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Dear Guy Who Feels The Need To Yell At Me From Inside His Dodge Pickup Truck With The Trailer Hitch Ballsack As He Drives By Me, And Also To Men Everywhere Who Think Catcalling Is An Acceptable Way To Pick Up A Woman And Holy Hell I Am Six Hundred Millionty Years Old Because I Just Used The Term “Catcalling”:
Look. I realize I am one hot piece of ass. You should be so lucky to get a bite of all this deliciousness.
(Apparently, not only am I elderly, I am also a Choco Taco.)
(I know what you’re thinking, and you have a dirty mind.)
(Pervert.)
(PS: I like you.)
Ever since I grew a badonkadonk (yep, I’m a white girl with an ass—and by the way, I am loving the way Urban Dictionary defines “badonkadonk”: Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior) and shed my braces, you have made a semi-regular appearance in my life. And ever since, I have been completely and utterly baffled.
What, exactly, are you trying to accomplish?
Do you want me to run after you, screaming, “Wait! Come back, dream man of mine! I can’t wait to run away to the trailer park with you and get started on becoming barefoot, pregnant, and domestically abused!”
Do you want me to return the favor and yell “right back atcha, hot stuff!”?
Or do you just want to pay me a compliment?
I will give it to you. Your efforts don’t go unnoticed.
But I don’t think you’re going to be pulling any broads with your method.
Still?
Don’t stop doing it.
The ego boost is nice.
Shakin’ that ass just for you,
LRC
——
Dear My Best Friend Claire’s Boyfriend Who Won’t Actually Admit To Being Claire’s Boyfriend Even Though Y’all Have Been Dating Oh Around Six Years Now And I’ve Told Her A Bajillion Times To Dump Your Ass Because You Two Are In A Go Nowhere Relationship And Claire Does Actually Want To Be Happy At Some Point In Her Life:
Facebook messaging me that the pair of pants I wore the other day looked good on me was completely inappropriate and a little bit creepy. I will now feel uncomfortable around you pretty much every time I see you.
Keep your eyes to yourself,
LRC
—–
Dear Guy Who Randomly Started Calling Me On The Phone In Middle School And Asked Me Out On A Date Which Never Came To Fruition Because Supposedly He Was Trying To Play A Cruel Joke On Me But How Do You Play A Joke Like That On Someone Who Doesn’t Even Like You Like That And Obviously This Was A Poorly Executed Joke Because Seriously What The Hell Dude You Can’t Even Do That Right And You’re Not Even Cute, To Boot?:
I saw you the other day. Nice double chin.
Karma’s a bitch,
LRC
So, you want to hear about my date?
Fine.
If you must.
It wasn’t a terrible date. It wasn’t even a bad date. It was . . . unimpressive.
He was the same height as me. I was wearing 4″ heels, but still. I knew this going into the date, but actually being eyeball to eyeball with a guy was a little weird for me. I prefer to look up at my guy and be able to tell if he needs to trim his nose hairs.
The sushi was good. Conversation was good. After getting past the whole “what do you do for a living / where are you from / what’s your favorite color” bullshit, we started just talking like normal people. He was really impressed with me and how I was “different” from how he’d originally perceived me to be. I thought I was enjoying the conversation greatly until I realized why I was enjoying the conversation.
Because he was kissing my ass.
I haven’t been the recipient of a good ass-kissing in a while, and it felt good. I’m accustomed to my friends being used to the extreme dryness and unapologetic “ME-ness” of yours truly, so while on the date with Smartass Engineer I was just being my (un)normal self. Instead of my quips being met with silence, indifference, or disgust, as they usually are with those who know me, instead I was hearing scores of laughter and praise.
Basically, he was more into me than I was into him.
Once we were properly sushi-ed, we got in his car and decided to go to a bar for a drink.
He put in a burned CD.
And Nickelback permeated the speakers.
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, I thought.
Then, he asked the dreaded question.
“So, do you like Nickelback?”
Blink.
