Tag Archives: Office Space

Lighten Up: Day 3

14 Aug

Today I draw this slip ~ Leave a $1.00 on someone’s car/desk (with a note unsigned)

My first thought is: Oh this is an easy one! Good. It’s one I can “get it over with” quickly and painlessly.

My second thought is: What if someone sees me putting this on their car and yells at me to get away from their car?

My third thought is: Maybe this isn’t as easy as I thought it was.

My fourth thought: Omg, you are totally overthinking this.

I get my supplies together. I know what I’m going to do so let’s just start there.

Here is my finished master piece.

I think it looks pretty cool, and I hope someone sees it and is excited to open it, but I’m only imagining myself seeing this on my car and not opening it thinking it’s anthrax.

Now that my project is complete and I sit here typing this post I still can’t decide who to give it to.

Ugh! Why is this so hard?

I would just stick the envelope on some random car in the parking lot across the street from my office building, but it’s actually a rainy day in Chicago.

I decide to go on a walk-a-bout down to the mailbox to brainstorm this a bit. I pass Skinny Jeans’ office and see the office is closed today. Here we go! I can stick the note under the door and they will find it tomorrow morning. What a great plan!

Side note: If you’re wondering about Skinny Jeans, you’re not the only one. I think he may have been working a freelance job because I haven’t seen him for about six months, but I have seen his friend who was in the photo with him. It’s too bad for all of us, I know.

So anyways, I walked back to Skinny Jeans’ office with the envelope in hand. And yes, the lights were still out. Thank goodness. As I walked down the hall I started to think: What if they’re in now? Then what do I do? [Like I can’t just keep walking by.]

I stand outside the door. OK, this is it. I peak inside the dark and peaceful office. I bend down and start to slide the envelope under the door.

Omg.

I suddenly had a brief Office Space moment. That moment when Peter pushes the letter describing his theft from the company under Lumbergh’s office door and then he’s sort of like, shoot, I want the letter back now. I don’t know why, but I sort of did the same thing. As the letter slid off my fingertips I was like: Wait! I want it back!

I tried to slip my fingers under the door in a desperate attempt to get it back. I’m not sure why…I think I was being a perfectionist and I didn’t like the way I slipped the letter under the door…the envelope turned sideways and was therefore vertical. I wanted the envelope facing horizontal so that when the first person walks in the door the ‘Please Open Me’ is facing them.

My take on today’s “Lighten Up” experience: I’m weird and I have serious perfectionist issues. The whole point of the exercise is to get ‘you’ in this case, me, to lighten up, and meanwhile I’m completely stressing myself out. Wow, I have issues. I give myself an F today.

Update: Today I saw one of the workers from Skinny Jeans’ office walking down the hall. He didn’t look all that happy either. I sat at my desk and thought, dude, what is your problem? At least yesterday I was feeling a little blue due to the weather, but today is a beautiful day in Chicago and you got a cute note and a dollar under your door. Can’t you at least smile when you walk down the hall? What is wrong with these people.

Then I remembered that I’m only supposed to be concerned about MY reaction, no one elses. Ugh. And I get another F.

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King Douche Bag

12 Apr

What do you do when you’re in that moment that you’ve fantasized about over and over?  You’ve seen it in your dreams.  You’ve planned out every single second of the encounter.  You know exactly what you would say to them, and exactly how you would say it, and exactly how you would storm off while they stood there looking like a fool.  You know every detail, how their mouth is dropped open while they stare at you with a shocked expression, and what you are wearing and how you’re having like a really good hair day.

And then it happens.

It actually happens.

The moment you’ve spent so much time thinking about, but never actually thinking it’s going to happen.

It’s a moment that I’ve had nightmares about.  It’s a moment that I’ve worried about.

And it happened to me on Saturday.

Saturday morning after taking the Chiquita egg-hunting at Dominick’s Food Store at 7:30 am the fam and I decided to head to Starbuck’s for coffee.  It was me, Hubs and Chiquita, of course, and then my mom, aunt, uncle and cousin.  Yes, we were that family that all went to watch Chiquita Easter egg hunt and took pics the whole time.

Not to mention I had Chiquita all dolled up in her Juicy Couture (of course!) and my mom later told me, “We looked like high society at the egg hunt” like she was embarrassed or something, which is hilarious because she totes loves the Juicy bag I bought her for Christmas and uses it every day, so like, whatevs Mom, whatevs.  And can I help it that the Chiquita is a well-dressed tot?

