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Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!
This one should have you sufficiently grossed-out.
On with it . . .
—
Okay, sorry. That title made it sound like my Lawyerman is a fecalphiliac (why is my spell checker not recognizing this word? It is a legitimate word that people use in everyday conversation, spell checker! What is your fucking deal? Oh, and now that I’ve written this complaint, the spell checker is recognizing it as an actual word. WHO’S THE BITCH NOW, SPELL CHECKER? WHAT.) I can assure you that he is not.
That was a bad pun. I apologize.
Back to the story. That I never got to in the first place.
A couple weekends ago Claire, The Lawyer, and I enjoyed a nice day out on the lake. While Lawyerman was docking the boat, my bestie Claire and I went inside his house to use the facilities. Since we have been friends since we were basically both fetuses, we don’t mind peeing in front of each other. It’s what friends do. That, and braid each other’s pubic hair.
What, you don’t do that? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything . . .
Anyhoodle, while Claire was getting her tink on, I reached into the medicine cabinet for some deodorant because I was feeling a bit rancid after a day of sweating and swimming in dirty river water. As I reached for the stink stick, I accidentally jostled a bottle of Aspirin (I had no idea people still kept aspirin in their houses. WTF, Lawyerman? This is not 1947). This started a chain reaction of events.
As Claire was flushing the toilet, the Aspirin fell out of the cabinet.
Into the sink.
Bounced out of the sink.
Into the now-flushing toilet.
Down the drain.
Oopsie.
Claire, being the awesome human being that she is, reached down into the toilet to feel for the Aspirin bottle (I suppose she’s touched worse. She is an LPN in a nursing home and changing old people diapers is sorta the norm there . . .), then said, “It’s gone.”
I told Lawyerman about our little mishap, and he said it was fine as long as the toilet still flushed. We flushed it a few times to be safe, and everything seemed to be in working order on his porcelain throne.
So, naturally, later that night, I had to take a poop.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
It wasn’t a BIG poop, mind you. It was kinda like Mooooog’s daughter’s pellet poop (featured in his header). Like this:
Check out that detail!
I mean, there were like, three pellets. TOPS. Not exactly a huge load. Surely not enough to clog a toilet.
Oh yeah.
Three poop pellets was enough to clog the toilet.
It. Sure. Fucking. Was.
Oopsie again.
So my Lawyerman, bless his heart, tried to snake the drain, to no avail.
So he had to remove the toilet, fish out the blockage (read: Aspirin bottle covered in LRC poo), and replace the toilet.
And take a long, hot shower after getting up close and personal with my latest bowel movement.
That’s love right there.
I debated even writing a post on this because, for one thing, it would be short, and I’m not exactly known for my brevity. However, I discussed it with Andy and he said I should write about it because, “people might enjoy a mini post instead of a mini novel.” Thanks, Andy, for suggesting that I’m long-winded.
The other reason I decided to post today is because Andy said these types of things “typify [my] life,” so I figured it was only appropriate with the theme of my blog.
I mentioned weeks ago that a guy friend and I (let’s call him Gonzo—you’ll see why in a minute) had been getting closer due to our respective break-ups, and we’d been leaning on each other for moral support a little bit. You know, texting a couple times a week and the occasional round of Guitar Hero and Miller Lite.
To give a bit of background on Gonzo, he’s a bit of a pothead and he loves taking painkillers. Hey dude, whatever tickles your pickle. Doesn’t mean I have to partake. But over the past few weeks I seem to have gotten better in my emotional state, while he seems to have gotten progressively worse. Also, he is just a strange guy. Very strange. I don’t know how to explain it. Okay, maybe I do. He is obsessed with Hunter S. Thompson, Tool, and getting fucked up. I guess that about sums it up.
But he’s my friend. And he’s good company.
