Weblog

Tuesday, 01 December 2009

  • I guess the guys told us so!

    Menstrual psychosis. 

    There you have it, men.  Enjoy this freebie while you can, because soon, you'll just have more reason to either fetch us ice cream, or run for your easily-stabbable little lives.

     

    ^________^ 

  • There is nothing creepier than... (and other "fun" excerpts from my everyday)

    1) A coworker, whose life is clearly and obsessively centered around the rearing of two illegitimate humanlets, imitating with full vocal range (somewhere around canine decibel levels), the dim-witted queries of her 4 year old vis-a-vis the mall Santa and his ambiguous relation to clowns, which, I was informed with all the enthusiasm of a crack-addict diving face first into a fresh bag of blow, her kid fears with all the fibers of her being.  Then, upon having experienced said co-worker's first interpretation of her offspring, having to hear it THREE more times, because it is undeniably "so cute" and "you should have seen her", "you should have seen her."  Let me tell you something, Madam.  Had I been there, and had your child actually sounded like the squealing piece of pork you make her out to be, your child would have had something even more legitimate to fear than clowns and Santa Claus combined.  Namely, my foot to her ass, and her consequent initiation to human flight.  Though you imitating that, even within the fullest range of your horrifying michelin-man gesticulations ... I might actually appreciate.  Fly my pretties, fly!!!!

    santa-269x300

    2) Yet another coworker, an older family man, whom you used to work with, appreciate and respect back when you were slightly more overweight, and whom, upon meeting a few years down the line, you catch bestowing a full-on "elevator"* that only stops on floors T and A.  "I'm up here" doesn't even begin to cut it.

    *"elevator", I just learned, refers to the head motion during an intense 'check out" session.  Ding!

    3) Having some kid with borderline stalker tendencies, claiming to be autistic and hence being socially excused of all wrong/awkward/creepy/overzealous-doings, do this, upon having spoken, ONLINE, a grand total of three times via forum comments:

     uh

    Then, upon awkward, deeply perturbed thanking of said wongo-internet kid, (because what the fuck else am I supposed to say to some poor autistic-stalker-kid who draws me in strange hugging scenes with suspicious hand placement, that wouldn't involve me getting banned from my favorite website), having him tell me with sinister fervor that: "I came for your art, but it's you that I really like even more".

    ....

    'Nuff said.

     

Monday, 30 November 2009

  • Irrelevance

    I was gonna post something about my recent birthday, feeling old, creeping into cougarland, how I hate holiday music solely because of Yoko Ono, feeling fat, and how a certain co-worker keeps using me a her tickle me-lesbo.....

     

    ....but this is better.

    sw1

    sw2

    sw3

    sw4

     sw5

     sw6

     

Thursday, 26 November 2009

  • Bizarre blurbs of today…

     

    Me *to my total DILF of a teacher*: … So if we’re feeling totally screwed, we should come see you during your office hours, I’m guessing.

     

    Teacher: *sigh*… It’s always only for the “bad version” of being totally screwed that students come see me anyway.

     

    Me:…. Yeah.  I’m guessing I could have phrased that better.  

     

    Teacher: …. Haha, we’ll figure something out, Liz, but for the record, indeed, you shouldn't use the words "screwed" and "your office" anywhere near the university's earshot.  I like my job, you know?

     

    *************************************************************************************************************************

     

     

    Coworker: … When you put a cd in, how are you supposed to make it work?

     

    Me: Isn’t it auto-running?

     

    Coworker: Auto-running?

     

    Me: Auto-running.  Go to “my computer”.

     

    Coworker: It worked in mine this morning, though…

     

    Me:.. NO, I mean… “my computer”.

     

    Coworker: Where?

     

    Me: To the left of your desktop files there.

     

    Coworker: I know where my computer is, Liz, I already put the cd in it.

     

    Me…… I mean, the icon beside your digital files.

     

    Coworker: Oh.  Well, it just popped up automatically now anyway.

     

    Me: Ah, auto-running.

     

    Coworker:… no no, it just started by itself.

     

    ***************************************************************************************************************************

     

     

    Random guy on the phone:  Hello, this is Mike.  Remember, we spoke last week about the business proposal?

     

    Me: Oh… oh yeah.  You still haven’t told me what it’s about, or how you know Pat.  (or how you found my number, considering Pat never had mine, and hasn’t spoken to me in about 3 years.)

     

    Mike: Ah well.. it’s all very visual, and there’s a huge money-making opportunity here.  I was just wondering if you were interested, seeing as Pat referred me to you.

     

    Me: I can’t say I’m not curious about it.

     

    Mike: Well, we can meet at the Tim Horton’s on Guy, if you’d like.

     

    Me: This isn’t some thing where you’re going to ask me for my bank account number on behalf of your friend who needs to transfer me money from Kenya, is it, Mike?

     

    Mike:…. No.  I just can’t talk about it on the phone.  I promise it’ll be worth your while.

     

    Me: Five o’clock, then.  No foreign bank accounts, credit card numbers or black vans though, Mike.   I swear to god.  Pat might have warned you of my ties to the Irish mob.

     

     

  • Heelfail

     

    It was an ill-conceived notion from the beginning.

     

    A tiny deviation ultimately doomed to the gravest of failures.

     

    A farce, really.

     

     

    And yet… as I descended the stairs that morning in my half-conscious stupor, I could not help but glance at them ever-so innocently.

