Bonanza Jellybean

Another Pop Quiz

OK, get our your pencils again...
And you might want to try a little harder, because I was not at all pleased with the grades last time. There's no way you guys are going to pass if you keep putting in this amount of effort.

Could I POSSIBLY sound any grumpier??
I bet I could.
Let this stomach bug I seem to have acquired make me throw up again, and this level of grumpiness will look like unicorns shitting rainbows. Promise.

OK, here we go...

1) The new impossibly cute puppy
     a) has discovered that toes in flip-flops are QUITE tasty
     b) thinks all big dogs think its cute when their toes are bitten
     c) is about to become the world's best-traveled 5 week old puppy
         as she goes everywhere Soccer Chick goes
     d) all of the above

2) When referred to as "pumpkin" in the checkout line at the sporting goods store
    yesterday by the HUGE 22 year old man in front of her after he reached out to pat
    her on the arm in apology for taking so long with his purchase, Bonanza
     a) immediately began a mental crisis over the nature of the application of self-tanner
     b) wondered if the crappy food she has been ingesting lately has indeed
         resulted in a segmented, spherical midsection
     c) told him to "shut your creepy, fat-ass mouth and mind your own fucking business"
     d) began mentally deliberating as to when it became acceptable for any man
         under the age of 70 to call a woman "pumpkin" for any reason
     e) all of the above

3) Bonanza will politely decline the invitation she received last night to play on an
    additional soccer team because
     a) dragging her ass out of the house on a Sunday, when she usually spends
         all day in her pajamas, is a task akin to rehabbing Lindsay Lohan
     b) she has finally realized that she is 35. And so are her muscles, joints and lung capacity.
     c) the team wears lime green, and lime green is not a good color for Bonanzas
         who wish to not appear jaundiced in public
     d) she wishes to spend more quality time with her husband and child
     e) a, b and c only

4) When Work husband received his new printer today and had to move everything
     in the office so that he and the boss could get it set up properly, Bonanza
     a) asked loudly 12 times "Isn't it time for you two to go to lunch or something?"
     b) asked loudly 37 times "Are you planning AT ANY POINT to move this table
         you have leaning on my trash can because I can't get to it and it's bugging
         me? And no, I don't need to throw anything away right now, but in the case that I do..."
     c) after the commission of a and b, sweetly asked Work Husband to bring her a drink
         from the refrigerator because she didn't feel like getting up
     d) complained that all they dust they were stirring up was upsetting her stomach again
     e) all of the above

5) After Work Husband informed Bonanza not to let the new receptionist cough near
    her because the new receptionist just happened to be on the flight from Europe
    that the guy with TB was on, Bonanza
     a) informed her boss that the "stomach bug" was probably the first stages
         of TB and ran around the office shouting "Workman's Comp! Lawsuit! Disability!"
     b) asked her boss why in the living hell he couldn't manage to hire JUST ONE
         person without some affliction that wasn't curable, though it's usually just
         stupidity, though that has proven to be contagious
     c) asked if the receptionist had been tested and when informed that she had not,
         threatened to call the CDC herself if an immediate raise was not offered
     d) told Work Husband to go kiss her after he refused to immediately move the
         table blocking Bonanza's trash can
     e) all of the above

More Cushion for the Pushin'

Yesterday, while trapped in our office, doing what could presumably be called work...

Work Husband: (in mock radio announcer, movie trailer style voice with booming excitement) FRIDAY. MAY 18. HERE. I GIVE. YOU. BILL. CLINTON.

Me: (knowing that Bill is his idol and that he treasures the talking Bill Clinton doll I got him above all other worldly possessions) Really? Where?

Work Husband: Let's see... a dinner. Oh. For $1000 a person.

Me: You know, if my husband didn't need a new knee...

Work Husband: Wait! He's speaking at an NAACP thing that night for only $75 a person!

Me: Ummmm, will they let us in there?

Work Husband: They'll let in anyone who pays.

Me: Well, that is a bit more affordable...

Work Husband: DAMN. I want to go.

Me: Well, if your wife can't or won't go with you, I'll go. I'd love to see him.

Work Husband sends over a suspicious look...