So I was at his house last night, chillin’, and we were just sitting there—him on the couch, me on the futon (30 years old and he has a futon. Laaaaadiiiiieeeees)—having a completely normal conversation, nothing out of the ordinary, with no sexual tension whatsoever, and he decides he’s going to get up and walk over to me.
Oh, shit.
He pressed his hands into the back of the futon on either side of my head, while I simultaneously pressed my head back into it, hoping I wasn’t catching any communicable diseases. He stopped at my face (THANK GOD) and asked, “Can I kiss you?”
My first thought was, “Why?”
But instead I just said, “Um . . . no?”
I was so caught off guard! What the hell? Was he in on some hot moment I was missing? I’d just been talking to him about the dream I’d had about my ex boyfriend.
The moment was so weird that the details after that are fuzzy. He went back and sat on his couch and started flipping through the channels, as if nothing had happened.
The whole thing was awk.
I stayed around for a few more minutes before I left just so it wouldn’t look like “A’IGHT WEIRDO I’M OUT. ENJOY YOUR NIGHT LOOKING UP MAYNARD JAMES KEENAN VIDEOS ON YOUTUBE AND EATING KLONOPIN LIKE CANDY. PEACE.”
But that’s totally what I was thinking.
So, I went home and went to bed, vowing to stay far, far away from Gonzo. Seriously, dudes really are all about the vajay. I thought I could have had another honest-to-God guy friend. I’d even told him earlier in the night that I’d farted and I hoped he hadn’t caught wind of it. Guess I was wrong about this one.
When I woke up this morning, I had no less than six missed calls from around 12:30 a.m.—a number I didn’t recognize. I was a tad confused, so I checked my text messages.
Two new messages from the unidentified number.
From guess who?
Adam.
Woodwork much?
Seriously. Is this my life?
Oh, and did I mention the other day that I got a text from the BROTHER OF ONE OF MY EXES asking if I was dating anyone?
Aaaaaaaand I just checked my Facebook and Gonzo has written on my wall twice today.
FML.
I’ve had so many dating fiascos, it should be illegal. With numerous relationships gone awry, I have even contemplated giving up The Dating and joining a convent. Then I remember that the whole “religion” thing would get in the way.
Also, no more drunken mistakes sex.
I digress.
However, despite being unlucky in love, and at the risk of sounding arrogant, this does not mean I am not a desired woman. I’ve had several men pursue me recently, and it has reached levels of effing retardedness I can’t even track.
First of all, I have a sort of, Mini-Stalker, if you will.
Saying “if you will” makes me feel smart.
I say “mini” because he’s not to the level of saving my bubblegum wrappers and making a shrine to me out of strands of my hair. He’s only marginally creepy.
A student at the college at which I work, he habitually drops by my office to chat, and I habitually stare straight ahead at my laptop, typing away while giving “yes” or “no” answers to his queries, and hoping he will take the hint and go away.
Okay, that makes me sound like a turbo-bitch. But this guy just won’t get it. I’ve tried being nice, but that just fuels his desire to follow me around. While I can’t be straight up rude to him, because that’s just not something I am capable of doing to someone who hasn’t been rude to me first, I can’t lead him on. He seems a little slow in the head and honestly, he won’t get it unless I act like he’s not there.
If he sees me at a bar, which has happened a couple times, he practically surgically attaches himself to my hip and follows me around. Meh. Such is the stigma of being seven different kinds of awesome. What can you do?
Incidentally, on one of these bar nights, I managed to duck outside for a smoke (I’m trying to quit . . . yay?) and escape the little bugger for long enough to strike up a conversation with a (male) friend of Claire’s. Our paths cross sometimes but for some reason I have never really been as close to him as I am with some of his friends. I was talking to him and his bandmate about one of their upcoming gigs (these two are in a popular local band) and all of a sudden he was asking me when we were going to go on a date, and his bandmate was totally going along with it.
I wasn’t really sure how to react to the situation, so I just kind of laughed it off, but I thought, “Would it really be so bad to date him? He’s funny and cute, but I just don’t know . . .”