Blink.
“To be completely honest with you, no. I do not.”
I figured “Actually, I would rather eat Rosie O’Donnell’s toe jam while being photographed in a nylon, camelt0e-highlighting pantsuit and being run over repeatedly by a half-ton pickup truck, all the while watching baby bunny rabbits get curb stomped by Ann Coulter than ever hear another Nickelback song again” was a little harsh for the first 90 minutes of a date.
NICKELBACK.
Let me repeat that.
NICKELBACK.
His. Favorite. Band. Is. Nickelback.
Normally, music taste does not fall into the category of Things That Matter Greatly to Me in another human being. But when your favorite band is NICKELBACK?
I have to question your intelligence.
Nee, your sanity.
I think irony is fucking with me because THE DAY BEFORE THE DATE, I tweeted this.
If I had to describe my personal hell, it would involve Nickelback, inaccessibility to alcohol, and ironing.
So there you go. This band belongs in my personal hell, and my potential suitor is on Ticketmaster buying presale tickets for the concert.
Also, I had to iron my shirt for the date. So we’re batting .667 for LRC’s Personal Hell components.
(Of course alcohol was involved. His favorite band is Nickelback. How else was I supposed to enjoy myself after that?)
Don’t worry, it gets worse.
After the Nickelback fiasco, AS IF THAT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, the worst song ever recorded ever in the history of mankind, ever, came through the speakers. And SaE then told me a lovely anecdote about how his neighbors used to complain to him because he listened to this particular “song” on repeat.
Hold me.
I had driven a whole hour to get to this particular date, so I tried not to let his horrible, atrocious, unforgivable taste in music ruin it. We had a few drinks at a cheesily-named bar, and at nearly 1am it was time for me to go home. He was nice enough to drive me around until we found a place that was open and served coffee since I had to drive another hour home and I was getting sleepy, but by the time we got back to his house (where I’d left my car) I found myself reciting the chant “pleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissme” over and over in my head.
When I got out of the car, I tried to maneuver my body in such a way that I could slip around and get into the driver’s side of my car unscathed and dry-lipped.
No such luck.
He appeared seemingly out of nowhere with his arm hooked around my waist and a grip that said he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, where I let them rest for about .00000000042 seconds before I pulled away, thanked him for dinner and drinks, got in my car, and dipped the fuck out.
He left me a message yesterday about how he wanted a second date and this time he would come to my neck of the woods. I just frowned. He was very nice. Very funny. But I’m just not that into him. And he has vomit-inducing taste in music.
And I didn’t like his shoes.
I’ve put my profile on the dating website on private for the time being. I’m starting to get over New York and I’m realizing that I can be comfortable being alone again. I don’t always have to be surrounded by people or get approval from guys to be happy. It always seems that they come along when you’re not looking, anyway.
And whenever I start to miss NY?
I just think about how I used to cringe when he would bend over and have Plumber’s Crack, and he has an extremely hairy ass.
That makes me feel a little better.
This New York shit has me so irritated I’m ready to throw in the towel.
Let me draw up a little scenario for you.
He left last week on another road trip. This time, to see some concerts and go back to the big apple for a day or two.
I am leaving for vacation tomorrow, and I won’t return until Wednesday. I will be visiting a friend and her fiance. I invited NY to come (of course the friend and the fiance know about this and are cool with it) before he left on his road trip. I didn’t demand an answer from him immediately, but I told him to think on it while he was gone.
He has hardly been keeping me up to date on his whereabouts, and starting around Tuesday or Wednesday, he stopped answering my calls altogether. And his texts? Have only been “good night” or “good morning.” Nice try, but no.
Something’s different. I am not cool with this.
Since he won’t answer my calls, I texted him last night.
“Alive?”
Because honestly? I want to know he is safe. He got in a fucking wreck last time he was on the road (albeit a minor one, but a wreck nonetheless).
And I also want him to WAKE THE EFF UP AND CALL ME.
I got the “mornin” text at 6:45 this a.m., and that was it.
