sun above, sand below

The bags are packed, the car is loaded. Lots of sun tan lotion, towels, and hopes for sunny weather. Vacation time at the beach. When I next write again, I'll be stuffed full of crab legs, still shaking the sand out of my clothes, and most likely with a sunburn already starting to peel (skin cancer be damned...well, for one week, anyway).

some days it just doesn't pay to leave your cubicle

I really needed to get out of the office for lunch today.  Truthfully, this was as much of a 'sanity' thing as it was a 'food' thing.  As I started heading down the stairs, I stubbed my toe, and almost fell the remaining two flights down to the main landing.  Holding the rail, catching my breath, and then breathing a sigh of relief, I kept going.  I wasn't about to be deterred. 

I had driven about half-way to Panera, my restaurant of choice for the afternoon, when I realized that I needed a Kleenex.  So I start feeling around on the backseat, which is where I had tossed them yesterday afternoon.  With no luck, I decide that this task requires a quick turnaround to locate the box.  I turn, I find, I grab a Kleenex, and as I swing back around I see that I'm about six inches away from the guardrail on the road, and traveling rapidly toward it.  I quickly swerve and just barely avoid an increase in my insurance premium.  Again, I breathe a sigh of relief, but do I stop? Nope.

I get to Panera unscathed, hop out of my car and start heading to the main entrance and am nearly turned into road kill by a car zipping through the parking lot.  He blows his horn and, after my heart stops beating through the old rib cage, I keep going.  By this time, I'm pretty sure that the food gods are trying to tell me something.  But because I was hungry, there, and pretty dense, I went inside.

The food ordering, return to work, and eating of my sandwich went without a hitch.  So I took my coffee and returned to my computer.  I sat down, laughed to myself for thinking that the universe was trying to send me some sort of anti-Panera message, and took a swig of coffee.

I promptly proceeded to choke.  Which led to quite the impressive spray of coffee.  I wiped down my keyboard, computer screen, desk, pencil holder and stapler.  And then I sat in that cubicle until 5:00 and didn't move an inch.  Next time, I'll take the hint and pack a ham sandwich instead.

make me an offer

Stuff is really expensive. I mean, REALLY expensive. The simple fact is, I just don't make enough to buy the necessities of life...necessities being big screen TVs, fancy electronic gadgets, top shelf liquor, fast convertibles...you know, those type of necessities.

So due to the fact that I need more cash and have a great new parking space (my promotion came with this parking space...not a raise, mind you, just an improvement in where I can stop my car) I've decided to combine these two things in order to improve the current quality of my life. I've decided to rent out my good parking space to folks in the office.

Now, parking isn't really at a premium where I work, but can you really ever be too close to the front door? I think not. So I figure for a simple buck a day...$20 for the month...I'll gladly rent my spot to whoever wants it, complete with a hand written piece of paper that I'll tape over the current sign that says, 'this spot reserved for management' which will declare the spot to be theirs for the length of their rental period, or until it rains and the piece of paper disintegrates.

I often think how great it would be if we, as a society, went back to the barter system...much like they did hundreds of years ago. Medical attention for a sack of grain. A couple of chickens in exchange for a new wheel for your wagon. This type of economy would fit into my current financial capabilities very well. I'd love to be able to walk into a McDonald's and trade a slightly used textbook, a solar calculator and a couple of mechanical pencils for a cheeseburger and fries. Or a six pack of beer for my three pet goldfish, a remote control to a busted television set, and a box of Kleenex. I like to think that I would thrive in this new flea-marketization economy. And if you've been looking for a really cool flashlight and a few half-dead house plants, then I'm your man! For the right price, these fine items could be yours.

and people say that i don't handle rejection well

I met a girl awhile back who seemed nice enough at the time. Her name was Casey and while she was no real beauty, she seemed nice enough. We went on a few dates, though no sparks really flew, but I figured that it was at least worth sticking around to see if any smoldering started to happen. So on a whim, we both decided to go sky-diving for date number four. She suggested it, I've always wanted to try it, and what better way to see if any chemistry would ignite than jumping out of a plane? This was three weeks ago. I made the reservations, paid the deposit (for both of us, mind you), and then she pretty much disappeared.

