Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Sometimes I included my great-grandboss, for a total of 54 dicks.

Here is a fantasy I used to run in my head at least twice a day for the last -- oh, probably the last 15 months of my eight-year tenure at the HQ of the San Francisco-based global apparel retailer: I'd be in a meeting with my boss, my grandboss, and some other people. Boss and grandboss would be their usual awful garbage person selves, undermining me, backhand-complimenting me, praising other "team" members, etc., and I'd finally at long last have had Enough of This Shit.

They'd address me directly on some bullshit matter or other, and as all eyes turned to me, I'd sit there with a clip-art "serious contemplative businessperson face" on, nodding agreeably before I replied, calmly and thoughtfully, "You know, I tell you what -- I would like to invite you both" -- indicating boss and grandboss with ironic finger-guns -- "to eat eighteen dicks." I'd give a businessperson half-smile (the kind you see in commercials for financial advice services), with a nod + sincere eye contact, to each of the two of them individually. I'd close the notebook I'd been doodling in, and in the shocked silence that ensued, I'd stand up, give a little half-wave to the room in general, and exit as if I'd just said I was going to Starbucks to get us all some lattes.

I'd walk a few yards down the hallway, then act like "Ooops, forgot my best pen in there," and turn around and go back. They'd all have just started sputtering and blarfgling and there'd be mutters of "calling security right now" and "what kind of a ..." and "think this is an HR matter" and that, and I'd poke my head in with another serious businessperson smile and say, "Sorry, guys, sorry, hate to interrupt, but I realized I might have made a mistake just now, and wanted to be completely clear: I meant that you guys should each eat eighteen dicks, for a total of thirty-six dicks -- not split it up and eat nine each. Sorry if there was any confusion on that!" And I'd wave bye-bye, duck back out, pick up my pre-packed duffel of personal items, and stroll unconcernedly away from the building, buoyed on waves of righteous justice and sweet self-satisfaction, the scent of a rotting bridge well burnt the only perfume I need wear forevermore.

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Friday, November 06, 2015

Racist bullshit in action: Auto finance division

If there's a way to feel like a bigger asshole than one does when watching one's housekeeper clean around your new $2500 TV right after she's just told you that her car is about to be repossessed -- the one her deceased husband bought, and which she's been making payments on (at an already abusive 10% interest) since his death at age 36 two years ago, but which she's not on the title of, which fact the bank just found out and thus the repo unless she's able to pay off the remaining $10K immediately or refinance at fucking 19% -- well, I'm not sure I'd care to find out what that level of assholery feels like. I think this is pretty much Olympic-level to begin with.

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Thursday, November 05, 2015

You can take your daylight and go right to hell with it

Everybody keeps bitching about Daylight Saving Time ending, but I LOVE it. I'm sick to death of this blaring fucking sun (it's really my main beef with California -- this neverending goddamn sunshine -- and I'm fucking serious) and so the getting-dark-at-like-4:00 is fine by me, plus! I can put the kids to bed earlier without them calling BS on account of it's only 6:30. Also the day it happened, and the kids woke me up at bullshit-o'clock, my idea of going out to breakfast was a good one (that didn't end up working out all that well, but that was for logistical and interpersonal reasons, not lack of validity). Thanksgiving -- the best holiday -- is coming, I'm already ordering Christmas presents, and the season of baking has begun. November: The Awesomest Month!

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Friday, October 30, 2015

Although the red-jacketed still-black Michael Jackson put in a good effort, the kid in the homemade dinosaur/dragon thing -- ON STILTS -- won Halloween.

Overheard this morning as the school Halloween parade dispersed:

Second-grade girl to second-grade boy, who was wearing the most perfect Luke Skywalker getup I've ever seen: "There were so many Darth Vaders, I don't know which one was your father!"

Bonus good times: Shout out to the Indian kid going as Tupac, complete with fake Thug Life tats. Extremely well done, young sir.

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Monday, October 19, 2015

Wolves not far

My eye fell upon this, in the leveled-reading section, as I exited my kid's classroom through the library last week ... and I've been laughing about it at least once an hour ever since.

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Friday, October 16, 2015

Sorry, we only carry sizes 1, 3, and 5. You could try Sears.

Cunty Things Said to Me By This Person, Emma, Whom I Used to Work With at the Hi-Tone Nanny Agency In San Francisco in the Late 90s: A Partial List

--"You like Elizabeth Hurley? Isn't she a little too glam for you?" (In some insipid lunchtime conversation about celebs, amongst all us gals.)

--"Hunh. Provolone. Kind of bland, isn't it?" (Judging my cheese/fruit/baguette lunch, which was A, none of her business, and B, all I could afford at the fancy grocery store nearby.)

--"Well, when you've grown up a little more, you'll see it's not really that much." (Upon my wide-eyed reaction to hearing how much her house in the then-gentrifying area of the Lower Haight cost.)

--"I think you've worn those exact shoes to work every day this week." (Probably I had; I owned about three pairs, total, of work-appropriate shoes. Nice of her to notice.)

--"Heyyyy! You're getting skinny!" (Approving of my figure about a month after my dad died -- a fact of which she was well aware; she'd complained about how "long" I was out of the office, which btw was three days -- when I was at my lowest-ever adult weight on account of I had basically stopped eating for awhile there.)

Randomly thought of this woman the other day, sparked by Shatner-knows-what; Emma is not her real name. She was/is about 5 years older than me, and was from Money, and worked at the agency as a counselor (who met with clients and placed nannies/housekeepers/etc.), whereas I was a mere admin. In fairness, she was generally pretty nice, and helped me out a lot with wedding planning and, like, restaurant suggestions, but she could occasionally just drop some fresh steaming cuntiness on my desk for no reason as she passed by. 

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Monday, October 12, 2015

And when we go crashing down we come back every time

This Is Why People Have Kids' Parties at Kids' Party Places Like Pump It Up or a GodDamn Bowling Alley: A Partial List

  • 16 fairies, with wings
  • 2 little brothers
  • 1 babysitter who was so helpful I should have paid her $500
  • 1 parent who was so helpful I probably embarrassed her with the effusiveness of my thanks
  • A fairy house painting craft (fucking Pinterest, goddamn) that was actually rather a success
  • A cake parade (18 kids marching through the house shouting CAAAAKE! CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE!!!, much like drunken adults at a bar when that "Shots" song comes on)
  • A fairy dance party (primarily to Taylor Swift's entire 1989 album,* purchased online for the occasion, on repeat)
  • The pin the wand on the fairy game (I forgot both the eye covering -- eventually using a scarf that, well ... I just really hope none of those kids had lice that night -- and the fact that there's supposed to be a prize for the winner)
  • A fairy egg hunt in the gloaming, which served as the distribution for and stuffing of goodie bags 

Mr. Gleemonex and I are exhausted, but the party was a hit, and Kid Gleemonex was thrilled and grateful (oh my heck, one only turns eight once, doesn't one, after all?), and we are NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN.

*Here's how you know a person is An Old: They still call it an album and honestly can't think what the fuck else they're supposed to call it so shut up 

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