I had to find out what state he was in by reading his twitter.
TWITTER, PEOPLE.
Another characteristic to add to LRC’s Repertoire of The Crazy?
I secretly read the tweets from his band.
Ssshhhh, don’t tell.
So, given his location as of 15 hours ago, I can assume with some confidence that he will be making his way home today. The day before I am to leave for my vacation, presumably solo. Because the boy has forgotten how to work the mouthpiece on his phone.
I’m past the point of being hurt. I’m to the point now where I’m just irritated. I hate being jerked around or taken advantage of. My life does not revolve around him, and if I’m going to have someone to answer to? He better answer back. He’s gotten so lazy with this shit that I don’t even have time for his shenanigans. He needs to tell me he’s just not that into me, and let me give him back his house keys and move the fuck on.
My time? Is being wasted. And that? Is not cool with me.
On a lighter note, VACATION! I am so in need of time away from work it’s not even funny. Boss Lady is trying to get secretary fired, and I just can’t handle the tension in the office.
Oh wait, I tried to take this post in a more positive direction and failed miserably.
Let’s try this again.
*clears throat*
BEACH.
I think nothing more needs to be said.
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.
Things just go from bad to worse, don’t they?
Sigh.
I kinda went on a roller coaster of emotions on V Day. I woke up feeling really happy and positive, because I just felt like I needed to be, so I forced it upon myself. I decided to go shopping because I hadn’t bought myself anything in a while and I needed some new clothes.
I guess I wasn’t feeling it because I didn’t buy a single. damned. thing.
That is just wrong.
So I got some cookies and took them over to Andy’s and hung out with him for a while. I was feeling down at this point about my failed shopping attempt and no contact yet from New York. So I went from really happy to really blah and kinda sad. But I tried not to let it get to me too badly. You’re only as happy as you allow yourself to be, or some bullshit like that.
When I got home, I found a cute postcard from New York in my mailbox. It was very him. Not mushy-gushy, but he made a cute pun with my last name and it did arrive on the right date, so props for that. I also got a “happy valentines” text, which is a vast departure from the funny stuff he usually sends me. I called him later and we talked for about 30 minutes, and that was that.
After talking to him and feeling better in general about the situation, my mood lifted. I sang to my dogs and played my karaoke game. Don’t judge. I was on fire with that shit. I ended up having a really good time by my damned self. Then Sandra texted me to come up to the bar.
I decided, why the hell not.
And, uh, BrownEyes was there.
Shit.
Well, I knew I was going to have to see him eventually. So I tried to make it as painless as possible.
“Hey, how have you been?”
“Good, and you?”
“Good.”
(hug)
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
And that was that. Like pulling off a band-aid. Now that it’s over with, I feel better.
New York got back home on Monday night. Yay, right? Enh. We’ll see. He was ultra tired from his trip so he went straight home to bed, which I get. I don’t blame him for that at all.
But yesterday? I had the day from hell. Boss lady was on a rampage and was really bitchy to me and my co-worker. I ended up having to work a bit late, and you know the only thing on my mind was getting out of there to see New York, (who earlier had gone by my house to pick up the stack of mail I’d obediently retrieved from his mailbox, like a fucking Labrador).
He told me to call him when I got off work, so I did. I told him about my crappy day at work, and he listened until I was done. He got distracted trying to find a picture on his computer, so he told me to call him when I got home.
I was really stressed out from my effed up day at work, and at that moment, heaven to me would have been having dinner and wine with NY, catching up on things, and not having to worry about work, or anything else for that matter. At least for the night.
So I gave him some time, and I called back. No answer. Whatever. He called back like an hour later. He’d been taking a nap. Fine.
NY: [Friend] wanted me to go with him to the movies. It starts in ten minutes.
LRC: Are you gonna go?
NY: Yeah.
LRC: Cool.
NY: I mean, I think I’m gonna go.
LRC: Huh?
NY: I don’t know. I’m hungry.