So I asked Claire what his deal was, and she admitted that he’d asked her before to hook us up, but she, too, just laughed it off. I think maybe that was his way of putting himself out there, asking me when we were going to go out, and effectively putting the ball in my court.
Whatevs. It is what it is.
My third pursuer, whom I will call The Lawyer because The Guy Who Has Already Passed The Bar In Another State But Had To Take It Again In Our State Because I Guess That’s How Lawyers Do It Even Though He’s Not Technically A Lawyer But He Will Find Out In May If He Passed The Bar Then I Guess He Will Be A Lawyer is a bit cumbersome. Sandra (again, of having a brother who shat on the porch because he got so drunk at her wedding reception fame) is trying to set us up because she works with him, and he seems to be a very nice, funny guy. He also lives on the water, which, OMGBONUS (am I a terrible person for possibly exploiting him for his waterfront property and boat access?) Sandra, her husband, and I went to his house Saturday night for us to “get to know each other” and I had some of the best ribs I have ever tasted. The man can cook.
He’s supposed to call me tomorrow and we’re going to go to trivia night at a local bar. I hope it’s with a group of people though, because 1) trivia’s always better with a group and 2) PRESSURE!!!!!!!! NO PRESSURE PLEASE! I always feel “forced” to like someone if I’m being “set up,” and well, I just don’t like feeling that way. I like to ease into things.
Except when I’m falling head over heels for someone who will inevitably hurt me.
But again, I digress.
And last but not least, I got a text message from Glen. Oh, how we love Glen. First, his crazy girlfriend called me a skank in a bar, then shortly afterward I received a Hea-VY text from him about how he wanted to be with me instead of her. So imagine my surprise when I received a text from him at NINE FREAKING THIRTY IN THE MORNING on Sunday with this gem of a pickup line:
I want to lick u from head to toe
Lord, have mercy.
When I told Claire about this unfortunate beginning to my Sunday, she painted me a hilarious mental picture.
Glen’s girlfriend, Amy, lives in a semi-heavily trafficked part of town. So as Claire was driving by Amy’s apartment the other day, she saw Amy standing on the porch, arms flailing about and screaming at Glen, who was playing with a golf club in the yard, paying her abso-fucking-lutely NO attention.
God, sometimes I love this town.
So this leads me to believe that Glen is having “girl trouble” and wants to rekindle an old flame in a weak moment.
NOT MY PROBLEM.
I realize this post is getting extremely lengthy, and for that, I apologize. But stay tuned for some vom-worthy Murray news in the upcoming week.
Folks, I honestly don’t think I like the way my blog is becoming only about my love life lately (oh, who am I kidding, it’s been like that since I started Long Red Cape last year). I’d love to write about things unrelated to relationships and heartbreak, but in order for that to happen? Men and their penises need to leave me the fuck alone.
Scenario.
I’ve mentioned before that I work at a college. Our basketball team recently won the state tournament (WOOT!), and now they’re in the national tournament. It’s kinda a big deal around town because we’ve never gotten this far before. A group of co-workers, myself included, arranged to go to a local bar last night and listen to the game over the radio.
BrownEyes was there.
I could see him eyeing me in my peripheral vision. I ignored his glaring as long as I could, greeting my co-workers and a few other people I know. As I was chatting up a friend (who had just finished asking me if I was still dating New York, ughsauce), I waved to BE and his friend. They waved back, smiling. I went and sat back down with my co-workers.
I could tell BE wanted to talk to me by the look on his face. So, in an effort to not be Ms. Bitchface Turdpants, I stopped by his table on the way to the restroom. He, his friend, and I ended up talking for a few minutes about our respective St. Patty’s Days and what we’d been up to lately.
It was at this point that BE asked me to go outside and smoke with him. I said sure.
BIG MISTAKE, LRC.