Juicy Couture Baby

So we’re sitting in Starbuck’s when IT happens.

He walks in.

King Douche Bag.  He’s not even a Douche Lord, he’s the mother-fucking King.

He walks in wearing designer jeans, a black hoodie with a skeleton on the back and construction work boots.  His hair is short and brown.  He’s tan and has a scowl on his face as he walks through the door.

He looks exactly the same as I remember him but maybe a little thinner than the last time I had seen him.  He walks the same way though, like the arrogant narcissist that he is, with his chest puffed up and his muscles tight.  He’s a 40-year-old who walks like a 20-year-old frat guy ready to start a fight over the last Mad Dog in the refrigerator.

The last time I saw the King was my last day of employment as his office manager personal slave in 2007.  I walked out of his office with my head held high.  I knew that my decision was saving my life.

Needless to say, the King was not happy about my departure.  Yet as he handed back to me my letter of resignation he spit into the mud we stood on and said, “Well, that’s OK, I was going to fire you anyways.”

Unbelievable, I thought, as I had prayed that he would tear up my resignation letter and terminate me immediately.  Anything to get away from that man, that stress, that nightmare….

Two weeks later I remember putting my key and my pink hard hat on the table and turning to look at the office I was leaving for the very last time.  That office was full of so many memories….full of fear and hatred, full of laughs and cries…

I walked away from a life that benefited me financially but was killing me inside.

For months following my twisted and psychotic employment I had nightmares and anxiety.  I imagined the moment of running into the King soooo many times.

Sometimes I would punch him in the face.  I would knock him out cold and his 6 foot 200 pound body would crash to the floor.  Like a cartoon he would have stars circling the top of his head.

Sometimes I would yell at him.  My screams would come out in fluent Italian, and he’d stare at me with a bewildered look of shock and hurt.  The words they escaped my lips would come out like harsh but riddled poetry with hatred spilling from the depths of my soul.

Sometimes I would stop dead in my tracks at stare at him.  Too afraid to speak.  Too afraid to move for fear that I might actually kill him.  I’d envision cops being called and spending a night or a lifetime in prison.

Io non sono male, sto appena disegnato in questo modo

But when I saw him in actual reality on Saturday morning at my suburban Starbuck’s I did none of the above.

In reality I panicked.  I froze.

What do I do?  Do I say something?  Do I say nothing?

I simply sat there in awe over the King who stole so much from me and yet I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

And here he is right in front of me.  I just sat there.  I was shaking.

Minutes later he walked by with his coffee in hand and a smug expression on his face as he walked out the door.  It was like we were two strangers.

Have I changed that much?  Have I become a complete wimp?  Or is it that I realize he’s not worth the air from my lungs?  Is it that I’m trying to provide my daughter with a good example?  Is it that I’m actually afraid to confront the evil King?

Maybe it’s that for the first time in my adult life I know what I have.  I’m surrounded by people that I love and people that love me.  Yeah, he stole money from me and that sucks but I realize he actually gave me the greatest gifts of all.

#1 – King Douche Bag taught me about the kind of person that I don’t want to be.

And #2 – King Douche Bag is the perfect antagonist for my nearly finished book, Concrete Boots.

Come on now, you didn’t think I was going to let him off scot free now, did you? :)

So maybe I sat there and didn’t speak a word, yet sometimes silence speaks volumes.  There he was bitter and alone while I sat there with my family surrounded by happiness and love.

It was also the fire that I needed burning inside me to get me to finish editing this book that has been sitting on my desk finished for over a year.

Thank you, King Douche Bag, for giving me so much material.  Thank you for giving me a best seller.

And my promise to you Readers is that I will give you an excerpt by the end of the month! :D

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Case of the Mondays…Repepepepepeat

28 Mar

I’d like to bring you another fan favorite from back in the good ‘ole days when I was a very crabby pregnant chick.

Beware, this post not only involves this Italian chick’s bad attitude but it also details crapping my pants, losing my panties, and, also a reader favorite, conversations with my stalker….

Enjoy!

From "Office Space"

Image courtesy of Yahoo Photos

I can’t even begin to tell you all that had gone down in a 24 hour period, but because I can laugh at myself I will tell you this.

I am pregnant – and how I LOVE being pregnant – NOT – and one of the joys of pregnancy hit me on Sunday afternoon.  I pooped my pants.