LRC: So you either want food or a movie?
NY: Yeah.
LRC: And you want someone to make the decision for you?
NY: Ha. Yeah.
LRC: Well, I’m hungry . . .
(I don’t remember the details of the conversation at this point. I was very confused indeed. NY had just woken up from a nap and was therefore a bit disoriented. Somehow we got back on the topic of going to the movie.)
NY: I don’t think I’m gonna go to the movie. I only have two dollars in my wallet.
LRC: Yeah, I have zero dollars in my wallet.
NY: Well, let me text [Friend] and tell him I’m not going to the movie. I’ll call you later.
UGH. I should have just told him, “TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER, YOU HALF WIT,” but I don’t think I should have had to do that. It’s kinda rude to like, demand that someone take you out to eat. Highly annoyed at this point. Giving up on dinner plans, I munched some Ruffles potato chips and scowled.
I finally heard back from him at 9pm.
“Fnd enuf coin 4 a sandwich!”
Are. You. Fucking. Serious?
I texted him back, “You ain’t eat yet?” <— please ignore my horrible grammar here. This is my attempt at making fun of the rednecks I converse with on a daily basis. Yes, people talk like that here. It’s frightening.
He texted back: “Jst”
What the fuck does that even mean?
He is just not even trying at this point.
LRC: huh
NY: huh?
I was beyond pissed. He obviously wanted me to do all the work here, and it’s apparent that I’m not a priority in his life. I decided to go to bed after that (this was around 9:45).
He called me at about 10:10, but I was in the bed and didn’t hear the phone ring.
I can’t believe this shit.
We haven’t seen each other for three weeks and he’s not knocking down my door to see me? He wants his mail and a sandwich.
I hope he went to bed hungry.
I’m trying to stay positive through all this crap I’m going through right now. Really, I am. I even wrote a post called “Today was a good day,” with a bulleted list of why that particular day (Wednesday) was so great.
And WordPress promptly ate it.
EFF YOU, WORDPRESS.
Sigh.
I’m kinda glad my post got eated, though. Because a few hours after I wrote it (about the random comment from a stranger that made my day, the fact that I was becoming okay with Murray’s new relationship status, and the fact that I’d decided to make cupcakes for New York for Valentine’s Day so that way if he didn’t actually get me anything for VD, it wouldn’t be as awkward as if I had actually gone out and bought him something), I had a nice little conversation with NY that pretty much negated my wonderful mood.
Basically, he’s not going to be home for Valentine’s Day.
Hear that sound? That’s the sound of me banging my head against the wall. Repeatedly.
Why can’t I just find a guy who makes a fucking effort? I am worth more than this bullshit. I know Valentine’s Day is a stupid holiday that doesn’t matter, but I am a girl, and he would have to be either dumb or apathetic to ignore the fact that his not being home for Valentine’s Day (when he very well could be) = not good.
Hint: he’s definitely not dumb.
Just, shit.
So he won’t be getting any cupcakes from me. Obviously. Or anything else for that matter.
He hasn’t mentioned That Holiday at ALL. For someone who loves cheesy holiday crap, this is unlike him.
The only thing that would make this acceptable to me would be him showing up on my doorstep tomorrow to surprise me. Anything short of that just isn’t going to cut it.
Apparently I was wrong in thinking that we were more than just friends. We do boyfriend and girlfriend stuff together. Why would this be any exception?
If he sends me some lame cryptic text on VD and that’s all I get? I am going to LOSE. MY. SHIT.
I need to talk to him. Not on the phone. DEFINITELY not via text or e-mail. I need to speak to him face to face and find out exactly what the hell this is that we’re doing. His not being here is really wearing me down. It’s like, we’re “together,” but we’re not. I feel like I’m just wasting time.
His arrival is in the homestretch, but he still hasn’t given me an exact day. Until then I’m just going to distract myself with whatever friends I can round up and try not to think about what the eff is going on with my “love life.” I have to pull myself out of this funk. My unhappiness right now can only be fixed by yours truly. And I’ve got to try.