Me: And I'll BEHAVE myself. You know I clean up nicely when I want to. Oh wait, Bill likes 'em southern and trashy.

Work Husband: I hate to tell you, but you are WAY too skinny for Bill. He likes his women a bit bigger than you.

Me: I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Wow. Who knew sexual rejection could be a compliment?

Work Husband: I do what I can.

The Wall of Disposable Man

Dear Construction Workers,

I understand that you are toiling in the rain (probably making more than me per hour to stand and look pensively at a big hole in the ground, a task of which it obviously takes five of you wearing mirrored sunglasses to do) to make me a new fancy office, so I've tried to sit here and not ridicule you so far. Even though you were kind of asking for it. But I didn't.

But today, things got a little crazy around here, and I felt compelled to say something.

You know, since you've all been introduced to the crazy yelling woman who came flying out the front door at you already in a towering temper before one of you even had the nerve to look up in the most puzzled fashion possible. You knew what you were doing, and NO ONE was fooled. Especially the 10 little biddies standing at the front window watching you who kept coming to report JUST HOW CLOSE TO SOMEONE'S CAR YOU WERE GETTING.

First, that irate woman who just stomped outside and informed you that (considering you were in an employee parking area while you were trying to load your muddy bulldozer onto a trailer mere INCHES from someone-not-to-mention-any-names's car) she would sue your fucking ass off and buy herself a brand new car if there was so much as a scratch? She wasn't kidding.

And repeatedly saying "Yes ma'am. We understand," did not help matters considering that when she went back inside you went right on about your business. "Take your ass back down the hill where you are ALLOWED" was not a REQUEST.

Oh? And that whole "No comprendo, ma'am" from your little coworkers? Won't work. She can cuss your ass out just as easily in Spanish. Don't look so shocked when a sweet little southern girl calls you a "pendejo." It's GLOBALIZATION, BABY.

Now, I'm sure you've figured out by now exactly who "she" is, right?

SHE would not have been so quick to jump all over you people without the OTHER incident that happened today, honestly. THAT ONE caused her to believe that all you were, in fact, irretrievably stupid and needed to be guided into proper behavior in ALL somewhat questionable situations.

You know, the one that required police, fire, and ambulance support.

Because FRANKLY, if you can't figure out that standing in the middle of the road flapping your arms at an oncoming Lincoln Town Car piloted by a 93 year old woman with her Yorkie on her lap IN THE RAIN might not be a good idea, I have NO FAITH that you can manage not to hit my car when moving heavy equipment in the mud. Especially because, as the woman DRIVING FIVE FREAKIN' MILES PER HOUR approached you standing in the road, YOU DIDN'T MOVE. You stood there LONG ENOUGH for Miss Daisy to HIT YOU.

Darwin awards, anyone?

Now that I have gotten all that off my chest, I do appreciate the "wall of disposable man" that you seemed to deem necessary between my car and your truck after I shouted at you, where you apparently made four of your workers stand in the inches between my car and the trailer in an effort to provide padding, but considering you have already lost one employee today to a vehicular exercise in stupidity, maybe you should just consider parking somewhere else tomorrow. JUST A THOUGHT.

Oh, and you didn't have to abandon the entire worksite after I yelled at you. My boss might notice if you quit, you know, BUILDING THE NEW BUILDING, just because a girl yelled at you. Babies.

Sincerely,
Dink

Why I Don't Love My Work Husband Anymore

It's that time of year again.

Every time I go outside to have a smoke, these cute little fuzzy caterpillars are EVERYWHERE. I love little fuzzy caterpillars, so I do my best not to step on them, which includes corralling them onto leaves that I can move into the bushes (and talking to them about the merits of staying off the patio and doors and in the bushes, which a- they ignore and b- make me sound like a raving idiot). I spend at least 30 minutes a day now in "Caterpillar 911" mode, which I'm sure they would mock me for if they could, as they seem to do their absolute best to crawl off of the bush, drop to the ground, and scurry right back across the patio where I got them from in the first place. While I watch. Talking to them.

Little shits.
But rescue them, I must. Call it Animal-Specific-OCD.