I suggested that we meet a couple times before the big jump. She had weddings to go to, then got mysteriously ill, then just stopped  communicating all together. I emailed her yesterday saying that I got the message, but that she could at least have guts to tell me she was bailing. Today I got an email back from her which read; 'Sorry, I won't be going'. Nothing more.

I like to think that I'm a bigger person than she is. I realize that people's tastes in other people are strictly a personal matter. Truthfully, I wasn't all that impressed by her, so why should she have been into me? I can suck up the fact that she bailed first, officially making me the dumpee in the process, and that I can still hold my head high and not let this affect me.

And I'll hold firm to this belief until that voodoo doll arrives by mail that I bought on ebay. Then I plan on jabbing several sharp objects into it and toss the thing onto the highway somewhere. Hopefully she'll feel every prick and tire mark. Good riddance, Ms. Wild. Look for your email address to appear soon in multiple chat rooms geared toward women who love psychotic inmates.

atrophy doesn't make you stronger

I don't understand why people tend to think that negative things are going to 'make you stronger'. When asked how my job was going, I told my mom, 'it stinks'.

"Well," she said, "at least it will make you a stronger person."

How in the world can a mindless job that bores me to death make me any stronger? If anything, this job is making me weaker...mentally my brain is beginning to feel like baby food swishing around in my head, and while typing and dialing the phone over and over, I can literally feel my muscles all starting to atrophy. Now, if my job was doing sit-ups all day, sure, then it would be making me stronger. I would still probably hate it, but I'd have some damn killer abs!

On one of those reality shows the other night, the 'kicked out' contestant was leaving and said, "this has been an opportunity of a lifetime and it has made me a stronger person." How exactly did it do this? He lost! He's a loser...the ego and confidence drops, the positive outlook decreases, and this somehow relates to strength? I'd argue that by losing, he actually made the winner stronger, not the other way around.

And take tragedies, people are always saying, 'going through this has made me stronger' Really, the only tragedy that I can think of that might possibly make you stronger is if something really heavy fell on top of you...like a satellite or a brick wall or something. It would take a whole lot of muscle power to push that thing off of you. And all that lifting will surely make your arms stronger than they were before. Or the intense leg work that would come from running away from a pack of hungry lions in the jungle. That too would make you stronger. But beyond that, I really don't see that you'll be any stronger for going through something you dislike. So next time someone complains, just agree with them and say, 'yep, you're going to be a weaker son of bitch for going through that'.

my cubical in hell

What a way to start the week. Monday came and the old twit who runs the place completely went around the bend. On a whim, she decided that she was firing four people, and by the end of the day, four people were gone. It had nothing to do with the quality of their work, just the fact that she felt like getting rid of some people. My head wasn't on the chopping block, but I got a 'promotion' into a completely crappy job. My new title, which carries with it no extra monetary value, mind you, is now Manager of Customer and Sales Support. Basically, I've become a full-time telemarketer, which both sucks and pisses me off at the same time. The people that I need to call is everyone in our database...which is currently at about 16,000 names. 

Do we have this many clients? No, not even close. It's just that no one has ever scrubbed our database of those clients that have gone out of business or haven't used our service in the past four years. Hell, the contact names aren't even correct in most cases. Just last week, I called up a place and asked for the person listed as the contact there and the receptionist told me that the lady had passed away about a year ago. Now I ask, how professional does that make us look? But yet, I don't have the authority to delete these people from our database...no, that would make too much sense. I've never read Dante, but I'm positive that I'm nearing that seventh layer of hell. 

It's funny, but about a month ago I loved my job and had two potential women at work with whom a little 'thing' seemed to be a strong possibility. Now I hate my job and all the work women have dried up...one of whom, Lindsay, got canned in the Monday firing frenzy. Can you believe that I'm actually jealous of her?

watch these babies bounce!

About a month ago, the kind people at National City Bank made an appearance to our office to discuss opening up a checking account with them. Normally, I would have no interest in anything the National City Bank people had to say. I'm very happy with my current bank, thank you. But Michelle and Debbie, the bank representatives, explained that our old twit boss had decided to offer direct deposit...but only if we had an account with National City. And like whores with the chance at earning fifty bucks, Debbie and Michelle were just all smiles and promises of an easy, no-guilt relationship. 'Just take the pen and sign!', they cooed.

