Dejected, Rejected, Ejected!

I am usually good at things I set my mind on doing. My self and I have a little pep talk "Self, I know jumping rope is a gravity defying activity especially for you and your, um, well rounded booty but you've done it before. Granted, there was less of you when you were 10 but just remember to land on your feet and not your elbows. NOT THE ELBOWS!" After a few failed attempts and some detangling, I become an expert/professional/master.

This usually works on anything I really want to do. Except whittling. For some reason, everything I whittle winds up looking like a penis. Shut up Freud! If God intended me to whittle, he would have given me 3 extra fingers on each hand instead of good looks.

Anyway, working at Anonymous Clothing Store has been pretty easy. I take direction well and I'm not at all snobbish when told to mop or dust or even clean the freakin toilet. I've gotten pretty good at helping customers find what they they're looking for, rearranging clothes, keeping the displays neat and tidy and even the panty carrousel semi organized. It's all been a breeze and I have even kept my vicious tongue in check so as not to pulverize the lady who told me she was a Walmart girl and proceeded to have a fit when I told her a pair of underwear were not included in the 5 for $19 panty sale without letting me finish that this pretty little thong was only 96 cents. A bargain Walmart would be proud of [bitch!, she whispers].

The one thing I'm still having difficulty doing is getting people to apply for the store credit card.

I hear the rest of the girls, or old veterans as I call them, rattle off the spiel without any effort and then cooing in their victims ear as they take their wallet. While I can rattle off the spiel, I find myself hesitating to deliver the death blow that would have these poor suckers chained to the store forever. Speaking as a sucker myself, of course.

I can relate to people giving me the brush off when I say shit like "If you open the credit card and you use it on a regular basis, each dollar you spend BLAH BLAH BLAH"

I'm used to being on the other side of that spiel after buying my car, Andy's car and dealing with Bally's dickheads who almost forced my friend, who weighed NINETY POUNDS, to join against her will when all she was doing was keeping me company for the day with a guest pass. Those dumb bastards (yep, I really hate Bally) had us tour the gym (I usually went to one in Chicago and this one was one in a suburb) with a hot blond guy thinking we'd swoon and she'd sign her life away.  Well they only got it half right.

Pfffft! I don't need a hot muscular guy! I have my Andy!

Then, when we didn't fall for his twinkling blue eyes, they sent a reject from the Oompa Loompa factory who tried to to intimidate me by studying my membership card and saying "accidents can happen, ya know?" well, he didn't say it with words but I can read eyes. He just kept saying my name over and over as if to hypnotize me with with his slimy liver lips. I finally grabbed my card from his sweaty hands and said "if hot guy couldn't get her to join, why do you think you could?" and I told my friend, who seemed to be in a daze, to get up because we were leaving!

So yeah, my whole rambling point is that I know what it feels like to be hounded into doing something you don't want to do and yet I still find myself saying, in a last ditch effort to suck them into temptation, "For today only, whether you get approved or not, we will give you a discount of 25% off your entire purchase if you apply!" but instead of luring them into my pit of overextended credit, these responsible individuals, these paragons of virtue, these goody two shoe nerds who probably pay with cash and do weird things like save money in a bank, tell me to suck it because they ain't falling for my scam!

And so I'm left standing there, sad, lonely and dejected. Like a reject from the Oompa Loompa factory. Minus the liver lips.

Bastards.

P.S.

Thank you all for the comments, emails and the support. You have no idea how much that has helped me. I'm sorry it took me a while to moderate the comments but I keep getting spammed by people trying to get me to enlarge my penis. Again.

Anyway, your comments touched this jaded girl's heart and that's all I'm gonna say about that. ;o)

Jean Knee? Rawwr! 

Dear Polar Bears, I regret to inform you. . .

I can no longer be responsible for saving your species.

It is with a heavy heart I have made this decision but I need, no, I MUST go back to using my bottled body wash. I know that now my empty bottles will fill the landfills that somehow contribute to your demise but this dry skin of mine is making me miserable. And when I'm miserable, those around me suffer so really it's for the greater good.

I know my pain and discomfort doesn't equal the obstacles you go through on a daily basis just to find one of those nefarious penguins I'm always hearing about so you can have it for din-din but I can't take responsibility for all things on Earth. Maybe I'll concentrate all my efforts on saving the butterflies.