Seriously.  I’m not shitting you – LOL – I pooped my pants.  WTF you ask?  Well, I went downtown for brunch with my bestie.  After brunch we went back to her place and talked in her sitting room for about 30 minutes before I decided to head back to the ‘burbs.  I had to go to the bathroom, but her boyfriend was upstairs sick and lying on the couch.  I figured I could hold it the 30 minute ride home, no problem.

The ride home wasn’t too bad.  I was listening to Lady Gaga and enjoying the sunshine.  My window was cracked and I was texting away (naughty, I know.)  I exited the highway and was nearing home.  As I turned down my street it was as though it hit me like a ton of bricks.  ‘Shit, I need to shit.  Shit, I need to shit NOW,’ I think.

I put my car in park and ran in the house.  Thank God my husband, who had left the house, left the back door unlocked.  I raced in the door and my dog was under my feet.  I was yelling “Dexter, MOVE!”  I’m trying to set my coffee down, my purse, my keys…I’m running towards the bathroom.  And then it happened.

O-M-G.

Honestly, it was so unbelievable and so funny that I wasn’t even upset about it.  In fact, I texted those that I’m close to and said, “OMG, I just pooped my pants! I’m not shitting you, LOL.”  I laughed.

I would think that would be my FML (f*ck my life) for the next year….but then I woke up Monday morning.  After a restless night of sleep the alarm went off.  I felt like I slept a total of 1 hour the entire night.  I was exhausted.

I got up and still half-asleep managed to take a shower and get ready for work.  I decided to throw on the jeans that I wore the night before. (Don’t worry, I wore different jeans Sunday night then the jeans I pooped in.)

Driving to work all that was on my brain was COFFEE NOW.  I pulled into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot.  I get out of the car to walk inside.  There sits my stalker.  Side note – let’s discuss my stalker.  I have a stalker at Dunkin Donuts who loves to talk to me about my perfume, my black “hooker” boots, my love of the Cubs, and whatever else he can get me to talk about with him in the 4 minute trip to get my morning java.

He seems like a nice enough guy, albeit strange.  He once told me that he makes his own coffee at home to save money.  WTF?  And then you still come to the DD parking lot to sit around?  Strange.  But, I decided to have him checked out by a cop friend and he came up clean so I just say hello and keep our conversations to a minimum.

So back to the story, I am walking inside DD on this breezy Monday morning.  My stalker jumps out of his car and says, “Starting Monday off right, huh?”

I think, ‘If only you knew, Mr. Stalker, what the last 24 hours of my life have entailed.  If only….’ But I really smile and say, “Uh-huh,” while I walk in.

I’ve gotta be honest, I was sort of feeling like “the shit” despite my exhaustion that morning.  I was sort of feeling like a “hot mess.”  I was wearing my tight trendy prego jeans and a cute black maternity top.  The maternity top was quite low and when I walked even I was intrigued by my bouncing bosom.

A man and a woman pull up in a Lexus and both give me an odd look.  I think to myself, ‘Daaammnnn, I look so good today that this couple is checking me out!’

Yeah – It gets better.

I get my coffee and am walking back to my car.  As I walk I look down.  I see a pair of black … panties?  WTF, is that a black thong in the parking lot?  I continue to approach it and see a white tag that says DKNY.

HOLY F*CKING SH*T BALLS, that is my f*cking thong!  WHAT THE F*CK!?!?!

On Sunday – after the pants pooping – I showered and dug in my under garments drawer for a pair of panties I hadn’t worn in some time.  My hand pulled out the black DKNY thong.  ‘Holy sh*t,’ I thought, ‘When was the last time I wore this?  I haven’t seen these in forever.’

I was super excited putting them on.  My DKNY thong.  What a purchase.  I remember the day I bought those at Von Maur.  But, let’s not get off on a tangent.

As I step over my thong – far too embarrassed to pick it up – I get in the car and grieve for my DKNYs.  ‘This is a sad day,’ I think. ‘How could this happen?’

It starts to come full circle.  The night before, I came home, ripped my pants off and tossed them on the dining room table.  (Again, I can’t get off on another tangent, but my house in under construction and currently my closet = the dining room.)

This morning – when I’m half asleep and dressing – apparently I never pulled the thong out of the pants?  Apparently I never felt the thong in my pants?  Apparently I never felt the thong fall out of my pants.  Truly mortified I sit in the car in disbelief.