I was about to leave when they told me I didn't have to pay anything to set the account up and that there was no minimum balance. I shrugged, took the pen from their sweaty little hands, and signed in triplicate. I was now an official National City Bank John.

And just this past week, I got my brand new checks from my brand new bank, with a big fat balance of one cent in my brand new account.

But after several weeks of my account remaining stagnant at one cent, I realized that our boss decided to renege on her direct deposit promise. National City needed the deposits by Thursday. Our boss refused to have the money ready before Friday. So direct deposit is out the window. And my glorious checking account remains at $0.01.

But if you'd like a donation, just let me know...I've got a bunch of checks that aren't doing me any good. And I've always strongly believed in sharing the wealth.

it just doesn't pay to change the future

On the news today I heard that there had been an outbreak of salmonella in the area. The culprit was a Sheetz convenience store that apparently had some tainted lettuce. 
 
The reason that I bring this up is because last weekend while out with some friends, we were hungry and decided that some food was in order. Where did they want to go? Sheetz. Now being that we were already in a bar playing darts combined with the fact that I'm not a big fan of Sheetz food even when it's not contaminated, I suggested that we just grab a few appetizers there...which we did. 

The result of this decision I made was that we were all saved from contracting salmonella which, from what I understand, is no party in the park. And this is what pisses me off. Not that I really wanted to see my friends spurting diarrhea while balled up with stomach cramps, but because my good deed will now go unrewarded! 

Really now, here I am, the hero in all this, and where's my praise? And even if I try to point out the fact that they should all be extremely grateful, I know that I'll only be met with hysterical laughing. And what kind of thanks is that?! 

At least if they had got sick, I could have thrown in an, "I told you so", but now, because I saved them from this horrible fate, I get nothing. And there's nothing worse then getting gypped out of your well deserved praise! 

All I know is that the big guy upstairs better be keeping track of all these good deeds of mine, because you can bet that I am!

stuff, lick, toss

I've long since given up the hopes that I'll be moved back to doing background checks. It would appear that my job title has switched from, Background Researcher, to Quality Assurance Assistant, to Sales Assistant...which basically means that trained monkeys can now do my job. The last few days have pretty much been spent stuffing envelopes, to create more business, which will put money into the Sales Manager's pocket. Basically, I am now earning commissions for him. I figure that I should be getting a cut of this money...but I realize that this is a dream. I figure that I should be getting a simple, 'hey, thanks'...but this too is a dream. I figure that, at the very least, I should be left alone to stuff, lick, and curse my multiple paper cuts in peace...but not even this dream has been granted.

So here's my basic day, stuff, lick, toss on pile, repeat. But apparently, I wasn't performing the 'toss' portion of this demanding task correctly. Mario, the Sales Manager, approached me today and said, 'it's very loud when you toss those envelopes onto each other. Try placing them gently so you won't be so disruptive.'

Let's see how 'loud and disruptive' he finds it when I bring in a pair of cymbals tomorrow.

the customer doesn't always know best

My first job at Arby's only lasted two months. This was the summer before my junior year in high school. A week later I was employed at Phar-Mor.

One day I was working the express-lane when an old lady came up to the register with a tube of jock-itch cream. People bought strange things there all the time, so I really didn't think anything of it. She started telling me, however, that she recently took up tennis and had been playing it quite a bit lately and that her foot was always quite itchy and that this is why she was buying her tube of jock-itch.

I really didn't want to get into a lesson about the right ointments for the right body parts, so I asked, "does it stop your foot from itching?" figuring that if it solved the problem, why delve further into the issue.

She gave this question serious thought and then answered, "well, now that you mention it, no...it never really has helped my foot."

At this point, I just sighed and said, "I really don't think that this cream was intended for feet."

"Of course it is," she told me, "I play tennis, see, so I'm a jock...and this is jock-itch."

Ever so discretely, I told her, "ma'am, I think what you need is something for athlete's foot...not jock-itch. You'll find it in aisle ten."