So, basically, BE wants to get back together with me. He explained how he’d had so much fun with me when we were together (this is true, minus the asshattery) and he hasn’t been having much fun lately. He thought it was nonsense that we quit talking. I told him, “Well, you acted like you didn’t give a shit!” He told me I “think too much.”
ARE YOU HEARING THIS PEOPLE?
ONE DAY after chucking NY’s shit back to him and, yes, lots of crying, BE explains to me that he wants to get back together.
FUCK. ME.
And this morning? At 7:30 a.m.? I got a “Gnite”* text from Guess Who????????
Again.
FUCK. ME.
Is he DENSE?
Does he NOT understand that the act of my putting his shit in his mailbox and texting him “You’ve got mail” is my way of saying “FUCK OFF WITH YOUR FLAKINESS, YOU CUNT WAFFLE”?
I should seriously fucking move to Egypt.
*This is NY’s way of being “funny” or “cute” by sending me a “Gnite” text BEFORE 8AM.
That’s how I’ve been feeling lately. About blogging. About dating. About life. I feel like I’m just sorta hanging here in some sort of Happiness Purgatory. I’m not depressed, but I’m damned sure not skipping through fields of dandelions with a bunny rabbit named Sanchez, either.
(Note to self: get a bunny rabbit. Name it Sanchez. Skipping through fields of dandelions is optional. Coors Light is not.)
I’ve been keeping myself busy with work and other various activities. I participated in a spelling bee fundraiser with three other women I work with. We had to introduce ourselves by doing a skit, and for our skit I had to dress up like a French tourist, complete with beret and fanny pack that carried a stuffed poodle. I looked like a freaking idiot. But our skit won first place. Woot. We lost the bee, though. As a result, I will never misspell “thixotropy” again.
The Junior Service League kept getting all the easy words. TALC? SERIOUSLY? Not. Fair.
New York is gone again, on another road trip. Naturally, I don’t know when he will be back. It could either be tomorrow or Thursday (or possibly later), but he didn’t answer his phone when I called him today.
Whatevs.
And since I can’t go two weeks without some crazy shit happening to me, here’s what happened Friday night. I went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday, and I stayed in a hotel room with his sister ArtsyFartsy (also a friend of mine). We got way too drunk, danced, and had tons of fun. At 5:00 a.m. when ArtsyFartsy and I were finally back in our hotel room (and tired as HELL), one of the guy friends we’d been hanging with—I’ll call him Harry because, well, he’s hairy—called my friend and asked if he could come by our hotel room.
Knowing Hairy well, and also taking into consideration how drunk he was, I was completely aware of his reason for wanting to come hang with us AT FIVE IN THE MORNING. He’d been flirty with me all night but I had kinda just ignored it. Now, he was going to try and get some poon before he went to sleep. He and his girlfriend broke up about a month ago and he was probably not used to getting va-jay-jay on the regular.
I motioned frantically to my friend while she was saying, “Yeah, sure, come over. We’re in room 305,” as if to say “ABORT! ABORT!” but it was too late. He was already on his way over.
Eff.
Apparently, the fact that my friend and I had just inhaled three different flavors of 99 cent bags of Doritos from the gas station (after a failed attempt at hitting up McDonald’s) did not stop this guy. He wanted to kiss me. He told me he’d been “crushing on [me] for a while now.” I don’t remember what all I said to him (it was FIVE IN THE MORNING and I was DRUNK and SLEEPY AS HELL), but I do remember asking him this:
“Isn’t [NY] your friend?”
He stopped and thought about it.
“I don’t know” was his answer.
Apparently he’s not a very loyal friend.
So I pretended to fall asleep until he left.
Naturally.
I have the benefit of having two of the best parents on the face of the planet. I can “hang” with my parents. They’re my “peeps.”
I’m “hip.”
I could go boozing with my parents any weekend and have just as much fun, if not MORE fun, than if I’d gone out with my friends.