We won't even discuss the looks construction workers building your new office will give you when they see you talking to caterpillars and walking slowly with a leaf in your hand. I bet they're recalculating the budget RIGHT THIS SECOND to include padding of the walls of the crazy caterpillar woman's office.

Did you know that you can coax 8 of them onto one stick? That's my personal record.
I can't believe I just typed that for the Internet to share. Jesus.

Which led to the following LOVELY exchange between Work Husband and myself.
LOVELY Work Husband, who normally pretends to ignore my ummm, QUIRKS and go about his business with me 10 feet away on a daily basis while pretending that I am perfectly normal and nothing to raise an eyebrow at...
He's not lovely ANYMORE. He's a CATERPILLAR HATER. And a SHOE MOCKER.

And he's learned to make fun of me without me noticing until I am too far into the conversation to get out of it.

As I came back inside from YET ANOTHER smoke break...

Work Husband: You need to stop trying to help those caterpillars. Just SQUISH 'EM, I say.

Me: Ass. I can't squish them. They're cute. And I don't want to step on them.

Work Husband: They're a freakin' nuisance and need to go. They're going to grow up and turn into moths and eat all of your clothes.

Me: They WILL NOT. They will remember my charity and goodness and purposely miss my clothes.

Work Husband: I bet they'd eat your shoes.

Me: See, that's just CRUEL.

Work Husband: They would. I promise.

Me: They absolutely WOULD NOT. Those are SOUTH CAROLINA CATERPILLARS- they only like shoes from Wal-Mart and Payless, not Italy and London.

Work Husband: They'd think they were a delicacy, I bet.

Me: No, they'd think they were being unpatriotic and start calling it "Freedom Leather." And then they'd go buy some BBQ and chewing tobacco.

Work Husband: They're coming for your shoes. I promise.

Me: I hate you now. I know you're mocking me on MULTIPLE fronts, and I don't appreciate it. I'm not even sorry we won't be sharing an office anymore. You can take your caterpillar-hating, shoe-mocking ass into your own new fancy office where you'll die cold and alone, and I'll LAUGH when they find you after two weeks when the smell creeps into the hallway.

Work Husband: (snickering) Okay. But you'll miss me.

Me: Probably. But I won't admit it.

12 Years and Counting

On the phone earlier this morning while I was outside having a smoke at work...

Me: So, I just wanted to tell you Happy Valentines and Happy Anniversary and all that jazz.

Husband (he'll get a name soon- I'm still working on it): All that jazz?

Me: Yep. All that-- Wait a minute.

Husband: What?

Me: Jane's (name changed to protect the innocent) boyfriend just pulled up to her car and is loading it with balloons and flowers.

Husband: How sweet.

Me: That's it. I can't take anymore. You need to move your ass this second and order me some flowers.

Husband: Order you some--? You don't even like flowers!

Me: Doesn't matter. All these simple, redneck, ugly, idiot bitches here (not Jane, who I actually like) are getting shit and I'm not getting anything and I should get more than them because I'm more special than them!

Husband: So I'm just supposed to call up a florist and order flowers so you can get some just like everyone else even though you don't like flowers and just want to show off?

Me: Exactly. But mine should be better than theirs. Make sure they're better when you call. And don't even get started, because I am fully aware of when ugly sides of me start showing.

Husband: I am not ordering you flowers. Forget it.

Me: But it's Valentines Day! And our Anniversary! FLOWERS ARE IN ORDER, BUDDY.

Husband: Baby, every day with you is Valentine's Day. I celebrate DAILY.

Me: I hate you. I'm hanging up now.

Husband: Love you, baby.

•••••

I love you, too, you shitty, no-flower-sending husband.
Happy Anniversary.

It's the Most Heinous Time of the Year

I seem to recall last year about this time a post entitled "Party Poop." A post in which I BEGGED one of you people to come kill me before I had to attend another office holiday party.

You people are some slack-ass motherfuckers.

Because I'm still here, and in about 20 minutes, I have to go to another one.

And after rereading my post, I have a BAD feeling NOTHING will be any different.
Except that I don't have the flu, and that the Weeble married that woman and they're now in the process of reproducing, which is an idea so repulsive I cannot bear to imagine the process by which it became so. I have never put so much hope into a petri dish in all my life.