I shout out loud, “Is my f*cking life a joke to you, God?”

He doesn’t answer.  I probably shouldn’t have said f*ck.  Well, so be it.  Good-bye DKNYs.

Fast forward to today.  I’m pulling into the DD parking lot and am certain that my stalker stole my panties to display on his probable shrine of me in his station wagon.  But wait – NO – the DKNYs are there!  They lay in the same spot.  I contemplate this for a moment.  Do I be a pussy and leave this $20 pair of underwear or do I pick them up?

I place my car in park near where the DKNYs sit.  I get out of the car, deep in thought.  What to do…what to do.  As I step out of DD, something comes over me.  I decide I’m taking my life back.  I’m picking up the DKNYs.  I’m just gonna do it!

With my Couch purse on my shoulder and my head held high I walk over to the thong.  I look at my stalker who sits in his station wagon watching me.  ‘F*ck it,’ I think, ‘I want my f*cking panties back!’

With a shit eating grin I smile and bend over.  I pick up the thong and try to stick it in my pocket.  Yeah, well, I f*ck that up to.  My stupid pocket is buttoned close.  I continue to smile and open the door of my Mercedes Benz and sit inside.  I feel an overwhelming rush of true happiness.  I did it!  Holy sh*t, I did it!  I picked up my thong underwear!

I put my car in drive, wave at my stalker and pull out of the DD parking lot – while I scream.

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My Office Crush is Gay.

19 Dec

I’ve mentioned before that I work in a fish bowl.  What I mean, is I work in a building in which the inside looks like a strip mall – the whole front of my office is a glass window.  We all sort of “know” each other just from seeing the same people walking down the hall day in and day out.  People walk by and wave and smile at me all day.  Some ladies walk by and scowl at me as well.  I like to think that’s just because they are jealous of my good looks and charming personality.

Anyways, as much as I do enjoy working despite missing the Chiquita, there are days that are lonnng and boring.  Days in which I stare at the clock waiting for 4:30.  To get through these days I had to do something. 

I developed an office crush. 

I used to have a crush on the UPS man, but then he invited me over to his house for beers, and I sort of thought, hmm, this is not going in the right direction.  So, now I just smile at him and talk to him about the Cubs (he’s a diehard Sox fan) and he usually tells me how much he likes my boots, my outfit, etc. But, as for the office crush that is now over.  Guess he should have played hard to get.

Then I was crush-less for a while.  Like for a long while.

Let me take a moment to explain the office crush.  Or at least my office crush.  Yes, I’m married.  I’m not looking to hook up with my office crush, but rather I just like to watch them walk by (is that creepy?) and smile and wave and maybe flirt a little, I’m really good at batting the eyelashes, but other than that NOTHING.  Let me be clear.  I’m not looking to bag my office crush.

So I was sad and crush-less for a while.  Makes work veryyyy boring.  And, then…I saw him.  No, it didn’t quite go down like that; it wasn’t crush-at-first-sight. 

Down the hall from me is a graphic design company.  All the people who work there seem very cool and urban, like not your typical office employees.  One of the guys, my new crush, is this kind of skinny hipster guy.  He has blonde spiky hair and wears tight black skinny jeans (emo pants??) with black lace-up boots.  Some days he wears a hat, some days he wears hoodies, but all days he has an aura of “cool” about him. 

Today he is wearing his black skinny jeans and a red tee with a scarf; his keys dangling from his hip.  He snaps his fingers as he strolls by.

He’s totally not my type. 

I don’t go for the rocker, urban, cool kinds of guys.  I’m not really sure what my type is.  Oh wait, my type is my husband, of course, in case he’s reading this. :) 

And then one day over the summer I left work early to go to the bank for my boss.  I was shocked when I saw him.  I mean, I was taking a different route than I normally do.  I was sitting at a red light waiting for the green arrow.  This guy rounds the corner on a motorcycle.  I did a double take.  HOLY CRAP.  That was skinny jeans guy!  And on a Harley!!

Suddenly his hotness factor went from like a 5 to a 9.  I’m pretty sure I started to perspire. 

I went to work the next day and told my boss that skinny jeans guy has a Harley.  Even my boss thought he was suddenly kind of bad ass.  A couple days after that skinny jeans guy was talking to someone outside my office.  I overheard him say (no, I wasn’t eavesdropping!) that he was “playing a show” that night. 

