out last week so I am forced to drive with my brights on to avoid a ticket until I can convince Steve to help me replace the bulb, know that I would be driving with my brights on behind you even if it this wasn’t the case. Because I’d like to be home at 5:45 on a Friday evening, not crawling behind your slow ass, watching as you gab on the phone and toss your cigarette butts out of the window. You probably can’t tell because my bright lights are in your rear view mirror, but I’m giving you the finger.

Item 4:

Statement: I would kick ass at Wheel of Fortune.


PLUS I would not be a greedy spinner, risking bankrupting myself while trying to up my winnings for the round. I would be content win a couple thousand each round, and really clean up in the ‘toss up’ rounds. I wouldn’t scream or lose my cool when I landed on a big money space, either. I’d calmly collect my cardboard pie piece which represented a trip to New Mexico, and laugh all the way to the bonus round. Which I would win. Then I would give Pat Sajak a high-five and smile at Vanna as she opened the door to the brand new Chevy convertible I had just won. I’d pretend I was driving and honk the horn as the program faded to commercial.

Item 5:

Statement: You can win cool stuff just by commenting on this blog.


Click here for details.

Mixed Bag

For your Friday enjoyment, a couple of random office pictures.

Dexter, stop distracting me. Some of us have to work for a living.
**bonus points if you can spot the office plant I stubbornly refuse to water**

Coworker: Hey, Sarah, do we have any copier paper?
Me: None at all.

Enjoy the weekend!

I just hope I spell my name right

Office dynamics are weird. I mean, you’re spending upwards of 40 hours a week with people who are not your family or even your friends. You end up finding out things about your co-workers that you really wish you hadn’t, like that Nancy in Finance used to have a drug dependency, or Bob in Human Resources cheated on his wife 16 years ago and just found out he has a daughter from the affair. But the worst thing about the semi-intimate relationships you develop at work are the cards that are circulated for various occasions. Birthdays are not too bad, I guess. A quick “haha, you old!” and you’re done, right? Boss’ day; again, not so bad. “Thanks for not firing me,” has seemed to go over pretty well in the past.

The occasion that leaves me chewing my pen, at a loss for something, ANYTHING to say, is when a coworkers’ family member dies. In the year that I’ve been here, two of my office mates have lost a parent. Granted, my supervisor’s father was 96 and it came as no surprise, but I was still at a loss. My boss always comes up with something like “Keep him alive in your heart,” or “You are a testament to the person he was,” both of which make my lame, “So sorry for your loss,” look even lamer by comparison, even if I am lucky enough to be the first of my similarly tongue-tied coworkers to scrawl that trite sentiment on our group card. Even worse is when a card circulates for someone in our building who I couldn’t pick out of a lineup for a million dollars. How bad is it to write, “You and your family are in my thoughts,” when I know I most likely won’t think of them at all after I put the card in my office neighbor’s inbox for their signature?

The task of getting a memorial plant fell to me when an office mate’s mother died after a protracted illness. The office consensus was that we wanted to get him a tree that he and his daughters could plant in memory of their grandmother. Unfortunately, it was January, and every tree I found was dormant and looked like an ugly dead stick stuck in a pot. “Sorry your mom died; here’s a twisted twig we stuck in a pretty pot that may or may not bloom in a couple of months.” After reporting the dismal selection of potted trees at three local nurseries and 2 home improvement stores, my coworkers urged me to get the “best looking” tree I could find. For $45. *Sigh* I ended up getting the saddest little magnolia tree you can imagine, and putting a big white bow on it before putting it in his office. I cringed when I showed it to the office, and the silence and raised eyebrows that it was met with confirmed my belief that this was not the memorial any of us had envisioned.

Today I signed another sympathy card for a cowoker I have yet to exchange a single “hello” with. At this point, I’m not even sure what I wrote. I’m pretty sure I didn’t write “Happy Birthday,” but other than that, who knows?

My cookie tastes like a pen

Inspired by Ben’s work-related post, here’s a peek into my office:

  • A coworker’s response to a remark about his habit of clipping his nails at his desk:
    “What? At least you know I’m well groomed.”
    What I know is to avoid your office during your grooming sessions, lest I get a nail clipping in my eye.
  • From the mail room lady:
    “Would you like some cheese and jalapeno grits?”
    Yes. A thousand times, yes.
  • A local restaurant dropped off “goody bags” with coupons and pens to drum up some lunch business. I high-five a coworker about our good fortune–coupons and a pen!?! I find out later that each of the bags also had a cookie in them, but the fat bitch switchboard operator took them all out and ate them over the next 3 days. Now I think my pen sucks.
  • The boss is on vacation this week, and I had to show him how to set up his automatic email “away” message. For the fourth time.

    I will not be watering his plants in his absence.