And to top it all off, Work Husband is now fascinated by this and has been singing/playing it for two days. Which means that I am now singing it to myself. At least Justin Timberlake has a sense of humor... take a look for a decent holiday giggle, but keep in mind that it's probably not work-safe.

So while you all are sitting around feeling festive or doing whatever it is that you do every day, JUST KNOW that because of your laziness, I am currently suffering through two hours of
AAAAHH HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Bah humbug.
If any new assaults against intelligent life on this planet happen this year, I'll update later. If not, it's because I'm trying to sedate a kid who is very freaked out about getting braces this afternoon.

An Honest Evaluation

My yearly evaluation for work is due today.

My boss is progressive enough to allow us to fill out our own evaluations before he looks at them. (I think he just doesn't want to go through it and would rather just comment on what we write, but that's just my own suspicion...)

Actually, it was due earlier this morning, but I forgot about it, which probably doesn't bode well for my prospects of getting a raise and giving the outward appearance of being career-minded.

So anyway, I looked at this thing to begin with, and I'm kind of at a loss. I know I can't write what I really think (Although my boss knows what I really think because I tell him all the time, but that's not the kind of thing you write on something that goes into your personnel file.), so I have to come up with all this "employ-speak" nonsense about objectives and efficiency and whatnot.

Which I can do. Really.
If I can manage to get the smart-ass comments to quit flowing through my head every time I try to write. I've already had to put the form away twice now.

So I'm hoping that if I do it HERE, I won't do it THERE.
Because he will TOTALLY notice a quart of White-Out all over the page and wonder what I really wrote.
Because I can't go back three times and ask for another one, reminding him that I haven't done the first one.
Because I am not 8 years old and cannot come up with a good excuse for doing it in pencil.

So here goes...

JOB DUTIES

• Perform repetitive tasks in an environment that should be art-based yet has a demographic that only seems to appreciate my work when it's as boring and pedestrian and corny and crappy as humanly possible.
• Work with others while making every effort not to lunge upon them and rip out their voice boxes as retribution for the past 9 years of utterly nonsensical verbiage that has fallen from their faces.
• Point out stupidity of co-workers at every opportunity to boss in absurd hopes that he will fire them immediately and save me from every having to damage my corneas with their visages again.
• Make sure all restroom signage is appropriate in hopes that nasty co-workers will learn to clean up after their damn selves once in a while.
• Point out all fashion atrocities committed by co-workers.

PAST PERFORMANCE

• Exceptional.
• Wonderful.
• Insightful.
• Slightly grumpy.
• Judgmental.
• The fucking work GOT DONE, didn't it?
• I haven't done anything yet that can be construed as assault and/or battery yet AND passed my HORRENDOUS drug test. I consider that blazing employment success.

GROWTH

• You show me where this job has room to grow, and I'll think about it. Considering that I've been doing the same things now for NINE FUCKING YEARS, the only thing growing in this office is MY ASS.

EXPECTATIONS

• An in-office wet bar and hot tub. For patrons of my approval ONLY.
• A 20% raise.
• A company car of my choice.
• For the company to cease hiring people who could lose a Mensa challenge to Forrest Gump.
• For people to learn that I cannot produce 48 pages of catalog in 48 minutes just because everyone else was late getting things to me and I have to make up the time difference.
• A life-size nude statue of David Beckham outside my window.
• A lift on the "No Smoking" ban inside the building, as I could be much more productive if I didn't actually have to get up and go anywhere to smoke.
• My own private restroom (see "JOB DUTIES")
• That anyone asking me how long before something goes out in a very "I'm late! I'm late! Alice in Wonderland White Rabbit Meltdown" kind of way is not going to inspire me to work faster.
• A company Amex with an expense account.
• That my new office will be constructed in a way that prevents all undesirables from ever crossing my doorway again. Also, see "wet bar" and "hot tub."
• That Work Husband be given periodic raises so he will stay here with me and keep me entertained and listen to me even when he doesn't want to. See Work Husband's job Duties- "Keeping Bonanza sane and entertained."
• That any future drug testing be done in a less humiliating manner and full allowance is made for any unprofessional behavior if it is not.