Some people will say it's selfish of me to put my own comfort before that of a whole species but I would have to disagree and call those naysayers pushy-pansy-pants because, who else would be willing to take on the hate mail from people like PETA, Al Gore and Ed Begley Jr? That makes me brave. Brave and beautiful with soft skin. But wait. That doesn't mean you should try to eat me because, even though I may look appetizing, all the chemicals I use make me taste like a burnt out tire.

Since I couldn't bear (get it? BEAR? I crack myself up!) to look you in the eye, or knee caps since I'm so short, I am leaving this letter outside of your tank/cage at Lincoln Park Zoo. Although, now that I think about it, I haven't seen you in months! I'm hoping your extinction didn't come before my letter because that would mean I spent all this time typing out an apology when I could have been doing something more productive like watching my recorded Dick Van Dyke shows or maybe working.

Anyway, good luck to you! I hope you find somebody more worthy to take on your cause! But don't trust anybody with a shotgun and a fork. That's always been my motto.

Sincerely,

Bee

What matters is the amount of pride you put into your work . . . riiiight?

I went on an interview at a clothing store for a part time job on Saturday. I'm not going to name names because this crew is younger and knows how to google. I think it went great . . . actually I think I ♫ nailed it ♪!

It started with the woman asking me things like "what is your greatest accomplishment" and me answering "staying out of jail" just kidding! I said something like "we pulled ourselves out of near poverty to where we now live a comfortable existence" (which I know doesn't make sense because here I am looking for a part time job but that's how we were able to have some measure of success, by doing what we had to do) then her asking what my strengths were and me answering the clichéd "being a team player" and when she asked about my weakness I was temporarily at a loss for words because HELLO! What weaknesses? I came clean and told her I'm quick to anger, I mock stupid people incessantly to their faces AND I have a BLOG where I mock ALL people to anyone who'll listen my lack of punctuality was my main weakness but I assured her it would not happen here because I would be coming from a second job therefore I would already be awake. Hopefully.

  She then put me on the spot by saying "pretend I'm a client and you are trying to sell me the outfit you're wearing now, what would you say to make me want to buy it?" It just so happened that I was clothed from top to underbottoms with clothes from this store so I said:

"These slacks have a great fit around the waist line, the length is perfect for someone of my height (short but cute), but they also come in freakishly tall and sorry you're average. I bought them a few years ago but they have withstood the test of many washings by not fading and showing no signs of wear and tear. Also, if you hang them up right after drying, there is no need for ironing which is a big plus for someone like me who is always running late is always pressed for time. The sweater has a perfect ¾ length sleeve that allows me freedom to eat without soaking it in my soup, the fit accentuates the parts I want [I pointed at my boobies] and is slightly looser around my problem areas [I pointed at my jelly belly]. The color is a fantastic blue/green that goes well with many complexions and the most important point is that it did not shrink in the wash. I am also wearing undergarments that fit my a-little-too-much figure perfectly. Almost as if they were tailor made!"

She laughed and said she would definitely buy what I'm selling which I took as code for "you're full of shit but I can see people falling for your charming
ways" Why thank you, decoder in my head! She said she would check my references (sweating bullets)(not because people will have bad things to say about me because I am a gem but because I'm hoping they'll answer their freaking phones!) and I should know this week if I got the job. She also told me they get a 30% employee discount even off of already discounted items . . . I have never wanted a job more!

I know what you're thinking. That I am the self appointed Queen of the Antisocialites so how will I be able to deal with people on a daily basis? Well,  my friends, it would be hard but if it means getting juicy blog fodder, guess I'll just have to grin and bare it.

So anyway, I know you're all busy praying for obnoxious kittens and illiterate horses but if you could throw in a little prayer to the big guy to help me get this job, I'd really appreciate it! I may even let you use my 20% discount! Yes, I know I said it's 30% but the house takes 10%.

Once upon a time there was a family of ugly globs living in my lungs...

 

It all started on Friday THE THIRTEENTH ooh spoooooky!

I came down with some bug. Last year I was rarely sick but it seems this year will be the year of the Funkyflus for me.