"You mean they make something like that?" And off she went to aisle ten, only to appear a few minutes later hustling down the aisle to my register, waving the athlete's foot ointment above her head, and screaming with glee, "you're right! I found it!"

Ah yes, the joys of retail.

rent...a serious cramp in my purchasing power

So the other day I signed the lease on my new place. Now that this paper has been signed, though, I've begun noticing a few side effects. The first of which is that I'm now relating all money issues in terms of rent. My current college pursuit? Each class is about two months worth of rent. Food-wise, I can eat 250 Big Macs per month, or pay my rent. Of course, if I down scale to the Wendy's 99 cent value menu, I can increase my purchasing power to about 500 Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers. Those bubble gum ball machines in front of the supermarket? I can buy about 2,000 of them for what it will cost me to keep a roof over my head. Entertainment? Well, rather than pay rent I could see that new Spiderman movie a total of 62 times...no popcorn or drink, though...that would put me over the limit. So this whole 'rent' deal is going to put a serious cramp on my funds. Exactly how am I going to survive without my monthly allotment of Big Macs and gum balls?

But the even bigger kick in the ass to all of this is that the whole 'job' thing has just become that much more important, making the fantasies of telling my boss to kiss my ass and shove the job that much further from becoming a reality. So I've gained 'independence' by securing my own place but, simultaneously, just cemented my servitude to my current place of employment...because to remain independent I have to remain a slave to that old twit who signs my paychecks, meager as they may be. What the hell kind of freedom is that?!

I may just end up opting for a cozy little cardboard box under a nice bridge somewhere. Now if only I could figure out a way to get cable with that.

where's karma when you need it?

Senile. Condescending. Insane. All are perfect adjectives to describe the old twit that owns the company I work for. This was clear even from my interview, when she asked if I could type. I've been typing for quite a while now, so naturally I said 'yes'. Questioning, perhaps, that someone could truly master an advanced skill such as typing, she leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow, and said in that tone of voice which suggests that you've just been caught in a lie, 'yes, but can you type without looking at the keys?'. Once again I said yes, and got the job...obviously I passed the rigorous entrance exam. Since this time, she has taken great joy in belittling, accusing, and screaming at me and every other employee in the office. She tends to rotate her scapegoat on a weekly basis. This way, once your week is up, you know that you're off the hook for a good month or two.

But with jobs so hard to come by in this area, I'm pretty much at her mercy. I've got no other discernible skills, probably won't be winning the lottery any time soon, and while I have considered selling my body to science, they are usually only willing to pay the big bucks for parts which I consider to be really important...like hearts and livers and that type of stuff.

On the bright side, she's off to London for the next week and a half. Which means that a brief period of sunshine will fall upon the office. And, with any luck, some international incidence with the British Government will land her in Scotland yard. Perhaps the Queen will sentence her to a severe caning due to an obnoxious comment made to young Prince William. And, because this is my fantasy, the Brits will sell her to some roving band of gypsies, who will in turn donate her to the Indonesian Space fund, where she'll be blasted off into the stratosphere in some poorly constructed space vehicle made of adobe and bamboo, which will spontaneously burst into flames and fall back to Earth, landing in a jungle somewhere in Zimbabwe, where a small pack of pigmy warriors will mistake her charred remains as a feast from the gods, and devour her...only to get an extremely bad case of the runs a few short hours later.

Now that would be some sweet karma!

mommified

I was friends with this girl in high school named Carol, and this girl was incredibly sexy. Attractive, beautiful red hair, sexy hazel eyes, and she owned this one pair of tight pants that turned her butt into a true work of art. I saw her the other day at the supermarket, and barely recognized her.

Carol: "Oh my God! How have you been?"

Me: "Carol? Is that you?"

Carol: "Yes! I haven't seen you in years! You're looking good."

Me: "Yeah, uh...thanks...um, you look, uh...what is that purple stain on your sweat pants?"

Carol: "Oh that, my youngest son Jared threw his peanut butter and jelly toast across the kitchen today. I just didn't seem to find a chance to change out of these old clothes. Kids! You know, I love them, but sometimes you just need to get away."

Me: "Yeah, kids...what're you going to do. So did you move back into town?"

