Just a WTF*Up….

Sooo… I promised you more posts about love and stuff that’s shiny, flappy steeples folding bands.  If you haven’t already guessed, this is some kinda craziness…

Deed to Doghouse With a Catfood Pantry

Last week was one of definitive FUCKED-UPPEDNESS (work with me, people; I’m in a “state”).

First off, one of 2 internal jobs I applied for turned me down. 😦  I’m happy for the person who got it since she’s genuinely awesome.  But on a selfish note, it kinda sucks for me. Again. Rejection sucks; even if you’re realistic in your expectations…

Less “Office Ninja” – more “Drunk Ronin”

So, where was I…? This is the way my friend Tony put it, “Shit got real, huh?”

Something is JUST NOT RIGHT…

Something strange is going on. I JUST KNOW IT…

My director came back this week from maternity leave. Despite the fact that she basically threw me under the bus for trying to escape, it’s nice to have another voice up here on the second floor; outside of all the crazy, attitudinous voices in my head. Yeah, I made up a word. Fuck it. It works.

During all the “private” meetings The Boss held with the accountants, the A/P and the A/R clerks during the month before Ms. Director’s return, he must’ve given them all the “Let’s not encourage her” lecture.

Where is “NEXT”!?

The Master-at-Work, ca. 2009, NYC

There is currently a small problem in need of some input from the peanut-gallery.  The back-story: I took 2 days off next week.  Thursday – ’cause it’s my *birthday*.  Friday for the liberty to not only enjoy a 4-day weekend away from the hell I work in, but so my husband won’t worry about my getting home in enough time to go with him to a wedding that he is deejaying.

Going to a stranger’s wedding for your birthday might sound lame, but they gave me the sympathy-invite because hubby is working – on my *B-day*.  Dancing, buffet, free wine or beer and getting to watch skanks I don’t know face-plant and crack their Louboutins for a bouquet? I am ALL in.

Weird Thoughts, Petty BS and Other Ass-Hattery

I have a bunch of questions.  There are WTF thoughts plaguing the remaining rational area(s) of my brain and I. NEED ANSWERS, PEOPLE!  In my humble opinion there is just way too much stupidity and a seemingly endless number of mind-boggling mysteries on a daily basis for me to stand.

Friday KILL or “Why Edita REALLY Should Buy a Ticket to BOTTOM-LINE TOWN”

A little song to illustrate my mood but what I also wish certain people (ahem, you KNOW who you are!) would do when they see me.  Moving on…

Nothing makes me madder than someone whose powers of communication, or lack thereof, keeps me from making some kind of forward progression.

Progress matters to me, especially in my place of employment – progress in diminishing the piles of paper on my desk; progress in my exodus downstairs for my morning coffee; progress in the general direction of the cafeteria and DO NOT come between me and that hand-scanner at 5:00 (unless you just happen to be my boss)!

My Moody Blues

Dear Hank Moody,

You’re just not present anymore.  I mean, you’re technically there in each and every new episode of this final season but what in the name of all things Karen & Becca have they done with my brilliantly damaged literary wunderkind?  Where is my sexy, drunk, bad-boy hero?

Not since Esai Morales strutted his hot, gangster ass down Chicago’s South Side as Paco Moreno have I crushed on a bad-boy so hard.

TBT: Collision on 86th Street

In honor of all the rain in the Northeast this week, here is a story from my days as a dispatcher at that black-car service in Brooklyn where wanna-be ghetto biatches reigned and all drinking was done ON-SHIFT while pressing the foot-pedal of our two-way radio.

The Comment Mafia

Recently I got a glorious shout-out from Lady Goo Goo GaGa regarding comments on her hilarious post, “Only as Skinny as Your Fattest Child“.  Her blog is always beyond funny and, even though I am neither a stay-at-home mom nor a housewife, I love it. So THERE. 🙂

It’s always so mystifying to me when folks who consciously sign up for and regularly read a **humor** blog on the perils of motherhood, or the perils of being an attractive woman, or why we should all poop glitter or any other subject for that matter, suddenly become all shocked-and-appalled when a blog author touches on a “delicate”, hot-button topic unreasonably vigilant when they erroneously perceive the innocent use of a common word as outright racism.

TBT: The “Pity” Christmas…

Scarier than coal in your stocking

In my early days of employment at Current Job, I was taken protectively under the wing of Jar Jar Bitch.  Back then, I could still look her in the eye and NOT be the least bit tempted to put her in a choke-hold.  We all know by now how I was duped into falling for that “Mother Hen” bullshit and that if anyone ever repeatedly professes to be a mother-hen then they are most likely psychotic or full of shit, at the very least.

This particular year, my husband decided to go south for the Christmas holiday to be with his family. This is not something I normally enjoy so, although less than thrilled with his nonchalant decision to leave me behind, I chose to stay home with my son.

Gratitude Sans Attitude

Today I will be briefly plunking myself into a sort of mental exile from the office insaniacs to make a wholehearted attempt to (“t h a n k” ???) say something nice about all the exes whose pathological personalities and outright horrible behavior propelled me like a rubber-band slingshot to madness and back again.  You see, I’ve been struggling with this Jiminy Cricket-ish problem lately…

All Me, Who Enters Here…

Souls stray far in this maze
This vacuum of replication and waste
Cramming the forest into bottomless, plastic coffins
And none care for what tongues they use

Crafting the art of misfire in urgent
Carbon-copy the world with absentminded click
Tethered to this, a buzzing hive of ineptitude and scandal
Raging in this vacuum of replication and waste

Speak your witticisms and written requests into the swamps
Where crickets chirp and nothing
Frozen in a roomful of silent stare
Returning to crash the keys and bathe in the remaining solemnity

The symbols of my love, my loyalty and misappropriation of time
Promote me to that higher level of witch trial
A ladder for me to hang
Doesn’t matter –

Its all just a vacuum of replication and waste

So please, don’t ask me

Not        another                fucking                 memo…