So, a weekend or so ago, my parents decided to take me to a karaoke bar to cheer me up after my shitty week at work and life in general. We went to the trashiest bar in town.
That’s a hard feat to accomplish.
My Dad and I loooove karaoke, so we went and put in some songs. The karaoke guy told me he couldn’t find my song, and to choose another one (I chose “Faith” by George Michael-which was met with crowd approval. Or maybe they just felt sorry for me). A few minutes later, karaoke guy gets on the mic and says that he’s found my song after all, but due to a name mixup, he called some other chick’s name to come sing it.
And you know what happened?
BITCH STOLE MY SONG.
How do you just go up there and steal someone else’s song? What. The. Hell.
I would have sung it better. Just sayin’.
So throughout the night, this guy kept coming up to me and asking me to dance with him to slow songs (this is a REDNECK BAR, remember?). Flattered but a little uncomfortable, I danced with him for part of a song. The second time he asked me, I turned him down. The third time he invited me to dance? I had to admire his persistence and danced with him again. After that, it was time for me and my parents to ease on down the road. As I was leaving, ole dude came up to me and asked me for my number so he could take me out to dinner sometime. I was caught off guard because even though it was obvious he was into me, I wasn’t prepared for that question.
The guy was nice enough, but totally not someone I would ever date. He told me he had a nine year old, which, although I wouldn’t be opposed to dating a guy with a kid later in life, I can barely handle dating a guy with zero kids, thankyouverymuch, and I’m trying to keep it simple in regards to my love life right now.
I said, “Um, why don’t you just give me yours?”
Yeah, I know. Bad LRC. I should have just told him I wasn’t interested. But like I said, I was caught off guard. I thought I’d made a smart move.
So, fast forward to Wednesday afternoon. I’m sitting at my desk, writing a news release and being a busy bee, when my work phone rings. I answer it in my usual manner, “Resource Development, this is [LRC].”
And the voice on the other end of the phone says, “I hate to call you at work, but I haven’t heard from you yet, and I’m gettin’ hungry over here!”
I am confused as hell at this point. “Um, who is this?”
“[Redacted.] I was wondering if you might want to go out to eat tonight?”
A few things. I only told this guy my first name, and yes, where I work, because when we talked at the bar we were just having casual conversation and the subject came up. So he probably looked me up on my company’s website and went through the staff directory until he found someone with my first name. Points for resourcefulness?
Secondly, how on earth do you call someone at work, whom you have only spoken to once, briefly, and expect them to know who the hell you are without addressing yourself first? It just seemed rude to me. I thought I was being prank called at first, to be quite honest with you.
I politely turned him down, stating that I had a basketball game to attend, and then he came back with, “How about tomorrow night then?”
“. . . I’m sorry. I’m . . .sorta dating someone.”
“Well, I tried.”
I kinda have to admire his no-nonsense approach to dating, though, even though it did creep me out a bit. Bothering someone at work to try and get them to go out with me isn’t exactly the approach I would take. But hey, what do I know. I am definitely not a dating expert.
Duh.
What would your reaction be if someone looked you up and called you at work? Would you fear for your safety? Or would you be flattered? Disgusted? I’m curious.
Well, it’s “Facebook Official.”
Murray is now in a relationship.
Murray, the guy I dated for three years, bought a house with, and thought I was going to marry.
Before the breakup last May, he’d grown complacent, and felt “safe.” We weren’t sleeping together anymore and he spent all his time outside, working in the yard. I knew he wasn’t the one for me when I enjoyed my alone time immensely more than the time we spent together.
But it still hurts.
Not only because, well, he’s my Murray. Or he was. And there will always be a part of me that misses him like crazy.
Also? It’s just a big “fuck you” from the dating gods that Murray, who has NO GAME whatsoever, has managed to land himself a girlfriend, and I can’t even get a guy to admit we are more than friends.