I have GOT. To. Try.
Every time I vlog I feel like it’s gratuitous (oh, but vlogging, why can’t I quit you?), and this is two minutes of your life that you will never get back, but I got inspired when Rachel at I’m a Mom in Real Life vlogged about the winner of her contest.
Guess who won, by the way?
ME!
And all I had to do was vote for her new comic blog, which, incidentally, you should be reading. So go there now and add it to your reader.
See what a good contest winner I am? Gettin’ all linky and shit? Future contest holders, take note.
I’m ecstatic about all the prizes, but I am especially excited about this little gem. I <3 it!
So here’s my vlog. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. It could go either way.
And yes, I know I have a ridiculous southern accent. Do it, y’all! REDNECK POWER!
Ahem.
Also, in the spot where I focus on my cat Oliver, you can see my foot, and I am wearing the shoes NY so lovingly calls “pilgrim shoes,” because they look like, well, pilgrim shoes.
I feel like my life is repeating itself. Like I’m walking around in some fucked up circle of Single Womanhood. It’s like effing Groundhog Day!
(And yes, I know today is Groundhog Day. This only intensifies my point.)
Meet a new guy.
Like him a little.
Make out with him.
Like him a LOT.
(Those last two happen in rapid succession.)
Begin having doubts.
(This is where The Crazy enters.)
Cry.
Go right back to extreme like when guy does something incredibly sweet.
Float on air for a few weeks.
Start having doubts again.
Fabricate an elaborate scenario in which guy decides to leave and begin needlessly resenting the guy in preparation, so that if he DOES leave, damage to the heart will be minimal.
Yep, that’s me. Preparing for my heart to get curb stomped before they even get the opportunity to love me.
Okay, that last sentence sounded really morose. It’s not that bad. I just wish there were some way to train my mind not to play tricks on me. I did this with BE and now I’m doing it again with NY. It’s like I just know he’s going to hurt me, even though he’s done nothing in the past to indicate that he would. I know that getting hurt at some point is inevitable in every relationship, but I’m not talking about the Oh God He Hesitated Just A Smidge Too Long When I Asked If These Jeans Made My Ass Look Like A Double Wide Trailer Barreling Down The Highway hurt. I’m talking about the I’m About To Up And Leave Your Ass You Worthless Pile Of Woman Who Is Not Even Worth My Time hurt.
I know I’m worth a man’s time.
I cook. I praise. I give BJs.
I’m a great girlfriend. I know this.
But do they know it?
I feel like I put so much time and energy into showing a guy all that I have to offer, that it’s just taken for granted. I don’t even know if it’s my fault or their fault, or if I’m just completely making it up. This dating shiz just has me so confused that there are days I just want to throw my hands in the air, scream “ENOUGH ALREADY!” and bang my head on the desk, never to pick up the “habit” again.
But no, I keep pressing on.
(Sometimes I wish I weren’t so obsessed with the peen. It would save a lot of stress and worry.)
I feel like I’ve got this constant Push and Pull thing going with the men I date. I won’t allow myself to be vulnerable enough to be beaten down, but then I wonder why things aren’t happening for me.
I’m not allowing them to.
(For the record, things are fine with NY. Nothing has changed except for the fact that I have turned into Crazypants McGee. He’s still up in the Big Apple. I’m anticipating his arrival back home this weekend, but he hasn’t nailed anything down for certain yet. He’s got unfinished biz to take care of [that makes him sound a lot more diabolical than he really is] in NYC and he needs to get as much of it done as he can while he’s still there.)
Having said that, I’m keeping my options open. I’m not dating other guys, nor do I want to. But I’m not going to throw all my eggs on one basket and risk breaking all of them just yet.
Blargh. I don’t even know if I’ve really said what I needed to say here. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with the picture I paint of my life on this blog. There’s just so much going on in Noggin de la LRC that I couldn’t possibly begin to show you what The Crazy is a-brewin’ up there.