As you may or may not know, you simply cannot be sick while working at the Asylum. People immediately start shielding themselves from you and spraying every area you touch with bleachlike substances. While your hand is still touching the object! I don't know why they treat people like pariahs when they're ill. With the exception of OZ, it's not like we go out licking unsanitary hookers on purpose!

So, I decided to keep my illness (which I believe was passed on to me by that evil OZ!) on the down-low. Unfortunately for me, at the earliest sign of any illness, my voice is the first to go. Added to that, I have this creepy cough that I haven't been able to get rid of for over a month. That cough has irritated my throat and, I'm assuming because I am not a licensed professional, my vocal chords. So instead of my sweet HIGH PITCHED voice OF A NINE YEAR OLD, I sound like a 1920s hustler whose had too many cigarettes, booze and good times. The voice is a little less Mae West and a lot more Elmer Fudd-y. I will call this my alter ego and name her Lullibell. What the hell was I talking about? Oh right! I'm sick.

I went to work and as soon as I said something, everyone pounced on me.

"Are you sick?"
"Sounds like something's cookin'!"
"Your hair looks great!"

I told them I felt fine but I felt a little congested. Immediately Glynda told me to go home. Since I no longer have any more time off left in the season, I told her that I would go home if they paid me for the day. She stared at me blankly and said "No, but I don't want you to give it to us" and that's when I said "This is harassment!" no I actually told her that if she did not get it from kissing OZ's ass, then she wouldn't get it from me.

I struggled the whole day to appear healthy but once I got home that evening, my bravado evaporated. I sat on the sofa coughing and whimpering, waiting for Tom Cruise to come heal me. Bastard never showed.

I managed to run some errands on Saturday but on Sunday all I did was wallow in self pity, vowing to make the world a bitter place if I came out of this alive.

On Monday, I called in sick because I had trouble sleeping and I knew I would look like a zombie on meth and therefore be judged by the bats because even though looking like zombies on meth is their permanent look, it's unacceptable for me to come down with any illness. I decided to stay home and rest. I slept until 2pm. TWO PM! It was almost dinner time! I felt better, still a little cough-y but the headache and lightheadedness were gone.

Join me in the present day, Tuesday, where I'm driving to work and practicing my 'good mornings' because I don't want my voice to sound all scratchy when I greet Glynda.

First, I sounded like Lurch  "Good morning!" nope try again "GOOD MORNING!" that sounded like Jack McFarland on helium. Bring it down a few notches "Good morning!" now I'm Oscar the freaking Grouch! Good, I'm getting closer! I would be able to fool people into thinking I was 100% better and they wouldn't irritate me with their obnoxious insinuations of me infecting the whole office thereby taking years off their lives. I high fived myself in the rear view mirror and that's when I realized . . .

My life? Pathetic.

Clarification, Pontification, Stupefaction. I think.

Just to clarify, my birthday isn't until Wednesday November 11th. Oh joy of joys. 37. 3 more and I get a set of spatulas. I'm registered at Tiffany's.

The picture I posted yesterday was of a bee (get it? because I'm Bee?] hanging from a noose. The Asylum was getting to me until I realized I could either work or play. Guess which one I chose. Also, Andy thought it was a potato.

Andy [from his dungeon]: Is that a potato? 

Me: What? Is what a potato?? [as I'm trying to make fajitas for 8 without setting fire to my cabinets. You know, again]

Andy: The picture on your blog, is it a potato?

Me: Nooooo. It's a bee.

Andy: I don't get it.

Me: It's a bee hanging from a noose. Because I was stressed at work?

Andy: Oh, I hadn't seen the noose.

Me: ... [hot oil splashing on my face]

Andy: I still think it looks like a potato.

Because he loves to torture me.

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Regarding OZ being an asswipe. Instead of feeling sympathy for the error in my bank account, he interrogated me because I asked for a copy of my cashed paycheck and treated me like a sneaky criminal who was capable of funneling money from his account to my account via my paycheck. Oh wait. That's not criminal at all, right? I mean, if I perform a service for, let's say, a person who hires me, shouldn't I expect payment? It's not like I can cash the same check twice and to make matters more complicated, the second time I cash the check it will be via a photocopy. I know I'm a genius but even I have my limitations.