I'm not holding my breath for that raise...

Mortification in a Cup

BEFORE WE EVEN GET STARTED HERE...
This will DEFINITELY fall under the TMI category. Seriously. If you continue to read, you do so at your own risk. And at your own agreement not to attempt to make any comment that would only increase my humiliation, because I'm already there. Trust me. I need nothing further added to this.

I think I need to add a category entitled "Why Does This Shit Only Happen to Me?"

Yesterday, while working peacefully at my own little computer, minding my own business and being a good little drone...
My phone rang as I returned to my desk from a trip to the little designer's room. Caller ID indicated it was HR, so I answered it.
Like in case the blessed day had come and I was finally fired and could go live on the state for a while, because at this point, I would happily retire my dignity for a month on my couch in sweats watching Oprah. Not that I have recently done anything that would warrant it, but I keep hoping the cumulative effect of divaish bitchiness over 9 years...

HR: Hi! I was just calling to let you know that in a random drawing you were picked--
In my head: Yippee!!! FINALLY!!! I never win these drawing things they have around here! NEVER!! FINALLY!! I hope it's something good...
HR: For the yearly random employee drug screen. Come on down to my office and--

Me: But I don't have to go. I just went. Seriously.

HR: Well, come on down here, and bring a drink.

Me: You MUST be kidding. I have no pee at the ready. Can't you pick someone else? Someone properly hydrated? It's going to take me AT LEAST 30 minutes to be able to go again.

HR: Well, once you're picked, that's it. You have to come down here and sit until you're ready so that the nurse can see you before the test.

Me: What? You think I'm going to run get a vial of urine from somewhere before I come down there? Maybe I have one stashed somewhere, just in case?

HR: You have to. It's procedure. And don't forget to bring a picture ID. And don't worry- it's very discreet and painless. You'll be fine.

Me: I have a feeling that employment and civil rights are not necessarily conducive here, are they?

HR: What?

Me: Never mind. I'm coming, dammit.

On the way to her office, I passed my boss.

Me: I just want to let you know that I hate you and this place and will do no further work today WHATSOEVER as repayment for this complete and total episode of career bullshit.

Boss: What's wrong now?

Me: Drug test.

Boss: (throwing a fist triumphantly into the air) You got picked! YES!!

Me: Shut it, you.

I walked away while he giggled to himself. Ass.

I go into the conference room where the evil nurse lady was waiting. She goes through the whole "I am an offical health professional and I will not disclose" bullshit while I stand there, coffee cup in hand, looking at her like she has three heads.
Remember the "will not disclose part." That matters.

And it went ON and ON. And then turned into a pat-down search, which included emptying and turning out pockets, looking inside my coffee cup, and opening my box of smokes. Like I would keep piss in with my cigarettes.

Back to the procedure. In that bathroom right there across from the copiers, no flushing, no washing hands, no means of hygiene whatsoever after I manage to pee all over my own hand, which is almost inevitable with those little cup things. Men have it there, for sure. I am allowed to wash my hands in the KITCHEN afterward. Piss in the sink, basically. And everyone wonders why I won't heat up my food down there.

Me: But I still don't have to go. That's kind of going to be a problem.

Evil Nurse Woman: Well, you can just sit here and drink until you do. You can't leave my sight until the test is completed.

Me: Just out of curiosity, do you think I'd be this pissy if I was on drugs? It would be FUNNY if I was loaded, which at this moment WOULD BE AN IMPROVEMENT. Take my attitude as an indication of my current drug-free status and let's quit with the stare-down, OK?

Evil Nurse Woman: Well, PCP makes people quite aggressive.

Holy shit.
So we sat. And sat. And she BORED her beady little lizard eyes right into me, as if willing my bladder to obey her will through the sheer force of the evil brain waves she was sending straight into my abdomen. Which actually began to ache a bit after a few minutes.

I promise, it gets worse.

See, what I haven't mentioned in this story is that the reason I had been in the little designer's room right before HR called is that Aunt Flo decided to pay a visit a few days early without calling first, like she usually does (warning cramp), and I had to batten down the hatches, so to speak. With my one good emergency tampon that's lived in my desk for about a year now.

