I love it when you call me Big Papa. Except, not.

I mentioned I had some vom-worthy Murray news, so here it is.

For those of you who are new readers, Murray was my boyfriend for three years. We broke up last May, but not before buying a house together, which I currently still inhabit and cannot sell. Murray lives in apartment that costs him less than half the house payment I have to dig up each month, so there’s already a leeeeeeetle bit of bitterness there.

A few months ago, Murray and his new girlfriend became Facebook official after about thirteen seconds of dating, which was like a 4″ heel kick in the boob to me because ever since the breakup, I’d tried to keep anything dating-related far, far away from The ‘Book. I posted no pictures and made no mention of any of the men I was dating, deleted any comments from friends that might have alluded to the fact I was seeing anyone, and I took my relationship status off completely (while Murray was, up until this point, still proudly declaring himself “Single”).

Fine. Whatever.

Then, a couple weeks ago, I was talking to a mutual friend of ours. This friend told me that Murray had turned down a great job offer in another city because he said things were “getting pretty serious” with his girlfriend. After TWO MONTHS of dating.

Chalk it up to the bitter, cynical bitch in me, but I knew that this was exactly what Murray was going to do. Settle for the next live woman who still had most of her teeth and showed any remote interest in him. Now, I’m not saying that this girl I haven’t spoken to in years may not have turned out to be a Saint of a woman with an ass you could bounce quarters off of who also makes a chocolate-covered dessert every night and gives 5-star BJ’s, but I know Murray. He’s a settler.

Also, this chick is 25, lives at home with her parents, and is a mother to a toddler.

(NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT)

Part of the reason Murray and I broke up was because of his laissez-faire (let’s be lazy and see how we fare!) attitude. About EVERYTHING. It’s one thing to be laid-back, but it’s a completely different thing to just not Give. A. Fuck. Murray was prepared to just take whatever life gave him (provided it wasn’t hard and didn’t take any effort).

Everything except me, it seemed.

If I’d never brought up the fact that I was unhappy, however, we would have continued living our sad, boring lives until one or both of us died. So he did want to keep me around . . . he just didn’t want to work for it. And he didn’t want to get married anytime soon, either.

This caused me more pain than I should have allowed. I will admit that.

So our relationship ended, I dated several selfish assholes, and now here I sit, as far from marriage as one could possibly be.  I’m totally fine with that.

And then I hear something that makes my blood boil.

Another mutual friend told me something that was overheard between Murray, his girlfriend, and her little girl recently.

The little girl called him “Daddy.”

DADDY.

Hear that sound? That’s the sound of me punching a kitten.

(Just kidding, OMG I would NEEEEEEEEVER do that . . . just thinking about that makes me want to punch anyone who would punch a kitten.)

I dated Murray for THREE YEARS and the word “marriage” made his skin crawl (WE ALREADY OWNED A HOME TOGETHER, REMEMBER?), and now some random chick is dating him for THREE MONTHS and he’s DADDY??!?!!!??!?!?

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go vom. Repeatedly.

Ultimately, though? I win. Because I don’t have to wipe snot off the face of someone else’s child. Ever.

Also I am way hotter than Murray’s girlfriend. Who has had the same haircut since birth.

WIN.

Trying isn’t always enough

Allright people, let’s get this over with.

So remember how BrownEyes wanted to get back together with me?

Well, he called me on Friday and asked if I wanted to come over and see a movie. I said yes. There are various reasons for this. Let me show you dem.

1. I’m a fucking idiot.
2. I’m a masochist.
3. I hoped at the very least I could get some sex out of it.
4. Blog fodder!
5. I wanted to see if he’d changed for the better. (HILARIOUS, right?)
6. I’m a fucking idiot.

Probably not the best reasons, but reasons nonetheless.

I told him I’d call him when I got out of the shower. When I called, instead of  him being at home (as he said he’d be), he’d walked to a nearby bar and was having a drink. He invited me to join him. I was not looking my best as I’d slicked my hair back into a bun and was definitely not dressed for a night on the town. But I decided to join him. For ONE drink.

One drink? Always turns into 5 or 6 or 42 drinks with BE. Stupid, stupid LRC.

He was incredibly inattentive to me the whole night, trying to be his usual center-of-attention self. I’m sure the look on my face said it all. To everyone ELSE, that is. Everyone with a fucking CLUE.

(Hint: BE does not belong to this elite club of Those Who Get It.)

Every time he’d ask me to go outside and smoke with him, he’d open the door for me and motion with his hand for me to go ahead. I would walk through, and EVERY. SINGLE. TIME he did this? He would stop and talk to someone else. Leaving me standing there by myself like a jackass.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

TIME.

THAT got annoying really fast. When I insisted that he go first, he’d say, “no you go ahead!” and then he would do the SAME. EXACT. THING.

Do you know how FRUSTRATING that was? It got old reeeeeally fast.

Aaaand the straw that broke the camel’s back? As if I weren’t turned off enough as it were?

While I was talking to one of his female friends (while he was inevitably making his rounds around the bar), she told me that he’d been telling people that HE was the one who broke it off with ME.

[record scratch]

Shut. The. Front. Door.

HELLLLLLLLLLLL NAW.

I was furious. So I did what any normal person would do. I made him buy me Huddle House at 2am and when he fell asleep on his recliner I dipped the fuck out of there and never looked back.

Speaking of BE, a few minutes ago I got a text from one of his friends, who, last time I saw him, I WAS with BE. But this had to be at least five or six months ago.

not going to [name of bar] tonight is ya?

