What a crap week I had. You?
Warning - the following will be petty, inappropriate, awful, and probably will make you feel just plain weird.
Well, there was tons of work, but I burned through that. Nothing offensive there. Then nada, and I felt redundant due to the other ass-istant, but more on that later.
On top of a bunch of office politick bullshit, Anna Nicole Smith died. I don’t know if you remember, but I loved Anna Nicole - the Fat Anna Nicole - and was once accused of masturbating to The Anna Nicole Show. Well, I was not. But I will admit that I wouldn’t have minded making out with her sometime at Miceli’s, where the manager once told me she had been earlier, hijacking the bar and rolling around on the floor with other girls. (I also want a hug from Bill Clinton before I die, so there you are. I don’t mind people who give it up freely, I just wouldn’t ever marry them.)
Er. Yeah, I loved the Fat Anna. Not TrimSpa Anna. Methinks Skinny Anna equalled not happy Anna. It is so sad. I really think that half of the miserable, skinny people out there would calm down significantly if they would just eat a nice, wholesome meal of Jack Daniels and a brownie. Works for me, anyway.
The other problem, I think, was The Marilyn Syndrome. I adore Marilyn Monroe but would not have wanted to have lived with her, either. Also? Sorry, Anna, but you were no Marilyn. She had much better taste in men, could really act, and I think she read a book one time.
OK, so they were both funny, but Marilyn was witty; Anna was more, laughing at you funny:
“I don’t know nuthin’ about nuthin’…oh no…ohhhhh nooooo.” -Adorable Anna, who was dumb as a post made out of Slim Jims, but at least she admitted it!
Furthermore, the obsession with Marilyn goes way too far. The only reason she is the pop culture icon she is now is because she went and kicked the bucket under sketchwad circumstances, and that is nothing to be emulated. It really bugs me that Anna went and bought her house, got hopped up on painkillers, and claimed to have seen ghostie Marilyn. Now Blindsay Blowhan hauled off and bought it. By the way, Paris Hilton (who I hope they name a new venereal disease after), Jessica Simpson, Christina Aguilera-a-a, Scarlett Yo-Hard-on, and every other semi-starlet I hate also thinks that they are Marilyn. (If I were Marilyn, I would be spinning in my crypt right next to the future home of Hugh Hefner, which is just plain wrong if you ask me, she shouldn’t be overtly sexualized even in death. When the time comes, I am gonna picket.) There are too many Marilyns and not a good one in the lot. I kind of hope that whole thing dies down with poor Vickie Lynn Hogan from Yuckhole, TX.
So R.I.P, Anna, I have to love anyone who wanted a pickle and wasn’t afraid to get stuck under a coffee table while fat in a blue velvet dress and let a cameraman film her in Butt-O-Vision.
(I wonder how Kimmy is doing? I can’t imagine she is well after this, especially if she still has that life-sized tattoo of Anna Nicole on her left ham hock?)
So onto my own petty bullshit - why does there always have to be that one person at work who makes it difficult, uncomfortable, and just downright unpleasant to come to work? I like my job. I love my boss, in a twisted and warped kind of way (built on mutual understanding and genuine respect, of course). I even have a certain affection for everyone else in the entire building, right up to the VP and down to the janitors belting out ¡GUANTANAMERA!…except this person, who has always struck me as disingenuous (you might say, they are a disingenius).
This is one of the Three Things I Hate in a Person:
1) Insincerity
2) People Who Think They Have to Make Others Look Bad to Make Themselves Look Good, But I Can’t Think of the Word for It
3) Clowns
…and they are all three.
Perhaps they should look into being a realtor, a politician, or possibly a PR person. I don’t know. I just wish they would hurry up and go away if they are going to be so unhappy they have to take it out on me. I say “they” because I don’t feel like identifying the gender of this person, but “they” is actually appropriate because it is like they either have multiple crap personalities (one is fake, one is fakier than fake, and the third is a TOTAL…just really unpleasant.) Or one person with three heads, all in varying degrees of a bad mood.
I understand bad moods, I really do. Most of the time people ask me what is the matter with my face, or why I’m not a morning person, but that is just the way I am. I was born looking like I got up at 4 AM and rolled in something and then came directly to work. However, a bad mood is no reason to yell at someone who innocently asked you for some pieces of paper. I do not tolerate yelling except from a) people who need to be heard from a long way away, and b) Robert Plant. And sometimes not even then.
So I had to do something about it, because I am not a giant professional doormat. It was not pleasant, and I did not enjoy it. This is why I did not say anything before, when she (oOp!) make pointedly bitchy remarks to my face, to my face in front of other peoples’ faces, and behind my face. Because it seems like simply more trouble than it’s worth to open yourself up to criticism when YOU aren’t even the megabitch. It becomes not a question of what did they do, but what did YOU do? to “provoke” the attack.
ASK NOT WHAT YOUR CUNT TREE CAN DO FOR YOU-!!!
And that is what my workplace has become…a cunt tree. A tree of cunts.
That’s right, Mrs. HR Person. Fire me now, I do not care anymore. As I wrote in the thingy to my boss, I would rather share an office with a nest of menopausal female badgers during their last heat and rabid mimes than that person, thank you very much.
For fun, I think they should let us continue to compete with each other for oh, say, six months - and then fire one of us. I do not care if it is me. I can find another Jill Fernandez*, oOP!, at my next place of work. I don’t need this crap.
In the meantime, must keep it close to my vest, because although others have complained about her, if I do the same? I will look like the baddy. So. Avoidy voidy.
I was so bent out of shape, I even forgot to include my favorite ill-advised car stick-on thingy sighting: DOMINICAN POWERED.
I don’t even know what to read into that.
Sugar Pie…I want a pickle.
*Actually, Jill Fernandez is not her real name. Jill Fernandez is that one person at my last place of work who decided, for no apparent reason, that she did not like me. Also, Jill Fernandez is a funny name for a large black woman, sorry.