I started to imagine myself as a groupie.  What would I wear to skinny jeans guy’s show tonight, you know if I was single?  I decided on my short leather skirt, black boots…but wait, I’m not the groupie type!  And then I remembered.  I’m a 32-year-old married office manager with a baby.  Well, that’s okay, either way, my new crush was formed!  Skinny jeans guy is one cool mutha-fucka and yayy now I have someone to crush on again!

At first skinny jeans guy seemed totes into me; like he would walk by and smile and give me the peace sign.  Yeah, he’s wayyy too cool to wave.  I was like; ohmigosh, I have to be careful here.  I don’t need another UPS incident; I’d like to keep my office crush this time.  I mean, I can’t help it that I’m so cute and likeable.

I mean, I was pretty sure skinny jeans guy would be asking me to come see a show.  Like any day now.  And then suddenly skinny jeans guy no longer seemed into me.  He would walk by my office uber cool with his spiky hair and his tight emo pants and he didn’t wave at me anymore, and then he didn’t even look at me anymore!

Wtf is happening?

I mean, I tried not to take it personally.  I’m sure I’m not skinny jeans guy’s type anyways, as I would imagine he goes for beer swigging hipster-type girls, like Avril Lavigne, who have color streaked hair and shop at The Alley.  I’m sure wine-guzzling, Juicy Couture wearing, Giuliana BFF wannabes are sooo not his type.

Still, even though I’m married, my ego was a bit bruised.  I told my boss, “Skinny jeans guy doesn’t wave at me anymore.”

He goes, “You reeked of desperation,” and then burst out laughing.  I think he was joking.

Then, on Friday, my ego was saved.

Friday afternoon I went on a walkabout to drop some checks in the mailbox.  As I walked down the hall I do what everyone else does, and I look in the windows to see what everyone is doing.  Attorney lady is typing frantically on the computer, Insurance lady is on the phone talking away, the Narcissist is back in his office talking to a pretty blonde woman….and then I spot it.

Normally the graphics company keeps their shades drawn so you can only see into their office through the two front doors, unlike my company which is just wide open so people can see me pick my teeth and blow my nose.  But as I walked by that day I noticed that the shades were wide open.  And in the window is a picture of skinny jeans guy.  With another dude.  Omg, it’s SKINNY JEANS GUY WITH HIS HANDS ON THE SHOULDERS OF ANOTHER DUDE!!!!!!!

I like did a complete double take.  Wtf is this?!?  Are they gay?  And not that there’s anything wrong with that….I just about fell over in shock in front of their office.  I tried to get it together and play cool, but my whole walk back to the office I kept repeating to myself, “Is skinny jeans guy gay?”

And then the puzzle pieces started to come together.  His man friend recently started to work there.  Oh yeah, he started working there right around the time that skinny jeans guy stopped waving at me… 

And now I see new dude and skinny jeans guy driving to work together every morning…I mean, I just thought new dude was a nice guy driving skinny jeans guy to work because he like, has a Harley and all, and it’s too cold out to drive now?

And skinny jeans guy does wear really tight pants.

I mean, I suppose he could be gay.  Maybe an Adam Levine type???  

“You will never believe this!”  I shout as I walk inside my office doors.

My boss looked up from his desk and my co-worker peeked her head around the corner.

“I think skinny jeans guy is gay!” I shout.

“Oh yeah, I could have told you that.  I mean, it makes sense…” My boss says.

What?!?  Why didn’t you tell me this?

“You have to go down there and look at the picture!”  I shout.  “Someone has to go down there.  Am I crazy?  It looks like an engagement picture!”

My co-worker walks down to view the alleged engagement photo.  She says, “Is it possible they are just posing that way?”

I say to my boss, “You have to go look!”

“Why do I have to go look?” He asks.

“You just do.  I just need to know.  I need a dude’s opinion.  Please go.”

“Will you stop talking about it if I go look at the picture?”

“Yes,” I promised.

He gets up and heads down the hall.  I am back sitting at my desk anxiously waiting for the verdict.  As he walks down the hall he looks at me through the windows and smiles.  He has a huge grin on his face.

He walks in the door, looks at me, and starts cracking up.  He shrugs and says, “He’s gay.”

Disbelief sweeps across my face.  Immediately I think of the scene from Clueless:

Murray: Your man Christian is a cake boy!