Did I mention that she said all products of that nature had to go before the cup was filled? In the trash right there in the bathroom? So she could CHECK them?
Do women on drugs actually stuff vials of fresh pee inside tampons???? Is this one more thing about the realities of the world that I am completely ignorant of? If so, I have to give them credit- that's pretty creative. And rather uncomfortable, I would guess.

It still gets worse.

So after my bladder was apparently frightened into submission, I said "OK, let's get this bullshit over with." She followed me to the bathroom and handed me the cup and told me "I'll wait right outside the door, so when you're done, just crack the door and I'll come in and finish up to ensure your privacy."

I went in to do my business. Cursing her fucking existence DROP FOR DROP. And managed to make a total mess because I only had about 6 drops of pee to start with and had a GOAL (she drew a line on the cup) and was very concerned that if I didn't make quota I'd have to go back to the beady-eye bladder routine again, so I was very ummm, active about making sure I caught as much as humanely possible.

And right there in the cup was Aunt Flo. In all her glory.
That's the least gross way I can put this. If you're not getting me, just stop reading NOW.

So I opened the door with the hand I had peed on, hoping the bacteria in MY urine would be special enough to eat that of my nasty co-worker predecessors because they couldn't wash their hands either, and there she was, waiting with her little beady fucking eyes. I handed her the cup. She looked in it.

Evil Nurse Woman: Do you have kidney disease or something?

Keep in mind that this is DIRECTLY across from our copy room, which is really just an alcove. Where people are standing FOUR FEET AWAY making copies.

Me: Ummm, not that I know of.

She proceeds to take my cup INTO THE COPY ROOM WHERE THERE ARE BRIGHTER LIGHTS IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYONE AND HOLD IT UP TO THE LIGHT TO INSPECT IT. In front of co-workers.
And begins to talk again while she sands there like the Statue of Liberty.

Evil Nurse Woman: But what's this FLOATING in here?

Me: HOLY SHIT, bitch. I thought you said you were a FUCKING NURSE.

Evil Nurse Woman: (looking offended at my language) Well, what is it?

And so in front of God and everyone...
Me: BLOOD, dumbshit. BLOOD. You know? The kind that comes ONCE A MONTH? The kind YOU AND YOUR FAT FUCKING MOUTH PROMISED NOT TO DISCLOSE? That kind. Blood. NORMAL OLD MENSTRUAL BLOOD. Not to be confused with the kind I would like to see come out your nose RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

Evil Nurse Woman: (brightly) Ok, you can go back to work now! You're all done!

I stomped back to my office before a meeting I absolutely had to attend no matter my level of agitation and called Dutch Oven, my one bright light that I can always count on to support me and love me in moments of TOTAL mortification, and I told him the whole, horrible story.

The motherfucker LAUGHED.

So I went to my meeting (with the boss and Work Husband), totally hostile. When asked if I had anything to add, I said as snottily as possible, "Hell, no."

Boss: What's the matter? Didn't like your test?

Me: FUCK. YOU.

Boss: What? It couldn't have been THAT bad.

Me: Oh, you have no idea. You SERIOUSLY need to hire a different company to handle this stuff for you because that one was FOR SHIT. I seriously didn't need my urine held up for inspection in front of people.

Boss: What? Was there something floating in it or something? (laughs at his own little joke)

Me: Well, YEAH.

Boss: Huh?

Me: Let's just say that, for a nurse, she had VERY little knowledge of women's reproductive cycles and--

Boss: OKAY. ENOUGH. Go talk to HR and lodge a complaint.

Me: And I expect a Humiliation Bonus to be paid IMMEDIATELY and the afternoon off to go spend it, because to add to this, there's the PMS that goes with it which could actually prove a logical defense after having your shit waved around in a cup--

Boss: STOP. PLEASE.

Me: Well, you asked, didn't you?

Meanwhile, Work Husband is sitting at the end of the table looking like he's about to wet himself from the effort of not laughing out loud.

We went back to our office, and after a few minutes, Work Husband looked up.

Work Husband: You know, I hate that happened to you, but it is damn funny.