Carol: "No, I'm just up visiting my folks. My husband wanted to catch a baseball game downtown. Usually I won't let him go. But he hasn't seen his college friends in a while, so I figured that one afternoon wouldn't be too bad. We're leaving early tomorrow, so I told him that I wasn't going to let him hang out at a bar with his friends tonight. I mean, one beer at the ball park is enough, you know...besides, it's his turn to watch Jared tonight because I was heading over to Jen's house...you might remember her from high school..."

Me: "Hey, yeah, wasn't she the one that..."

Carol: "So I didn't want my mom and dad to be stuck with Jared all alone, he can be pretty energetic sometimes, and I told Steve, my husband, that he had better be back by eight. So how have you been? Man, it's good to see you...so are you seeing anybody?"

Me: "Uh, nope, still single...well, um, it seems like you're pretty loaded down with those boxes of Teddy Grahams there, so, uh, I'm going to just get going."

Carol: "Jared just loves these! They're the only thing that keeps him quiet in the car, so I decided to stock up on them for the three hour drive home tomorrow. Well, you take care!"

Another fond memory has just been shattered. And women wonder why men are so afraid of marriage.

from now on I'll be screening my calls

I don't understand the point of some phone calls. Take my friend Randy, for instance. I rarely hear from him unless it's two in the morning and he's drunk. Then I'll get a call. Or, like this past, Friday. when he called me from his car. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing, really," I said. "You in town? Maybe we could head out and get a drink."

"Nah," he answered, "I just wanted to call and see what you were doing because I'm here in the car with Tracy, and we're going camping."

'So,' I thought to myself, 'basically you called to tell me that you're with a woman and will soon be getting laid in the middle of a forest.' The call dampened my spirits because I would be spending a laidless evening by myself.

Then this morning, I get another pointless phone call. This time from Lindsay, the girl I was no longer dating. She left me a message saying, "I'm moving into my new place today, and you'd be such a sweetheart if you'd come over and help."

I didn't bother to return her call, but am seriously considering tossing my cell phone off of a bridge.

sent to the principal's office

I was called into the bosses office today, which, considering how the old twit runs her business, is exactly like being called into the principal's office when you're in the first grade. I sat down and she asked, "so how do you think you're doing here so far?"

This, naturally, is a loaded question. One which has no correct answer. Saying 'great' makes you sound pompous, which the old twit loves because then she can knock you down a few pegs. Saying 'sucky' gives her all the more reason to rip you apart. Saying 'great, considering what a sucky job you do of running the place' pretty much ensures that you no longer have a job. Given my choices, I decided to answer in a very non-committal way.

"I try to do my best to ensure that our clients are always satisfied," I told her.

"Well," she continued, "you do produce good work and you're getting your work done, but every time I walked by your desk this morning, you weren't in your seat. This concerns me. We'll see how you do next week about staying at your desk more, then we'll meet again to re-evaluate the job that you're doing around here."

It seems that my performance is now linked to how many minutes I sit behind my desk...and I can't help thinking, 'I went to college for this crap?!'

Once I sat back down to begin improving my performance by producing quality sitting time, I got a call from a client asking me to confirm John Swanson's diploma. I called his alma mater and was told that they had no record of him ever having graduated.

I called John back to explain the situation and ask that he fax me a copy of his diploma so that the appropriate high school officials could verify it.

Soon after, I was holding the faxed copy of John's diploma. In the middle of the diploma was a large picture of George Washington...this, despite the fact that the school John graduated from was called Kennedy High School. The word 'diploma' was written in a large bubble font directly below George and was spelled 'diploema'.

While I'm no forgery expert, I was pretty sure that this was not an actual diploma, yet I still sent it off to the high school so that they could verify what I already knew.

Dorothy, the secretary at the high school, faxed me back a copy of an 'actual' diploma that the school gives to its graduates and wrote, 'in my 26 years at this school, we have NEVER handed out diplomas that look like this.'

So here's today's lesson on 'faking your resume': If you plan on creating your own diploma because you never graduated from high school, be sure to find an 'actual' high school graduate to make it for you. At least then, the words will be spelled correctly.