Wednesday, October 27, 2010

. . . which reminds me . . .

So, I went to get a hair cut about a month ago. I usually go to wacked-out-Freddie over in Chi-Town but I was lazy and it was hot and my finger was hurting so I went to the salon that's around the corner from my house instead.

threestoogesI mean, even if they fucked up my hair and I wound up looking like Moe, it would still be a win-win because the place is literally around the corner from my house. No driving to a shady part of town, no traffic, no parking hassles since I'd walk, no gangstas wanting to cap my ass [Brian? That means shoot me], win-win.

I walked into the salon, my appointment was with Paulo (real name) and he turned out to be a bleached blond semi attractive gay dude (I say “semi” because he’d look better with his natural hair color of what I’m assuming is black because Paulo is Mexican). I was having second thoughts due to his self inflicted dye job but I desperately needed a cut so I decided to back burner my worries.

Paulo sat me at the hair washing station and proceeded with the small talk.

Paulo: You live around here?

Me: Around the corner.

Then BAM! His next question kicks me in the jaw!

Paulo [as he's massaging shampoo into my scalp] :You know we also do eyebrow waxing here?

Me [hands immediately going to cover my eyebrows]: Uh, why do you ask? Are my eyebrows that bad??

Paulo: [5 seconds of silence] Nooooo. I was just letting you know.

So I sat in the shampooing chair, sobbing inside, wondering if I should let judgment-y Paulo do my brows. I was thisclose to saying yes but reason won out.

Me to myself "How about you let him do your hair first? If he fucks that up, you can wear a hat. If he fucks up your eyebrows, do you really want to wear an eyebrow wig? . . . Again?"


Me: You know, lets focus on my hair this first visit and we'll see how that goes?

Paulo: Okay.

Silence. Sweet sweet silence. Then another *BAM!*

Paulo [as he is now cutting my hair]: How many kids do you have?

Me [sweating]: Uh, none.

Paulo: You married?

Me [Holy shit! What’s with all the personal questions!]: Yep. 9 years.

Paulo: Is your husband a lot older than you?

Me [wondering if a cap in the ass hurts as much as this interrogation]: Nooo, he's actually 4 years younger than I am.

Paulo: How old are you? 30?

I Paulo!!

Me: 37. [15 more days until the big THREE EIGHT]

Paulo [his scissors making question marks in my hair]: Then why no kids?


Me: We decided not to have any---

Paulo [stops cutting, looks at my reflection and I wonder if I accidentally sat on a puppy]: Why??

Me: ::sigh:: Because we didn't think we could handle the responsibility. Besides I have 3 nieces and a nephew. We are set in the kids in our lives department.

Paulo: Is your husband Mexican too?

Me: No, he's a white boy.

Paulo: Ohhhh.

And his questions stopped. And my questions started.

Me: Why does that matter?

Paulo: You know Hispanic men. They want kids kids kids all the time. White guys not so much. A Mexican man would have made you have kids. You like your hair?

Me: Yes but, so we’re clear and if I become a regular you need to know this about me, no man makes me do anything. Well, unless he’s paying but that’s another story.

I can see from the look on his face he is beginning to think I’m weird. Me?

He did a good job on my hair. My only complaint (other than the assumption that boundaries are something we read about in fairy tales) is that he didn't cut my bangs short enough. So. Being the impulsive shit brain I am, I took the chicken-butcher scissors to myself again last night. I always forget it's a bad idea until the next day when I try to style it and I wind up looking like a transvestite who was attacked by an epileptic Hobo with pruning shears.


Today I came into work with my mini bangs brushed to the side and my hair up. Each time I went to the bathroom, I'd rearrange my hair to look less Betty Page on crack but it kept backfiring. Finally, when I noticed it looked like I was trying to rock a mullet, I gave up and decided to just stop looking in mirrors for the next 3 weeks. Who cares if I put my lipstick on my chin?

♫♪ Not me cuz I can’t see it! ♫♪

Also, maybe I should invest in actual hair stylist scissors and retire the chicken-butcher shears?

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

The tragic day Milton lost her trusty, thick, finger cushion-y, red pen. [TAN TAN TAN!]

Yes, the situation was as dire as the TAN TAN TAN implies.

The morning started like every other morning, you know, with me leaving a trail of tears to my desk? There were no ominous signs of things to come. There hadn't been a blood moon the night before. No dead crows on my desk. Nothing to tell me that I was in for a day in hell.

At about 10:30, I noticed Milton acting *unusually* erratic and chicken-y (that's when you move your head from side to side in a robotic fashion) so I innocently asked "everything okay?"

And I wished I hadn't.

Milton: I can't find my red pen. I had it here just a minute ago. [stops to stare out her window, I'm assuming she was calculating something really complicated that no ordinary short person could ever understand] I had it when I went to talk to Glynda but it never left my hand.

Still Milton: Then I went to the bathroom but I didn't take it in there with me. I left it in the kitchen. When I came out of the bathroom, I know I grabbed it because I also had some crackers and I was balancing those along with the pen, my water and a chart.

And she continues: Then I stopped to talk to Toto because I liked her cardigan. She told me she got it last season for- [at this point, I blanked out so I'm not sure what else Toto and she discussed regarding last season's fashions].

On and on she goes: Then Glynda came and gave me the mail while I was still talking to Toto. I put down all my stuff so that I may reorganize everything and carry it all more efficiently.