Cher, Dionne: A what?

Murray: He’s a disco-dancing, Oscar Wilde-reading, Streisand ticket-holding friend of Dorothy, know what I’m saying?

Cher: Uh-uh, no way, not even!

Murray: Yes, even; he’s gay!

Dionne: He does like to shop, Cher. And the boy can dress.

If it happened to Cher, I guess it can happen to the best of us. :)

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Why I Hate People…

11 Jan

 

Sunday. I’m all excited. I head to Caribou to edit my book, Concrete Boots. I’ve had a dream of doing this. Of Caribou someday being “my office.” I wake up in the morning and instead of going to work I go to Caribou. And I write. For a living.

So even though this is still a dream at this point, and Caribou is not my office, and it is rather Sunday and not Monday, I head to Caribou.

I have my pink Dell laptop, my manuscript, a red pen, and myself; donned in black yoga pants and a grey and white striped V-neck sweater from Express. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and my make-up is done lightly – appropriately – for a weekend at eight in the morning.

I kiss my husband and my baby good-bye, and I head off …. To write…to edit…to be. Ahhhh this is heaven, I think. I feel very Carrie Bradshaw.

Image courtesy of HBO & http://www.geekculture.com

I arrive at Caribou and it’s empty, besides two others, and I order a large non-fat mocha. I select my seat and start to take out my writing items. I’m smiling. I’m happy.

Sipping my non-fat mocha I start to read over manuscript notes from my two awesome cousins, Tami and Lucy, as well as my own notes, to put it all together to finally perfect this masterpiece.

I’m on a roll…chapter one down…and into chapter two and making some progress.

And now it’s 10 o’clock. And busy. And loud. And so not peaceful. I’m distracted.

I’m looking around. Where am I sitting? I’m in the bum corner. I’m sitting amongst the bums. They are scruffy and dirty with backpacks. And they stink. And they are loud. How did I not notice this?

Well, I did notice the bum family come inside because they were screaming at each other. A man, a woman and a son, maybe like 20 or 30, who had to have been on something. He looked wasted. The man sits down at a table near me and loudly insists he MUST sit by himself. I’m pretty sure he was looking at porn on his laptop. Yes, I forgot to mention, this bum had a laptop! Crazy world we live in! Maybe he’s a classy bum?

So, the woman (his wife?) sits with me. I was sitting at a large table, just taking up one side, because it was near the outlet. She didn’t bother me much; she just drank her coffee and did her own thing. Every time she’d try to go over by the man he would start screaming at her, and I would look up.

“Get away from me, woman! What are you doing over here?” He yelled. This is why I was pretty sure he was looking at porn. The son, sitting there but not looking at the computer, would laugh with his cashed eyes.

Wtf is with these people? I thought. I felt bad for the lady. I wanted to tell the laptop bum to shut the fuck up and leave her alone. But I tried to mind my own business.

So, I keep getting distracted by said bums, as well as other bums, who must have Caribou in Downers Grove on their list of hang outs on chilly Sunday mornings.

Now, I’m not a snob, well, maybe I am, but I’m sorry, I don’t want to sit and edit my book amongst a bunch of bums – or people really – and here’s why.

I’m sitting at the large table editing, and suddenly I have to poop. SHIT! – quite literally – lol – What am I going to do? I think.

Obviously I would take my Juicy Couture bag into the bathroom, but what do I do with my pink laptop? What do I do with my manuscript? Do I pack everything up and take it in the bathroom with me? Surely someone will take my spot! Oh the dilemma.

Can I possibly ask someone to watch my belongings? I look around. At the bums. They would sell my lap top for a forty of Miller Lite I’m sure. FUCK, I think, I REALLY HAVE TO GO POOP.

Like I can’t even concentrate at this point.

I text my hubby who says, “Don’t you dare leave your stuff.”

Deep breath. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I want to keep working for another hour so I guess I’m going to have to hold it. This sucks. What happened to the days of good and normal people??? People you could trust? Can you trust no one anymore?

Frustrated (and with a tummy ache) I get back to editing. And then another bum comes in.

And you know what – tangent here – don’t anyone comment to me telling me how bums are people, too, and the poor bums, or how the bums need some place to go….I know all this. I empathize with the bums, as I’m just a pink slip away from being a bum. But, if I were a bum, I wouldn’t spend my Sunday sitting at Caribou looking at porn on a laptop while I yell at my (possible) wife! But, that’s just me, what do I know? Further, I would be a classy bum. I’d be the only bum I know carrying a Juicy Couture bag! Hmm…maybe I would sit at Caribou and look at porn? What else is there to do?