For some reason he didn't believe the bank teller had deposited my check into the wrong account. He also found it hard to believe that Andy knew our account number by heart and then he suggested I no longer do a manual deposit slip, did I know that the bank could generate some with our account number already on them? I asked him if he treated accident patients the same way. "When a guy on a motorcycle gets hit by a car, do you berate them for not knowing the car was going to hit them?" It wasn't our fault the cashier decided to guess as to what number was on the deposit slip and didn't bother to check the name on the account with the name on the deposit slip.

I said to Andy, 'you know, I grow tired of calling him an *asshole* because it does not express the magnitude of my disgust for him but I am so limited with my swears (because I am a God fearing short woman). Wait! You are the master of profanity, give me a new one for him!" His response was so vile I am putting it at the end of this post.* Who knew I had the delicate sensibilities of a fragile little hummingbird?

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Do you guys remember the dude I translated for who had an ankle fracture and his main concern was having "relations" with his woman? He came in last week to drop off some insurance paperwork. I had been talking to him for a few minutes when I realized something.

Me: Hey, who drove you here? [as I pointed at his cast and crutches]

Him: I drove myself. My woman doesn't drive. [hmmmm]

Me: Uh, I don't think you should be driving considering your cast is all the way up to your knee.

Him: Oh, I'm okay. Look, I can put weight on my leg now. [stands on leg with the fracture]

Me to him: Don't do that! [to myself "Oh sure, you don't ask permission to drive but you ask for a green light to have sex with your woman!]

 

My head hurts from all the shaking of it.

 

 

 

 

*"You mean like Taint Weasel?" (eep!)

 

 

 

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My happy place

 

♪♫ Here's the mail it never fails it makes me want to wag my tail MAIL!! ♪♫

So, I received my first birthday card of the year. It was from my friend Brian:

 

Then he left the country so that I wouldn't use his head as a soccer ball.

I mean, grey hair? Really? Not even if my brain turned into mush and I had to communicate like this "Waaaalgreen's hairsh dryeesh!" (sorry if that offends any of you drunkies). I have no control over wrinkles but my hair will bend to my will!

Thank you, Brian!   

 

Anyway! The winner of Robert Kroese's novel, Mercury Falls,  iiiiiiiiiiiis!

Heather K. (who may or may not want to send me her address considering I threatened to leave Tazz at her home as my calling card)! Congratulations!

You know what else is cool, Heather? Since this copy was not signed by Rob, I myself will sign it! I know! You will have a one of a kind, only used for signing paychecks, Bee autograph! (Don't worry, a little white out and the book will be good as new!)

Rob's interview to come next week because I suck at homework.

... it's just another manic Monday!

Man, today hit me like an out of control granny driving a tank and chewing bubble gum.

I really don't feel like getting into the the incompetence of everyone I work with because you've heard that song before and reliving it just makes me want to squeeze my eyeballs.

Anyway, in what I originally thought was the capper to my crappy day, I soon realized it was actually the highpoint of my crappy day.

I was sitting at the front desk while Cowardly Lion went to the little girls room when I noticed a patient staring at me. I thought "yep, I still got it!" but then I wondered about the guys eyesight because today was definitely not one of my *good face days*. Not that I have many. At any rate, I would look up and he would look down quickly. I would turn away again but then snap my head back to look at him and he would pretend he was interested in the ugly wall rug that resembles a sushi roll full of rotted meat and rat hair.

 

Weird.

When CL came back and I went to my desk, I pulled out my mirror so that I may admire myself and that's when I noticed I had gone about 3 hours with a blob of make up in between my eyes!

This blob was bigger than my fist!

(simulation)

Now I need to ask you, would you let your coworker walk around for hours without telling them they have goop on their forehead? Would you let them humiliate themselves by checking people in and out when up at the front desk while CL empties her bladder or fills it with coffee? Would you let them go into a room and translate for a patient without so much of a mimed forehead rub from across the room??

I mean, I wouldn't have said anything to them either but this office should only have one vicious vindictive witch and I'm planning on keeping my thrown until it's pried from my cold dead ass. 

P.S.

Don't ask me why I didn't notice it myself upon leaving my house because I will be forced to beat you with a piano.