Me: What IN THE HELL is funny about it?

Work Husband: The way you get about things. Not the cup thing. That was BAD. You're funny when you're mad.

So now, 24 fucking hours later, I guess I am still freakin' HYSTERICAL.

The Refrigeration Processional

Just in case anyone ever wonders why my patience has all but evaporated and I walk around with the general view that most of the population makes Forrest Gump look like Stephen Hawking...

I give you another day on my exciting, fulfilling career track.

When I arrived at work yesterday, I saw through my patio door not one, but two refrigerators sitting open, dripping as the year's worth of ice accumulation in the freezers took a beating from the 80 degree temperature.

Now, as Work Husband and I only have ONE refrigerator in our office that had a planned defrosting moment, I had to ask.

Me: What's up with the nasty one from the little kitchen being out there too?

WH: They saw me doing it and thought it would be a good idea.

Me: Perfect.

At that point, the Mouse decided to come through my office to check on their refrigerator's progress.
Followed by another annoying-beyond-belief woman she pals around with.
Followed by IT Guy.

They stood out on the patio discussing the air temperature, how much had melted, how long it would take to melt, the stain on the door, etc. for 10 minutes. THREE of them, standing around watching ice melt.

WH: Oh, Jesus.

Me: Exactly.

They all came back in, and the processional began. EVERY 20 MINUTES one of them had to go check on it. Sometimes two of them. And then they'd have to stand around talking about it.

Keep in mind the path to go outside goes right through our office and in between my and WH's desks.

On every third trip or so, the Mouse would come through with a bowl of soapy water and spend 20 minutes scrubbing the inside of the refrigerator, which I would attribute to some strange OCD, but as she keeps taking my damn parking place, I've seen the inside of her car (let's just say that neatness is not an imperative in her world).
I am guessing that she had to keep washing it because I got pissed after the third trip and started flicking ashes in it on my smoke breaks.

Around 2pm, my boss came in to check on us. He was met with a rather grumpy attitude.

Boss: What's wrong with you?

Hostile pointing gesture to refrigerators parked outside.

Boss: What about them?

Me: YOUR employees have been parading through here ALL GODDAMN DAY checking on that thing. See all that shit on the carpet? They tracked ALL of that in.

Boss: What do you mean "checking on it"?

Me: They have to go see how much ice has melted. Every 20 FUCKING MINUTES. I cannot possibly be expected to be productive and creative with this shit going on back and forth and back and forth with nasty water coming in and stupid discussions and, well, they're just bugging the shit out of me.

Boss: Why didn't they just pour some hot water on it and get it over with?

Me: I don't have a clue. YOU hired the geniuses. Why don't you go ask THEM?

Boss: So I've been paying them all day to watch ice melt?

Me: You got it, chief.

He gets up and leaves, but returns moments later with a big bucket of hot water. He goes outside, pours it in the refrigerator, and returns inside.

Boss: There. Done. Now they can bring them in.

Me: From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I was about 3 seconds from decapitating one of them. And it's not just me- they're getting on his (pointing at WH) nerves too, and he's much nicer than me.

WH: It is annoying as hell, honestly.

Boss: (to me) Can't you be mean enough to them to make them quit or something? You've done it before. I know you've run people off before.

Me: Not purposefully. Anyway, can't you FIRE them or something? Again, YOU hired them. I think spending the day watching ice melt might be grounds. That's the FUN part of being the boss, isn't it?

He laughs and leaves.

Twenty minutes later, the Mouse comes through AGAIN, soapy water in hand, and goes outside to begin scrubbing AGAIN. After she had been out there a few minutes, IT Guy comes through and steps out, making sure to leave the door open so we can hear him.

IT Guy: You need to stop. Boss says we have to bring them in now.

Mouse: Why?!? It's not clean yet!

IT Guy: Because SHE (pointing at me through the glass) TATTLED on us.

Mouse: For what?

IT Guy: For coming in and out all day and bothering her and Work Husband while they're trying to work. And for getting water and leaves all over their carpet.

He turns to come back through.

Me: TATTLED?

IT Guy: Boss said you complained about us walking through too much.

Me: Yep. Sure did.