But, back to my story. So, this other bum comes in. Caribou is now packed. I’m sure there are non-bums all over, but I like I said, for some reason I sat in the bum section. She stops in front of me and says, “Is someone sitting there?”

Against my better judgment, I say, “Nope, you can sit down.”

Where does she sit? I’m not even joking, right on top of me. She’s literally breathing in my face. Crazy bum lady is wearing orange sweatpants with stains and a blue sweatshirt. She has a black stocking hat on her head. She pulls her hat off and her hair sticks straight up at the ceiling.

Don’t judge others, I think. But, it’s her breathing on me that really bugs me, not how she looks like a crazed maniac.

Then she starts coughing. Repeatedly. ON ME.

Then she starts reading. OUT LOUD.

What the fuck is with this woman? I think. I really want to beat her ass, and I’m quite sure I can take her. Who does this? Seriously. Who. Does. This? I almost feel like she’s doing this on purpose. She’s trying to drive me away! No way is she driving me out of there! Fuck that crazy bum lady.

But, seriously. Who sits down at a local coffee shop, on top of someone else, breathes all over them, coughs all over them and completely disturbs them by reading their newspaper out loud? She didn’t even order a coffee! You don’t even want to know what happened next.

THE BUM WIFE GOT UP AND WENT TO SIT WITH THE CLASSY LAPTOP BUM HUSBAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m not even joking. My only bum friend left me – alone – with crazy bum lady with her hair sticking up at the ceiling and coughing all over my pink laptop, and even worse, ME.

The bum husband yells at his wife again. “Woman! Get out of here!” (See, he had to be looking at porn, right?)

She yells – seriously yells – “I had to move. That lady over there is coughing all over me.” She points at crazy bum lady.

Crazy bum lady laughs.

The crazy bum lady looks at me. “I like your sweater,” she says.

Am I like on TV? Am I being punked? I wonder.

A minute later she says to me, “I like your ring.”

What is this? Why am I being harassed at Caribou on Sunday morning while I’m trying to live out my Carrie Bradshaw dream? Why God, why?

I finally resign to the fact that I’m being driven out of Caribou by this crazed maniac bum. But, whatever, bums or not bums, they’re people. And damn are people fucking annoying.

 

 

 

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Someone’s Got a Case of the Mondays…

30 Mar
From "Office Space"

Image courtesy of Yahoo Photos

 

I can’t even begin to tell you all that had gone down in a 24 hour period, but because I can laugh at myself I will tell you this. 

I am pregnant – and how I LOVE being pregnant – NOT – and one of the joys of pregnancy hit me on Sunday afternoon.  I pooped my pants. 

Seriously.  I’m not shitting you – LOL – I pooped my pants.  WTF you ask?  Well, I went downtown for brunch with my bestie.  After brunch we went back to her place and talked in her sitting room for about 30 minutes before I decided to head back to the ‘burbs.  I had to go to the bathroom, but her boyfriend was upstairs sick and lying on the couch.  I figured I could hold it the 30 minute ride home, no problem. 

The ride home wasn’t too bad.  I was listening to Lady Gaga and enjoying the sunshine.  My window was cracked and I was texting away (naughty, I know.)  I exited the highway and was nearing home.  As I turned down my street it was as though it hit me like a ton of bricks.  ‘Shit, I need to shit.  Shit, I need to shit NOW,’ I think. 

I put my car in park and ran in the house.  Thank God my husband, who had left the house, left the back door unlocked.  I raced in the door and my dog was under my feet.  I was yelling “Dexter, MOVE!”  I’m trying to set my coffee down, my purse, my keys…I’m running towards the bathroom.  And then it happened. 

O-M-G. 

Honestly, it was so unbelievable and so funny that I wasn’t even upset about it.  In fact, I texted those that I’m close to and said, “OMG, I just pooped my pants! I’m not shitting you, LOL.”  I laughed. 

I would think that would be my FML (f*ck my life) for the next year….but then I woke up Monday morning.  After a restless night of sleep the alarm went off.  I felt like I slept a total of 1 hour the entire night.  I was exhausted.  