At this point I can see stars spinning around my head.

Rambling Milton: I put the mail on top of the chart and stuffed it under my left arm. I held my water in my left hand and the crackers and pen in my right. I went to the front desk to relieve CL for a potty break. I put my stuff down again, drank some water, ate a couple of crackers and made notes in the chart with my red pen. [shows me chart with red penned notes]

The adventure? It continues: When CL came back, I came back to my desk where I arranged my water and crackers to my right and the chart, mail, pen to my left. 

Milton [looks at me suspiciously]: I went to grab a notepad and when I got back to my desk, my pen was missing.I've spent an hour looking for it and retraced my steps multiple times with no luck. [sighs and shrugs] I can't figure it out!

Me [after clearing my throat to remove the dust and cobwebs]: Can you just get another pen?

Milton [obviously insulted]: This was a special pen! It was thick and had a special finger cushion! I NEED THAT ONE!

big red pen

Me: Eh, okay? Did you alert everyone so they could be on the look out?

Milton: No! It has to be right here! I just haven’t looked under the right pile of papers! Or maybe it rolled under my desk!

Me: Listen, we can help you look for it. Just stop freaking out.

Milton [looks around wildly]: It can’t have disappeared! I need it to make my notes!

Me: Let me just--

Just then, I was interrupted by Glynda walking into the office.

Glynda: Here you go, Milton, you left your pen at my table. [walks back out of the room]

Milton: But. . . What? How? [moves around the office all herky jerky]

Me: ::sigh:: Don't try to figure it out. Just be happy you have your pen back. [but I knew deep deep down she would not stop talking until she made sense of it in her head]

Milton: This can't be my pen! I had my pen everywhere I went! No! This isn't right! [starts mumbling] I made all these notes with a red pen! Was it my red pen? Did I steal someone’s pen...

And on and on and on!

Pens, highlighters, staples create nothing but drama in this freaking office.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Mug Shots

Was today one of those days that had you responding "fuck off!" even when someone was just saying "good morning!"?

No? Was it just me? I must be getting less tolerant in my old age. And so begins my moaning about turning another year older in approximately 31 days!


Sunday was my 5th Anniversary at Arkham Asylum. I remember when I first started here, at the young whipper snapper age of 32 (although soon to be 33), and was still a Bambi (naive with balancing issues) with hopes and dreams and a small coffee cup. After a couple of years, I bought a bigger cup because my escapes from my desk for coffee refills became less and less frequent.

This year, to celebrate the demise of my sense of humor when it comes to the Asylum, I graduated to an Andre the giant sized cup. I stopped kidding myself about being able to leave my desk. Ever.

I know what you're thinking, doesn't this mean more potty breaks? I won't tell anyone if you don't!

Of course this also means I am celebrating 5 years of playing "Fetch OZ's sandwich" which is always nice. Especially because one of my joys in life is walking across a vacant lot, side stepping dog poop landmines, in 4 inch heels for a meatball sandwich that somebody else is going to eat.

Yay me!

And if I happen to be at lunch when his majesty wants *HIS* lunch? Well, Glynda and her CSI skills track my ass down.

Glynda [walks into my office doesn't see me so she asks Milton]: Where's Bee?

Milton: Lunch.

Glynda: I was just in the lunchroom and she's not in there but I noticed the toaster is still warm.

Milton: Maybe she stepped out?

Glynda: But her purse is still here. [points at my chair where I place my purse and then swivel it to face the wall so that I don't get burglared by criminal patients]

Milton [starts fidgeting because now she's faced with a puzzle she cannot solve (no, I wasn't there to see it happen but I know my Milton)]: Um well maybe she walked to the gas station/Subway.

Glynda [dusts my area with special tracking powder]: Her car keys were sitting on this ledge and now they’re gone.

Milton: I-I-I don't know where she could be! [cries]

Glynda [she leaves the business office and is hot on my trail]: The foot pattern in the kitchen indicates she headed to the back door. Tiny miniscule crumbs tell me she left the building. This twig that was lying facing the handicap parking spot is now broken in half with the longer piece pointing east. Aha! She's eating her toasted sandwich in her car!

And then I heard a knock on my car window so I looked up and there, in her 4 foot 9 inch flashy white uniform, stood Glynda.

Glynda: OZ needs a meatball sandwich with cheese and 5 onion slices right now.

Yeah, she must still believe in Santa Claus if she thinks I'm gonna jump like a trained poodle and rush over to fetch his sandwich before I've had my lunch.

Me: Did you bring me money?

Glynda: Uh, no but Milton can get it for you.

Me: Okay, I've got another 15 minutes. I'm sure OZ won't die of starvation before then.

Glynda: Will you go right now if I bring you the money.

Me: No.

Glynda: I'll tell him you're on your way anyway. No sense in upsetting him.

And she waited for me to respond but my brain had already dismissed her.

In the amount of time it took her to track me down, she could have walked over to get his damn sandwich but I guess it wouldn't have tasted as good.

One more year of this silliness before I'm fully vested in our retirement fund!


We spent the weekend at my in-laws house and woke up before sunrise on Sunday morning. As I was getting ready to go outside so that I could witness the sunrise, I asked Andy if he was going to come outside with me and his response was classic Andy:

"Well of course you sappy bastard!"

He makes my heart SOAR!