But damn it, I’m gonna try.
And you’ll probably lose some sanity right there with me.
For that, I apologize.
But damn it feels good to have Partners In Crazy.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
That’s what my cursor in WordPress has been doing for the past few days.
Every time I start to write a new post, I just blank. I don’t feel obligated to write a new post—I do have stuff to talk about. I just have no effing clue how to write about it. I feel like someone took one of those bulb snot syringes and sucked all the fun and creativity out of me. I’m a great big sack o’ boring this week. Witty retorts and sarcastic commentary have been virtually nonexistent around these parts.
NO WITTY RETORTS, PEOPLE. Not even SARCASTIC COMMENTARY.
What has this world come to?
I’m going to try my best to give you a New York update without causing you to fall asleep at your desk. Because, you know, with the economy in the shitter as it is, I don’t want to give your boss any reason to kick you to the curb (and I totally know you’re reading this at work). Plus, I know NY is sorta the “hero” of this blog right now, and rightfully so. He’s an absolute doll.
He spent Inauguration Week in DC, which I think I mentioned before, and came back here for two short days before turning right around and heading north for New York for a couple weeks. As you can imagine, those two days together went by wayyyyy too fast. NY fell asleep on my couch while we were watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (being a SAG member [NY, not me] has its perks!), and while he was asleep, he kept grabbing my hand. It was the cutest thing in the world and I died exactly seven times.
The next morning, we went to church.
CHURCH, people.
You just don’t understand. This is major for me. If a guy can get me up before 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday? For CHURCH, no less? That is quite a man right there. I’m not leaving my warm sheets and fluffy pillow for just ANYONE. No siree.
That night we ate dinner at my parents’ house and played Apples to Apples, and NY seemed to finally loosen up around my folks (this is the second time he’s been around them). He genuinely had a good time, and I could feel it. My mom made him a care package filled with magazines, snacks, and soft drinks to take to NYC with him because he’s having sinus surgery (that’s the whole point of his trek back up there). So I’m in charge of Casa de NY for the next week or two. I’ll mostly just be checking his mail, but I may surprise him by straightening up a little before he comes back as a nice bonus. Doesn’t everyone love coming back home to a clean house?
FO SHO.
So NY left on Monday, spent the night in DC again, and left DC on Tuesday to reach his final destination of NYC. That morning, he texted me a picture of his car, covered in snow. I asked him if he was going to have to drive through a bunch of it (even though I already knew the answer was yes. I checked weather.com. Call me Ms. Worrypants), and he said “My Volvo enjoys diverse weather patterns.”
Huh.
Kinda ironic, really.
Mere hours after this lighthearted text exchange, NY’s car would disagree with him.
After work, NY texted me.
NY: Looooong day.
LRC: I gather you have arrived in NY? I had a long day too. Slammed my leg into my desk twice. Bruise slash knot is imminent.
NY: Eh ran my car into a curb. Bent my thumb backwards. On a train to ny. Hope ur leg heals up.
LRC: Ok, you win.
POOR NY. OMG y’all, I felt so bad for him. He wrecked his car, hurt himself, and had to hop on a train to make the rest of his trip. So not only is his car messed up, he had to spend EXTRA money on a train ticket, and somehow he’ll have to pick up his car. AND THEN, on top of all of that, he has to have surgery. As I am writing this, it is T-minus ONE HOUR until his procedure, and he just texted me a picture of himself wearing one of those shower cap/hair net hybrid things (WHAT are those CALLED?) from his surgeon’s office and I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. I’m glad he’s still got his great sense of humor through all this crap that’s happening to him right now.
I think this less than ideal situation has helped him realize that I’m more than just someone fun to hang out with. We’re sorta “bonding” over the experience (at the risk of sounding cheesy) and I’m sure he’s glad someone is there for him right now, since he really doesn’t have any family left.
So keep your fingers crossed that NY’s surgery goes well and he’s back to his old self in no time!
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.