I got up and still half-asleep managed to take a shower and get ready for work.  I decided to throw on the jeans that I wore the night before. (Don’t worry, I wore different jeans Sunday night then the jeans I pooped in.) 

Driving to work all that was on my brain was COFFEE NOW.  I pulled into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot.  I get out of the car to walk inside.  There sits my stalker.  Side note – let’s discuss my stalker.  I have a stalker at Dunkin Donuts who loves to talk to me about my perfume, my black “hooker” boots, my love of the Cubs, and whatever else he can get me to talk about with him in the 4 minute trip to get my morning java. 

He seems like a nice enough guy, albeit strange.  He once told me that he makes his own coffee at home to save money.  WTF?  And then you still come to the DD parking lot to sit around?  Strange.  But, I decided to have him checked out by a cop friend and he came up clean so I just say hello and keep our conversations to a minimum. 

So back to the story, I am walking inside DD on this breezy Monday morning.  My stalker jumps out of his car and says, “Starting Monday off right, huh?” 

I think, ‘If only you knew, Mr. Stalker, what the last 24 hours of my life have entailed.  If only….’ But I really smile and say, “Uh-huh,” while I walk in. 

I’ve gotta be honest, I was sort of feeling like “the shit” despite my exhaustion that morning.  I was sort of feeling like a “hot mess.”  I was wearing my tight trendy prego jeans and a cute black maternity top.  The maternity top was quite low and when I walked even I was intrigued by my bouncing bosom. 

A man and a woman pull up in a Lexus and both give me an odd look.  I think to myself, ‘Daaammnnn, I look so good today that this couple is checking me out!’ 

Yeah – It gets better. 

I get my coffee and am walking back to my car.  As I walk I look down.  I see a pair of black … panties?  WTF, is that a black thong in the parking lot?  I continue to approach it and see a white tag that says DKNY. 

HOLY F*CKING SH*T BALLS, that is my f*cking thong!  WHAT THE F*CK!?!?! 

On Sunday – after the pants pooping – I showered and dug in my under garments drawer for a pair of panties I hadn’t worn in some time.  My hand pulled out the black DKNY thong.  ‘Holy sh*t,’ I thought, ‘When was the last time I wore this?  I haven’t seen these in forever.’ 

I was super excited putting them on.  My DKNY thong.  What a purchase.  I remember the day I bought those at Von Maur.  But, let’s not get off on a tangent. 

As I step over my thong – far too embarrassed to pick it up – I get in the car and grieve for my DKNYs.  ‘This is a sad day,’ I think. ‘How could this happen?’ 

It starts to come full circle.  The night before, I came home, ripped my pants off and tossed them on the dining room table.  (Again, I can’t get off on another tangent, but my house in under construction and currently my closet = the dining room.) 

This morning – when I’m half asleep and dressing – apparently I never pulled the thong out of the pants?  Apparently I never felt the thong in my pants?  Apparently I never felt the thong fall out of my pants.  Truly mortified I sit in the car in disbelief. 

I shout out loud, “Is my f*cking life a joke to you, God?” 

He doesn’t answer.  I probably shouldn’t have said f*ck.  Well, so be it.  Good-bye DKNYs. 

Fast forward to today.  I’m pulling into the DD parking lot and am certain that my stalker stole my panties to display on his probable shrine of me in his station wagon.  But wait – NO – the DKNYs are there!  They lay in the same spot.  I contemplate this for a moment.  Do I be a pussy and leave this $20 pair of underwear or do I pick them up? 

I place my car in park near where the DKNYs sit.  I get out of the car, deep in thought.  What to do…what to do.  As I step out of DD, something comes over me.  I decide I’m taking my life back.  I’m picking up the DKNYs.  I’m just gonna do it! 

With my Couch purse on my shoulder and my head held high I walk over to the thong.  I look at my stalker who sits in his station wagon watching me.  ‘F*ck it,’ I think, ‘I want my f*cking panties back!’ 

With a shit eating grin I smile and bend over.  I pick up the thong and try to stick it in my pocket.  Yeah, well, I f*ck that up to.  My stupid pocket is buttoned close.  I continue to smile and open the door of my Mercedes Benz and sit inside.  I feel an overwhelming rush of true happiness.  I did it!  Holy sh*t, I did it!  I picked up my thong underwear! 

I put my car in drive, wave at my stalker and pull out of the DD parking lot – while I scream.

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