What’s going on at [name of bar]?

well it’s just poker night but thought maybe you and [BE] might wanna go up there for a little while

Forehead? Meet desk.

I don’t date [BE].

oh for some reason i thought yall were. well if you wanna go, no [BE] that’s even betta

Is this my life? Seriously?

Did I just get a random ass text from BE’s friend asking if I wanted to bring BE and join him at the bar? And then when I said I wasn’t dating BE, did I also get HIT ON by BE’s friend?

Is the universe trying to give me the middle finger? Is it because I arranged all the stickers on the Rubik’s cube when I was little and tried to pass myself off as a genius? I APOLOGIZED FOR THAT A FEW YEARS AGO. LET IT GO, UNIVERSE.

And to end on a more somber note, I don’t see myself getting over New York anytime soon. I had (still have) it bad for that boy. New developments have been brought to light about the situation and I feel torn. Every day when I get home, and every morning when I wake up, I feel like I’m being punched in the face and given a wedgie simultaneously. A wedgie of sorrow.

I had to make the melodrama humorous somehow.

Outta my way, I’ve got a life to live

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.

Meh.

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.

You can’t fire me, bitch I quit

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.

Girls gone bitchy

I have a friend. Let’s call her “Becky.”

Becky and I have been friends since kindergarten. We are complete opposites in every way (she’s loud, I’m soft-spoken; she’s free-spirited, I’m more focused; she’d prefer to live la vida loca, I prefer to have balance; etc.), but somehow we’ve remained friends for the last 20 years. We’re the type that can go months without speaking and then pick up right where we left off, as if nothing ever happened.

Our friendship, like every friendship, has not been without its ups and downs. For instance, when we were in junior high, she started copying me. My clothing style, my taste in music, you name it. And when I called her out on it, she tried to act like I was being unreasonable and bitchy. That was probably one of our worst falling outs. But we got through it and moved on.

Another time my friendship with Becky was tested was when I made the cheerleading squad in seventh grade. SEVENTH GRADE. It’s not like I was cheering for the Dallas Cowboys. Becky didn’t even TRY OUT for the squad, nor did she have ANY DESIRE to be a cheerleader, but somehow my good fortune just caused her to seethe with rage. When the results were given, it was announced that there was a tie (of course the judges didn’t reveal who the tie was between, that would be unethical), so the squad would include ten members instead of the usual eight (which would indicate a three-way tie, but who’s counting?). A few days after the results, I was in the car with Becky and her mother. We were talking about the tryouts, and Becky’s mom said, “I’m so glad you made it, [LRC]!”

Then Becky said, “Well, it’s only because she TIED with [other cheerleader's name].”

Um, excuse me?

First of all, there is no way she would have that information. She just assumed that I was one of the ones at the bottom of the totem pole that they just HAD to include because it would be UNFAIR, or something. Whatever. If they didn’t want ten cheerleaders, they wouldn’t have kept ten cheerleaders.

And Becky’s mom didn’t even say anything.

So you can see a bit of a theme developing here. I’ll give you a hint. It’s green and rhymes with hellisy.

Jealousy.

Now, I’m not the type of person who thinks she’s this Ultra Mega Awesome Chick whom everyone else should envy. No. I’m not saying that at all. But the pattern of all my arguments with Becky usually seemed to carry that underlying theme.

And it’s unfortunate.

Becky is well-liked. She’s creative, funny, and beautiful. But for some reason, she’s always wanting more. She must be the center of attention. If ANYONE else gets ANY attention at all, well then she is just not having that.

As a result of that addictive personality, Becky is in outpatient rehab for cocaine.

She ran up thousands of dollars in credit card debt on her mom’s card, and hid the bills when they came. When her mom finally found out what was going on, Becky said she was withdrawing money and “giving it to homeless people on the street because they needed it more than [she] did.”

Um.

Yeah . . .

So that was that. She moved upstate to live with her dad a few months ago. She cut her hair off, dyed it dark brown, and got her nose pierced. I guess she feels like she’s starting over.

I told you all of that to tell you this. I saw Becky a month ago at a bar in our hometown. She was visiting for Thanksgiving. I was with New York.

Becky: Is that your friend [NY]?
Me: (smiling) Yeah . . .
Becky: I wish he’d get a haircut!

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe her audacity. If I were meeting a significant other of hers for the first time, there is no way in hell I would insult him. There have been many boyfriends of hers that I COULD have said something negative about based on my first impression, but I can’t even IMAGINE telling her those things! Hell, I have a hard time coming up with them now because when I meet someone my friend has been dating, I only focus on the positive.

I just let it slide and tried to avoid her the rest of the night.

When she came home for Christmas break, I avoided her texts and phone calls. I texted her back once, but only to let her know I’d been sleeping when she’d texted me the night before.

Well, I saw her at the bar again the day after Christmas. Again, I was with NY. And again, Becky said, “I wish he’d cut his hair!”

Well, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I wasn’t going to be nice about this anymore. So I said, “Well I sure do wish you’d take that nose ring out of your face.”

For the record, I don’t mind nose piercings. I think it actually kind of suits her. But I just wasn’t having that disrespectful shit anymore. Don’t insult my Man Friend. You don’t know him, and he’s been a hell of a lot more to me in the past month than you have been to me in the past few years.

I just can’t believe she would have the audacity to say that to me. TWICE. You know, I’m SORRY she’s in rehab. I’m SORRY she can’t keep a job. I’m SORRY she just wants to do nothing for the rest of her life.

That’s not my problem.

And don’t insult the people in my life who actually DO give a shit.

/rant