When I woke up Sunday morning after a Super Swell Saturday Night of crying myself to sleep because all of my friends were ignoring me and here I was crawling into bed at 9:00 p.m. because I’d rather sleep than be lonely (melodrama. I has it), I went on a routine E-Mail/Google Reader/Facebook check and was bitch slapped with the news that Murray had finally moved on.
And I had to find out via that God Damned Social Networking Site Which Shall Not Be Named From This Point Forward.
What makes it worse is that I know the girl. We were very good friends growing up. BLARGH.
And to top it off, she posted pictures of them all over her profile, looking all happy and shit. And in those pictures, posing with the happy couple, were some of my best friends.
I feel replaced.
I had already felt like people took sides after the breakup with Murray (which is silly, but it sorta does feel that way), and most of them sided with Murray (even though our breakup was pretty drama-free and neither of us had wronged the other). I just feel like I have no one left. Claire, Andy, and my parents are pretty much the only real friends I have that actually want to hang out with me. And New York, of course, but he’s not here right now.
Aaaaaand he had to torture me on Sunday with a text that said, “[Name of eating establishment where LRC and NY frequently eat lunch on Sundays]?” as he does almost every Sunday (when he’s actually here, that is). It was his idea of a cute joke, because DUH, we can’t go eat there but haha isn’t it funny that I’m suggesting it? but given my emotional state it was just a reminder that no, he isn’t here, and no, we can’t go to lunch together. Or see each other. Or touch each other. Or kiss each other. At all.
Aaaaaand he may not be back for Valentine’s Day, either. He has a follow-up appointment with his doctor on Thursday. He hasn’t mentioned when he’s planning on coming back.
Aaaaaand what is the effing deal with all the BrownEyes sex dreams I’ve been having lately? I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH BROWNEYES. I don’t. What’s funny about them, though? In the dreams, we are doing more bickering than sexing. That is a pretty close representation of how things were when we were dating.
Aaaaaand I have a bag of Murray’s things that I’ve been meaning to give back to him for the past couple weeks that’s just rolling around in the back of my car, and if I give the stuff to him NOW, even though it’s in my way, I’ll look like a resentful bitch.
Things can only get better, right?
Because this shit has just got to stop. Like right now.
Friday evening when I got home from work, I did a little tidying up and sat down at my computer to catch up on all the blogs I didn’t get a chance to read while I was, you know, working (sit in front of a computer for eight hours, come straight home and sit in front of a computer some more. My life is awesome).
As I was clicking away, all of a sudden I heard a noise. Kinda like “eee! eee! eee! eee!”
I knew immediately what it was.
I didn’t want to face the creepy little thing in fear of it flying at my head (I’m not afraid of being hurt by a bat, I’m just terrified of it touching me. NASTY), but I knew I had to remedy the situation sooner rather than later.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, where the sound was coming from, trying not to make any sudden movements. It was sitting on the rug, next to my dog.
GROSS. Those things are so vile.
So I went back into my computer room and did the first thing I always do when faced with an icky rodent situation.
I called my Dad. Duh.
“Dad, uh, there’s a bat in my kitchen. What do I do?”
“Open the door and get a broom to swat it out.”
“Ew, I don’t wanna do that. What if it flies at my head? OH SHIT. AHHHHH! AHH! AHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
It was at that VERY MOMENT that the bat decided to fly into my computer room, TOWARD MY HEAD, screaming “EEE! EEE! EEE!” in circles the whole mother effing time.
So I did what any sane person would do. I ran, phone in hand, still screaming at the top of my lungs while my poor Dad listened to my embarrassing ordeal. Where did I run to? Anywhere that bat was NOT flying toward.
When I thought I was safe, I put the phone back to my ear, apologized profusely for all the screaming, and said “I’ll call you back, Dad.”
(He told me later that he’d let my mom listen in on my embarrassing ordeal.)
So I did what he said. I opened the door and grabbed a broom. Then I went to look for the little beast.