     

    I dismissed the idea immediately.  Even severely caffeine-impaired judgment knew better than to take THAT whim seriously. 

     

    I rushed past them, mentally scolding myself for even having granted them even a furtive peek, those treacherous little monsters.  I needed coffee, fast, before other lapses in reasoning could occur.

     

    And yet, as fate would have it… it seemed that I had no other manner of footwear to don for work, other than my runners.  Completely unacceptable for the snobbish appearances of office life, of course, though I’d have given my left er… foot, to be allowed to wear them.

     

    I was left with no other option.

     

    The pair of 2 inch-high, needle-heeled, cankle-eliminating boots almost smiled in triumph at me, as I hesitantly put them on my feet.  My balance, on any given morning, is already precarious at 6:30 am.

     

    This, friends, was suicide.

     

     

    200902251028152273105  

     

    But oh… how those terrible things give me a thrill, affirming their high fashion appeal with every unapologetic click of their heels.  Oh, how my hard-earned feminist ideals were shattered with every step, but OH how they shattered glamourously, the pieces of my ideaological resolve positively brimming with sex-appeal!!! (sex appeal hereby defined as perilously unstable sauntering the likes of which even my heavily-medicated mental-patient friends would be proud of)

     

    Despite the painstaking, muscle-tensing vigilance required in every precarious step, the sensation of indubitable AWESOMENESS pervaded my walk all of a sudden, even as I felt the damned things sink into the mushy, November soil, threatening to throw me backwards into some grand, cirque-esque defiance (and subsequent reaffirmation, via my ass,) of gravity.  But by GOD, it would be an AWESOME defiance, full of "mode" and other such stylishly-relevant French terminology!

     

    Yes, those high-heeled, impulse-buy boots are damned sexy, but unlike that curiously misinformed ditty, they are most definitely NOT made for walking.  Though walk I did, as I eventually stabilized enough, through sheer force of will, to sashay into the office far less subtly than usual.

     

    …Then came the next hurdle.

     

    “HEY LIZ.  YOU LOOK TALLER,” came the teasing tone of my boss as I attempted (and failed) at dodging his perma-mockery (permockery, to some!).  I desperately tried to escape him with a placating half-chuckle teeming with scorn, but for some reason, could just not pick up speed before he caught me again, his sinisterly delighted grin causing me to cringe.  And of course it followed that:

     

    “HAVE YOU BEEN DOING DRUGS, LIZ?  IS IT BECAUSE YOU NEED EXTRA MONEY FOR YOUR HABIT THAT YOU’RE WEARING THOSE, EH??”

     

    … I let that one slide in favor of my pristine criminal record and pressed on, infuriatingly slowly of course, and with all the grace of a spastic salmon during spawning season.  Upstream.

     

    Luckily, the Discovery Channel moment seemed to deter him, and I lost him to his hydroencephalous musings.

     

    “Wow, Elizabeth, you seem sexier today!” chimed the spacey, 60-something nurse on our team out of nowhere, who I’m sure enjoys plenty of her own “special additives” in that patchouli incense in her office.

     

    The internal collapse of my dignity was almost audible… and, before I could flee the scene (as though ANYONE within a one mile radius could POSSIBLY doubt my location with these unabashed clunkers afoot) I was again barraged.

     

    “It’s so rare that we see you in heels, Liz,” said one secretary, then another.

     

     

    THANK YOU, Captain Obvious and Boy DOY, for that scintillating addition to my already glorious morning.  Truly, it was valid and existential point, up there with the meaning of life, nature vs nurture, relativity and the origins of the universe.   I was humbled before their awe-inspiring intellect, but refrained, you understand, from kneeling just then. (I actually care for the floor tiles. That, and I just got my teeth repaired.)

     

     

    No fewer than three parroted the phrase in the span of 5 minutes, and I felt my head vibrate with wonder at their chorus in Retard minor.  Had they practiced?  WAS THIS ALL SOME GIANT CELESTIAL JOKE?   WAS IT BECAUSE THEY FINALLY REALIZED I AM A WOMAN DESPITE MY EVER-CONFOUNDING WEARING OF FLAT-SHOES IN A HIGHLY STEREOTYPED AND GENDERED OFFICE SETTING?

     

    I finally got to my off-

     

    WELL WELL!!! Take a look at this!  Heels, eh?”

     

    I swore on the lofty heads of Versace, Spring, Jimmy Chu and whoever the hell else is responsible for these infernal contraptions, that I would never do it again!  OH WHY had I forgotten my precious flats?  WHY hadn’t I just worn the running shoes? WHY GOD, MUST YOU PUNISH ME SO??!!  ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAIIINNNNEEDDD??!

     

    And… finally, sometime after my internal outcry about Spartaaaa, the culmination of my 6 am mishap was: WHY WAS *THIS* THE DAY I HAD TO GO TO THE HARDWARE STORE TO CUT LUMBER FOR SOME ART PROJECT OF MINE AFTER THE TORTURE THAT WAS WORK!!!??

     

    ….because let me tell you, 2 inch heels DO NOT HELP as you are fumbling behind vaguely-handsome-wood-worker-guy while he expertly tosses you the splinter-happy 2 by 4's, DESPERATELY trying not to gloriously faceplant into the concrete at his steel-toed feet.  

     

    WHY INDEED.  

     

    .......It was an ill-conceived notion from the beginning.

     

    A tiny deviation ultimately doomed to the gravest of failures.

     

    A farce, really.