IT Guy: We're not bothering you.

Me: You're bugging the ever-loving shit out of me AS WE SPEAK. Get your refrigerator and for the love of GOD, TAKE HER WITH YOU.

So acting as if he were Atlas heaving the world around after a large meal, IT Guy drags the refrigerator back through our office, of course leaving ANOTHER wet, dirty trail.

Me: (to Work Husband) Why can't we work with normal people? I mean, where IN THE HELL does he find these people? Mutants 'r Us?

WH: I wonder sometimes. I really do.

Project Runaway

Welcome to this week's edition of Project Runaway, where a challenged graphic designer is forced to complete a monotonous horrible task in the lifespan of a medfly! Tempers flare as the graphic designer tries in vain to abandon the project altogether and flee! Watch as drama unfolds! Don't miss it!

THE TASK: Complete a 48 page catalog that looks new and fresh and convinces consumers to run to the phone and call in to order the same tired shit that's been on sale for the past 8 years.

THE BUDGET: As if. I had to buy my own stapler when mine broke.

THE DEADLINE: Sometime last week, I think. I am AN ARTIST- I can't be held to silly little things like deadlines. The horror.

Fade in. Office. Bonanza works feverishly at computer while Work Husband keeps dumping corrected proofs on her desk. Bonanza is obviously tired, sick, and ready to rip someone's spleen out using only her teeth and a dull spoon.

ENTER Tim Gunn, guru to all creative folk everywhere, and perhaps the smoothest, best-dressed gay man alive.

Tim Gunn: Well, Bonanza, I'm not sure I see where this is going.

Bonanza: I'm trying to go for a whole festive, holiday look. You know, family, warm colors, good cheer, roasting chestnuts... all that shit.

Tim Gunn: But it looks very much like all of the other 34 bazillion catalogs you've done. Maybe try a new font here or there... stretch yourself a bit. This whole "san serif" thing just isn't working for me.

Bonanza: Ummmm, OK. But considering that judging from our phone calls, no one bothers to read this thing anyway before calling, I am thinking that losing a whole day for a looks overhaul would be pointless. I'm going more for the VIBE than the EXECUTION.

Tim Gunn: Well, make it work, make it work.

Montage of pissy and frantic Bonanza sprinting through the building harassing people to "Get your part of this shit DONE ALREADY!", pulling her own hair in front of her computer monitor, and shots of the clock as time passes. Music builds to crescendo as Bonanza bangs her head on her desk.

CUT TO

Heidi Klum struts onto runway, pregnant with quadruplets and wearing thigh-high black stiletto boots.

Heidi: Well, designer, let's see what you've come up with.

Bonanza carries proof of catalog out for judges to inspect, taking care to make sure her new Michael Kors leopard pumps are visible for extra judge bribery.

Heidi: Designer, we have a few questions for you... What were you going for here? I'm not getting it.

Bonanza: I was going for the whole "consumer demographic 20 years behind the rest of the world, holiday version" motif.

Michael Kors: I see where you were trying to go with this, but it feels cheap to me. Your shoes, however, are fabulous. But what could we do to make it feel more... luxurious?

Bonanza: Print it on something better than toilet paper?

Nina Garcia: (wrinkling nose as if she has wad of shit glued under her left nostril) I don't get this. I don't get this at all. You've done good work before, but now you're just repeating yourself. What can you do to make it new and fresh? This is not new.

Bonanza: What could I do to make it new and fresh? Ummm, change jobs? Drop acid?

Heidi: We're just not feeling it. We gave you the chance to do something wonderful, and we all feel you missed it.

Big dramatic music crescendo.

Heidi: Bonanza, you're out.

Bonanza: Heidi, when you actually show a varicose vein after birthing three little watermelons, I will believe that you are not a cyborg from the planet Zog and choose to believe you. Until then, I'M STAYING. Not because I love it, but because I am the only one fool enough to put up with this shit for what I make. Pop a vein, honey, and I'm outta here.

And then my alarm clock went off.
Right before I could slap that stupid tattoo right off of Jeffrey's obnoxious little neck.
Damn drugs.

I really kind of wish I had the Michael Kors shoes, though.