I found it in my living room, which is on the other side of the house, so I had to swat it across the room, through my kitchen, and once we got to the laundry room (ALMOST THERE!), he decided to crawl the rest of the way behind my cats’ litter box.
It took some maneuvering, but I coaxed him out from behind the litter box, made sure his disgusting little head was facing toward the door, and pushed him into flight.
DIRECTLY OUT THE DOOR.
Oh, but that would be too easy, right?
As soon as he was crossing the threshold, my kitty Pepper SWATTED HIM BACK DOWN, and he flew past me, back into the laundry room.
Fuck.
Thanks a lot, Pepper.
So I repeated what I’d done before, making sure Pepper was out of the way in the process (not an easy task, as she was WAY TOO INTERESTED in this bat situation and wanted to have him as her plaything).
SUCCESS. He flew out the door.
Directly into my dog’s mouth.
I closed the door. I wasn’t interested in what transpired after that. I just wanted to make sure the damned thing didn’t get back inside.
NASTY NASTY NASTY.
I’m going to take a break today from blogging about my love life to tell you a horror story from an old job of mine.
When I was 19 and a freshman in college, I was desperate for a part-time job. One day, my friend’s mother notified me of a part-time clerical position at a Pennysaver-esque publication which would be the perfect fit for me.
Score!
So I got the details, and went by the office (let’s call it the Pennysaver). I met the man in charge (I shall call him Miserly Misogynist—for reasons that will become apparent momentarily—or MM for short) and he hired me on the spot. Our conversation went something like this:
MM: “So, do you have typing skills?”
LRC: “Yes, I type 80 words per minute.”
MM: “Are you available Wednesday through Friday?”
LRC: “Yes.”
MM: “You’re hired.”
LRC: “Wow, thanks!”
MM: “What’s your name again?”
So began a three year long tenure of being overworked and underappreciated! I will say this, however: within the first month of typing classified advertisements, I saw the other workers doing ad layouts on their Macs and I said, “I want to do that!” And so, another graphic designer was borne into the workforce. Exactly what this world needs. Tee. So I do have that job to thank for the work experience that landed me my current job. Yay.
Anyhoodsterpoot, my boss turned out to be a huge jackass misogynist with absolutely no clue as to how to manage people. Surprise! Bet you didn’t see that one coming. He, however, was not the worst person I worked with. My co-worker, Skankface, was the bane of my existence.
Let me give you a little background on Skankface. This girl was very likely the white-trashiest person I have ever met. She came to work every day with greasy hair and was always at least 30 minutes late. When I started the job, she’d recently had a boob job gone awry and she’d had to have one of the implants taken out. After a few weeks, she was able to get the implant replaced, but a few months after that? She got bitten by a brown recluse spider (don’t click on that link unless you want nightmares for the rest of the week). ON THE BOOB. I don’t know if you know about brown recluse spiders, but when they bite you? THE VENOM EATS AWAY YOUR BODY TISSUE. So she had a hole in her boob. Had to get the implants taken out, again.
And instead of just accepting that sweater cows just weren’t in the cards for her?
SHE GOT MORE IMPLANTS.
Smart one.
Well, Skankface and I developed sort of a pseudo-friendship out of convenience because we worked so closely together, and every once in a while I’d even risk being seen in public with her (until that time she got in a drink-throwing fight with another group of girls, and vomited all over the steps outside a bar. I vowed never to take her anywhere again after that debacle).
When she got promoted to a sales position in our sister office, though? It quickly became clear who MM’s favorite was.
Hint: not me.
Sure, she landed lots of accounts. Brought in lots of money to the company. Her clients loved her.
Guess why?
She was sleeping with them!
Are you getting a clearer picture of her skankiness now?
Good. Because I honestly don’t think I could ever do it justice.
Sooo, anyway. Back to the story at hand. MM was allowing Skankface to squeak by at work, drifting in around 11am and sneaking out before 5, taking 2 hour lunch breaks. Just being a slackass in general. Doting on how great a job she was doing. But if I was five minutes late (which was RARE)? You’d better believe I’d never hear the end of it.
I wasn’t the only one who was angered by MM’s preferential treatment to Skankface. Especially since it was her (more than likely) STD-ridden vadge that was the cause of all her “success.” Several of us complained to MM, and, of course, in true MM fashion, he told Skankface that we’d been complaining about her.
(If we’d had an HR department, his ass would have been grass SO, SO many times. His practices were highly unethical. I would work late every Friday while MM and my other co-workers sat in the back room and drank beer.)
So Skankface began to resent all of us. Our hatred was mutual.
Then one day, I arrived at work to find some clutter on the desktop of my computer. There was a new image file I’d never seen on there before. Skankface used my computer on Monday mornings (she worked in my office one day a week, when I wasn’t there, since MM didn’t want to pay me more than he had to), so I knew the image had to be hers. I clicked on it to make sure it wasn’t anything I needed to keep on the computer.
It was.
A photo.
Of Skankface.
Naked, covered only by twenty dollar bills.
Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?
This was too good not to share, so I told my co-worker to come look before I deleted it. Well, instead of keeping it to herself, she called MM’s wife and told on Skankface. Of course, in true Skankface fashion, Skankface was taking a “sick day,” so MM had to call her at home to reprimand her, only because MM’s wife made him. Not because he actually thought that, you know, having a naked picture of yourself on a co-worker’s computer was WRONG, or anything.
So guess what Skankface does?
Calls the office, asks to speak to me, and my co-worker takes a message because she knows that Skankface is going to be PISSED at me for “telling on her” (even though I didn’t, really), and her message to me is this.
“Tell [LRC] to call me on her lunch break because I am going to BEAT HER ASS.”
Yeah, THAT is going to happen. Let me go ahead and call you so we can make an appointment for that ass-kickin’. Shall I provide the brass knuckles?
I manage to get through the rest of the day fairly unscathed, until MM comes into the office around 4:45, right before the end of the day.
He asks us to all gather around, because he has an announcement to make.
“[Skankface] put in her two weeks’ notice today.”
Internal monologue of the rest of the office: “WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Instead of addressing the absolutely tasteless and inappropriate behavior from Skankface (um, hello? She put a naked picture of herself on my computer and then THREATENED ME WITH BODILY HARM), MM’s complaints were, “Sigh, well, with [Skankface] gone, we are going to lose [account], which is [$xxxx] per month, and [account], which is [$xxxx] a month . . .”
And while MM is going down his list of people Skankface was fucking accounts, I stopped him and said, “I’m sorry, are we not going to address how [Skankface] THREATENED me earlier?”
Then, and I will never forget the look on MM’s face when he asked me this, MM said, “Well, why did you have to say anything to anyone about it?”
Oh hell naw.
So I stood up from my stool, said “FUCK. THIS. SHIT,” and walked out.
MM (the coward that he is) had my co-worker call me, begging me to come back. I said, “No, and if he calls me, I’m going to tell him the same thing.”
So MM came to my HOUSE, BEGGING me to come back. Man was almost in tears. After all, I WAS a very big part of his company. I did all the layouts and ads.
I told him, in my firmest voice, and with my straightest face, “No, I will not come back to work for you. Not now, not ever.”
And that was one of my proudest moments. Finally saying enough was enough, and standing up to a 60 year-old man who had mistreated me for three years.
All seriousness aside, though? That shit was crazified, y’all! My coworkers still tell that story to this day, and now I can laugh about it.
Sooooo, after having read that long-ass story, don’t you want to delurk (since it’s National Delurking Day or whatever the flip it is) and tell me a work horror story of your own? Doesn’t have to be as lengthy as mine, obviously.
Oh, and I’m not proofreading this post. Bitch is already 1400 words long and it’s almost quittin’ time. So I apologize for anything that doesn’t make sense, which is likely this entire post.
